I'm Writing for Broke

I want to get something off my chest. 

This isn’t new. When I was in my early twenties, I sought wealth through network marketing. By my mid-twenties, I looked at real estate investing. When that obsession burned me out and I lost my job, I turned to writing. I’d already written for over a decade, but now it was time to make writing pay for itself.

I’d already pushed the self-publishing angle for years, but now it became a grind. I slaved over novels not for their sake, not for the readers’ sake, but for financial incentive. I studied the best ways to promote, advertise, and distribute my books. I compared myself to my heroes and I grew envious whenever anyone leapt ahead. Their success became my wound, and I wondered where I went wrong.

I think the journey from there to now can be condensed because ultimately, it’s a simple story. I realized I was deluding myself again. I’m good at convincing myself that Path A is the best way even if it isn’t…I just like to be doing something. So long as I’m moving, things are happening. So long as things are happening, I’m not stagnating in limbo. Presently, my biggest area of growth is learning how to temper myself, to offer grace and patience so I stay healthy, motivated, and creatively inspired. I’ve courted burnout multiple times, and I have no desire to return.

But I’m getting long-winded, and I meant to keep things concise.

You know those articles where authors recap their past year or month and break down their author expenses and income? In an effort for transparency and vulnerability, they share where they’re at and where they hope to go.

I’ve never made one of those posts. Why? Because I didn’t want to know the details. Because I was living in ignorance. Because I was convincing myself I was doing it for the money, and nothing else mattered.

I’m now ready to write that post.

I’m doing an overall recap here because when it’s generalized, the numbers are easy and less intimidating. I’ve tried to write novels since 2009, I published my first novel in 2022, and from 2022 until now, I’ve made about $800. 

I’ve self-published four novels in that time, and the production costs for each of those novels was triple my lifetime author income. These numbers clearly indicate I’m far in the red with no sign of reversal.

But here’s the beautiful thing about these numbers, and I truly mean this: they finally revealed the truth.

The truth is, I don’t care.

I’m exhausted of pushing so hard. I hate that I burnt relationships and time in my drive for network marketing. I hate that I burnt more time and a good job in my push for money to invest in real estate.

But perhaps most importantly, I hate that I pushed to make writing profitable, thereby “validating” it for myself and for everyone who knew I poured so many hours into it.

I’m tired of pushing. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired because I’m finally realizing I didn’t really care, not ever. I’m admitting this was never a business for me. It was always a passion, a dream I could live every day. I know there are things I could optimize. I know there are ways to improve the numbers…but I can generally carve out 1.5 hours a day for self-publishing, and I’d rather fill that time with work on the next novel.

I just want to write. I never feel more alive than when I spend time in my stories. 

And perhaps that’s why penning this article was cathartic. It’s a declaration, a response to the world that my numbers don’t look good, but that’s okay. I’m not in this for numbers or profit or success or anything.

None of that matters to me; it’s not even enjoyable to me. It never has been, and I’m finally accepting it. I thought writing had to offer something more than my own, shallow, intrinsic joy, but that’s a fallacy. It’s a lie that twists me from my passion. It reminds me of my all-time favorite quote by Howard Thurman:

“Don't ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, and go do that, because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

I had ignored what brought me to life. I spent my early years trying to settle, to find something that fit my assumptions of success. I wanted to do something that made financial sense, but I believe the world is full of people who “enjoy” financial success with neutered spirits. I want my spirit to remain free, active, and light. I want to write because I enjoy it, nothing more. 

Joe Abercrombie is my favorite author, and "Red Country" is my favorite novel.

The moment a reader compared my "Low Country Trilogy" to "Red Country" was the moment

the entire journey felt worthwhile, and I would do it all again.

So. There’s my number analysis, and I don’t know if I’ll do another. I’ve historically obsessed over money, and this number crunching drags me backward. Perhaps my ignorance is reckless or irresponsible.

But maybe that’s okay. I’m writing because I like it, and because I can afford to fund the covers and editors and accompanying expenses. I don’t know if writing will ever bring the income I hoped it would, but it doesn’t need to. I’m not pushing for the money anymore. I’m not pushing for anything but the next novel.

I’m writing because I enjoy writing. I’ve never made a dime in this business, and I don’t need to.

I’m literally writing for broke, and I couldn’t be happier.