Publish and Perish

*Publish and Perish* Twine interactive fiction by Andrew Reinhard CC-BY-NC March 24, 2017 --- It took a year. More than a year. But it is done. You even printed the entire manuscript just to feel in your hands what you accomplished. It's heavy, maybe because of the depression you had while writing it, wondering if you'd ever finish. Wondering if it was good enough. Wondering if anybody else would read it. Would think it's good enough. You look at it, new in black and white. It has your name. Your love. Your time. It's time to make a decision: do you do what you'd planned, [[sending the manuscript to a publisher->Submit to the publisher.]]? Or do you [[keep your work to yourself->Keep it secret! Keep it safe!]]? Maybe [[share it online->Share it with the world.]]?

You look at your printed manuscript. It's not ready. Maybe it is; you don't know. You did the work, and maybe that's enough for now. You proved it to yourself you could do it. Maybe you're chicken, or that imposter syndrome is creeping back. "The world waited a year for this," you think. "What's one more day?" You go [[outside->Outside]].

You decide that you really should submit it to a publisher. But which one? [[An academic or university press]]? [[A pay-to-publish press]]?

The manuscript is done, but you don't want anything more to do with it. Not for a long while at least. But instead of keeping the file in the "Docs" folder or keeping the pages in a box, maybe it's time for a little independent Open Access. You add "DRAFT" to the cover page. But where to upload? [[Academia.edu->academia]] [[Zenodo.org->zenodo]] But you have the sneaking suspicion that maybe you forgot to [[add something->licenses]]?

You never saw the bus coming. Or it never saw you. You might not have published, but you certainly have [[perished]].

You choose Academia.edu to host your work. Everybody does, right? So it's self-publication of a draft manuscript. At least it's up for people to read and use... ...and monetize. That's academia for you in a nutshell. Satisfied, you look around for something new to do. [[Keep hitting "refresh" to see if anybody's read your work yet.->refresh]] [[Go to the bookstore to find something new to read->bookstore]].

Most people have heard of and use Academia.edu. But you? You chose the road less traveled. But at least it's not a toll road: Zenodo.org. True Open Access research, and the world can have your work right away. If they want it. If they can find it. Satisfied, you look around for something new to do. [[Keep hitting "refresh" to see if anybody's read your work yet.->refresh]] [[Go to the bookstore to find something new to read->bookstore]].

You face-palm. A licence! You forgot to add some kind of license or copyright information to your work, and you were about to upload it for the world to see. You use the copyright symbol and the year followed by your name. And for good measure, you also add a Creative Commons licence. In this way, the work remains yours, but others are free to use it so long as they attribute the source. (You weren't crazy/courageous enough to go with the CC0 public domain option, but maybe one day . . . ). After doing something Open Access, it's time for some [[open air->open air]].

You can't help yourself from wondering if anybody will care enough to read your work. After three straight days of refreshing your browser you see that someone has not only viewed your profile, but has accessed your manuscript. A few months later you get a Google alert that there's another work just like yours. It's been published with the exact same title. In fact, it's your work, but is being published by somebody else. Somebody who downloaded it. You go to your page online only to remember what you had forgotten to do earlier: add a license or at least some copyright info. No copyright notice. No Creative Commons license of any kind. Your work is gone, and there's [[nothing you can do about it->ded]].

You enter the bookstore full of optimism, ready to read something new, putting your own work behind you and out of your mind at least for a few days. There's one book you want, but it's up out of reach. Looking around to see if anyone is looking, you climb the stacks to fetch the title, but the shelf comes crashing down with you under it. When they find you, you have the book you wanted in a literal deathgrip. That author published. But you? You have [[perished]].

You have died. Somebody else published, but you have [[perished]].

A walk in the open air sounds great to you. Until you plunge off a cliff, spilling your guts on the rocks below, giving plenty of open access to worms, birds, and insects. You self-published as Open Access. And then you [[perished]] as you published.

You read the author guidelines on how to prepare your manuscript for submission. What a pain in the neck! This means reformatting the bibliography. This means reformatting the notes, and making the footnotes turn into endnotes. This means getting better images. This also means changing the style of in-text citations). There's at least two weeks of work here just to get the manuscript into shape, despite all of the content. [[It's going to suck, but it's worth it.->Reformat]] [[Forget it. They have editors. Time to submit.->What Guidelines?]]

You opt not to follow the publisher's style guide, especially after looking back over your bibliography. They have editors. That's their job, right? You attach the manuscript file to your email and hit "send". The following week you receive a [[letter->Letter]] in the post.

Dear Author, We regret to inform you that your manuscript has been rejected for the reason of not following our author guidelines. The Publisher PS: [[Look out->Look out]].

You turn around only to notice a demigorgon charging you. Or at least you think it is prior to losing consciousness from the impact. You wonder if the demigorgon ever published anything. It doesn't matter. You, like your manuscript, have [[perished]].

It actually takes you less time than you thought to fix all the technical issues with your manuscript. You even spell-checked it, turning British spelling into American, as much as that chafes you. But rules are rules. You compose the submission email, and attach the manuscript file. You hesitate, wondering if this is what you really want to do, if this is truly ready. [[Hit "send"->Send]]. [[Save the message to "Drafts"->Drafts]].

You hit send. You feel a kind of euphoric nausea, or maybe it's nauseating euphoria. Regardless, what's done is done. [[Time passes.]]

You chicken out, letting anxiety win. Who are you kidding thinking anyone would want to pay thousands of dollars to print this on your behalf. Besides, now that it's in "Drafts" you can send that email anytime you want. It's kind of a relief actually. So what now? [[Time to eat!->dead]] [[Time to drink!->anddead]]

Wrong. It is time to perish. Instead of consuming the bag of cheese curls, the bag of cheese curls consumes you. Nonpreshibles indeed. You have [[perished]] unpublished.

Wrong. It is time to perish. You do your best Dylan Thomas impression. Unlike Dylan Thomas, however, you have [[perished]] unpublished.

[[More time passes.]]

[[Even more time passes.]]

This is getting ridiculous. How long does it take for a publisher to respond? [[Keep waiting.]] [[Send a follow-up email.]]

[[Some more time passes.]]

Dear Publisher, I am writing to follow up on the status of my manuscript, which I submitted to you via email last year. Could you please let me know if you received it, and if so, what its status might be? Sincerely, You You send the message and [[wait]].

Thanks to both the pulisher's negligence and your timidity, you have [[perished]], unpublished, of old age.

Much to your surprise, you receive an immediate reply from the publisher: Dear Author, I am on leave for the summer and will be away from my email. I will be in touch as soon as I can upon my return. If you need immediate help, please write to my assistant. Sincerely, The Publisher You sigh. Do you [[wait some more]]? Or do you [[write the assistant]]?

Thanks to your timidity and politeness, you have [[perished]], unpublished, of old age.

Dear Assistant, I am writing to check on the status of my manuscript, which I submitted last month. Could you please let me know if it was received? Thank you, You [[You wait some more.]]

The following day you receive a reply! Dear Author, Thank you for writing. Your manuscript was received, but got lost in the shuffle with the publisher's preparation for leaving. After reviewing your submission, it looks like a good fit for the press. Thank you for following the guidelines! So many authors ignore them. In any case, I will anonymize the manuscript for peer review. It will be sent to two anonymous readers who are experts in your subject, and they will reply within three months with their reader reports. Once we review them, we will send them to you along with our decision. Good luck! Managing Editor Guess what? It's time to [[wait again]].

You wait three months and, as you half-expected, there is no reply or update from the publisher. You don't hesitate this time, and write a follow-up email to see how things are going: Dear Publisher, It's been three months since the review process started. How is it going? You You hit "Send" and then: [[Wait another month]]. [[Wait another two months]].

Another month goes by. Summer turns to autumn. You decide to write another follow-up, but it's ultimatum time: [[Withdraw the manuscript]]. [[Ask for another update]].

In the two months since your email you have developed an addiction, which kills you. Your cat finds you flat on your back next to the toilet, [[perished]], unpublished. And then it eats your face.

Dear Publisher, It has been nearly a year since I first submitted my manuscript, and there has been no activity that I can see, no forward process. I thereby withdraw my manuscript and will submit it elsewhere. You [[Back to square one->It is done!]]

Dear Publisher, It has been four months since the readers received my manuscript for peer review. Please let me know the status of where we are in this process? Thanks, You [[You hit "Send"]].

A week passes, but on Monday afternoon you receive an email. With attachments. The Subject heading reads: [[Congratulations]]! [[With apologies]].

Dear Author, Congratulations! Your manuscript has been accepted for publication, pending required revisions as noted in the attached reader reports. You have three months upon receipt of this letter to make the required changes. Sincerely, The Publisher [[Read Reviewer 1's Report]]. [[Read Reviewer 2's Report]].

Dear Author, We regret to inform you that your manuscript has been reviewed, and we must pass at this time. Thank you for your patience during the review process, and we wish you the best in your future endeavors. Sincerely, The Publisher [[Start over->It is done!]] [[Perish]].

You decide to perish, unpublished, rather than endure that entire process again. You die of exasperation.

You begin reading Reviewer 1's report. It's actually pretty good and makes a point of being helpful without being patronizing. There are some new sources to read, and some ways to improve the manuscript. While there is certainly three months' worth of work here, it seems manageable. You feel almost . . . happy. You wonder if you should [[start the revisions]] now, or if you should [[read the report from Reviewer 2->Read Reviewer 2's Report]].

You double-click on the Reviewer 2 attachment, and several things seem to happen at once: The vitriol espoused in the first line of the review blinds you while causing you to bleed from all orifices, the blood made corrosive so as to dissolve anything it touches. As you bleed out, melting your body into your chair, your computer sparks and sets itself alight, followed by crisp pops and a cathartic release of ozone. You wonder if computers regularly commit suicide and are immediately saddened that this is your last conscious thought before pain gives way to sweet oblivion. You have [[perished]], unpublished, by Reviewer 2.

Who are you kidding? Start now? Well, maybe. But there's Netflix. And you've been accepted. And you have three months. But then again there's a lot of work to do. [[But Netflix]]. [[Guilt]].

Three months is a very long time, and this new Netflix series is only 8 episodes long. [[Start watching]]. [[Guilt]].

You slap yourself for even considering watching TV no matter how good the content is. You open up your manuscript, save a copy of it, and get to work. A week passes. Then two. You've found your groove. And before you know it, you're done. You feel pretty great about things despite the hurricane that's barreling up the coast, but you probably should get ready for the storm. [[Back your files up]]. [[But first, some liquid refreshment]].

Five years pass. Your publisher tries to reach you several times, but gives up after two years. They should have given up after one year because you've been dead that long, episodes unspooling in front of vacant sockets. Five years. Five. Four of them dead here in this 24-hour Starbucks. You have [[perished]] from what others published.

With the hurricane coming, you decide that now is a good time to back up your revisions just in case something happens. You haven't done this yet, and are kicking yourself for it. You plug in your USB that you found on the bathroom counter at a concert you attended last week. As soon as it's inserted, your computer erupts in flames, and you flee, watching your house burn down, taking your revisions with it. You opted to work locally instead of using something like Google Drive for the revisions. You turn around, weeping, when a tree falls over on you, uprooted by the hurrican's winds. Ironically, this is the tree that would be pulped and turned into paper upon which your manuscript would have been printed. You have [[perished]] under the tree upon which you would have been published.

Thirsty, you head to the sink for a glass of water when you hear a giant crash. A tree has come crashing through the ceiling, knocked over by hurricane-force winds. Your computer is obliterated, yet you sigh, relieved that you had back up your work in the Cloud. You move into a hotel and finish the work while your home is assessed by the insurance company. It's time to [[turn it in]].

Dear Publisher, At long last, here is the revised version of my manuscript. [[I entered every revision]] asked for by the readers. [[I entered most of the revisions]] asked for, but there were a few I took issue with, and opted to write a bit more for clarity, which I hope is acceptable. Thank you, and I look forward to seeing the finished product. Sincerely, You

Dear Author, We are elated that you made all of the changes asked for, and will be sending your manuscript back to the readers so they can check your work. We hope to be [[back in touch]] in a month. Sincerely, The Publisher

Dear Author, Thank you for completing your revisions on time. It is perfectly fine (and normal) that you opted not to accept every change as suggested by our readers. We understand that this is your topic on which you are an expert, and that experts can disagree. The next step is to enter your manuscript into production. You will be assigned an editor who will copy edit your work. In about two months you will receive your "redlined" files electronically, at which time you will review the edits prior to typesetting. Your editor will contact you soon. Sincerely, The Publisher --- [[Two months pass]].

Dear Author, Reviewer 2 notes with not a little frustration that you failed to make any of the corrections proposed in the report. In fact, it appears that you did not even read the report from Reviewer 2. We have taken the liberty in giving Reviewer 2 your contact details (including your home address) in order to facilitate the revision process. Reviewer 2 has indicated the desire to be in touch in person quite soon. Sincerely, The Publisher There is a loud knock at the door. [[Answer the door]]. [[Hide]].

You put the letter down, and try to stop shaking. The knock comes again, and you walk to the door, opening it. It's something from Amazon. You sign for it, and close the door. Returning to the table, you put the box down, and stare at it. [[Open the box]]. [[Leave the box alone]].

You hide until the knocking stops. You wait an hour before opening the door. Outside is a box from Amazon. [[Open the box]]. [[Leave the box alone]].

You get a knife and open the box. Inside is a small note on Amazon paper: "YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE THE REVISIONS." In the box you find a book. It's a copy of Stephen King's Misery. Your front door opens again, but this time it's not Amazon. "This is going to hurt me a lot more than it does you." It's the last thing you hear. You have [[perished]], unpublished, at the hands of Reviewer 2.

The box sits on the counter. You leave it there for a week. Finally your curiosity gets the better of you. You open the box, and inside is a note and a large red button that looks like something from a TV game show. "By pressing this button, your book will be published, but the work of someone else, someone you do not know, will be rejected." [[Push the button]]. [[Don't push the button]].

You push the button, but nothing happens. The next day you receive an email stating that your book is being copy edited, and to expect [[redlines]] in two months. You wonder who won't be published. The guilt passes over time.

You don't push the button. In fact, you don't write another thing. You stop going out. Ultimately you perish sad, alone, and unpublished.

The redlines could be worse, but there is red on every page: spelling, grammar, organization, citations, bibliography, even suggestions on content and argument. The editor has been good, thorough, and fair. You've been given a month to review the edits, but instead of procrastinating, you jump right in. It's like at this stage you don't even have a [[choice]].

One day while half-watching Season 2 of *Luther* on Netflix you receive another email with an attachment. It is your redlines back from the editor. You're a little scared to see all the changes and corrections made, but there really is only once choice. It's time to take a look at the [[redlines]].

That is, you didn't have a choice until your phone rings. "It's your father," your mother says. She says it in a way that mothers do when something is wrong. "It was his heart. You need to come home." You pack, trying not to cry. You pick up your laptop wondering if you'll have any time to work on the book's edits, and then feel shame for thinking about the book at a time like this. You think about it. [[Take the laptop]]. [[Leave the laptop]].

You put the laptop in its bag, and then take it downstairs with your other luggage. You load the car then back out of the driveway. In a few minutes you're on the highway, thinking about your father, about the things you should have said even though the relationship had been good these past few years. As you think of him, you miss seeing the deer dart in front of your car. You hit it head-on, and then steer off the road and up into oncoming traffic. You have [[perished]], but the story of your accident is published in the local paper and online. "Oh Deer" the headline reads.

You wonder how you can do any kind of work at a time like this. You arrive home, help your mother with all of the visitors, all the phone calls and emails, while she makes arrangements for the funeral, the burial. At night, you have no desire to sleep, and there's nothing to do. Your parents never did get Netflix, not even after you shared your password with them. Your mother notices. "You can use our computer," she says, and you see her eyes water when she uses "our", something she will continue to do for years. You log on, retrieve your email and the redlined manuscript, and get to work. It goes quickly during the two weeks you end up being home. By the end of your time there, you have things pretty much the way you like them. It's actually been a comfort to have this to fall back on. Mothers know. You return the redlines to your editor, and the [[typesetting]] begins.

It's another two-month wait, and you wonder what the proofs will look like. There's a problem, though: Dear Author, During typesetting, we noticed that there are a few images that are missing a credit line. This should have been caught earlier in pre-production, but could you please confirm that you have permission to publish these figures? I letter or an email from the rights holder(s) will be sufficient, but we need the worldwide, non-exclusive rights for all editions, print and digital. We know this is a problem for some people or organizations. If there's a problem, we need to know now. Sincerely, The Publisher --- You stare at the email in disbelief. You thought you'd submitted everything, that all of the pieces were with the publisher. You scan through the short list of figures and then go to your files to find the permission letters before composing your reply. [[Everything's fine]]. [[Problems]].

Dear Publisher, I am happy to report that we have all we need regarding image permissions. The images on your list are all either CC-BY licensed, or were tagged as public domain in Wikimedia Commons. Apologies for not indicating this in my materials. Attached is the other permissions documentation, which I should have sent earlier. It pays to keep tidy files! Sincerely, You --- You hit "Send". Two weeks later you receive an email with your [[soft proofs]] attached.

The file has permission letters for maybe half of the images you submitted with your manuscript last year. Who knows where the other permissions documentation is? You can't even remember asking in some cases. The clock is ticking. You don't want to hold up production. You go back to your email to write a reply: [[Everything's fine]]! [[Missing permissions]]. [[alternative images]].

You've been living your life on email, and have been surprised at how digital publishing is. It's your first book, but so far there's been nothing on paper at all. Your "soft proofs" arrive with a *ping* and an attachment. --- Dear Author, Attached are your soft proofs. Please review and mark up in your PDF reader should you have any changes. A professional proofreader is also reviewing these proofs to ensure quality and consistency across the book. Please note that your content is now locked, and no changes of substance can be made. Please return the proofs in two weeks. Sincerely, The Publisher --- [[Open the attachment]]. [[You notice something]].

Dear Publisher, I'm sorry to say that you're right: I am missing permissions for some of my images. I need a little time to chase these down. Apologies! You --- You immediately find the contact details for the image rights holders and send urgent emails (and more apologies). In the meantime, you also begin looking for [[alternative images]] that are open source or at least CC-licensed.

You visit Wikimedia Commons and also other open photo archives to see if you can find suitable images that will reproduce well both digitally and in print, downloading those substitutes to send to the publisher. It's possible the rights holders of the original images you wanted will reply positively, but you can't be sure, and you're running out of time. At least you now have a Plan B. You send these along and await your [[soft proofs]].

You open the attachment even though you haven't seen a file like this before. It's a .jar file instead of a .pdf, but you chalk it up to being something new for publishers in this digital age. The file opens, and immediately scrambles your computer, hijacks your WiFi, emails copies of itself to everyone in your contacts in the three email accounts that you always have open, along with your browsing history, and tops it all off my spoofing your account in a threatening message to the White House. Ten minutes later two flash-bang grenades crash through your window blinding you, sending you to the floor. Helicopters fly overhead, and federal agents break down your door. --- You perish, unpublished, forty years later in solitary confinement in a supermax prison.

You are about to open the email attachment when you notice something. It has a .jar extension. You were expecting a PDF. [[Open the attachment]]. [[Contact the publisher]].

Dear Publisher, Thanks for your email about the soft proofs. I noticed, though, that you sent a .jar file instead of a PDF. Is this OK? Sincerely, You --- The speed of the publisher's reply is breathtaking. Dear Author, DON'T OPEN THAT FILE! It's a virus. We're not sure what happened, but attached is the PDF you need. Our turn to apologize, The Publisher. [[Review the proofs]].

You take a deep breath and open the attachment. Instead of a virus, you see your work laid out before you, text and images. It looks like a real, professional book. You smile, and begin to page through it, reconnecting with the material you worked so hard on. It's difficult not to get emotional about it, but it's your first book. You notice a few things, and mark them: missed italics, a typo, an uncropped image. There's not a lot to change. But there is one thing you want to [[add]].

Dear Publisher, I know that now is not the time to add any matters of substance to the proofs, but I am hoping you can bend the rules for me in this case. I recently lost my father, and would like to add a dedication to him. Is that possible? Sincerely, You --- You wait for the [[reply]].

Dear Author, We are terribly sorry for your loss. Of course you may add a dedication. The signature count had us at two blanks at the end of the book, so this will fix that probem. Please let us know how you would like the dedication to read. Sincerely, The Publisher --- You write two versions of the dedication. But which to use? [[Dedication 1]] [[Dedication 2]]

"For my father." [[Send dedication]]

"For my dad, who never thought I'd finish anything." At that very moment, you have a heart attack. You have [[perished]], unpublished, in a sick ironic twist, finishing your life before your book.

You send the dedication, and continue to review the proofs over the next week. You return them to the publisher, who enters the changes along with those from the proofreader. You receive another email: Dear Author, Almost there! It's time to create a cover for the book. We had our designer come up with three options for you. Normally publishers will create a cover for the book, and that's what you get. We try to keep our authors involved in the process, so please tell us what you like: [[Cover 1]] [[Cover 2]] [[Cover 3]] Sincerely, The Publisher

You are paralyzed by how ugly, how awful this cover is. It has nothing to do with your work, and the combination of colors is like visual vomit. The more you look at it, the more paralyzed you become until it's a staring contest between you and the book's cover. The cover wins. You have [[perished]], unpublished, because of bad art. And thirst. Because you were paralyzed. By just how awful the cover was. This apparently happens all the time.

Upon opening Cover 2, you are struck by how boring the cover is. It's not ugly, but it has no personality. It reminds you of the covers used by at least one major academic publisher where all books look exactly alike. Sure you get to be published by that house, but at the same time, you feel like your work gets lost. You hope [[Cover 3]] is better. But maybe [[Cover 1]] would work.

You can't believe how gorgeous Cover 3 is. It's as if the designer grew up with you, read the same stuff you did, dated you, and as an engagement present designed this cover as a declaration of profound love and joy. It's perfect, and you sit there staring at it. Do you dare even open [[Cover 1]] or [[Cover 2]]? Or is it [[love at first sight]]?

Dear Publisher, I am in love with Cover 3. Please tell the designer how happy I am! Is there anything left to do? Sincerely, You --- Dear Author, You made our designer blush, which is rare. At this point, that's it! We will get the book to the printer next week, and you should receive your advance copy about six weeks after that. This will be followed by your ten gratis author copies. And we'll send other copies out for review so we can get some good press. Almost there! The Publisher --- It is done (almost). The next six weeks will feel interminable, and you wonder how you will occupy your time. [[Mountain-climbing]] [[Motorcycle around the country]] [[Stay home]]. Why risk anything now?

You've never been to the Himalayas, so you spend the next week climbing Everest and K2, helping clean up the trash at various base camps, and rescuing stranded climbers. You return home to find a [[box]] waiting for you.

Happy, you finally buy that classic Triumph motorcycle you've always wanted, and ride it around the country for the next six weeks, talking to people, photographic impossible natural beauty, and eating a lot of homemade pie. You return home to find a [[box]] waiting for you.

Why risk anything and then miss the book when it arrives? You spend your time watching TV, surfing the Internet, and ordering takeout. One evening as you are watching the final season of *Lost*, you are crushed and burned to the point of evaporation by a freak asteroid. You have [[perished]], but you have also published, although you never got to hold your book in your hands. It would eventually go on to outsell every book published that year. Like a true scholar, you have martyred yourself for your work. Or the asteroid helped you turn that corner.

The book-sized box teases you with its dull brown exterior. You know what's inside. You pick it up and bring it to the table, ready to unbox it, wondering if you should live-stream the unboxing on YouTube. The phone rings. [[Answer the phone]]. [[Ignore the phone]].

"Hello?" "DON'T OPEN THE BOX!" You back away, feeling lightheaded. The voice continues: "IT'S A BOMB. FROM REVIEWER 2. THEY FOUND OUT THAT YOU HADN'T MADE THEIR SUGGESTED REVISIONS. THE POLICE MADE AN ARREST THIS MORNING AND LEARNED ABOUT THE PACKAGE. I'M SO GLAD YOU'RE ALIVE. WE'RE SENDING YOUR ADVANCE COPY BY COURIER TOMORROW." --- The police arrive with a bomb squad. You're safe. The next day your book arrives. [[Open it]].

You mute your phone and open the box, shocked to find a note inside: "Surprise! With love, Reviewer 2. You really should have made my suggested revisions." --- The box explodes, killing you instantly. As your guts decorate the kitchen, thousands of copies of your book are being boxed for the publisher. It's a shame you won't see the public's positive reception of your work. You have [[perished]], but you have also published.

You open the couriered parcel and hold your book for the first time. The cover is perfect. You flip through the pages. It's real. The book launch party with friends and family, the lecture tour, and the awards banquets will all come later. But for now, it is just you and your book. And you feel something you haven't felt in a while: you feel . . . happy. --- 70 years later, you are outside under a tree in your garden. It is warm but not hot, sunny but not bright. Your tea is ready to drink. People are inside the house making busy with dinner, and some are in your small library where your first book and the others that followed it have pride of place by the window. A cat sleeps on a cushion next to them, guarding them like a dragon. You feel a change within. You feel cooler. And sleepy. You catch yourself in a dream and remember the first work you ever did. The first real work. And now you can [[rest]].

You have published and [[perished]]. The world continues. You are gone, but your work remains, the immortal product of the mind to be shared with everyone.

You consider your academic/university press options: Giant, corporate-style [[university press]] Smaller [[academic press]]

You decide to just pay to have the book come out. It's expensive but easy. Unfortunately after spending thousands of dollars with no guarantee of a professional product that will be distributed widely, you can no longer afford to feed yourself or pay medical bills. You have [[perished]], unpublished.

You opt for the colossal university press. They accept your work immediately, put it into production as-is, and publish it without any human contact at all. The entire process takes only a few months, but because they have outsourced the editing and typesetting and opted not to hire a proofreader, you are poorly reviewed, and the book looks like junk. The force of the negative reviews in the scholarly press kills you. You have published and [[perished]].

You've heard horror stories about predatory publishers and about faceless university presses, so you opt to be more selective in where your work should be published. You find a smaller academic press with a solid backlist of titles and a good reputation. It looks perfect, so you decide to take a chance. But you notice there are guidelines to follow prior to submitting your work. [[Guidelines]] [[What Guidelines?]]

Thank you for playing! *Publish and Perish* Twine interactive fiction created by Andrew Reinhard, March 2017. Contact: [email protected] and @adreinhard CC-BY-NC version 1.0 [[It is done!]]