Eleven Months In: What It’s Really Like to Be a Nobody with a Book

It’s been eleven months since I hung a shingle that read Unapologetically Southern Media LLC. I did it on faith, caffeine, and a bone-deep belief that stories matter — even the rough, dirty, blood-and-bourbon kind nobody puts in a Hallmark movie.

I’ve written stories for twenty

years. Real ones — the kind that smell like rain and bad decisions, the kind you write for yourself because nobody else could stomach the truth of them. This past year, I finally decided to give those stories a spine, a copyright, an ISBN, and a fighting chance to be read by someone besides me.

Turns out, “independent publishing” isn’t as romantic as it sounds. It’s paperwork and platforms, endless fees for the privilege of existing, and the fine art of learning to navigate systems that double-charge you for breathing. I got dinged twice for the same trademark filings — because apparently the government needs extra coffee money. Copyrights take forever, every form wants another fee, and every “support team” has a convenient case of amnesia when you actually need help.

Don’t even get me started on print-on-demand vendors with clunky apps that hook into my website. Supposedly.

I’ve done it all myself: editing, formatting, cover design, ad testing, websites, newsletters, and blog posts nobody reads. I’ve watched my analytics like a gambler at a busted slot machine. I’ve run ads that flopped harder than a catfish on a dock and sold fewer books than there are people at my mailbox.

And yet — here I am. Still.

I don’t expect everyone to love my stories. Hell, I don’t even expect most people to like them. I wrote them for me — because they needed out. Because the South I know isn’t lace curtains, white gloves, and sweet tea. It’s grave dirt, family secrets, and people who do the wrong thing for the right reason.

So no, this isn’t a success story. Not yet. This is a confession from the middle — the part nobody glamorizes. The part where you’ve poured time, money, and heart into something that feels invisible but keeps clawing to stay alive.

If you came here for a happy ending, you took the wrong turn at the Snake Pond. But if you came here for truth — from an author who’s just a normal person with a wild imagination — aka a nobody with a book — for stories that don’t blink when the dark comes, you might just feel at home. And I’m grateful.

If you’d like to chat, ask questions, or see what I’m doing (I usually post three times per week unless something blows up), find me on social media. I’m a troglodyte when it comes to “social,” but I’m learning. And I never snub a real you — because I’m a real me. I tend to ignore the dumpster (tire) fire of the internet and only interact with folks who are genuinely connected.

On X/Twitter, I’m @thmalcolmUSM.

On Instagram, I’m @th.malcolmusm.

Someone asked, so I'll explain: that “USM” stands for Unapologetically Southern Media — my little LLC company. In case you wondered.

Start with Snake Pond. That’s where this mess began.

Peace.