I’m Not Even Sure I Want to Be an Author Anymore

These days I don’t even know how much I want to keep going. And by “keep going” I mean continue the dream of becoming a published author. And it’s probably because I came across this…

I can’t do that. I don’t want to do that. And all that’s WITH the publisher doing its fair share. $30,000 out of your own account? Money is supposed to flow toward the writer, not out. 90% chance he did not make money from this book. And yes, this is an established author, but it’s also not part of a series, so I’ve got to believe it’s close to what a debut author would have to do. But I simply don’t have the time or desire to set up thirty podcast appearances/interviews, plan and film TikToks and promo videos and trailers. He’s a NY Times bestseller and he has to also be a journalist, actor, advertiser, movie producer, blurb-getter, salesman, script writer, director, publicist, party planner, accountant, event scheduler, and website designer. I’m starting to think this dream is not worth it.

And this is an author I admire. I’ve been mindful of him, almost by accident, throughout the years. I caught John Dies at the End when it was only online, not knowing that the author would become one of my favorites. But he is not meant to be a promoter. You can tell by his reels; they’re all pretty consistent. Just him pointing out an overlooked idea or question about society or flaw in collective thinking. He points to different images and narrates for two or three minutes in a monotone voice while staring out. And this guy is good. He is smart. But he is bad at PR. And I’m bad at PR. I hate having to persuade people of something. And I can’t imagine a writer’s life if I’m forced to be my own salesman for every book. This guy HAS an agent and HAS a publisher and he’s hustling like I’d expect an indie writer to do. And STILL no one’s heard of him. Dungeon Crawler Carl has probably sold more books than him. And this is the kind of life I want to get into?

My short story stats still aren’t where I feel like they should be. I mean, yeah, I have more acceptances. Duotrope says my rate of 9.5% is higher than average. But they’re all rinky-dink websites whose designs haven’t changed since the Geocities age. If they do pay, the best they can do is $5. These are not Clarkesworld or Uncanny or Asimov’s. And besides, I never recognize any of the authors in them. It feels like short story writers stay within their bubble of short story audiences. It’s not an avenue to an agent like Stephen King said in On Writing.

And that’s the same for novels. It’s just too much competition out there. Too much selection. It might have been a little easier for me to break in during the seventies or eighties, before the Internet made everything easy. But not only is it easier to communicate with an agent (e.g., sending email instead of writing/typing a letter, folding it, making a self-addressed stamped envelope, taking your manuscript to the post office, etc.), there are fewer obstacles to creating your own professional-looking book. You can bypass the entire industry and go right to the (virtual) bookstore. Which means everyone has done it. Your book is one of millions, never to be noticed. There’s a hell of a lot more supply out there than there is demand.

I don’t think it’s possible to be a known author anymore. A J.K. Rowling or a Stephen King or Carrie Bradshaw. And it doesn’t even matter if you write a quality book–that’s not what people want. They want werewolf smut and books with black and white men on the cover with titles like The Single Billionaire’s Vacation. You’ve got to squeeze between Sarah J. Maas and the writer of Heated Rivalry: A Spicy Gay Hockey Romance.

AND not only all those, but every book ever written. All the evergreen classics like Heinlein and Dickens and Morrison and Sachar and Christie and Patterson and Stine and Steel. Imagine you were going to buy a house and there were hundreds of empty houses in the city. Imagine all the realtors in red blazers standing at the ready, looking like puppy dogs in the pet store. At some point, authors are going to have to start paying the readers.

And then there’s everything that’s not novels. Streaming and movies and video games and podcasts and board games and comic books. Even me, reading isn’t the largest of my hobbies. It’s always there, but it’s not the biggest. It’s not that people don’t read anymore. But in the pie chart of how you spend a 24-hour day entertaining yourself, the slice that says “reading” is getting more and more squished between everything else.

The Call of Duty games alone sold more copies than ALL adult-aimed books in the US in 2024. I’d like to repeat that because it sounds vaguely significant. One single video game series (of which there are 6) sold more than 100% of all the books everywhere. The best-selling book last year (Kristin Hannah’s The Women) sold 1.6 million copies. Deadpool vs. Wolverine sold 80 million tickets. Meanwhile, there’s TikTok and Tubi and other better cost/hour entertainment propositions.

And then here comes AI.

I don’t know if the industry’s dying or not. It’s probably going to become like radio. Still in existence, but pulling in no numbers to be profitable or noticeable.

An industry can be small and healthy, doesn’t mean it’s worth a damn. No one’s going to publish a book unless they’re sure it’s going to make money, and there’s no reason to believe I could make money. The industry’s totally scared. They don’t want to use the money they gained from a bestseller to take a risk on a new name.

And it doesn’t matter what kind of industry it is if you can’t break in. Some people make a career out of working at the Renaissance Fair. For every Oprah, hundreds of others tried to become big and just didn’t break the surface. Like, who gets into professional hockey? Only the people who, starting at three years old, went to the rink for practice at 5 in the morning every day, went to hockey school, college, and so on. Eat, breathe, and sleep hockey 24/7 a day. Only writers who have the same leap of faith commitment are going to be successful. Or your parents force you into it so you don’t know a different life.

Maybe there are just some people who try and try and never make it. I remember, a long time ago, 1991-ish, I saw this 20/20 or 60 Minutes story about actors trying to break in. There was this one guy–Joel Weiss. I remember his name because he said it to everyone he met. He looked fifty years old, but still worked as a waiter. When he wasn’t, he was constantly schmoozing with directors, producers, casting agents, key grips, caterers, handing out headshots. The reporter asked a director (I think it may have been Stephen Spielberg) about him and handed him his headshot and the director said “Yeah, I’ve heard of him. He’s fine. I just haven’t made anything I could cast him in yet.” I wonder whatever happened to that guy. Maybe he’s dead now.

And yet, I’ve still got stuff I’d like to write. Ideas I’d like to see tangible. But like, what do I do with them? What’s the point? Nobody’s going to read them. I’m shouting into the wind. My wife isn’t interested. My kids aren’t interested. My friends aren’t interested. Who is interested? No one I know. No one who says, “Wow I really like this, I want to read more.” Maybe I can bury them somewhere and someone can dig them up and think they’re buried treasure. It just feels like the audience for my work is just there.

I want to write, but it feels useless unless I can be read too. Like, love can’t exist without reciprocation. Otherwise, it’s just a crush. I need to know that what I’m doing isn’t all in vain. I could be this guy right now.

But I also could be this guy.

Or am I this guy?

I’m just gonna die in the tunnel and become a skeleton with a pickaxe in my hand and people will wonder why this guy wasted his life digging a hole to nowhere. I imagine that for every breakthrough Rebecca Yarros there are a thousand other writers who wrote a similar book with similar characters and sent similar query letters to similar agents and publishers and lightning just didn’t strike that day. And year after year, it’s closer to looking like I’m going to stay in the pit of obscurity. It’s disheartening to say the same thing in every December–no book on the shelf for me.

Or maybe it’s the holidays. I never did like this time of year.