BoSacks Speaks Out: The Astonishing Economics of Publishing at 600 Copies a Pop

Let me be candid: after decades in this business, I thought I had a pretty good handle on what it takes to keep a publishing house afloat. So when I came across recent data on small literary presses, I had to read it twice. Then a third time. Because the numbers didn’t just surprise me, they upended my assumptions. And it made me wonder: how, after all these years of friendship with Jane Friedman , a sharp, generous, and endlessly insightful publishing mind, did I never ask such a simple question about quantity and success? Maybe I assumed I already knew the answer. Maybe I didn’t want to know. Either way, the reality is more nuanced, more precarious, and frankly, more fascinating than I ever imagined. I didn’t know you could survive selling 600 of anything let alone books.

Dzanc Books, a nonprofit literary press, publishes between ten and fifteen titles a year. Most of those books sell just 500 to 600 copies. Their more successful titles might reach 3,000 to 5,000. And yet, they manage to move around 80,000 units annually and generate between $100,000 and $140,000 in income. That’s not exactly a windfall, but it’s enough to keep the operation running. Akashic Books, slightly larger and for-profit, publishes about 25 titles a year and brings in roughly $2 million in annual sales with a staff of six. These are not vanity projects. These are functioning, resilient publishing houses, built not on scale, but on strategy.

What’s remarkable is not just that they survive, but how they survive. They’ve embraced a publishing philosophy that runs counter to the traditional model. Instead of betting everything on a handful of bestsellers, they spread their risk across a portfolio of titles. Instead of bloated payrolls and sprawling departments, they operate with lean, focused teams, Dzanc has just two full-time employees. Their revenue streams are diversified, drawing from grants, donations, library sales, and strategic partnerships. Libraries, in particular, play a crucial role, offering predictable and reliable purchases that can make or break a small press’s bottom line. And because Dzanc operates as a nonprofit, they benefit from a structure that prioritizes mission over margin.

But let’s not romanticize this model. It’s fragile. The article notes that even an 8 to 12 percent reduction in library sales could be devastating. A 50 percent cut? That’s not a rough patch, that’s an existential crisis. These publishers are walking a tightrope, balancing sustainability with constant uncertainty. Their success is not measured in blockbuster hits or market share, but in endurance, community engagement, and cultural contribution.

And they’re not alone. Tupelo Press has built a reputation not just on the quality of its poetry and literary fiction, but on the physicality of its books, the paper, the design, the tactile experience. Unnamed Press in Los Angeles publishes fiction and nonfiction with a global perspective, often spotlighting underrepresented voices. C&R Press amplifies LGBTQIA+, immigrant, and minority authors. These are presses that don’t just publish, they curate. They don’t just sell, they connect.

The same ethos is alive and well in the magazine world. Take Atmos, a biannual magazine that blends climate journalism with art and philosophy. It’s not chasing mass circulation, it’s cultivating a devoted readership that values depth, design, and mission. Broccoli, a magazine for cannabis culture, is unapologetically niche, visually stunning, and editorially bold. The Gentlewoman redefines fashion publishing with its minimalist aesthetic and long-form profiles, proving that slow journalism can still be stylish and sustainable. Even Toothache, a magazine by and for chefs, thrives on its tactile beauty and insider intimacy. These magazines aren’t just surviving, they’re setting a new standard for what print can be: intentional, experiential, and fiercely independent.

This model, precarious as it may be, aligns beautifully with the boutique publishing ethos I’ve long championed. It’s intimate, deliberate, and deeply human. It rejects the industrial churn of mass-market publishing and instead embraces the slow craft of curation. Each title, whether book or magazine, is not a product to be scaled, but a cultural artifact to be stewarded. In this world, success isn’t measured in units moved, but in minds reached, conversations sparked, and communities nourished.

There’s a quiet dignity in small numbers. A kind of literary minimalism that says: we don’t need to shout to be heard. We don’t need to flood the market to make a mark. We can whisper, and still matter. We can publish with purpose, and still endure.

This is not nostalgia. It’s a blueprint. A reminder that publishing, at its best, is not just a business, it’s a relationship. Between writer and reader. Between press and public. Between tradition and possibility.

So yes, I’m astonished. But I’m also inspired. Because in a world obsessed with scale, these small presses and boutique magazines are proof that intimacy still has value. That sustainability is not a compromise, but a calling. And that sometimes, the most radical thing you can do in publishing… is to stay small, and stay true.