Walt and I have this conversation probably once a month.
Who was that woman — the one who wore purple and taught people to sell from the stage? Where’d she go?
We genuinely cannot remember her name. And here’s the thing: a few years ago, she was everywhere. Speaking fees in the mid-five figures. Packed rooms. A waitlist. Then she stepped away for a beat — not even that long — and now she’s a pronoun. That woman. The one with the thing.
You probably know a few “that woman”s and “ole-what’s-his-names” of your own. The C-suite exec who retired and disappeared inside of eighteen months. The entrepreneur who took a sabbatical and came back to a following of twelve, eight of whom are bots. The consultant who was crushing it on LinkedIn, then went quiet, and now has to explain who she is at every networking event like she’s starting from scratch. Because she is.
I had to Google Rachel Hollis recently. That’s how I know the half-life of relevance is real and it is ruthless. Girl, Wash Your Face. Millions of copies. A second book. A whole empire. Then she got cancelled, stepped back, and when her name came up in conversation — I had to look her up. Not because I didn’t recognize the name. Because all I could remember was that Rachel woman who got cut down. The content of her work? Gone from my brain completely.
Here’s the thing nobody wants to say out loud: you can walk away from the pump handle for maybe six months. That’s it. Any longer than that and you’re not resuming your business — you’re rebuilding it. From ground zero. With a limp.
So when authors come to me in a full-on panic — I need to publish NOW, I’m already fading, my relevance has a shelf life and the clock is ticking — I understand the feeling. I really do. The fear is not irrational. The half-life of relevance is an actual thing. You’re right to be worried about it.
But here’s where the logic goes sideways.
Rushing a mediocre book does not solve the relevance problem. It creates a new, worse one.
A crappy book doesn’t keep you relevant. It hands your critics a weapon. It disappoints the audience you worked so hard to build. It becomes the thing you have to quietly apologize for at speaking gigs while hoping nobody bought it. A bad book doesn’t buy you time in the conversation — it removes you from it, with a little parting gift of embarrassment on your way out.
Good takes some time. Not forever. Not two years of agonizing rewrites. But some time.
Here’s what I’d tell you instead:
The book isn’t the thing that keeps you relevant while you write it. You keep you relevant while you write it. Your platform, your content, your presence in the rooms that matter — that’s the pump handle. Keep pumping. A book doesn’t replace that work; it amplifies it. When it’s done right, it shoots you into a different stratosphere of credibility. It opens doors that no amount of LinkedIn posts ever will. It positions you as the authority, not just another loud voice.
But only if it’s good.
So yes — move with urgency. Work on your platform, your positioning, your visibility. Do not go quiet. Do not take a year off and expect to come back to what you left. The audience has the attention span of a golden retriever and there are seventeen people lined up to take your spot.
Just don’t sacrifice the book on the altar of speed.
Write the right book. Write it well. And keep showing up while you do.
The relevance you’re so afraid of losing? You protect it with quality. Not with a rushed launch.
