When I sold a book in 2023 with a six-figure dealI thought my whole life would change.
To begin with, that amount – for a book I had been working on for free for the past twenty years – felt like a windfall. Given the extent of my progress, it was safe to assume that my publisher was positioning it as a “big book”: a highly anticipated title launched with a big marketing push and significant financial backing. It felt like it was expected to be a commercial success.
The book was deeply personal and provocative, following my journey as a former sex worker and survivor of mass media humiliation and stay-at-home mom, and what that experience could teach us all about shame.
Considering the overreaction to some of my previous essays, I expected attention. I also feared catastrophic consequences. All the hate mail would be worth it, I told myself, because opportunities would come anyway: emails in my inbox, speaking engagements, and other prestigious, lucrative offers.
Then the book came out – and crickets.
It was like throwing my heart into an ocean of content
I watched it float around the media landscape for about a week, competing with other new titles and whatever else was making waves.
I was supported by it a lecture event at the 92nd Street Y with Kiese Laymonand being flown to DC to talk to Charlotte Clymer felt equally surreal. I got some kind reviews. Others were mixed. My publisher described first quarter sales as “quiet.”
When my agent sent me an email encouraging me to “not be disappointed,” it had the opposite effect.
Like most books, mine didn’t earn much
Here’s the reality I didn’t know: most books don’t make money, that is, they don’t sell enough copies to recoup what the publisher paid the author up front.
I didn’t know that when I signed my contract. Instead, I focused on a rule that promised a $30,000 bonus if I met a sales benchmark within the first year. I’ve since been told that this is the standard language in most book contracts, but at the time I read it as a personal challenge and made earning it my goal.
Do you know how many books an author has to sell to make money? I didn’t. Do you know what a typical nonfiction debut book sells in its first year? I didn’t know that either. None of it mattered. All that mattered was: I was going to sell, sell, sell.
Most books don’t. According to industry data Many nonfiction titles sell only a few hundred copies in their first year, and only a small fraction surpass 1,000. A “successful” debut with a traditional publisher is often defined as somewhere between 1,000 and 5,000 copies. In my first year I sold just over 2,000 copies.
To recoup my $125,000 advance and activate that bonus, I discovered much later, I would have had to sell more than 44,000 copies in a year. That threshold is structurally out of reach for almost everyone. Yet part of me feels – even today – that it is a personal failure.
Even successful authors need day jobs
For almost twenty years, my only goal in life was to publish a book and become an author, so when it finally happened, I thought I was done. I thought being an author would become my full-time job – and in a way, it can.
Even when publicists do their job, authors are still expected to act as their own book — or spend tens of thousands of dollars hiring someone from the outside — and spend hundreds of unpaid hours promoting a book that will likely never make any money.
At first I felt ambivalent
Since I had already “earned” my advance by writing it, I resented the expectation that I would continue working for my publisher for free. I spent the first year booking podcasts and events, and the only currency was exposure. Ultimately, it felt increasingly untenable—almost irresponsible—to take hours out of my workday to volunteer my time because I couldn’t reliably pay my bills.
Today, I recognize that most writers are not financially supported by their writing, even the “successful” ones. There are writers who will never make much money and who are still writers in every meaningful sense. Even authors who are household names often rely on teaching, consulting, or freelance work to stay afloat.
I occasionally get opportunities that look impressive from the outside: speaking invitations, podcast appearances, and conversations with well-known writers. These gigs may or may not pay. I also do the unglamorous work: chasing freelance gigs, teaching, and trying to turn visibility into income that actually covers my life. That’s part of being a working author.
It’s not the book – it’s where the book leads
We often think of a book as the be-all and end-all of a writer’s career, but as Anna David often notes in her Substack: “Behind the book cover”, it functions more like a calling card.
An author can keep his advance, regardless of whether he makes money for it, but apart from the advance, I no longer earn a cent from my book. Still, writing a book has qualified me for work I otherwise wouldn’t have had access to.
It opened the door ghostwritingwhere I earn a quarter of what I earned on my advance for about a quarter of the work, without the pressure of publicity or backlash. This also allows me to sell private coaching at a premium rate, teach publishing and craft courses, and lead personal development workshops for prestigious places like the Esalen Institute.
It not only changed my career path, but also my way of thinking
I was already pretty shame-resistant, but writing this book in particular—and publishing a book in general—deepened my understanding of shame and vulnerability. I’m less invested in protecting a polished version of “success,” and more willing to state things clearly, even if that means calling something a “failure” and being left with the judgment that follows.
That ability is a gift the book has given me, and it is worth more than any royalty check.
