In an era obsessed with optimization, claiming that gut instincts hold more value than hard data can feel almost rebellious. Yet the creation of art has never been a numbers game. It is the intangible qualities that lift a great book above the rest: you recognize them the moment you encounter them. Markets, however, operate under different rules.
That tension highlights the publishing world’s debut novel dilemma. Editors are being asked to back an author with no track record at a moment when social-media metrics count for little. If the writer has connections, their work might arrive with a few polished blurbs from peers, but beyond that there’s scant evidence to go on besides the manuscript itself. All that remains is the hope of introducing a new writer to readers and trusting that the way their words are arranged will resonate on the page.
Back when I worked as an assistant at Simon & Schuster in the early 2000s, I encountered the notion of a “make book,” a title that an editor or publisher felt deeply passionate about and wanted to push toward success. A make book did not rely on the author’s name recognition or the marketability of the premise; success lay in the execution. The editor’s role was to convey that fervor to sales, marketing, and other departments, with the aim of generating momentum for the book so that it could reach audiences beyond the house.
The concept of the make book is fundamentally hopeful: that a publisher, through a coordinated labor of love, could turn a book into a bestseller. The make book depends on several conditions: a publisher willing to commit the time and effort of their staff to a title that isn’t a slam dunk, a company culture that prizes the making of art, the ability of publishing workers to trust their instincts about whether a book feels special, and, most importantly, a belief that the market will elevate worthy literary material.
The concept of the make book remains fundamentally hopeful: by pooling focused labor and shared devotion, a publisher could raise a title to bestseller status.
Viet Thanh Nguyen’s The Sympathizer stands as a prime example of a make book that found success, as does Curtis Sittenfeld’s Prep. Examining these authors’ bodies of work leads me to add another criterion for a make book’s triumph: the conviction that a debut’s breakout should be seen not as the end goal, but as the beginning of a sustainable career for a new author.
Make books don’t always succeed—the circumstances must align in a particular way to create a hit, and even the most devoted publishers can’t bend markets to their will. Yet there are also numerous flashy seven-figure debuts whose titles I can no longer recall. Remember: a debut that lands a seven-figure advance (think Yesteryear) isn’t automatically a make book; what matters is that a debut with a seven-figure advance still needs to deliver real success to avoid flopping.
What remains true in 2026 is that debut novels with modest advances almost always count as make books. Launching new voices requires the care and attention of a staff committed to breaking them out simply because publishers believe in developing fresh perspectives.
Corporate consolidation has made the conditions much tougher for make books to break out. At conglomerate publishing houses today, staff may be asked to champion just one book across several imprints for the company’s sales and marketing teams to rally around. These teams are selling hundreds of titles each season, and there simply isn’t time enough to deliver deep personal pitches for every book they adore (and it’s worth noting that these teams are overwhelmed, not disinterested).
Corporate consolidation has made the conditions much more difficult for make books to break out.
Increasingly, it falls to smaller presses to take chances on new voices and cultivate them. That is why last week’s news that Catapult Books would shut down at month’s end is especially devastating. In its decade of operation, Catapult helped numerous prominent writers get their start. It backed authors like Lauren Oyler, Nicole Chung, Chibundu Onuzo, and Chelsea Bieker, who later moved on to publish subsequent titles with larger houses.
Before Percival Everett received seven figures from Random House for James, the indie press Graywolf gave him room to experiment and grow as a writer. Annie Hartnett, whose latest novel The Road to Tender Hearts is a steady seller, began at Tin House (an indie that was acquired by Zando in 2025). We need healthy small presses with modest budgets and bold ideas to discover writers and help sustain a vibrant publishing ecosystem. But the outlook for cultivating new voices feels a touch bleaker as another small, creative press folds.
