The conversation has been heavy on Threads lately.
Authors announcing that their editors have been laid off. Writers wondering what happens to their book now that the imprint is gone. Debut novelists asking whether their pub date still stands.
If you’ve seen those posts — or written one yourself — know that you’re not alone, and your concern is valid.
This is my attempt to make sense of what’s actually happening, why it matters for us specifically, and where I genuinely believe the openings are.
A lot has happened in a short amount of time — and I want to name it directly so we’re all working from the same picture.
Penguin Random House closed Dial Books for Young Readers, one of its children’s imprints, laying off staff in the process. A beloved home for young readers’ stories — gone.
Baker & Taylor — the largest distributor of print books to public libraries in the country, nearly 200 years old and serving over 5,000 libraries collapsed and filed for bankruptcy in early 2026. Libraries everywhere are still figuring out how to fill that gap. If you published a book recently and your library sales have felt off, this is part of why.
Trinity University Press, which has published Texas and Southwest history and culture for decades, announced last fall that it’s closing in December 2026. The reason? Costs that became impossible to sustain. Another regional, culturally specific press disappearing.
The Washington Post shut down Book World, its beloved books section, in February 2026 laying off a third of its entire newsroom. Book World was one of the most respected places for literary coverage in the country. It’s gone now.
And across media and publishing broadly, over 17,000 jobs were cut in 2025 alone.
I’m not sharing this to stress you out. I’m sharing it because we deserve to see the full picture not a softened version of it.
A few things are happening at once.
The pandemic created a book boom. Publishers hired, expanded, took risks. Now the industry is pulling back and the people feeling it most are not the bestselling authors with seven-figure deals. It’s everyone else.
Big publishers are owned by even bigger corporations. That means every decision filters through a profit lens. Books that feel “too niche” or “too risky” are the first to get cut. And we all know what kinds of books get labeled that way.
On top of that, how readers discover books has completely shifted. It’s not book reviews in major newspapers anymore those are disappearing fast. It’s TikTok, Instagram, community word-of-mouth. That change creates real opportunities, but it also means the old pathways are less reliable than they used to be.
Let me say what the broader publishing conversation tends to dance around.
When publishers talk about cutting “risky” books and doubling down on “safe” ones we know whose books get labeled which way. It is not an accident that culturally specific stories, books by debut authors of color, work that doesn’t center a white gaze these are often the first to lose their champions when editorial teams shrink and acquisition budgets tighten.
We’ve already seen it. The editors who fought for our books are leaving. The imprints that took chances on underrepresented voices are consolidating. The book review sections that might have introduced a Dominican novel — or any novel by a writer of color — to a mainstream audience are shutting down.
And the writers absorbing the most damage are the ones who were already being told, explicitly or not, that their stories were too niche, too specific, not universal enough. That they needed to explain themselves. That they should soften the cultural references if they wanted a wider audience.
I hear from our writers about this all the time. The question of whether to write “for” a Dominican audience or “for” a general one. The exhaustion of being asked to translate your own culture mid-manuscript. The sting of a rejection that says the story is “too specific” when what it really means is: we don’t know how to sell this to the audience we’ve always prioritized.
This moment makes that harder. And that weight falls unevenly.
But here’s the other side of that truth: the traditional gatekeepers were never the only ones who got to decide which stories mattered. They just had the loudest megaphone.
That megaphone is no longer the only one in the room.
Independent publishers focused on specific communities are growing. Readers are finding books through BookTok, through newsletters, through word of mouth within their own communities not through a newspaper books section written for a general audience that never quite included them anyway.
The writers building direct relationships with their readers right now showing up in community spaces, creating newsletters, connecting with people who are hungry for their specific stories those writers are not waiting for permission.
That is exactly the tradition we come from.
Here’s what I’d focus on:
Don’t put all your energy into one path. Traditional publishing is one road, not the only road. Indie presses, hybrid publishing, self-publishing these are real options worth understanding, not consolation prizes.
Start building your readership now. A newsletter, a social presence, a community whatever feels true to you. The writers with the most options will be the ones who already have an audience when the moment comes.
Learn the business side. I know it’s not the fun part. But understanding contracts, rights, distribution, and royalties protects you especially when the people you counted on to explain it aren’t there anymore.
Stay close to community. This one matters more than any strategy. The isolation so many of our writers feel wondering if their work is too Dominican, too specific, not universal enough that is what community heals. And that is what DWA is here for.
I won’t pretend this moment isn’t hard.
But I’ve seen what happens when Dominican writers find each other, read each other, champion each other. I saw it at our 2019 conference. I feel it building again as we prepare to bring our community back together this May.
The industry is narrowing. But we have never needed the center to hold to tell our stories.
Some doors are closing. Others are being built in real time.
We intend to be part of building them — with you.
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