Years ago, I joined a group program designed to teach me about marketing because I was tired of banking on sheer luck to bring in clients. You know, that magical thinking where people would somehow discover what I do—and how I could make their writing 1000 times easier—just by walking down the street and receiving a divine download from the universe. Ann Sheybani! Of course!
I bought into this program because the marketing copy made the process sound so damn easy. Do this, then this, then this, and you’ll practically be printing money. Three or five or seven simple steps to six or seven or eight figures. The super secret formula nobody else on the planet knows.
Now, I’m not saying the marketer running this business was nefarious in any way shape or form. I’m saying he understood marketing and human nature so much better than I did. (That’s why HE was running the program, not me.) People don’t buy into anything that advertises the process as a long-term slog, rife with obstacles and pitfalls and bleeding knees. Human nature gravitates toward fast, easy, obstacle-free solutions like Rosy Maple moths to a flame.
Some people in that marketing program resented not knowing the full picture of what was involved to get those results before they bought in. They spewed venom for a year or two, then opted out in frustration. (This is what is known as attrition.) Others rode out the steep learning curve, cried a lot, made friends with failure because what choice did they have, and eventually got the results they were after. Or some semblance theretofore. (I’m questioning my use of theretofore, but whatever.)
I’ve been told countless times that I need to change my marketing approach because I say upfront that writing is a “process”. (The quotations are meant to be ironic.)That means you start with straight shit that makes you second-guess everything you place on the page not to mention your worth. Then you rewrite until it lands right, which could take multiple drafts—even when you’re working with a developmental editor who has the annoying habit of saying, “That’s not working. Let’s have you try coming at it this way.”
It’s not brilliance from the get-go. It’s building one chapter after the next in the same annoying fashion until you have something worth publishing.
Then the fun creative back and forth seems to stop and the publishing machine takes over. All those great options you could experiment with—the very ones you resisted— suddenly get jerked away, and you’re forced to make choices you don’t want to make. Cover design, formatting, back cover copy, pricing strategies—decisions that make renovating a kitchen with a partner who has the opposite taste seem like child’s play.
Finally, after multiple choices that would challenge a UN diplomat, you produce a book that looks great but doesn’t sell simply because it’s up on some sales platform.
Surprise!—you have to learn marketing. And that makes you all hot under the collar because you never signed up for that part. You thought you were becoming an author, not a digital marketing specialist with a side hustle in graphic design and social media management. You start looking around for SOMEONE to blame.
Here’s the thing: nobody tells you any of this at the beginning because, if they did, human that you are, you’d never sign up for it. “You will fall and you will bleed” simply does not recommend.
The marketing gurus know this.The course creators understand it. Even well-meaning writing coaches soften the edges because the truth doesn’t convert well on sales pages.
“Discover your authentic voice in 30 days!”
My ass.
The reality is so much messier. Honey, your first draft will be terrible! Your second draft might be worse because now you’re overthinking everything. Your “finished” manuscript will need another round of revisions after a surely copy editor points out content gaps you could drive a truck through…and you’ll go through this nonsense again during proofreading.
The publishing process will present you with choices that feel simultaneously critical and overwhelming, one right after the other. Cover options that all look professional but somehow don’t capture what you’re trying to say. Formatting decisions that seem minor until you realize they affect how readers experience your ideas. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
And after all that work—the writing, rewriting, editing, and design decisions—you’ll discover that marketing your book is an entirely separate skill set that nobody mentioned in the “follow your passion” career counseling session.
So here’s my question: What would it take for you to tackle this project knowing there’s actual work involved? A process you must work through, followed by more work after that (even when you’re working with a team that handles the publishing mechanics for you)?
What would make you want to do it anyway?
Because here’s what I’ve discovered after years of helping writers navigate this process: the people who succeed aren’t the ones who believe the “easy button” marketing. They’re the ones who understand that meaningful work—the kind that creates something lasting and valuable—requires effort.
They’re drawn to the craft itself, not just the outcome. They find satisfaction in the struggle, in getting better at something that matters to them. They understand that the difficulty is part of what makes it worthwhile.
And that’s so not #trending.
The writers who thrive are those who can hold two truths simultaneously: this process will challenge you in ways you didn’t expect, and it’s worth doing anyway.
Not because it’s easy. Because it’s meaningful.
Not because success is guaranteed. Because the journey itself transforms you into someone who can create something from nothing, wrestle thoughts into coherent arguments, and connect with readers who desperately need to hear what you have to say.
The unsexy truth? Writing and publishing a book is hard work that requires patience, persistence, and a willingness to get better at things you never planned to learn.
The beautiful truth? That’s exactly what makes it worth doing.
