No One Tells You How Hard It Is to Be an Author

Not just hard in the romantic, coffee-fuelled, inspired-at-midnight way—but hard in the grinding, repetitive, emotionally draining way. Writing a book isn’t just “telling a story.” It’s committing to over 50,000 words. It’s time. It’s sweat. It’s living inside your own head for months, sometimes years.

It’s rereading the same chapters again and again. Fixing a sentence, then fixing it again. It’s reaching the halfway point and wondering if you should abandon the whole thing because maybe you didn’t plan well enough. Sometimes, you do abandon it. I have at least two unfinished novels sitting in digital drawers. And then—somehow—you get back on the horse and start writing again.

I’ve published two books. I’m now getting ready to release my third. And yes, the final parts are still taking time.

Why?

Because every pass reveals something new. Something that could be sharper. Clearer. More honest. And I can’t bring myself to finalize the print version until I’ve done one last pass—except the final pass is never really final, is it?

My first book wasn’t difficult to write, but it was difficult to navigate. I was hyper-aware of not depicting anyone I knew. I didn’t want readers trying to guess which character was based on whom. Of course, people tried anyway. They failed—but in trying so hard to avoid that, I also held back. I didn’t let the characters go as deep as they could have.

Add to that the anxiety of publishing under my own name. The fear of snarky comments. The judgment that comes with writing romance—something many people still dismiss as “trash.”

That’s the baggage romance authors carry.

The subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) suggestions that we should write something more meaningful. The raised eyebrows. The assumptions. It took me a while to say it out loud without flinching: I write spicy romance.

Then came the criticism. What I should have done differently. How the story could’ve been better.

By the second book, I’d shed some of that skin. I was more confident. Things felt easier.

But then the questions changed.

“How much money do you make?”

Seriously. Do I ask people what they earn at their jobs? Or what their investment portfolios look like? Of course not. So why does writing invite that kind of curiosity?

Then there’s the unsolicited advice.

How I should publish. How I should market. How I must have a book launch.

You haven’t read my book, but you want me to host a launch party and invite you?

Interesting.

The funniest part is that most of these well-meaning people don’t actually know anything about publishing—especially self-publishing. I say well-meaning because I truly don’t think they’re trying to be unkind. They think they’re helping. They’re just… clueless.

That said, I do have my coterie of encouraging friends, and they are everything. They don’t even read romance, but they read mine because it’s me. That means more than they’ll ever know. It’s a quiet, generous kind of love. And it makes me wonder... would I do the same for them? Not always, perhaps. But I try.

I did warn you this would be a rant.

But maybe it’s also a small moment of honesty before the book leaves my hands.

I’m a week away from publishing. The edits are still happening. The doubts are still there. And I know I’ll find things I wish I’d changed later.

But for now, this version exists. And that has to be enough.

Next time, I hope I’ll be writing about the launch.

Not the fear. Not the second-guessing.