a funny thing happened on the way to the bookstore

So there I was, wandering around Barnes & Noble, trying to figure out what the hell they'd done to the place. Everything was swapped around. The manga section had been shunted 30 feet to the northwest, the science fiction shelves had done an about-face, and it was anyone's guess where the dictionaries and thesauri had disappeared to. In the middle of this pursuit, I locked eyes with a two people coming inside the shop, who like me appeared somewhat disoriented. The woman was tall, middle-aged, with clear blue eyes, short dirty-blonde hair, sturdily built, wearing lots of denim. The man was similarly clothed, and had the look of a congenial vulture: tan-skinned, goggle-eyed, hook-nosed, pencil-necked, with a bald-patch crowning a ring of feathery brown hair.

I grinned sympathetically.
"They've switched everything around on us."
"I know," the woman said. "What's up with that?"
"Science-fiction section's over here now," I said, pointing, just to delineate which component of the store I habitually haunted. The woman, who was still wearing the same smile she had been when she entered, said, "Who reads science fiction? This is the book for you."
She held out a book. It was a large paperback with a black cover, and white, angular, futuristic lettering on it. It had some strange sort of illustration, like the Earth consumed with fire or laser beams. I turned the book over, and skimmed the synopsis. It was a militant science fiction epic, reminding me vaguely of Ender's Game, or perhaps Heinlein's Starship Troopers.
"Looks interesting," I said, handing it back.
"I wrote it," the woman said. Far too late, I noticed the similarity between the garishly-lit photograph on the back cover and the woman standing in front of me.
"Oh! Well...nice job."
"Yeah, thank you."
"Congratulations, you broke into that competitive market," I effused, grateful that I'd managed to think of something more edifying than "nice job."
"Thank you!" the woman said. She held up her book. "It's on the Barnes & Noble website. They won't put it on the shelves, though. I self-published, and they only stock the major publishers in their stores."
"Elitist pigs," I sympathized.
"That's why I'm here," she continued. "I need to talk to them about that."
My interest was piqued. I'd read a lot of blogs and websites about self-publishing, and I was beginning to think about trying it myself.
"You self-published?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said. That smile hadn't moved an inch, all the time we'd been talking. The woman's boyfriend (or whatever he was) had sneaked away and was paging through a large coffee table book in the markdown section.
"Self-publishing's the way to go," the woman said. "Self-publishing is killing regular publishing."
"So I've heard," I said. "I've read a lot of blogs and websites about self-publishing. I'm beginning to think about trying it myself." "Do you write?" she asked.
"I've got a completed 53,000-word manuscript at home," I said, trying to remain in neutral. "Also science fiction."
The woman held up her book again. "This was originally 127,000 words. Then I came in here and bought a book about editing. I was able to cut out about 24,000 words."
"That so?"
"Yeah," she said. "Which is good, because with self-publishing, you pay by the page."
"I didn't know that."
"Yep," she said. "But my friends and readers said it was too short. They didn't want it to end."
For the first time, the woman's male companion spoke up. He had a pronounced English accent.
"I'm holding out for the sequel," he said to me. "Her book was good."
"What are you doing?" the woman asked him, looking at the book in his hands.
"I was trying to see if your Vista was in here," the man said. The woman peered at the book in his hands, and read the title aloud. "The World's Worst Cars?"
The man grinned, and let out an evil chuckle. Chuckling herself, the woman grabbed the book from him and threw it back on the shelf with its fellows.
"Are we getting out of here, or what?" she asked.
"Good luck with your negotiations," I said to the woman.
"Yeah, thank you!" the woman said, her smile hitching up another notch. "Good luck to you too."

I stayed at B&N just long enough to ascertain that copies of Writer's Market were in stock, then decided I could just sign up for an online account for $5.99 per month. Then I left.

Self-publishing. It had been something I had considered, and am still considering. I haven't yet tried (nor, therefore, failed) to find a major market for my book. Part of me would like to keep trying to get published by a well-known and established publishing firm, just to say that I could and did. Part of me would like to see my novel on the shelves of Barnes & Noble, gussied up and beautiful, the cover art shining out brighter than Botticelli's Venus, the name Bantam or Penguin or Doubleday emblazoned on the spine. The other part of me doesn't care WHO the heck publishes it, as long as it's printed and circulated, and finds its way to the hands and eyes and hearts of people who want to read it. The first part of me snickers at the second part and says, "Yeah, right. Thou craven! Wouldst thou forsake the emblem of Bantam or Doubleday? Wouldst thou content thyself with inferior binding, with a cheap paper cover and second-rate cover art, with limited circulation? A work which flasheth in the pan?"
"Thy argument hath merit," the second part of me sighs, shoulders slumping.
"This digit I hold before me hath knowledge of thy mother," sneers the first part.
The way I see it, there are pros and cons to self-publishing, just as there are to mainstream publishing. With self-publishing, your book will be published, if you can pay...and don't care how small an audience your work reaches. On the other hand, you're nobody's fool, and don't give a hang for money-grubbing editors, unfair book deals, copyright scams, inept agents, or any of that rot. Decisions, decisions, decisions. I'll have to think about this one.

To publish, or to self-publish? That is the question.