![]() They also look for a variety of writing (fiction, poetry, nonfiction) from both new and known writers.ĭon’t miss the yearly contests and awards, which provide a great chance to get noticed and published. Tupelo Press books have been around long enough to gain a reputation for their physicality (minimalist design, specific paper quality) and the writing they represent. They are looking especially for LGBTQIA+, immigrant, female, minority, or other progressive voices.Ĭurrently, submissions are open for full-length fiction, poetry, short story, memoir, or essay manuscripts. They’re doing fantastic work, but quietly, in the margins, and they deserve more attention. C & R PressĬ & R Press is one of the faithful few in the independent press community that can sometimes be overlooked. But they host events throughout New York and elsewhere, so they give you chances to bump elbows with the right people. They take fiction, memoir, poetry, possibly something else-just send a query letter! With a team of talented editors and artists, each book comes out looking lovely and ready to read.ĭue to the high number of emails they receive, unfortunately they can’t respond to every query letter. Unnamed Press is looking for a little bit of everything. ![]() Even though 1-3 new authors seems a small number to take per year, rest assured that the work they publish is quality over quantity. They don’t require manuscripts to be submitted by an agent, but their FAQ does mention that having an agent helps. Tiny Fox Press is headed up by four writers/editors you can get to know from their About Us page.They’re only looking for YA and adult novels, and if you’re looking to submit chick-lit, romance, mystery, or thriller books, look elsewhere. Many of the small publishers below focus on literary fiction, but there are some for nonfiction and poetry as well. Many established writers prefer to go with small and indie publishers, because they’re looking for a long-lasting partnership and more individual attention. You think you want a Big Five publisher, but are you sure? And she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled 30 Best Small and Indie Literary Publishers ‹ Back to blog She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. Svidrigaïlov knew that girl there was no holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself. The stern and already rigid profile of her face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal. ![]() But her loose fair hair was wet there was a wreath of roses on her head. Among the flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere-at the windows, the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself-were flowers. He noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the house the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. He kept dwelling on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday-Trinity day. ![]() Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. ![]() He was not thinking of anything and did not want to think. There was a cold damp draught from the window, however without getting up he drew the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. “It’s better not to sleep at all,” he decided. He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the window. ![]()
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