Kill the Reading, Keep the Party

No one buys boredom.

And yet boredom is the default setting for most book and journal launches.

Last month in Melbourne, I RSVP’d to a high-profile book launch by a well-known author at a respected independent bookstore. I was excited—the ticketing was on an official ticketing site—and I was expecting an event: a vibe, a crowd, and something sparkly to drink in a glass. Instead, no wine was in sight, a few stragglers hung about looking as though they were there out of obligation to the author, and within ten minutes the room had that restless energy of people calculating how quickly they could escape.

We sat through a long Q&A followed by a reading, under fluorescent lights, with nothing to drink and nowhere to hide. It was less than lackluster. “It’s so masochistic,” I moaned to an Aussie counterpart I had invited to join me. “It’s embarrassing.”

That book launch, in all its tediousness, felt like a confirmation: the literary launch model—that celebratory climax of commercial publishing—is unfit for purpose. It’s more than a well-intentioned failure in most cases; the system itself is broken.

After an appropriate amount of time, my friend and I hurried to a wine bar next door, where we discussed why the status quo of launch events is so desperately in need of disruption. In an age of Netflix, doomscrolling, and three-second attention spans, throwing a traditional launch is commercial suicide. Your audience will come for the free drink (should one be available) and leave, usually without the book you’re promoting, all because you’ve offered them nothing in return. Plus, people are cheap. If you want them to buy the book, you need to give them a darn good reason to part with their cash.

At Folly, we decided early on that boredom was not on the menu. Right from the start, we wanted to do something different. If we were going to build a sustainable journal in a small island nation at the bottom of the world, we had to do more than print pages.

We had to create a movement. Here’s how we did it.

1. Kill the ego. You’re in the entertainment business

Most writers (and too many editors) still believe that the work should speak for itself. That the art is so pure, so elevated, people will line up under fluorescent lights to hear 40 minutes of it read aloud. They think the launch should showcase art, not entertain the audience. This is why many traditional literary launches fail.

Here, success depends on creating a movement. And to create a movement, you need to accept that the journal or magazine itself—no matter how brilliant it is—is not enough to entertain your audience on its own. Importantly, figuring out a way to fully entertain your audience is the engine of sustainability; it’s how you get people to part with their cash. It’s not uncommon to come across some ecstatic attendee at an event of ours who has no idea what Folly is exactly—they simply came because they “heard the Folly parties are awesome.” That’s no accident.

This isn’t a knock to the ego. It’s proof that entertainment draws in new readers.

2. Reframe what a launch is

If you wouldn’t pay to attend your own event, why would anyone else?

Instead of polite readings and warm wine, create a launch model that gives people something worth talking about. Think of your launch as theater, ritual, or nightlife—a space where the spectacle of the event creates the conditions for literature to sneak in later.

With Folly, we launch each issue with a party that sells spectacle, intel, and belonging. Our annual issues are almost secondary—they’re the artifact our audience stumbles home with at 5 am, proof of a good time. Oftentimes, accolades about the literature inside Folly come weeks later, when they eventually pick the journal up off the coffee table.

The launch is your commercial opportunity to show people what they can be part of by supporting what you’ve created. An event, a movement, a community—creating something that is about the people, rather than the art, is how you reach new readers who would never otherwise buy your publication. Then they will come to your next event—and either pay to be there or buy your publication.

3. Exploit the narrative and do the unexpected

If you’re being called elitist, irreverent, niche, or unserious: Congratulations. That’s free marketing. Don’t fight it; amplify it until it’s yours.

The literary sector has a history of high-brow energy, gatekeeping, and snobbery. But the world is full of readers outside of this small set, all of whom are oblivious to this and don’t care either way. Pick your niche and lean in. Allow yourself to be mocked by the establishment, double down, and speak to your audience.

In 2023 we garnered unexpected attention when we launched luxury literary bathrobes as merch into a small country heading into recession. Completely unnecessary, outrageously indulgent, and perfectly poised to wind up a subset of literary gatekeepers. They skewered us mercilessly about why bathrobes should fund publishing, taking exception to what was in reality a fairly reasonable price tag. Rather than defend, we leaned into the humor and criticism, partnering with a media outlet in 2024 for a “completely unnecessary” luxury bathrobe giveaway. The robes sold well enough, but more importantly, they reinforced our identity: provocative, playful, and impossible to ignore. As it turns out, leaning into your narrative is more powerful than trying to rewrite it.

4. Accept that publishing is commerce

This is the part many writers and editors resist. Publishing is art, but it’s also a business. If you want the printed word to survive in the world, it has to be sellable. That means creating value beyond the page: events people actually want to attend, merchandise that sparks conversation, and experiences that feel worth paying for. When you treat launches as equal parts entertainment and community-building, the sales naturally follow.

At one Folly launch, our local bookstore sold out of copies, so we kept selling boxes ourselves until dawn. Our messaging wasn’t “Buy this book.” It was “Support art, and join the party.”

To summarize, swapping the stale launch tradition for a bona fide movement—one that creates value beyond the page—comes down to four points:

1. Kill the ego. Writing a book may take years, but readers don’t owe you their attention. Art alone doesn’t sell itself. You need to entertain first, then let the literature sneak in later.
2. Use your critics. If you’re called elitist, unserious, or niche, that’s free branding. Don’t waste time correcting the record; lean into it and make it unforgettable.
3. Community before content. People show up for the party. The journal is the artefact they carry home, maybe unread until a hungover Sunday morning. But the party primes the reading—and that delayed discovery often creates the most loyal readers.
4. Remember, it’s commerce. Publishing is art, yes. But it’s also business. If you want books to exist in the world, you need to sell them. Treat launches as a way to generate value, not as charity readings with bad wine.

So don’t just launch a book. Launch a movement.

Emily Makere Broadmore is a writer, strategist, and creative provocateur from Aotearoa New Zealand. She’s the founder and editor of Folly Journal—the international award-winning print publication described as “a fun-lovin’ barbarian at the gates of New Zealand literature.” Folly’s blend of subversive glamour and literary mischief has made it a cult favourite for readers who love parties as much as literature, earning a silver medal at the Next Generation Indie Book Awards in 2025.