Indie Book Collective Novels & Stories

The publisher's name was Yetunde. Adaeze discovered this when she clicked through to the profile that had sent the message, finding there a woman in her early forties with the particular quality of someone who had built something deliberately and inhabited it with the ease of long ownership. The publishing house was called Rootword Press — small, independent, Lagos-based, with a catalogue that Adaeze spent an evening reading through with the careful attention she brought to things she wanted to understand properly before forming an opinion about.

As if we'd been doing it our entire lives and would continue to do so forever more. Zara called it pressing and so that's how I came to think of our activity. It wasn't always at the same time or even every day, but we managed to have regular groups. One morning we might wake up, press together, and get ready for the day. Or after lunch, we'd have an afternoon press in between doing chores or playing games or whatever. And if we missed both of those or were having a particularly 'active' day we'd go for a press after dinner, right before bed.

Zie said and sat down in the swivel chair, there was another vacant seat next to him, I carefully walked towards the vacant chair and sit down. "Well, I'm not gonna let you wait any longer. So I assume Zie already informed you about the state of Mendez Publishing Inc. and we are trying our best to cope up and gain our loss profit this month. As a result, the publishing company will venture into an indie pub where the pub will solely publish books with the boys' love genre." Mr. Brendon explains to me but I just look at him confused. Okay? Why is he telling me their plans for their company? I'm not a marketing assistant so I'm so confused by this.

I wondered if they had hidden gems, perhaps something I hadn’t read or that Uncle Alex’s book club, Bound To Please, hadn’t discovered yet. My eyes scanned the titles, recognizing several from our book club. But a series we hadn’t yet completed caught my attention. Not all the books were in print, and as much as we loved and wanted to support the indie author, A.D. Burnell, those reading apps could be a bit unpredictable. Yet, in Well Thumbed, all nine of her Queen Among series were here in paperback. I couldn’t resist. I plucked A Queen Among Snakes from the shelf and settled onto the nearest sofa. I set my empty cup down and delved into the book. How did they have books unavailable anywher

But she… didn’t flinch. Lena walked over to a little table display and picked up a thin, cloth-bound book. She walked over to him, holding it out like an offering. *The Quiet Between Lightning Strikes.* A poetry book. The cover was old and nubbly, the title scribbled in fine silver ink. Julian stared at it like it was an alien thing. "What's this?" "A book," she said, smiling. "I told you. I don't—"

she said, smiling happily at the thought of their first grandchild. “Hopefully, ma. By the way, I’m here to get my books.” “The ones by Jakara Blue? Yes, it’s on the bookshelf in your room.” Later in my room, I indeed saw about ten books by Jakara Blue that were arranged neatly on a shelf. I picked one of them and traced the embossed author’s name with my finger. This explained why I used the name Jakara Blue as my new name in Japan. It must be because I was an avid reader of Jakara Blue’s books. Remembering about my purpose in coming here, I started opening the folders that were arranged on another corner of the shelf. I had the habit of placing important documents in a folder.

“What’s unique is that it was heard. My book gave people like me a voice. Women who’ve been hurt, silenced, scared out of their dreams. What I want to create is a space—no, a home—for those voices. Stories that are hard. Raw. Unpolished but powerful.” I see Logan’s jaw twitch from the corner of my eye. I don’t look at him. I can’t. Not yet. I need to do this alone. I move through the slides. Target audience. Mission statement. Projected sales comparisons. Case studies from indie imprints that took risks and reaped returns. I feel myself slowly catching fire as I talk. Every slide is a piece of me I didn’t know I had—until now. “I’m not asking for a vanity project,” I say. “I’m asking to buil

“I’m not asking permission. I’m telling you what I’m doing. You can help or stay out of my way.” Through the bond, I felt his conflict. Fear for my safety. Respect for my determination. Love makes the choice impossible. “If you’re doing this, I’m with you,” he said finally. “But we have to be smart about it. We research first. Learn everything we can. Then we plan.” “Fine. But we start now. Tonight.” I looked at Thaddeus. “Tell us everything you know about the Collective.” He sighed. Resigned. “They’re organized in cells. Small groups that don’t know about each other. Makes them hard to trace. Each cell has a leader. Someone powerful. Connected. Beyond suspicion.”

A text from an unknown number. *Dear Dr. Zanetti, I'm Clara Benson, Senior Editor at Meridian Books. I read your thesis abstract online and was incredibly impressed. I'd love to discuss the possibility of publishing it as a monograph. Are you free for a coffee next week?* Keira stared at the screen, her heart hammering. Meridian Books. One of the most respected independent publishers in the UK, known for their beautifully produced academic titles and their commitment to emerging voices. They'd published books she'd cited in her thesis. Books that had shaped her thinking.

The thought made her pulse quicken, like she was holding a secret that wasn’t meant to be found. She hesitated only a moment before sitting cross-legged on the floor and flipping the cover open. Inside, in messy handwriting, was a title scrawled across the first page: “Collected Stories — From Women, For Women.” Chloe blinked. The handwriting was feminine, rushed, and almost secretive. She turned the page and read the introduction, scrawled in looping letters: