The Glamour (and Chaos) of Being a Self-Published Author

By someone who really should be asleep right now

When I first decided that I wanted to be a writer, my internal reactions were generally supportive. “Oh, that’s amazing!” It would say. “You’ll be the next Tolkien!” It’d gush. What it didn’t say was, “Hope you enjoy wearing all the hats while sobbing into your third coffee of the morning.”

Because let me tell you: being a self-published author isn’t just about writing a book. That’s the romantic part. That’s the candle-lit, word-fueled fever dream we all sign up for. But once you type “The End,” the real chaos begins.

First up, editing. Sure, you could hire a professional. Or, like me, you could spend weeks second-guessing every single sentence you’ve ever written, shouting “WHO WROTE THIS GARBAGE” into the void—only to realise it was you. Past You. The saboteur. Your own worst enemy. The irony that you’re both the main character and the big bad…

Then there’s cover design. I went through 11 versions of one cover because the title was 0.3mm off-centre. I now have a degree in staring at pixels. I’ve Googled more about fonts and downloaded more zipped up viruses than anyone who isn’t actively designing road signs ever should.

And formatting. Oh, formatting. Let’s just say that if Word and Kindle Create had a baby, it would be an eldritch creature from a dark fantasy realm, probably called the untamable.

Next comes marketing, which is basically trying to convince strangers on the internet that your book is worth their time. You will become a social media wizard (or annoyance), a mailing list juggler, and a part-time motivational speaker to yourself in the mirror. You will learn what “CTR” means. You will pretend to care about SEO. You will stare into the algorithm and the algorithm will not blink.

But you know what? In between the chaos, there are moments. Moments where someone messages to say your story made them cry. Where you see your book on a stranger’s shelf. Where you remember why you did all this in the first place.

Because self-publishing is messy and demanding and gloriously independent. You call the shots. You make the choices. You build the world—on and off the page.

So yeah, it’s hard. But it’s also magic.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a sword-wielding protagonist to torment, and a suspiciously quiet inbox that probably means my file upload failed again.