Protecting Authors’ Privacy: The Cost of Marketing Our Own Books
I have always loved my privacy. Growing up, I had a lock on my diary and only whispered secrets to those who could be fully trusted. I preferred one-on-one friendships to large groups, and I loved the sense of exploration and independence I had as a child.
(The One Thing I Wish I’d Known Before I Got Published.)
Back then, if you’d told me I’d grow up to be a writer who had to share, post, and pretty much expose every part of who I am to the world, I wouldn’t have believed you.
Once upon a time, being a writer was the stuff of dreams. Romantic, even. To be a writer was this elusive thing. You got an idea for a story, wrote it, pitched it, and got paid enough money to go away for months at a time and create.
When a book came out, there was fanfare. Sometimes even a paid book tour. You traveled, you signed books, you chatted with readers, and then you disappeared back into your creative cave. If readers wanted to know about you, they had to show up for an event or hunt for interviews. The more reclusive you were, the more interesting. Your whole life was never on display. It was about the work, always the work. Years could pass before you published another book. You had time to think, to pine, to process, to ideate, to rest. To ride the wave of your first book, maybe your only book, before the seeds of a new idea began to sprout.
Fast forward to today, and being an author seems like an advertisement for a bad dating app:
“Underpaid, introverted author turned social media wizard who spends all their time marketing, posting other people’s books, and figuring out the best ways to reach readers and get their books into the world seeks major success in a world with a short attention span and no guarantees.”
Not only is there less time for writing than ever before, every author who wants to be traditionally published is told some version of the same thing: “Marketing falls completely on the author’s shoulders. It’s just the way it is.”
Is it?
I remember in a not too distant past, authors wrote books. Publishers sold books. Everyone was happy. The end.
But now, the onus is on authors to reach and engage thousands of readers. We aren’t published unless we’ve amassed a following. Also, how’s our engagement? What’s our newsletter open rate? How many books have we sold? Do we have a podcast? A Substack? A Patreon? Are we on TikTok? In no universe were writers ever supposed to manage this much.
And yet, it feels…
We are only as good as our numbers, not our stories.
We are only as valuable as our followers, not our creativity.
We are only as successful as our last book sales, not how much readers love it.
We are only measured by lists, sales, and bestseller status, not raw talent and drive.
Over the last 20 years, I’ve realized the more I reach, the more I share, the more I chase, the emptier I feel.
As someone who has seen the massive shifts in the industry from then to now, I am here to say:
Writers were never meant to be marketers.
Our gifts lie in our creativity, writing stories, and our introverted (i.e., private!) nature. The demands from the industry take us further away from what we were put on this earth to do: WRITE.
Authors deserve uninterrupted time to write. Not between posts. Not between building author platforms. Not between edits. Not between book tours.
After one failed novel, four nonfiction books, and six novels with big publishers, I feel dizzy from my furious output. I still haven’t hit the New York Times bestseller list, despite selling thousands and thousands of books. I still haven’t had a hardback release. I still haven’t become a literary darling, and it’s not for lack of work ethic, good storytelling, or proper positioning. (It’s also not my bad attitude, I swear; I used to be hopeful!)
Check out Rea Frey’s In Every Life here:
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This is not to say I haven’t had fabulous help along the way, because I have. I am so fortunate to work with publishers who really care, who take the time to push so hard behind the scenes to get my books in front of readers. It is an important job, and I am beyond grateful.
However, even though publishers work hard, the expectation has shifted, and there’s a new game to play where the author is out front and center much of the time.
For me, the “game” isn’t one I’m much interested in playing, because it feels like chasing. It feels like hustle. It feels like there’s no destination in sight, no metric to hit where I can sit back, sigh, and say, “There. I’ve arrived. Look at what I did.”
Instead, to play this game feels like denying who I truly am and how I want to spend my precious time…
And it’s not on social media.
It’s not making reels of my writing life.
It’s not connecting with readers all day, every day.
Or writing social media posts that never have an end in sight.
Don’t get me wrong: I’ve done all of these things and more. I’ve spent so much time and money trying to find the “magic” button of success. I’ve reached some. I’ve failed. I’ve landed everywhere and nowhere in between.
But you know what I really love?
Writing. I love sitting down and having hours pass not even knowing where I am. I love creating something and going deep. I love the finished product. I love the process.
But I don’t always love what comes after… all of the expectations and unknowns and running around like a chicken without a head. And you know what I’ve discovered along the way in working with countless authors?
They don’t love it either. They don’t love pushing themselves beyond their physical, mental, and emotional limits, book after book after book. They don’t love grinning and bearing it. They don’t love “not knowing” how their books will do. They don’t love making reels of themselves typing with text bubbles above their heads. (I mean, if you do love any of those things, that’s cool, but I don’t.)
Until authors say no to doing things we weren’t ever meant to do, nothing will change. Authors have the power to change the industry. And some do. Bestselling authors like Cal Newport, who refuse to have an email address or social media. There are rules, yes, but we can still break them.
At the end of our day, there are our stories, our books, and our intellectual property that make the publishing world go round.
So what kind of writer do you want to be?
I know that I want to write, and I want to feel good doing it. I chose this profession so I could have seasons of output and seasons of rest. But there is no rest. Ever. If you’re not putting out one book a year (or, in my case, two!), you’re editing another and pitching a third at the same time. It’s exhausting in a world that moves so fast and is so full of things to do, it’s hard to keep up.
What would happen if we just stopped spreading ourselves thin by sharing every single detail about ourselves? What if authors’ privacy became sacred again, became the new currency? What if we stopped tuning into what everyone else is doing and lived our lives the way we wanted?
What if authors never had to market a single thing?
What if we took the responsibility off the creative’s shoulders and let us get back to what we are good at?
What then?
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