The Art of Writing (That Hardly Anyone Reads

Greetings, dear reader (all one of you; best practice for addressing an audience always recommends you refer to people in the singular, rather than plural—in my case it’s literal).

If you’ve clicked on this post, you probably my dream of making a living writing fiction. The idea of lounging in an armchair, sipping a cup of tea/celebratory Prosecco or three, as the royalties roll in, living that Nora Ephron-esque writer life. Who wouldn’t want that?

The only problem is that my royalty payments resemble something closer to Monopoly money rather than actual currency. Less, when you deduct the Amazon ad fees.

Let me take you on a little journey through my writing ‘career’ (a term I use very loosely, like how I might describe my cats’ careers as professional nappers).

We’ll cover the highs (the occasional 5-star review from friends and family who take pity on me), the lows (my tax return, where I compare author income to author expenditure), and the harsh realities of trying to persuade people to buy into your literary romcom universe when they could, you know, watch Disney+ instead.

Phase One: The “This Is My Big Break!” Era

It started with enthusiasm. Highland Fling was a NaNoWriMo project. Not the first book I had ever published, but one that I felt (at long last) tapped into the sizeable romcom market. I sent it off to a small publishing company, one of several that had emerged as a result of the e-reading revolution, and within two weeks, one of the junior account managers emailed me with the news that SHE LOVED THE BOOK.

This is it, I told myself, my husband and my mum. The good times, they are a-comin’.

There followed a long wait, and then a longer one. And then one that was even longer than that before the junior account manager apologised and said that while my writing was “fabulous, fresh and funny”, they struggled to find something to ‘hook’ it around that would draw people in with one sentence.

Hey ho. Back to the drawing board and self-publishing. The world of self-publishing is similar to the world of dieting. The success stories are dazzling. Six-figure authors, happy to share their secrets, via the medium of a pricey course or three, and then the rest of us who bob along at the bottom of the ocean.

I uploaded the book, wrote a few others in the same world and…

…what actually happened was after a few months of refreshing my sales dashboard, I saw a number that, if I squinted and tilted my head, looked like it might cover a bottle of Prosecco. One from Lidl, not Marks & Spencer’s. At a discount. And the cost shared with a friend.

Phase Two: The “Is This Thing On?” Period

Like any reasonable person, I thought, “Maybe I’m just marketing it wrong.” I dove into the black hole of ‘author marketing tips’ (spoiler alert: there’s far more advice out there than there are writers actually succeeding). So, I created Instagram and Pinterest accounts. I shared snippets, quotes and covers. I even posted loads of those arty instant mock-up pics of my book next to a candle/cups of tea/woman with gigantic blue nails. A classic, right?

Let’s just say the Pinterest account ended up with a follower count that didn’t even hit double figures. Didn’t stop the folks at Pinterest contacting me though, sending regular emails offering expert marketing advice. When I specified my budget, the emails dried up faster than the Sahara in the height of summer.

Phase Three: The Diversification Rabbit Hole

After realising that my royalties wouldn’t pay for my Prosecco habit, let alone the bills, I tried diversifying. “Maybe romcoms aren’t enough,” I mused, “What about vampires? What a load of fun that’ll be!”

I uploaded a vampire book on Wattpad—hey, it even won a prize in a competition entered by 44,000+ other stories, Validation, as every writer knows, is what we crave.

Wattpad HQ snapped it up for their paid stories programme. Where it has made… wait for it, wait for it… less than $5, because the payment in paid stories require readers to unlock chapters in order to read them, the locking process doesn’t begin until at least ten chapters in and my book received no marketing help whatsoever.

In the meantime, I wrote two other books in my vampire universe, and spent a fortune on critiques, editing, book covers, a Reedsy book review (which was excellent, but did not persuade anyone to buy the book).

I returned to romance—general chick lit, two standalones, which have sold 1,435 copies, which may not sound that bad, but one of them was included in a free promotion, so the total royalties for both books is…

A grand total of £77.68. Compared to approximately £1,400 that I spent on covers, critiques, proofreading, advertising and the book promotion.

Phase Four: Acceptance, or the Lack Thereof

At some point, I did the maths. After factoring in the cost of cover design, critiques, editing and book formatting software, advertising (which, as far as I can tell, is a science no one actually understands), a website to sell my books directly (ach, you know by now what I’m going to reveal—actual sales, zilch) and paying someone to run Amazon ads for me only for him to deliver a report I couldn’t understand and thus failed to implement any of its recommendations, my bank account was in worse shape than before.

It’s a good thing I wear my clothes until they fall apart, hate flying, suspect Michelin-starred restaurants are rubbish because of the portion sizes, and enjoy doing creative things with beans, noodles and tofu.

Here’s the kicker: I still love writing. Despite the humiliations and the sheer terror of another tax return, I just can’t stop. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment. Maybe I’m delusional. Scrap that, I am delusional. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ve realised that writing is something I’ll keep doing whether it pays off or not (but honestly, if it could pay off, that would be jolly super).

So, here I am, still peddling my romcoms, my vampire book and my chick lit like a door-to-door salesperson in the rain, convincing myself that the next one will be the breakthrough.

And until that day comes, I’ll keep refreshing my sales dashboard, practicing my thank-you speech for the one 99p sale in Botswana, and figuring out creative ways to incorporate beans in every meal.

Thanks for reading, and if you feel inclined to support an abject failure like me, you know where the buy button (Highland Fling) is. Or, you know, just like or comment for the algorithm. I’ll take anything at this point.

Yours in comedic desperation,
Emma Baird x