u/cristiantudorjobs

I’m currently in the final editing stage of my novel and I keep thinking about the same question over and over:

Should I try traditional publishing and look for a literary agent, or should I go with Amazon Kindle self publishing?

Part of me loves the idea of holding a printed book in my hands, turning the pages, even that smell of paper and ink. It feels real in a different way.

But self publishing gives me full control over everything. Cover decisions, release dates, marketing, updates, freedom.

I honestly don’t know what the right path is.

Some of you have probably already been through this. Maybe some of you made mistakes. Maybe some of you would choose differently if you had another chance.

What did you do?

Did you go traditional or self publish?

Would you do it again the same way?

I keep thinking about this constantly and I’d really appreciate honest advice from people who have already walked this road. Thanks in advance.

“You haven’t been around for a while,” Jack muttered.

“I was starting to think you’d built yourself a cabin on the surface and forgotten the rest of us down here among rust, mould and whatever still moves in the dark.”

Harvey let a tired smile appear.

“Really? And where exactly do you think I would disappear to? If I found an island, I’d take you with me.”

From the shadows, another voice joined in.

“Kensington Gardens,” the man said quietly.

“I heard there’s still an empty bench near the fountain.”

A short laugh followed.

“Hyde Park, maybe.”

“Or the Serpentine.”

“Just don’t stay after dark.”

Another voice spoke.

“London Eye. Perhaps one cabin is still turning.”

Nobody truly laughed.

There was no room for humour in the Tube anymore.

But sometimes people pretended.

Not because it worked.

Because they needed to remember how.

The old jokes.

The forgotten places.

The parks.

The islands.

The London that once existed above them.

Now there were no parks.

No islands.

Only directions.

Only locked stations.

Only bullets.

And the darkness waiting beyond the next tunnel.

London Tube 2033

He placed the Bible in last, between the supply pack and the sleeping bag, inside the side pocket of his rucksack. The old leather cover creaked softly beneath his palm. He opened it for only a moment, without reading, letting his finger rest against the edge of a yellowed page. The gesture came from an old habit, preserved intact among too many things that had already disappeared.

Everything Stewart had prepared for him was there, filters, tins, maps, ammunition, documents sealed in plastic. And yet, for the journey waiting ahead, none of it felt enough. Some things could not be packed into a rucksack. Memory. Guilt. The stubborn need not to forget who he was and why he kept moving forward. The Bible remained the only object capable of carrying his silence without asking anything in return.

He slung the rifle over his shoulder and checked the straps of the rucksack once more. The equipment did not seem heavy, but every item weighed differently from metal. The damp walls of North Greenwich station held a strange vibration, as though the entire structure of the tunnels was waiting for something that had not yet happened.

He had walked past the sleeping tents with measured, controlled steps. His boots struck the wet concrete with a dull sound, swallowed immediately by the tunnels. He no longer knew whether it was morning or night. Underground, time had lost its meaning years ago. Only direction mattered, and every step brought him closer to the western platform and the tunnel running beneath the Thames towards Canary Wharf.

With every pace, Harvey felt as though he were pulling away from the last things that still seemed stable.

His thoughts kept returning to Adrian and Mason.

Their disappearance had been too clean.

Too quiet.

If they had been injured, they would have returned.

If they had been captured, they would have left something behind.

A sign.

A trace.

But there was nothing.

Only that cold emptiness continuing to grow inside his mind.

The message had to be delivered.

And if the truth about them waited at the end of that road, he would find it, whatever shape it had taken.

In his right hand he carried the map.

In his left, the past.

The two couriers had left North Greenwich more than four hours earlier.

They had disappeared from the customs officers’ line of sight immediately after the formalities, completed in silence, quickly, without unnecessary gestures.

Their departure had been recorded.

The route had been set towards the west, towards the centre.

One or two miles of blind tunnel to Canary Wharf.

Out and back.

A short distance.

A routine mission.

At least on paper.

Hours had passed.

They had not returned.

On an ordinary day, “routine” meant small and vital things:

a sack of rationed flour,

a packet of filters,

a dose of antibiotics,

a belt of ammunition counted round by round,

a sealed letter that was never meant to reach other hands.

Couriers did not leave loaded like caravans.

They travelled light.

Fast.

With knees trained for darkness.

With minds trained never to stop.

That was why four hours were no longer just a delay.

They were a red line.

The amount of time in which a man either arrived...

or was lost.

And the station remained with the emptiness he left behind.

The disappearance of the couriers had not been announced.

Not yet.

But the border point had tightened like a muscle.

Four armed men stood there, their damp, worn uniforms facing the tunnel.

They were not checking.

They were stopping.

Between them and the darkness stood everything that remained of order.