Against Better Advice

This is a series about doing the thing everyone politely advises against. Building a writing career. Documenting it publicly. Refusing to pretend certainty comes first. Against Better Advice is part vlog, part essay, part experiment — and probably a bad idea. But I’m doing it anyway.

[againstbetteradvice]

Your Partner Doesn’t Understand Your Writing Life. That’s Okay.

Your Partner Doesn’t Understand Your Writing Life. That’s Okay.The relationship dynamics of living with a writer, what to stop expecting from the person who loves you, and what to ask for instead.{}

[againstbetteradvice]

“Just Write Every Day” Failed Me For Years

“Just Write Every Day” Failed Me For YearsWhy the most repeated writing advice doesn’t work for most writers.{}

[againstbetteradvice]

How To Write Chatbot Copy That Doesn’t Annoy Your Customers

How To Write Chatbot Copy That Doesn’t Annoy Your CustomersPractical advice from someone who wrote chatbot scripts full-time.{}

[againstbetteradvice]

What Exactly Does A Publishing Company Do? (And What Would They Have Done For My Book?)

What Exactly Does A Publishing Company Do? (And What Would They Have Done For My Book?)The services a traditional publisher provides, why those services matter and what it means to self-publish without them.{}

[againstbetteradvice]

The Quiet Loneliness Of Being A Writer

The Quiet Loneliness Of Being A WriterThe one where the people who love you most don’t understand what you’re doing or why you’re doing it.{}

[againstbetteradvice]

How To Write Chatbot Copy That Doesn’t Annoy Your Customers

Practical advice from someone who wrote chatbot scripts full-time. 

I spent years as the sole copywriter at a tech startup, writing chatbot scripts full-time. 

The role didn’t exist before I arrived. It was created especially for me. 

There was no template, no predecessor and zero documentation to help guide me as a writer. There wasn’t another writer on staff to mentor me, either. 

I built the practice from scratch, made every mistake available, and learned what actually works through thousands of conversation flows and hundreds of customer interactions.

What I’ve learned is that most chatbot copy is bad. Writing for a chatbot isn’t like writing marketing copy, website content, or email campaigns. It has its own constraints, its own logic, and an entirely unique definition of what “good” means.

Here’s what I learned.

Make Your Answers As Generic As Possible

This sounds like terrible advice for any other kind of writing, but for chatbot copy, it’s the foundational principle.

When you’re chatting through the bot, you don’t know who you’re talking to. 

The customer might be a first-time visitor or a long-standing client.

They might be calm or furious. 

They might be technically sophisticated or completely unfamiliar with your product. 

You have no context, no history, no demographic information at the point of script-writing.

This means you can’t use language that assumes anything about the person reading it. 

Avoid pronouns that assume gender or any specific qualities about the person

Avoid references to previous interactions you can’t verify the bot has access to

Avoid a tone that works for one emotional state but alienates another — the breezy, casual response that feels friendly to a relaxed customer can feel dismissive to an angry one

The goal is to write copy that works for every possible reader (chat visitor, really), in every possible state. 

I appreciate that sounds impossible. 

In practice, it means writing with radical clarity, using sentences where the meaning is entirely contained in the words themselves, with no reliance on shared context or assumed knowledge.

I always used: 

Plain language

Short sentences

Direct answers

I avoided jargon unless your audience is exclusively technical

I never used personality quirks that might charm one customer and irritate another

My goal was to produce copy that felt like a helpful, neutral, slightly warm presence, or the conversational equivalent of a well-designed sign that everyone can read.

One Answer Should Address Ten Questions

A customer asking about pricing might phrase it as “how much does it cost,” “what are your rates,” “is there a free plan,” “what’s included in the basic tier,” “can I see pricing,” or half a dozen other variations. 

Your chatbot cannot have a separate answer for each phrasing. 

It needs one response that addresses the underlying need regardless of how the question was worded.

This means writing answers that respond to the intent behind the question rather than the specific words used. 

The pricing answer doesn’t just quote a number; it acknowledges that the customer wants to understand the cost, directs them to the pricing page, and offers to connect them with a person if they need more details. 

That single response handles every variation of the pricing question because it addresses the need and not the phrasing.

As a chatbot writer, you need to identify what the customer actually wants to know. This differs from what they literally typed, instead focusing on what they’re trying to accomplish. 

Once you’re writing to the intent rather than the words, one well-crafted answer can handle a surprising number of surface-level variations.

Build The Longest Possible FAQ List

This is the discipline that makes everything else work, and most companies skip it or do it superficially.

Before writing a single chatbot script, compile every question a customer might conceivably ask. 

Not just the obvious ones — “what does it cost,” “how do I sign up,” “what’s your refund policy.” 

Instead, come up with edge cases, frustrated variations, and questions that arise from misunderstandings of the product/service. List the questions that customers ask when the real issue is something they haven’t articulated yet.

This will need research. 

Talk to your support/customer service team or review your history of customer service enquiries

Read your existing support tickets (if you offer this)

Look at your competitors’ FAQ pages and see what they address

Think about the customer journey from first visit to purchase to post-purchase, and identify every point where a question might arise

The longer the list, the better your scripts will be. You’ll see which topics generate the most variations, which areas of your product cause the most confusion, and where the gaps in your existing communication are.

A Fluid List Of Answers

Update the list of answers regularly. 

New questions will emerge as your product/service changes, as new customers arrive and as situations you didn’t anticipate appear in your support data. 

The FAQ list and responses should be a living document, one you constantly review and add to. 

When I say 'review,' I also mean continually tweak your chat box responses. Some scripts won’t land as you want them to. Some answers won’t be enough or will cause more questions. Be willing to improve them. 

Always Have A Generic Chat Bot Answer

Your chatbot will encounter questions it can’t answer. This is inevitable, and it’s not a failure. No script library, however exhaustive, will anticipate everything a customer might ask.

What matters is how the bot handles the gap.

The worst possible response is silence or a generic error. The second-worst is a response that pretends to answer the question but clearly doesn’t, which customers recognise immediately and destroys their trust faster than anything else.

The best fallback answer to a question with no scripted answer is honest, helpful, and redirects to a human. 

Something like: “I don’t have the answer to that specific question, but I can connect you with someone who does. Would you like to speak with our support team?” 

Or: “That’s a great question — let me get you to someone who can help with the details.”

The fallback should feel natural, not robotic. It should acknowledge the limitation without apologising excessively. And it should always offer a clear next step, which should be a handoff to a person, a link to a contact form, or a phone number. 

The customer’s question matters, but it will happen when the bot can’t answer it. The bot’s job is to make sure the question still gets answered.

Write several variations of your fallback response so the bot doesn’t repeat the exact same phrasing every time it hits a gap. Even small variations — “Let me connect you with the team” versus “I’ll get you to someone who can help” — prevent the repetition that makes the bot feel mechanical.

Write Like A Person, Always

The customer probably knows they’re talking to a bot. That’s fine. The experience is still better — less frustrating, more productive, more likely to resolve the issue — if the language doesn’t constantly remind them of that fact.

This means writing in the most natural register you can manage within the constraints. 

Avoid corporate formality

Avoid stiff constructions

Don’t use language that sounds like it was assembled by a committee and approved by legal

To make sure you’re hitting the mark, read every script out loud. If it sounds like something a helpful colleague might say in conversation, it’s working. If it sounds like a terms-of-service document, rewrite it.

Contractions help. “We’re happy to help” instead of “we are happy to help.” First person where appropriate. Short sentences for clarity, occasional longer ones for warmth. 

The voice should feel consistent — the same helpful presence throughout every conversation flow — without feeling scripted.

The paradox of chatbot copy is that the best scripts sound like no one wrote them. The customer gets their answer, feels helped, and moves on without ever thinking about the words themselves.

That invisibility is the goal. It’s also the hardest thing to achieve because it requires a writer who understands that the best version of this work is the version where their skill is undetectable.

Get A Professional Copywriter

If writing a chatbot script isn’t your thing, hire someone to do it for you. Get someone who intimately understands the complexities of this style of communication and how to warmly convert visitors on your website. 

Or, if I’m being honest, avoid the chatbot feature of your website. And if you can’t produce answers that don’t sound genuine, or don’t answer the questions of your visitors, avoid it altogether. 

As I’ve learned, it’s one of those all-or-nothing features. Getting it right is paramount, and getting it right can destroy all of your hard work. 

---

I write about the emotional and practical reality of being a writer — drafting, doubt, discipline, and publishing while still figuring it out.

Mostly for people who write because they have to, need to, want to | linktr.ee/ellenfranceswrites

[againstbetteradvice]

“Just Write Every Day” Failed Me For Years

Why the most repeated writing advice doesn’t work for most writers. 

I tried to write every day for three years before I actually managed it. 

And when I finally managed it, it looked nothing like what I’d been attempting.

The attempts followed the same pattern every time. I’d commit to daily writing. I’d start strong with five days, maybe seven, of disciplined sessions that made me feel like a real writer. 

Then I’d miss a day. 

The missed day would trigger guilt, and the guilt would make the next day feel heavier. And then I’d miss that one too. By day three of the spiral, I’d (not-so-quietly) abandoned the commitment and started telling myself I wasn’t disciplined enough for daily writing.

This happened at lat least six times. I understood that the problem wasn’t my discipline; it was the advice I was following blindly. 

“Write every day” is three words that sound simple and contain almost no useful information about how to actually do it.

 The advice is a destination without directions, and I kept driving in circles, wondering why I never arrived.

What The “Write Every Day” Advice Doesn’t Tell You

If you follow the advice blindly, you’re left with fairly rudderless advice. There are no specifics, no backup plans and no direction to model a plan of attack off. 

When it comes down to it, the advice is pretty undercooked. 

A lack of word count

“Write every day” doesn’t tell you how much to write. It doesn’t specify write a chapter, an article or 10k words. It gives you nothing.  

So I decided it meant a thousand words, because that sounded like what a serious writer would produce. 

On good days, a thousand words were achievable. On tired days, on freelance-heavy days, on ADHD days when my brain wouldn’t engage, a thousand words was impossible.

And because I’d set impossible as the standard, anything less felt like failure. Three hundred words didn’t count as much as a paragraph didn’t count. 

Only the (exact) thousand counted, and on the days I couldn’t reach it, I wrote nothing, because nothing and three hundred felt equivalently worthless against the standard I’d invented.

I know the word count bar was too high. A thousand words daily is sustainable for full-time writers with established routines and decades of practice. 

For a freelance copywriter with ADHD trying to write a novel in the margins of a demanding schedule, it was a setup for failure. 

I was measuring myself against Stephen King’s output while living in entirely different circumstances.

Is it just writing?

“Write every day” doesn’t tell you what counts. Does editing count? Does outlining? Does journaling about why the scene isn’t working? 

I spent months second-guessing whether my revision sessions qualified as writing days. 

The ambiguity created a game I couldn’t win, because any definition flexible enough to sustain daily practice felt like cheating against the imagined standard.

Without a defined minimum, a defined time, and a defined sense of what counts, every day was a fresh negotiation. 

Negotiations are exhausting, whereas systems are not. The daily decision of “should I write, when should I write, does this count as writing” consumed the energy that should have gone into the writing itself.

What happens if I don’t write every day?

“Write every day” doesn’t tell you what to do when you miss. And you will miss because you’ll get ill, travel, and you’ll have a freelance deadline that eats the day whole. 

The advice treats every day as non-negotiable, which means a single miss registers as a broken streak, which means the commitment feels destroyed by one sick Wednesday. 

Let’s be real; no sustainable practice is built on a foundation that collapses the first time life intervenes.

For me, a single missed day had the emotional weight of a complete failure. Because the advice said every day, and every day means every day, and missing one means the commitment is broken.

This all-or-nothing framing is the single biggest reason writers abandon daily writing habits. Not because they’re undisciplined, but because the framework they’ve adopted has no room for being human.

Does this apply to everyone?

“Write every day” doesn’t account for the brain you have. 

As an example, my ADHD means some days the writing flows and some days my attention slides off the page like water off glass. 

Before my diagnosis, I interpreted the glass days as moral failure. After my diagnosis, I understood them as neurochemistry. 

But the advice doesn’t make that distinction. It treats every day as equally available for creative work, which is true for some people and a fantasy for others.

How To Actually “Write Every Day”

The version of daily writing that finally stuck looks nothing like the version I kept failing at. In a way, it looks nothing like the advice given either. 

Sure, I’ve had to implore a fast and loose interpretation of the advice, but with nothing more to go off, it was necessary. 

A minimum so low it can’t fail 

Complete one hundred words or one paragraph. On the worst day, the most exhausted day, the day when everything else has gone wrong, one hundred words is achievable. 

Some days produce fifteen hundred. Some days produce exactly one hundred and one. 

To make this advice work, both count because both achievements are “writing”. 

The minimum isn’t aspirational, I get that. It’s a floor so low that stepping over it requires almost no effort, but that means the effort goes into the writing rather than into the decision of whether to write.

There’s the win and a way of actually being able to write every day. 

A defined time that doesn’t negotiate

My writing time is early morning, before the freelance work starts, before the emails and before the day has any claim on my attention. 

The time isn’t ideal; I’d prefer to sleep later. But the time is protected, and protected time produces writing. 

Flexible time produces good intentions but also empty pages. What I’ve realised is that the trigger matters more than the duration. 

“When I sit down with coffee at 6 AM” is a trigger. “Whenever I find time” is a wish.

A clear definition of what counts 

I have put in clear rules about what counts as “writing” each day. For me, I count drafting, revising, editing and planning the next piece of writing content (article, chapter etc). 

I’ve also set clear parameters around what doesn’t count. For example, thinking about writing while walking doesn’t count. Reading about writing doesn’t count. Discussing writing in a group chat doesn’t count. 

I have the definition for what writing is written down, and I don’t revise this list. The clarity removes the daily negotiation of whether today’s efforts are qualified or not.

Permission to miss without spiralling

I aim for six days out of seven. That’s roughly eighty-five per cent consistency, which is an excellent strike rate. 

One missed day per week is built into the system as acceptable, expected, and guilt-free. My recovery rule is simple, too: miss one day, I need to write the next. It’s a non-negotiable. 

The rule prevents the spiral where a missed Monday becomes a missed week, becomes an abandoned practice. I’ve accepted that one day is a rest, but two consecutive days are the beginning of a pattern. 

The rule catches the pattern before it forms.

How To Begin Writing Every Day

Tomorrow morning, before you do anything else, write one hundred words. Not a thousand, not a finished piece, instead, one hundred words about anything. 

It will take less than ten minutes. It will feel almost too small to matter.

Do it again the next day. Complete it at the same time with the exact low bar you set. Resist the temptation to raise the bar after a good day. 

Whatever you do, don’t judge the quality. Just show up, write the hundred, and close the laptop.

After a week, you’ll notice something. Some days, the hundred becomes three hundred without effort. Some days it stays at exactly a hundred and one. 

This is when you need to acknowledge that both are fine and should be considered as writing days. 

The habit is forming not because you’ve become more disciplined but because the ask is so small that resistance can’t get a foothold.

After two weeks of showing up at your laptop, now you can define your rules. You can decide what counts, what doesn’t, what time you write and what happens when you miss a day. 

Write the rules down somewhere you’ll see them (for me, it’s my planner diary). 

We need to remember these rules aren’t a prison, so don’t treat them that way. Approach them like a container that holds the practice in place so you don’t have to hold it with willpower every morning.

After a month, you won’t be thinking about whether to write. The decision will have been made thirty days ago, and the daily repetition will have turned it from a commitment into a reflex. 

That’s how writing every day begins. It’s not with a grand commitment to write every day forever. It starts with one hundred words tomorrow morning.

The rest builds itself. Slowly, quietly and one day at a time. 

[againstbetteradvice]

Your Life Will Never Be Empty Enough To Write. Write Anyway. Here’s How.

How to write when your life is “too full” and you believe you have no time to write.  

I’ve never had a clear schedule. Not once in my entire writing life.

When I wrote 1 Lovelock Drive, I was a full-time freelance copywriter. When I wrote a column for a well-known publication, I was freelancing, drafting my second novel through daily Substack posts, building an email list, and managing ADHD that turns every transition between tasks into a negotiation with my own neurochemistry. 

Last year, I tried to work whilst getting divorced, unexpectedly, including selling my house and overhauling my life. 

I’ve never had an empty calendar, an uninterrupted afternoon or a writing retreat. I dream about the six-month sabbatical to focus on the book. 

I’ve read about writers who have those things, and I’ve felt the specific envy of someone watching another person eat a meal they can’t afford.

But my first book got written. The articles got written. The second novel is being written as we speak. 

It’s not because I found time. It’s because I stopped waiting to find it and started writing inside the life I actually have.

The Myth Of “When Things Calm Down”

Things don’t calm down. 

I waited for years for the mythical clearing in the schedule. The month when the freelance work would be lighter. The week when nothing else demanded my attention. The season when writing would feel like an obvious priority rather than the thing I was squeezing between everything else.

That month never arrived. I can attest that the freelance work didn’t get lighter. Something in my working life always demanded attention. I learned quickly that the season of creative priority exists only in the biographies of writers who had someone else managing the rest of their lives.

If you’re waiting for the right time, you’re waiting for something that isn’t coming. 

The right time is the wrong concept. The available time, however small, however fragmented, however imperfect, is the only time that exists.

How I Actually Write Inside A Full Life

I write before life starts. 

I do all of my writing — the article, the chapter, whatever my goal is at the time — before I do anything else. Sometimes, this is before responding to urgent emails or demands from pressing projects. And it means getting up early and being present well before everyone else. 

I call it my writing self-defence. Once the day begins, the day wins, every time, which means the writing has to happen before the competition starts.

The morning session isn’t free. It costs me the evening hours I’d rather spend reading, watching something, or doing nothing. The trade-off is permanent, and I’ve stopped pretending it isn’t a trade-off.

I write in fragments. 

The novel doesn’t get the pre-dawn session. The articles get that. The novel gets Tuesday and Thursday evenings, Saturday mornings, and whatever scraps I can find on the other days. 

Sometimes the scraps are 30 minutes, other times they’re 10. I’ve written scenes on my phone whilst sitting in waiting rooms, in the back of an Uber, and during the dead minutes between loading social media posts.

The fragments feel insufficient while they’re happening. Over a month, they add up to chapters. The feeling of insufficiency is a lie. What I’ve learned is the word count doesn’t lie.

I make decisions before sessions. 

When your writing time is forty minutes, you cannot spend fifteen of those minutes deciding what to write. The decision happens the night before, or during a walk, or in the shower. 

By the time I sit down, I know: today’s article is about X, or today’s novel scene is the one where Y happens. 

The session is execution, not planning. Planning during a short session is a form of procrastination that’s invisible because you’re sitting at the desk.

I protect the time out loud. 

My partner knows that the first thing I do is write. Not “I’d like to write in the mornings if it works out.” The time is protected, named and vehemently defended. 

If I treated it as flexible, it would flex into nothing within a week, absorbed by every small demand that seems more urgent because urgency always beats importance unless importance is scheduled.

I lower the bar on bad days. 

Some mornings, my ADHD brain won’t engage. Some evenings, the freelance work has consumed every drop of creative energy. 

On those days, the bar drops to the floor. I have to be happy with writing one paragraph or a mere 100 words. The low bar keeps the practice alive on days that would otherwise kill it.

What I’ve Stopped Doing

Waiting for energy. 

I used to believe I needed to feel creative to write creatively. I don’t. Some of the best articles I’ve released lately were written on mornings when I felt absolutely nothing. 

The writing generated the energy, not the other way around. 

Apologising for the fragments. 

I used to feel embarrassed about writing on my phone, about ten-minute sessions, about the scrappy inadequacy of my writing schedule compared to the writers who describe their two-hour morning rituals. 

I’ve stopped comparing my process to anyone else’s. My process produced 500+ articles and a novel. The process works, and it doesn’t need to look elegant.

Trying to find more time. 

There is no more time. I’ve optimised the schedule as far as it goes, and the hours are what they are. 

Instead of searching for additional hours, I’ve focused on protecting the hours I have and using them without waste. Five focused minutes produce more than thirty guilty minutes of half-writing, half-scrolling.

Feeling guilty about what doesn’t get done. 

On days when the freelance work takes everything, and the novel gets nothing, the guilt used to be crushing. Now I note it and move on.

The novel will get its time on Thursday. It turns out today was a freelance day. Both roles are real and matter equally, so they need to take turns.

The ADHD Complication

A full life plus ADHD is a specific kind of challenge that generic productivity advice doesn’t address.

My brain resists transitions. Moving from freelance mode to creative mode isn’t a switch I flip. It’s a fifteen-minute negotiation where the ADHD brain argues that checking email one more time would be easier than opening the manuscript. 

This negotiation costs time I don’t have.

My accommodation: I don’t transition. I start each type of work cold, at the beginning of its time slot, without trying to bridge from the previous task. 

The article gets written first thing, before any other mode has been activated. The novel has its own distinct sessions, each with its own start. 

I never try to move from freelance to novel within the same sitting. The transition cost is too high.

Some days, my brain cooperates, and the time slot produces exactly what I need. Some days, my brain doesn’t cooperate, and the time slot produces half of what I need. 

However, over a week and across the month, the cooperative days and the uncooperative days average out into progress.

The Truth About Full Lives And Writing

Your life is not going to rearrange itself to make room for your writing. 

Your job will not become less demanding. 

Your family will not need less of you. 

Your health will not stop requiring attention. 

Your other obligations will not politely step aside because you have creative ambitions.

The writers who produce work inside full lives are not the ones who found time. They’re the ones who stopped looking for it and started using what they had.

Forty minutes before the house wakes up. Ten minutes on the phone between meetings. An hour on Saturday morning while the coffee’s hot. Fragments. Scraps. Imperfect, interrupted, insufficient-feeling sessions that accumulate into a body of work.

A novel was written this way. Over 500+ articles were written this way. Your book can be written this way, too.

And not when things calm down. It will happen now, inside the noise and between the obligations.

Life is full so write anyway.

---

I write about the emotional and practical reality of being a writer — drafting, doubt, discipline, and publishing while still figuring it out.

Mostly for people who write because they have to, need to, want to | linktr.ee/ellenfranceswrites

[againstbetteradvice]

Your Partner Doesn’t Understand Your Writing Life. That’s Okay. 

The relationship dynamics of living with a writer, what to stop expecting from the person who loves you, and what to ask for instead. 

My partner has never read 1 Lovelock Drive.

Not because he doesn’t care, but because I asked him not to. The book draws from personal experience and the thought of him reading certain scenes, knowing which emotional truths came from our life and which were invented, felt like standing naked in the kitchen during breakfast. 

Some vulnerabilities belong on the page for strangers and not for the person who sleeps next to you.

He was fine with this. Relieved, probably. And that moment — the moment I realised he was relieved not to read my book and I was relieved he didn’t want to — taught me something important about the relationship between a writer and the person who lives with one.

They don’t need to understand your writing life. They need to understand what you need from them so the writing life can exist. 

These are completely different things, and confusing them is the source of most of the resentment I see between writers and their partners.

What You’re Expecting (That Isn’t Fair)

We all have expectations as writers, especially with how our loved ones (friends, family and partners) treat us. It’s something that comes with the territory; we set these expectations without much thought. 

It seems to happen when we decide to become writers. But these expectations aren’t always fair to them, or to us. 

You expect them to understand why a bad writing session ruins your evening. In short, they can’t. 

A bad writing session is an internal event with no visible cause. You sat at a desk, typed, and now you’re withdrawn and irritable. From the outside, nothing happened. It’s not like a surgeon who lost a patient on the table. It’s obvious to everyone that the day went wrong for them. 

Expecting them to understand or spot the emotional devastation of a scene that won’t work is expecting them to live inside your creative process. They don’t live there with you. 

You expect them to be excited about your breakthroughs. 

You solved the structural problem in chapter nine. You found the perfect closing line for the article. You finally understand what the book is about. 

These moments are enormous to you, and that’s not up for debate. To your partner, they’re abstract progress reports about a project they can’t see. 

I want you to know that the excitement gap isn’t indifference. It’s the natural consequence of one person being inside the work and the other being outside it.

You expect them to read your work and respond the way a reader would. 

Your partner (family member or friend) is not your reader. They’re your partner. 

Their relationship with your writing is filtered through their relationship with you, which makes honest feedback almost impossible and enthusiastic feedback feel hollow. 

Asking your partner to be your ideal reader is unfair; they simply can’t be both for you. 

You expect them to know when to ask about the writing and when to leave it alone. 

This is the cruellest expectation because the rules change daily. On Monday, you want to be asked, and on Tuesday, you want to be left alone. On Wednesday, you want to be asked, but only in the right way. 

Your partner is not a mind reader. The shifting rules are unfair without explicit communication, and even then, it could change on a dime. 

What They’re Experiencing (What Writers Aren’t Seeing)

Your partner lives with someone who disappears into their own head for hours at a time. With someone physically present but mentally elsewhere, who has emotional reactions to invisible events and who needs time alone, that looks, from the outside, exactly like time spent ignoring them.

They’ve watched you check your sales dashboard with an expression that tells them something is wrong, but that they can’t fix. 

They’ve sat through dinners where you were silent because a scene was working itself out behind your eyes. 

They’ve tried to help, been told you need space, then tried to give space, only to be told you feel unsupported.

Living with a writer is living with someone who has a rich, consuming inner life that you’re not fully invited into. That’s disorienting for the person on the outside. It’s not a complaint; it’s the reality.

What To Ask For Instead

Stop asking your partner to understand the writing, because it’s a waste of your time and theirs. Instead, start asking for specific, concrete support that doesn’t require them to take up space in your creative process.

Ask for protected time. “I need Saturday mornings for writing. Can we make that work?” 

This is a practical request with a practical answer. It doesn’t require your partner to understand why you write, but it does require them to respect that you need the time. Most partners will give you this willingly if you ask clearly, rather than expecting them to intuit it.

Ask for space after difficult sessions. 

“When I come out of a writing session looking frustrated, the most helpful thing is to leave me alone for twenty minutes.” 

This is a specific instruction that replaces the impossible expectation that they’ll know what you need in the moment. Give them the manual because, trust me, they want the manual. 

They’ve been guessing, getting it wrong, and feeling bad about it.

Ask for a celebration without comprehension. “I solved a big problem in the book today. I don’t need you to understand the problem. I just need you to be happy with me for a minute.” 

This separates the emotional need (shared celebration) from the intellectual requirement (understanding what was solved). Your partner can do the first without the second, so let them.

Ask for patience with the mood swings. 

“The writing affects my mood in ways I can’t always control. It’s not about you. If I’m withdrawn after a session, I’ll come back. Just give me time.” 

Naming the pattern prevents your partner from interpreting your withdrawal as relationship trouble. The explanation doesn’t need to be detailed, but it does need to be honest.

What To Stop Doing

This isn’t all about what your partner (or family member/friend) is doing. This is our career and our problem, and we need to own our part in it. We can’t sit by and expect them to make all the adjustments for us. 

Stop using your partner as a sounding board unless they’ve asked to be one. 

Talking through your plot problem at dinner is using your partner as a free critique session. Some partners love this, but many endure it to be supportive, even when it isn’t their forte. Ask which one yours is, and believe the answer.

Stop resenting their other interests. 

Your writing is your consuming passion, and they have their own. The fact that theirs might be football, gardening, or television doesn’t make it less valid than yours. 

The hierarchy that puts creative work above other forms of engagement is an ego trap, and it poisons relationships when it leaks into how you treat your partner’s time.

Stop expecting them to manage your creative emotions. 

The disappointment of rejection, the anxiety of publishing and the despair of poor sales are your emotions to manage, with support from other writers, a therapist, or your own coping strategies. 

Your partner can hold your hand. They can’t process your creative crisis because they don’t have the context to understand its dimensions. 

Dumping the full weight of your writing anxiety on someone who can’t fully comprehend it is unfair to both of you.

Stop comparing them to other writers’ partners. 

We all know the spouse who reads every draft and gives brilliant feedback. We’ve heard of the elusive partner who built a website and handles all the marketing. Those partnerships exist in public narratives. 

What happens in private is more complicated, so avoid measuring your relationship against someone else’s curated version.

What My Partner Actually Does

My man doesn’t read my work. He doesn’t understand why a bad writing morning affects my whole day. He can’t tell the difference between a breakthrough and a setback from looking at me, because both make me go quiet.

He doesn’t take my post-session mood personally. He tells people I’m a writer when they ask what I do, and he says it without hesitation. In fact, he proudly boasts my skills louder than I ever could. 

My man doesn’t entirely understand my writing life, but he supports it. Those are different things, and the second one is more valuable than the first.

Stop asking for understanding. Ask for support. Tell your loved ones what support looks like and be specific. Most of all, be grateful.

They chose to live with a writer. That’s already more than most people would sign up for.

Meet them where they are. It’s closer than you think.

---

I write about the emotional and practical reality of being a writer — drafting, doubt, discipline, and publishing while still figuring it out.

Mostly for people who write because they have to, need to, want to | linktr.ee/ellenfranceswrites

[againstbetteradvice]

I Chose Self-Publishing Because 70% Royalties Sounded Better. Then 70% Of Zero Changed My Mind.

Self-publishing vs traditional publishing: what I actually lost, what I actually gained, and how to make this decision instead of assuming one path is obviously right. 

I have a self-published book, and it was a flop. Only sold 10 copies type of flop. 

But I didn’t choose self-publishing after careful consideration of both paths. I chose it because it seemed obviously better, and I didn’t want to interrogate that assumption.

When I listed the pros and cons, self-publishing won every category. Full control. Higher royalties. Faster timeline. No gatekeepers. No querying. No waiting eighteen months for someone to decide my book deserved to exist.

And traditional publishing looked like a slow, gatekept, low-royalty relic that existed mainly to make agents feel important.

Then 1 Lovelock Drive sold ten copies, and I understood, with the clarity that only failure provides, that I hadn’t been weighing pros and cons at all. 

I’d been confirming a decision I’d already made.

The advantages of self-publishing are real. Every single one I listed was accurate. But I hadn’t considered what I was giving up. 

And the things I gave up turned out to matter more than I expected.

What I Lost

I lost professional infrastructure. 

Traditional publishers provide authors with a team. They give you a developmental editor who’s worked on hundreds of books, a cover designer who understands genre visual language, a copyeditor, a proofreader, a marketing department, and a distribution network. 

I had to assemble all of this myself, with my own money, using my own judgment about quality.

My judgment was bad. I hired a copyeditor when I needed a developmental editor. I created the book cover myself, which turned out well, but didn’t hold a candle to other professional covers. I had no marketing plan beyond a few Instagram posts and hope. 

A traditional publisher wouldn’t have let me make any of those mistakes, because making those decisions is their job, and they’ve done it thousands of times.

I spent over three thousand dollars on editing and cover design (a graphic designer to help me create the graphics). A traditional publisher would have provided better versions of both for free, because the cost is absorbed by the publisher as an investment in the book’s commercial success.

I lost distribution. 

1 Lovelock Drive exists on Amazon. That’s it. 

It’s not in bookshops. It’s not in libraries. It’s not in airport terminals, supermarket book sections, or subscription boxes. 

A traditionally published book has access to physical retail channels that self-published books functionally don’t.

For some genres, this matters less. Romance readers buy primarily online. But even within online retail, traditional publishers have relationships with retailers, placement opportunities, and promotional infrastructure that individual authors can’t access.

I lost credibility. 

I don’t agree with this bias, but it exists: “traditionally published” still carries weight that “self-published” doesn’t. 

For speaking opportunities, teaching positions, literary awards, media coverage, and professional recognition, the traditional publishing credential opens doors that self-publishing doesn’t. 

The bias is eroding, but it hasn’t disappeared.

I lost advance money. 

Traditional publishers pay an advance against future royalties. Even modest debut advances of five to ten thousand dollars are guaranteed money before the book earns a penny in sales. 

I received nothing upfront. I spent thousands to publish. My financial position before any sales: negative.

I lost external validation. 

When a traditional publisher accepts your book, they’re investing real money because they believe it can succeed commercially. 

That investment is a signal to the market: this book has been vetted by professionals who stake their reputation and finances on their judgment. 

Self-published books carry no such signal. Readers have no external indicator of quality before they open the book. 

My book had to earn trust from zero.

What I Gained With Self-Publishing

I gained complete creative control. 

I chose the cover, title, price, description, categories, and publication date. Nobody told me to change the ending, soften a character, or retitle for market appeal. 

For better or worse, the book is exactly what I wanted it to be.

For the worse, as it turned out. Because some of the decisions I’d have been told to change were decisions that needed changing. 

Complete control is powerful when your judgment is good. It’s dangerous when it isn’t.

I gained speed. 

Traditional publishing takes one to two years from acceptance to publication. I went from finished manuscript to published book in under five months. 

I was impatient, and self-publishing accommodated my impatience. Whether that impatience served the book is another question.

I gained higher royalties per copy. 

Amazon pays 70% royalty on ebooks priced between $2.99 and $9.99. Traditional publishers pay 10–15% of the cover price for print, 25% of the net for ebooks. The per-copy maths favours self-publishing dramatically.

But per-copy royalties are meaningless without copies sold. 

70% of 10 copies is less than 15% of 1,000.

I’d focused on the percentage and ignored the volume. The royalty advantage is real. It only materialises if readers find the book.

I gained the ability to publish at all. 

Traditional publishing requires writing a book that an agent believes they can sell, finding that agent through a process with a success rate in the single digits, and then the agent sells it to a publisher. 

This process takes years and fails for most writers.

Self-publishing requires uploading a file. My book exists because I chose to publish it, not because someone gave me permission.

I gained an education. 

I learned how publishing actually works. Categories, keywords, algorithms, pricing strategy, metadata, launch mechanics, ad platforms, review culture and discoverability. 

If a traditional publisher had handled everything, I’d know none of this. Now I understand the business. 

That understanding is shaping everything about how my second novel will launch.

The Question That Actually Matters

The question isn’t which path is better. It’s about which trade-offs you can live with.

Traditional publishing trades speed and control for infrastructure, distribution, credibility, and guaranteed income. You wait longer. You compromise more. But you get a team, a signal, and money upfront.

Self-publishing trades infrastructure and credibility for speed, control, and higher per-copy earnings. You move faster. You decide everything. But you fund everything, build everything, and carry the full risk yourself.

I chose self-publishing for the right reasons, but I executed it poorly. The path wasn’t the problem; my execution was.

What I’m Doing Differently

My second novel will be self-published. It will be the same path but an entirely different execution.

I’m building an audience before the book exists. This article series, the email list, the platform — all of it is pre-launch infrastructure that 1 Lovelock Drive never had. 

I’m hiring a developmental editor first, not a copyeditor. 

I’m briefing a genre-specific cover designer with market references, not personal preferences. 

I’m planning a three-month launch campaign with advance readers, strategic pricing, and sustained post-launch visibility.

I’m not changing the path. I’m becoming the professional infrastructure that traditional publishing would have provided.

The difference between self-publishing well and self-publishing badly is the difference between running a business and uploading a file. I uploaded a file last time. This time, I’m running a business.

Self-publishing isn’t the easier path. It’s the path where everything is your responsibility. If you’re willing to take that responsibility seriously, it works. If you’re not, it produces ten copies and silence.

I know which version I’m choosing this time.

---

I write about the emotional and practical reality of being a writer — drafting, doubt, discipline, and publishing while still figuring it out.

Mostly for people who write because they have to, need to, want to | linktr.ee/ellenfranceswrites

[againstbetteradvice]

You’re Doing Five Things To Market Your Self-Published Book. None Of Them Work. Here’s Why.

The self-publishing marketing strategies that waste your time, drain your energy, and sell zero books, from someone who tried all of them. 

After publishing 1 Lovelock Drive, I did everything I thought I was supposed to do.

I posted about it on social media. I told everyone I knew. I shared the Amazon link in my bio, stories, and group chats. I waited for readers to discover it; I refreshed my sales dashboard daily, then hourly, then compulsively.

I sold ten copies and most of them were friends, none of them was family. 

And the worst part wasn’t the number. It was the confusion. I’d done “the things”. I’d marketed the book, as every self-publishing guru told me to. Why wasn’t it working?

Because nothing I’d done was actual marketing. It turns out I was making noise, and the difference between marketing and noise is between a strategy that builds momentum and one that exhausts you while accomplishing nothing.

Here are the five things I did — the same five things most self-published authors do — and why none of them works.

1. Hoping For Word Of Mouth

The fantasy: publish the book, a few people read it, they love it, they tell their friends, their friends tell their friends, momentum builds organically, and suddenly the book is everywhere.

The reality: word of mouth requires mouths. 

If your book launches to ten readers, and three of them mention it to someone, that’s three people who might buy it. Might. Word of mouth is the most powerful marketing force in publishing. It’s also the slowest to start, and it cannot start from zero.

Word of mouth works when you have a critical mass of early readers creating simultaneous buzz. A book that launches to 200 advance readers who all post reviews and recommendations in the same week creates the appearance of organic momentum. 

A book that launches to ten friends creates silence.

What works instead: Build the advance reader team before launch. Twenty to thirty genre readers who receive the book early and commit to reviewing it in the first week. 

The word of mouth doesn’t happen naturally. You engineer the conditions for it, and then it becomes natural.

2. Posting “Buy My Book” Repeatedly

I posted about 1 Lovelock Drive on Instagram seven times in the first two weeks. I used different photos, alternate captions, but always with the same message: here’s my book, please buy it.

Nobody bought it. Not because they were cruel, but because “buy my book” is not a value proposition. It’s a request from a stranger. And strangers on the internet ignore other strangers' requests approximately 100% of the time.

Every “buy my book” post is a withdrawal from your social capital account. Each one asks your audience to do something for you without offering anything in return. After three or four, the audience has learned to scroll past your posts. You’ve trained them to ignore you.

What works instead: Give value first. For months, too. 

Provide content that your ideal reader finds genuinely useful, entertaining, or meaningful. Build a relationship where your audience trusts you and likes hearing from you. 

Then, when the book launches, the announcement lands in a context of goodwill rather than a vacuum of cold requests.

3. Relying On Amazon’s Algorithm

The comforting belief us self-published authors have about the algorithm is holding us back. 

We foolishly believe Amazon’s algorithm will discover our book and recommend it to the right readers. We just need to publish it, and the system will do the rest.

The algorithm does recommend books to readers. It recommends books that are already selling to readers who buy similar books. The algorithm amplifies existing momentum. It doesn’t create it.

A book with zero sales generates zero data. Zero data means zero recommendations. 

The algorithm literally cannot find your book because your book isn’t generating the signals the algorithm responds to. You’re invisible, not because the algorithm is broken, but because the algorithm needs input you haven’t provided.

What works instead: Create the initial sales signal yourself. Through your email list, your advance readers, your launch week push, and your promotional pricing. 

The first fifty sales come from your efforts, not the algorithm’s. \

Once those sales exist, the algorithm has data to work with. It starts matching your buyers with similar buyers. It starts recommending your book alongside similar books. The flywheel begins.

But the flywheel needs a push, which comes from you. 

4. Buying Followers Or Reviews

I didn’t do this, but I was tempted.

After weeks of silence, the services that promise “500 Instagram followers for $20” or “10 five-star reviews delivered within 48 hours” start looking reasonable. You’re desperate for social proof. You’re desperate for numbers that don’t make you feel like a failure. The temptation is real.

But don’t do it.

Bought followers don’t engage. They’re bots or inactive accounts that inflate your number while cratering your engagement rate. The algorithm notices the discrepancy between your follower count and your engagement and deprioritises your content. Buying followers makes your organic reach worse, not better.

Bought reviews violate Amazon’s terms of service. If detected, and Amazon’s systems are increasingly sophisticated at detecting them, your reviews will be removed, and your account can be suspended or terminated. 

You lose the reviews and potentially lose the ability to sell on the platform at all.

Beyond the practical risks, bought social proof is a lie. And lies are a poor foundation for an author's career.

You want real readers who genuinely connect with your work. One authentic five-star review from a reader who was moved by your book is worth more than fifty fabricated ones, because the authentic review comes from a person who might recommend your book to others, buy your next book, and become a long-term reader.

What works instead: Earn the social proof. 

Ask advance readers for honest reviews. Include a review request in your book’s back matter. Mention in your newsletter that reviews help. Build the review count slowly and authentically. 

It takes longer, but it lasts forever.

5. Waiting For The Book To “Catch On”

This was my default strategy after the first two weeks. The active marketing hadn’t worked (because it wasn’t really marketing). So I stopped and waited. 

Surely, over time, readers would discover the book. Surely the cream rises to the top. Surely my patience would be rewarded.

Six months later: no more copies sold. Patience had not been rewarded. Patience had been irrelevant because nothing was happening to create discovery. 

The book was sitting on Amazon like a product on a shelf in a locked shop. It didn’t matter how good it was if nobody could find it.

Books don’t catch on. Books are pushed until they catch. 

The push comes from the author’s marketing efforts, the advance reader team, the email list, the content strategy, the promotional pricing, the metadata optimisation, and the sustained post-launch activity that keeps the book visible.

Without the push, the book sits. Indefinitely. In silence.

What works instead: Active, sustained, strategic marketing that begins months before launch and continues months after. Not “buy my book” posts. 

A real campaign: building an audience, warming them up, launching with concentrated effort, and maintaining visibility through content, promotions, and community engagement.

The Pattern

All five mistakes share the same root: passivity. Hoping. Posting without a strategy. Trusting the algorithm. Buying shortcuts. Waiting.

Passive marketing isn’t marketing, it’s wishing.

Active marketing is building an email list, creating valuable content, assembling an advance reader team, optimising your product page, running strategic promotions, and showing up consistently for months.

It’s harder. It’s slower. It’s less romantic than the fantasy of organic discovery.

It’s also the only thing that works.

I learned this the expensive way. Ten copies and a year of silence. You can learn it now and skip the silence.

Stop wishing. Start building. The readers are out there, but they’re not coming to find you.

You have to go find them.

---

I write about the emotional and practical reality of being a writer — drafting, doubt, discipline, and publishing while still figuring it out.

Mostly for people who write because they have to, need to, want to | linktr.ee/ellenfranceswrites

[againstbetteradvice]

What I Wish I’d Known About Book Categories Before I Published

And how picking the right category changes the success of your book. 

I picked my Amazon categories for my self-published book in about three minutes.

“Literature & Fiction > Women’s Fiction” seemed like the obvious choice. My book focused on relationships, personal growth, and the emotional journey of its main character, so placing it under “Literature & Fiction > Contemporary Women” felt like a natural fit as well.

It was done, and I didn’t think about it again.

Well, I’m thinking about those categories now that they killed any chance my book had of being discovered. As it turns out, I had a lot to learn about Amazon categories as I first time self-published author. 

What I Thought Categories Were

I thought the Amazon categories were just filing systems, just organisational tags, so the algorithm could categorise my book correctly. I viewed it like putting a book on the right shelf in a library.

I picked categories that accurately described my book. To me, that seemed logical, but I was completely wrong.

What Categories Actually Are

Amazon categories aren’t just organisational; they’re competitive battlegrounds and discovery mechanisms.

Battleground: You’re competing for ranking within your categories. The higher you rank, the more visibility you get.

Discovery: Readers browse categories. They look at top-selling books in specific categories. If you’re not ranking well, you’re invisible.

When I picked massive, competitive categories like “Literature & Fiction,” I was competing against:

Colleen Hoover

Taylor Jenkins Reid

Kristin Hannah

Candace Bushnell

Ali Hazelwood 

And every bestselling women’s fiction author on Amazon (there is too many to name)

My book, with zero sales, was ranking around #847,392 in “Literature & Fiction.” I can attest that no one scrolls through tens of thousands of titles to discover a brand-new novel.

The Category Ranking System

Amazon ranks books within each category they’re in.

If you’re #1 in your category, you get the “#1 Bestseller” badge. With this accolade, Amazon promotes you, which means readers find you. But if you’re #200,000 in your category, you’re invisible.

With that in mind, it turns out the goal isn’t to pick the most accurate category for your book. The goal is to pick categories where you can actually rank in the top 100.

Because ranking top 100 in a category gives you:

Visibility in that category’s bestseller list

“Bestseller” badge (if you hit #1)

More organic discovery

Better algorithm performance

I didn’t know any of this. I picked categories where I had zero chance of ranking well, and with heavy competition, I wasn’t in a position to beat anyone. 

The “#1 Bestseller” Trick

You’ve seen books with orange “#1 Bestseller” badges, right? That badge appears if you rank #1 in any category, even a tiny one.

So authors game the system by picking very specific, low-competition categories just to get that badge. Here’s an example of it in action:

Instead of ranking #200,000 in “Business,” rank #1 in “Business > Small Business > Home-Based Businesses > Artisan Crafts”

You get the “#1 Bestseller” badge, and readers see it and assume your book is popular.

Is this ethical? It’s using the system as designed, and Amazon allows it, so it's up to you. I didn’t even know this was possible when I published, so I can’t say I’ve used this system.

My Amazon Category Mistakes

In hindsight, I’ve been able to analyse my mistakes and work out where I went wrong. I have no doubt others have made these same mistakes. 

Mistake #1: I picked categories that were too broad

“Literature & Fiction” has hundreds of thousands of books. To break into the top 100 in a category that large, I would have needed a significant number of sales in the first week just to be visible.

I got zero sales, so I didn't rank in any meaningful way, so I was never going to get anywhere with category-based sales. 

Mistake #2: I didn’t research the competition

I never looked at which books were ranking in the top 100 in my categories. If I had, I would have seen they had hundreds of reviews and thousands of sales. 

I was competing against established bestsellers with my zero-review book. But I don’t blame myself; I was fixated on my own book and didn't want to get bogged down in what everyone else was doing. 

Mistake #3: I only picked two categories

Amazon lets you choose two categories when you upload, but I’ve heard you can request up to ten categories by contacting support.

I didn’t know this, nor have I tried it. But I’m kicking myself for limiting myself to two competitive categories when I could have been in ten strategic ones.

Mistake #4: I picked categories based on accuracy, not winnability

My novel was technically women’s fiction, so I chose the broad, obvious categories that matched that label.

I should have chosen more specific subcategories where I actually had a chance to rank, even if they were slightly narrower than the most obvious fit.

How To Pick The Right Category For Your Book

There is some hope you will pick your ideal category the first time with good guessing and some research. But there’s an equal chance you’ll miss the mark and end up in category purgatory as I did. 

I have some guidelines to help you pick the best category for your book, guidelines I’m using for the book I’m currently writing. 

If you’re writing fiction

Pick categories that match your specific sub-genre:

Not just “Romance” but “Contemporary Romance > New Adult”

Not just “Thriller” but “Mystery, Thriller & Suspense > Psychological Thrillers”

Here’s a simple rule: the more specific, the better.

If you’re writing nonfiction

Pick categories that match your readers' needs:

Not just “Self-Help” but “Self-Help > Success > Time Management”

Not just “Business” but “Business > Small Business > Marketing > Social Media”

Think about what problem you’re solving and categorise accordingly.

For any type of book

Research Amazon categories before you pick yours

Choose 8–10 categories, not just 2

Pick a mix of easy, medium, and stretch categories

Check the competition in each to see how competitive it is

Be strategic, not just accurate

How to Change Categories After Publishing

Don’t panic if you don’t get your categories spot on. You can change categories after you’ve published. You can always re-upload your book with new categories, or email KDP support to ask them to help you change the categories. 

The Biggest Lesson

Categories are not about accurately describing your book. They’re about strategically positioning your book where readers can find it. 

Here I thought I was being honest by picking broad, accurate categories, when in reality I was actually being naive.

Successful self-publishers game the category system. They pick the most strategic categories that give them the best chance of ranking and being discovered.

That’s not dishonest. It’s smart marketing.

What We Need To Remember: Your Amazon Book Categories Matter

You can have a great book, great cover, and great description. But if you’re ranked #300,000 in your categories, nobody will ever find you.

Categories are your book’s discoverability engine. Pick them strategically, and not randomly. 

---

I write about the emotional and practical reality of being a writer — drafting, doubt, discipline, and publishing while still figuring it out.

Mostly for people who write because they have to, need to, want to | https://linktr.ee/ellenfranceswrites

[againstbetteradvice]

This Is How To Build An Audience For Your Book While You’re Writing And Editing It

Here’s how I would practically build an audience whilst you’re writing your book.

When I published my first book on Amazon, I made one fatal mistake. 

Ok, sure, there were a couple of big mistakes, a dozen small ones, but there was one that was my kryptonite. And I know I’m not the only one who has done this. 

Be kind as I tell you this. 

I waited until after I hit publish to think about how to find readers. Yep, I made a classic rookie error, one so many people warned me about, and a warning I completely ignored. 

Sure, the cover looked good, and the formatting was clean. The price was set, and I thought it was affordable. Everything was done, and I clicked publish and expected sales to trickle in. 

Instead, nothing happened. Not because the book was broken, but because I had built no audience while writing it.

Everyone will tell you that if you want your book to have a real chance, audience building cannot start after launch. It has to happen while you are writing and editing.

Here’s how I would practically do this whilst you’re writing your book. 

The Core Shift: Audience First, Book Second

Most new self-publishers think the sequence is simple: 

Write the book > Publish the book > Find readers.

That order almost never works, as I can attest to. Successful indie authors reverse it. They build attention first, create relationships with readers, grow an email list, and then launch to people who are already waiting.

You do not need thousands of fans. You need a small group of people who know you exist and care about what you are creating. That is enough to create momentum.

If you want to build this audience, start thinking like successful self-published authors and commit to building an audience while you write. 

What “Building An Audience” Actually Means

Whilst on the subject of “thousands of fans”, building an audience does not mean going viral or becoming famous. It means creating direct access for people interested in your topic or genre.

For most self-publishers, that includes building:

An email list with 100 to 1,000 subscribers

A small (or large if you can) but engaged social media presence

Published content that demonstrates your voice and expertise

Participation in communities where your target readers already gather

If you launch without these, you are relying entirely on an algorithm to discover you. Algorithms, especially those at huge companies like Amazon, do not push untested or unknown books. They amplify what is already working.

How to Build While You Write

You do not need to pause your book for a year to build an audience. The smartest strategy is to build your audience in parallel with writing the book.

1. Start An Email List Immediately

If you haven’t already, start an email list, even if you are only on chapter three.

Create a simple landing page that says something like, “I am writing a book about [topic]. Join my list to get updates and a free chapter when it is ready.”

Then start driving traffic to that page. You can do this by:

Posting regularly on social media

Writing articles related to your book’s topic

Adding a signup link to your bio

Engaging in communities and mentioning your project naturally

Even 50 to 100 subscribers before launch can dramatically change your results. But it’s important to start now and let people know your book is coming (so best to build hype and not confuse any potential readers).

I launched with just under 50 subscribers, but they weren’t invested and engaged with me. It’s because I hadn’t nurtured my relationship with them, and I had let a big email communication gap grow while editing the novel. Of course, they were interested when the book when live. 

2. Publish Related Content Publicly

While you are drafting your book, publish shorter pieces online (on your blog, on LinkedIn, on any writing website relevant to your genre).

If you write nonfiction, share insights from your research.

If you write fiction, share world-building notes, character backstories, or short scenes.

If you write self-help, publish practical advice drawn from your framework.

Each piece of content does three things to help build your audience. It builds trust, drives people to your email list and tests which ideas resonate most. I’ve seen other authors do this, and I feel part of the process with them.

3. Join And Contribute To Communities

Find where your ideal readers already gather and hang out, and hang out there yourself, letting them get to know you. I’m talking about Subreddits, Facebook groups, Discord servers, LinkedIn groups, and in-person writing communities.

The key is not to spam these communities with your book or to join with the sole ambition of selling it. Within these groups, provide value, answer questions, share insights, and most importantly, build real relationships.

When you eventually launch, those connections matter. People support people they recognise.

4. Post Consistently On Social Media

Social media is not just for promotion; it is for visibility and familiarity. 

While you are writing and editing your book, share the journey in small, consistent ways. Post insights from your research, lessons you are learning, short excerpts, writing struggles, milestones, and even mistakes. 

Let people see the process and not just the finished product.

The goal is not to shout “buy my book” but to become known for talking about your topic or genre. Over time, repeated exposure builds trust, and trust turns passive followers into email subscribers and future readers.

(By the way, if you want an example of this done very well, look up the Shane Dawson series on YouTube called: The Beautiful World of Jeffree Star. He documents creating an entire makeup collection with already established makeup mogul, Jeffree Star. He shows how he’s building the collection, hyping each step, building anticipation, which leads to a monumental launch.)

How To Build An Audience During Editing

Once your manuscript is finished and in editing, your audience building should accelerate, not slow down. Everything you’ve done during the writing stage should continue (and I would recommend doubling down on). 

Continue growing your email list every week. 

Share behind-the-scenes updates on social media.

Explain what the book is about and why it matters. 

Let people feel involved in the process (asking for their opinion is a great way to do this).

What I would add to this stage is the recruitment of ARC readers. An ARC is an advance review copy, which you send to readers in exchange for an honest review at launch. Reviews help prove to the world your book is worth reading, as well as show Amazon’s algorithm, for example, that it should recommend your book. 

During this phase, reach out the following communities and ask them to become your ARC readers:

People on your email list

Book bloggers in your genre

Other indie authors

Active members in reader communities

How Long It Actually Takes To Build An Invested Audience

You may think building an audience whilst you’re still scribling ideas in a notebook is too early. I would disagree with you. The more time you have to build an audience, the better. 

Realistically, building a small but engaged audience usually takes six to twelve months, and that’s if you’re consistent and engaging in the right ways to convert. 

Honestly: 

Months one to three are slow. You move from zero to 50 or 100 subscribers.

Months four to six become easier as your content compounds.

Month seven onward, growth accelerates because you have momentum.

This is an ideal timeframe, too. Everyone is different, so if you can budget for longer, the better off you are. 

Platform Matters Less Than Consistency

Writers often ask which platform is best to build their community on while they’re busy writing their next masterpiece. There is no answer that suits every writer, I’m sorry to say. 

But a rule of thumb is that the best platform is wherever your ideal readers already spend their time.

Business and professional nonfiction works well on LinkedIn.

Romance often thrives on TikTok or Facebook groups.

Self-help performs strongly on Medium or Instagram.

Professional nonfiction often pairs well with a newsletter and LinkedIn.

I wouldn’t get fixated on indecision about platforms. The exact platform is less important than showing up consistently and directing people to your email list.

Start Building Before You Feel Ready

If you are currently writing your book, do not wait until it is finished to think about readers. Even if you feel as if you have no time or capacity right now, I recommend you do the following: 

Create a signup page this week.

Publish one related article.

Join one relevant community and contribute something useful.

Then return to your manuscript. 

By the time you hit publish, you will not be hoping strangers care. You will be launching to people who already do.

And that will make all the effort worthwhile. 

---

I write about the emotional and practical reality of being a writer — drafting, doubt, discipline, and publishing while still figuring it out.

Mostly for people who write because they have to, need to, want to | https://linktr.ee/ellenfranceswrites

[againstbetteradvice]

The Self-Publishing Timeline No One Tells You: From Finished Draft To Launch

And why it takes so long after you’ve finished writing to self-publish your book. 

I finished writing my book on January 15th.

I published it on May 18th.

That’s four and a half months between “the end” and hitting publish.

Here I was thinking I’d finish writing and could publish the book within two weeks. Maybe a month if I were being really thorough and took my time.

It wasn’t until I had a manuscript in my hand that I realised what actually happens between finishing a draft and launching a book.

Please note these are just the components of physically publishing the book. It doesn’t include marketing, beta readers and advanced reviews. 

Month 1: The “It’s Finished!” Delusion

I assumed the final step would be simple: a quick read through, a few typo fixes, and then uploading the file to Amazon. Instead, I discovered that what I had confidently labelled as “finished” was nowhere close to done.

Week 1–2: The cooling-off period (whether you plan for it or not)

I finished my draft and immediately opened it to do a final read.

I got three pages in and couldn’t continue. I was too sick of it. I’d been living in this manuscript for eight months, and I needed a break.

I tried to push through anyway, which turned out to be a big mistake. I couldn’t see the problems, nor could I evaluate the quality. I was too close.

So I did what I should have done from the start: I stepped away for two weeks. It turns out you need distance from your own work before you can evaluate it. I recommend at least 2 weeks, though a month is better.

I still regret wasting my first two weeks trying to edit when I wasn’t ready.

Week 3–4: The “oh no, this is terrible” phase

After two weeks away, I reread my draft with fresh eyes. It wasn’t good.

There were whole sections that didn’t make sense. I repeated the same points three times in different chapters. I realised the structure was a mess, and my grand opening, the masterpiece, was weak.

I thought I was 100% done when, in reality, I was maybe 70% done. After discovering this, I spent the rest of the month rewriting sections, reorganising chapters, and fixing major structural issues.

What I learned is that your first “finished” draft is your first draft and not your final draft. Budget at least two more rounds of revision after you think you’re done.

Month 2: Editing Hell

I thought the process would be straightforward: send the manuscript to an editor, get it back with a few suggested changes, make the fixes, and move on. 

Instead, it turned into a month-long process of researching and finding the right editor, waiting for availability, and then slowly working through detailed feedback that required far more thought and revision than I expected.

Week 1: Finding an editor

I didn’t have an editor lined up. I thought I’d just find one quickly. Again, another mistake I made was thinking the hard part of writing a book was over. 

I found out that good editors are booked weeks or months in advance. I spent a week:

Researching editors in my genre

Requesting sample edits

Getting quotes

Checking availability

…only to discover most were booked 6–8 weeks out. I should have been hunting for one long before I finished writing, not after.

Week 2–4: Waiting for developmental edit

I found an editor with a 3-week turnaround, which seemed quick compared to the other quotes I was getting. I sent my manuscript and waited.

This felt like wasted time, but it wasn’t optional, as professional editors need time. In the future, I will budget 2–4 weeks for a developmental edit, depending on the book's length and the editor's availability.

Week 4: Processing developmental feedback

The edit returned 47 pages of comments and suggestions. As I reviewed the feedback, I quickly realised my book needed serious work. Not line-by-line editing but structural changes, character development issues, pacing problems and missing transitions.

I spent a week just processing the feedback and making a revision plan, also slightly grieving what I thought was a brilliant manuscript.

But developmental editing isn’t cosmetic, as I discovered. It reveals fundamental issues, and you need to budget time actually to address them.

Month 3: Revisions and Copyediting

I expected to make a few quick adjustments based on the feedback and then finally be done. Instead, the notes led to major rewrites, which then required another full round of editing before the manuscript was truly ready.

Week 1–2: Implementing developmental feedback

I rewrote three chapters, restructured two sections, added 8,000 words of new material and cut 6,000 words that didn’t work. This took two full weeks of intensive work.

Here I was realising (the hard way) that developmental editing isn’t “make these corrections.” It’s “here’s what’s broken, now fix it.” And fixing takes as long as the first draft sometimes.

Week 3: Copyediting

I sent the revised manuscript to a copyeditor (a different person from the developmental editor). The copyediting involved correcting grammar, punctuation, consistency, and flow. This turnaround was 1.5 weeks.

I was surprised to learn that copyediting is faster than developmental editing, but still not instant. Next time, I will budget 1–2 weeks.

Week 4: Proofreading (which I skipped and regret)

I should have sent the manuscript to a proofreader for a final pass. I didn’t, as I thought I could catch the remaining errors myself.

It turns out I couldn’t, and my published book had typos (only two, which have since been corrected).

I believe it’s important to budget for a proofreader with a 1-week turnaround, typically. And from my experience, it’s time well spent.

Month 4: The Non-Writing Work

I assumed I would upload the file to Amazon and be finished. Instead, I ran into what felt like a million small tasks, each one simple on its own but all taking far longer than I expected.

Week 1: Cover design

I hired a designer on Fiverr well before finishing the book, so I already had the graphics in hand. But I then took to Canva to create the cover myself. It took me a week to come up with something I liked that represented the book and met the printing sizing requirements. 

But with a professional, I would still budget 1–2 weeks to accommodate multiple rounds of feedback.

Week 2: Formatting

I tried to format the manuscript myself using free tools. It took four full days of frustration to get the interior looking decent using Word. It’s easy to do, but it’s not a quick process. 

I’ve realised you can either pay a professional formatter ($100–150) or budget 3–5 days to learn and do it yourself. Either way, it’s still a time cost.

Week 3: The metadata nightmare

It felt like it took ages to write the book description, choose categories, research keywords, and set the price.

I rewrote the description six times. I changed categories three times. I agonised over pricing.

I feel like this should take a few hours, but it took me a week because I overthought everything. I can’t deny that metadata matters for discoverability, but perfectionism slows you down. I would also budget for a little perfectionism. 

Week 4: The technical setup

There is much to do to get your completed manuscript onto the internet for sale. You need to:

Create an Amazon KDP account

Set up Author Central

Upload files

Preview the book

Fixing formatting errors 

Re-uploading (which can be multiple rounds)

Previewing again

Even when everything goes smoothly, this takes days. When there are problems (and there are always problems), it takes a week.

What I’m Doing Differently Next Time

I’m not beating myself up for taking months instead of weeks to get my book live. It was my first book, and it always takes longer the first time you’re doing these tasks. 

And with all the work you need to do to establish your online presence already done, you can immediately shave some time in the second, third, and fourth books. 

I view it all as a learning curve, with all the wonderful experiences I have from the first book. It means next time, I plan to run the following timeline for publishing: 

The day I finish my draft: I’m booking an editor for 6 weeks out, avoiding the scramble to find one later.

Month 1: I’m taking a full month away from the manuscript to write new articles and build my audience.

Month 2–3: Professional editing and serious revision with no rushing.

Month 4: Production (cover, formatting, metadata). All of this will be done properly.

Month 5–6: Pre-launch. ARCs. Reviews. Marketing prep. Building anticipation.

Month 7: Launch when everything is ready.

Total timeline: 7 months from “finished” draft to launch.

It sounds like forever, but it’s realistic. If I shave time off the second book, I consider that a win. 

The Truth About Self-Publishing Timelines

You can publish a book in a weekend. Upload a PDF, slap a Canva cover on it, and hit publish. But you can’t publish a good book quickly.

Professional editing takes time, your cover design takes iteration, and pre-launch takes weeks. It’s just the reality of self-publishing. 

And if you rush, you end up publishing an inferior product. But if you plan properly, you publish a quality book with reviews and momentum.

Because the goal isn’t to publish, it’s to publish well.

---

I write about the emotional and practical reality of being a writer — drafting, doubt, discipline, and publishing while still figuring it out.

Mostly for people who write because they have to, need to, want to | https://linktr.ee/ellenfranceswrites

[againstbetteradvice]

I (Nearly) Used Amazon’s Free ISBN. Here’s Why That Was (And Wasn’t) A Mistake.

The 101 on ISBNs and how to choose the best one for you. 

When you publish on Amazon, you have two choices:

Use Amazon’s free ISBN, or buy your own for $125.

I went to choose the free option. Why spend $125 when Amazon offers it for nothing? That’s a no-brainer, right?!

Especially when self-publishing isn’t a free endeavour; between paying for editing, cover art, formatting, and everything else, it’s nice to save money somewhere. 

Turns out there are reasons why going free isn’t all it's cracked up to be. And why going free isn’t all that bad, either. 

Here is what I really wish I knew about ISBNs, especially the free option available on Amazon, before I self-published. 

What an ISBN Actually Is

Before publishing my book, I had to Google this, so excuse me if I insulted your intelligence if you already knew this. Let’s make sure we’re all on the same page, though. 

ISBN = International Standard Book Number.

It’s a unique identifier for your book. It’s like a barcode for your book, but it’s universal in that it links to your book no matter where in the world you are. Libraries, bookstores, and distributors use it to track and order books.

Every format needs its own ISBN. So if you’re publishing your book in multiple formats, this is what you would need: 

Kindle ebook: one ISBN

Paperback: different ISBN

Hardcover: different ISBN

Audiobook: different ISBN

Amazon will give you a free ISBN for each format, or you can buy your own.

If you decide to buy your own ISBN, here is the basic pricing so you can understand the general cost. 

In the United States, ISBNs are sold through Bowker, the official agency, where one ISBN costs $125, a pack of 10 costs $295, and 100 costs $575. 

In many other countries, including the United Kingdom, Canada, and Australia, ISBNs are often free or much cheaper through the national ISBN agency, so it is always worth checking your country’s official provider first. 

Buying a single ISBN is usually poor value, as you normally need multiple ISBNs for the various formats of a single book. Purchasing a bundle of ten makes far more financial sense if you plan to publish more than one format or more than one book.

What I Would Have Given Up by Using Amazon’s Free ISBN

With free services like this from such a big company, there is always a catch. These companies need to make money, so they aren’t offering free ISBNs out of the goodness of their hearts. 

The publisher of record is “Amazon”

When you use Amazon’s free ISBN, Amazon is listed as the publisher in industry databases. Your author name appears, but the publisher field says “Amazon” or “Kindle Direct Publishing.”

If you buy your own ISBN, you can list yourself or your publishing imprint as the publisher.

Does this matter? For some authors, yes. Would it have mattered to me? Honestly, no. Nobody checked who my publisher was because nobody bought my book. 

I wouldn’t have been able to sell my book anywhere else

This is the real cost.

Amazon’s free ISBN permanently ties your book to Amazon. If you want to sell that exact edition on another platform, you can’t. You’d need a new ISBN (which isn’t a lot of money, but it’s still a cost). 

If I wanted to distribute my paperback through IngramSpark (which reaches bookstores and libraries), I couldn’t use my Amazon edition. I’d have to buy an ISBN and create a separate edition.

For ebooks, this matters less (ebooks don’t technically require ISBNs, though Amazon assigns them anyway).

For print books, it’s limiting. You’re locked into Amazon’s print-on-demand only.

My book wouldn’t be in certain databases

Some library systems and book databases don’t recognise Amazon-issued ISBNs as “real” publications. I’m unable to explain why, but it’s a reality we writers have to deal with. 

With our books not being recognised on databases, this will likely affect:

Library acquisitions

Academic citations

Industry awards or recognition

Legitimacy in professional contexts

For fiction, this probably doesn’t matter, especially if you’re not trying to become a book used for a school curriculum. For nonfiction or academic work, it could genuinely become a problem. 

I can’t change my mind later

Once you publish with Amazon’s ISBN, that’s permanent. You can’t retroactively buy an ISBN and reassign it.

If you decide later that you want to go wide or distribute through other channels, you’d have to create a new edition with a new ISBN.

Then you’d have two editions of your book floating around, splitting reviews and rankings. Yes, those rankings and reviews are connected to the ISBN, just as likes and followers are connected to specific social media accounts and can’t be transferred or combined. 

What I Didn’t Lose With Amazon’s Free ISBN

Sales on Amazon

Using Amazon’s free ISBN does not hurt your Amazon sales at all.

The ISBN has zero impact on discoverability, ranking, or algorithm performance. Readers don’t care who the publisher is; all they care about is if the book is good and has reviews.

Quality or legitimacy (to readers)

Regular readers don’t check the ISBN or publisher field. Half the time, they don’t know what an ISBN is.

Only industry professionals (librarians, bookstore buyers) look at publisher information. For direct-to-reader sales, the ISBN choice is invisible.

Distribution within Amazon

Amazon’s free ISBN works perfectly fine for selling on Amazon (obviously), for both Kindle and paperback.

I had zero problems with the technical side. The book appeared correctly, looked professional, and sold just as poorly as it would have with my own ISBN.

So, How Do You Pick The Right ISBN For Your Book?

The answer depends less on rules and more on your goals. The “right” ISBN choice comes down to where you plan to distribute, how you want to position yourself, and how much flexibility you want in the future.

Where do you want your book to live?

If you are publishing print and want the option to distribute beyond Amazon, especially to bookstores or libraries through services like IngramSpark, you need your own ISBN. 

Amazon’s free ISBN only works within Amazon’s ecosystem. The moment you think you might want broader distribution, buying your own ISBN protects that option.

How do you want to present yourself?

If you are building a publishing brand, launching an imprint, or planning to publish multiple books or multiple authors, your own ISBN allows your company name to appear as the publisher. 

That can matter for professional nonfiction, academic work, textbooks, reference materials, or if you care about legitimacy in industry databases, libraries, or awards systems. 

In those spaces, having Amazon listed as the publisher can look amateur. Owning your ISBN gives you control over your imprint and positioning.

Do you want flexibility?

When you buy your own ISBN, you own that number. 

You can switch distributors. You can expand to new platforms. You are not locked into one retailer. If there is any realistic chance you will want to distribute beyond Amazon at some point, purchasing your own ISBN is the safer long-term move.

What is your budget?

If you are choosing between spending money on an ISBN or on editing, cover design, or marketing, invest in quality first. An ISBN will not make or break your book. The writing and presentation will.

A practical way to think about it is format by format. For ebooks, an ISBN often does not matter because many major platforms do not require one. Using Amazon’s free option or skipping an ISBN entirely for digital formats is usually fine. For paperback editions, however, buying your own ISBN gives you far more flexibility and professional control.

The hybrid ISBN

Many experienced self-publishers take a hybrid approach. They use the free option for ebooks where ISBN ownership provides little benefit, and they purchase their own ISBN for print editions. 

That keeps costs reasonable while preserving the ability to distribute widely, use IngramSpark, list their own publishing name, and avoid being locked into Amazon.

In short, pick your ISBN strategy based on where you want to distribute, how you want to position yourself, and whether you value flexibility over short-term savings. 

The right choice is the one that aligns with your publishing goals, not simply the cheapest or most convenient option.

The ISBNBottom Line 

We know that Amazon’s free ISBN is not a mistake if:

You’re only selling on Amazon

You’re writing fiction or reader-focused nonfiction

You’re on a tight budget

You’re testing the market with your first book

And we also know that buying your own ISBN makes sense if:

You want to distribute print books beyond Amazon

You’re building a publishing brand

You want maximum flexibility

You’re publishing professional/academic work

But regardless of what you choose, you need an ISBN to publish your book. It’s a non-negotiable, whether you like it or not. 

---

I write about the emotional and practical reality of being a writer — drafting, doubt, discipline, and publishing while still figuring it out.

Mostly for people who write because they have to, need to, want to | https://linktr.ee/ellenfranceswrites

[againstbetteradvice]

Should You Publish Wide or KDP Select? I Chose Wrong. 

Here’s How To Decide What Self-Publishing Platform To Use (Amazon or Everything Else)

One of the first decisions you make when self-publishing is whether to use KDP Select.

This means you’re faced with a dilemma: Amazon exclusivity, where your book is only available on Amazon, or publish widely across every self-publishing platform. 

I was there with my first book. 

I chose KDP Select, and it was the wrong choice for me. 

It might still be the right choice for you, but I wish I had known how to make the decision based on my situation rather than copying what everyone else said.

This is what I learned, what I wish I had understood earlier, and how to decide without guessing.

What KDP Select Actually Is

This is what I was a little clueless about prior to self-publishing. 

KDP Select is Amazon’s exclusivity program. 

You agree to sell your ebook only through Amazon for ninety days, and it auto-renews unless you opt out. In exchange, you get a handful of benefits.

The first benefit is Kindle Unlimited enrolment. Readers with KU subscriptions can read your book without paying per book, and you get paid per page read. 

You also get free promotion days, which are five days per ninety-day period, where you can make the book free. 

You can run countdown deals, which are limited-time discounts with a visible countdown timer. In some markets, you get a higher royalty, with 70% available in more countries. 

Those are the tools you receive in exchange for giving Amazon exclusivity. Is it worth it?

What Going Wide In Self-Publishing Means

Going wide means publishing your book everywhere you can. 

That usually includes Amazon, Apple Books, Kobo, Google Play, Barnes and Noble, and any other platform that will take your book. No doubt, another platform is on the rise as we speak. 

When you go wide, you lose Kindle Unlimited enrolment and Amazon’s built-in promotional tools, but you reach readers who do not use Amazon. 

You also retain full control over distribution and aren’t locked into a single platform.

Why I Chose KDP Select and Why It Was Wrong for Me

I chose KDP Select because I kept hearing that beginners should start with Amazon. The reasoning sounded convincing; Amazon has a huge market share, so focus there first and go wide later once you have an audience. 

I accepted that advice without questioning it (what did I know to question it?!), and that was a big mistake.

It was wrong for my situation for several reasons. 

I had no audience, and KU helps most when you are releasing books regularly to an engaged readership. 

I had one book, and nobody was waiting for it. 

I also wasn't writing a series (well, it was intended to be part of one, but there was no release date for book two in the near future). KU works best for series because readers binge book one and then move through books two, three, and four, and the page reads compound. I had a standalone book. 

My genre was also not KU-heavy. Some genres dominate KU, such as romance, LitRPG, and fantasy, while others do not. Even though I’ve described my book as romance fiction in hindsight (and tried to position it in that category many times), it’s technically women’s fiction, where it’s more gossip, friendship and drama, rather than smut. 

The KDP Select Advantages and When They Actually Matter

KDP Select does have real advantages, but they only matter in specific conditions. For many authors, it would make perfect sense to venture down this path. 

The first advantage is Kindle Unlimited page reads. If you write in a KU-heavy genre such as romance, fantasy, science fiction, or thriller, readers often expect to find books in KU. Not being enrolled can cost you readers. 

Page reads pay around 4 to 5 tenths of a cent per page. A three-hundred-page book fully read earns around one dollar twenty to one dollar fifty. If you have a thousand full reads per month, that becomes meaningful income. For some authors, KU income exceeds sales income. 

The catch is that you need volume. One book getting 100 reads a month earns around $30–50, which is not worth the cost of exclusivity for most people.

The second advantage is free days, which can build momentum if used strategically. If you make your book free for a day and promote it properly through services like BookBub or Freebooksy, you can generate thousands of downloads. 

Those downloads can lead to reviews if people actually read the book, also buy connections if they download other books too, and a temporary category ranking boost. 

The catch is that free days without promotion usually get you ten to fifty downloads, and that wastes the opportunity. 

The third advantage is countdown deals, which are a limited-time discount with a visible countdown that can create urgency and boost sales. The catch is that it only works if you have traffic going to your page. Without an audience, nobody sees the countdown, and there is no urgency to trigger.

The fourth advantage is that KDP Select is simpler to manage. One platform means one dashboard, one set of analytics, and one upload process. Going wide means managing multiple platforms, multiple payment systems, and multiple upload processes. The catch is that easy does not matter if you are getting zero sales anyway.

The Wide Advantages (And What I Gave Up)

Going wide also has advantages, and these were the things I gave up by choosing exclusivity.

The first advantage is that you reach readers who do not use Amazon. Some readers prefer Apple Books, Kobo, Google Play, or Barnes and Noble, and they will never find you on Amazon. 

This is especially true outside of the USA. Kobo dominates in Canada, and Apple Books is strong in certain markets. By going exclusive, I gave up those readers completely.

The second advantage is that you are not dependent on one company. Amazon can change its terms whenever it wants, and if your entire income depends on Amazon, you are vulnerable. Wide authors reduce that risk by diversifying. It’s literally putting all your eggs in one basket. 

The third advantage is that you own your distribution. KDP Select locks you in for ninety days, and you cannot leave early even if you want to. Going wide gives you the freedom and control to decide where your book lives.

The fourth advantage is that some retailers promote wide books more. Kobo and Apple sometimes give extra visibility to books that aren't Amazon exclusives because they want to compete.

The fifth advantage is access to libraries and subscription services. Some library platforms like Overdrive and Hoopla, and subscription services like Scribd, will not take Amazon-exclusive books. If you are in KDP Select, you lose those revenue streams entirely.

When KDP Select Makes Sense

Even though it failed for me, KDP Select does work in certain situations. It can make sense if you are writing a series in a KU heavy genre such as romance, fantasy, LitRPG, or thriller because readers will binge read and page reads compound across multiple books. It can make sense if you release rapidly, such as publishing a new book every one to three months, because KU rewards frequent releases. It can make sense if you already have an audience and a mailing list that can drive enough downloads and reads to make KU worthwhile. It can also make sense if you are in a KU dominated genre where a large portion of readers use KU, because not being there can hurt visibility.

It can make sense if you want to use free days strategically and you have a real plan to promote those free days and generate reviews. It can also make sense if you are testing the market with your first book and you want to see whether there is demand, because ninety days is not a massive commitment.

How to Actually Decide

I understand the irony of telling you that following the advice blindly got me into trouble, and here I am about to impart my advice on you. 

But what I don’t want you to do is to guess what to do with your self-publishing. So instead of guessing, you can make the decision by answering a few questions honestly.

First, is your genre KU heavy? Check the top one hundred in your genre or category and see how many are in KU. If 70% or more are in KU, then KU likely matters. If less than 30% are in KU, it likely does not.

Second, are you writing a series or a standalone? Series benefit from KU, while standalone books usually do not.

Third, do you have an audience? If you do, they will read or buy regardless of platform, so the choice is more flexible. If you do not, KU will not save you and going wide will not hurt you.

Fourth, can you release frequently? KU rewards volume, so if you publish once a year, going wide is usually the better fit.

Fifth, do you want to learn multiple platforms? KDP Select is simpler, while wide has a learning curve. The question is whether you are willing to manage that complexity.

There Is No Wrong Answer (The Switch Opt-out)

I get we’re all fearful of making the wrong decision. I don’t blame you for feeling that way. Thankfully, there is a safety net. 

This is the part most people do not realise. You are not married to your choice. KDP Select runs in ninety-day periods, and when it expires, you can choose not to renew and then go wide. You can also start wide and switch to KDP Select later if you decide you want KU.

I stayed in KDP Select for two renewals, totalling six months, before I realised it wasn't working and opted out. I should have tested both approaches faster.

The Real Answer

There is no universal right answer. It depends on your genre, audience, release schedule, goals, and your willingness to manage complexity.

But if you’re unsure, you won't hurt your success by going wide. The reason is simple: going wide teaches you multiple platforms, gives you more data, and does not lock you in. 

After three to six months, you will have real information.

You will see whether Amazon accounts for 100% of your sales or 60%.

You will know whether other platforms are worth your time.

Then you can make an informed decision about KDP Select based on results rather than guesswork.

It also isn’t the make-or-break decision when it comes to selling your self-published book. That’s all dependent on how you market and write your book in the first place. 

---

I write about the emotional and practical reality of being a writer — drafting, doubt, discipline, and publishing while still figuring it out.

Mostly for people who write because they have to, need to, want to | https://linktr.ee/ellenfranceswrites

[againstbetteradvice]

How I Write When I Only Have 30 Minutes

And why you can write more than you think in such a short period of time. 

Most days, I don’t have two hours to write.

I don’t have an hour, and some days I barely have 30 minutes.

Between everything else I need to do in my writing business, life, obligations, and being human, pure writing time gets compressed.

I used to think 30 minutes wasn’t worth it. I’d tell myself, “I can’t get into flow in 30 minutes. I’m best off waiting for a better time.”

There are no surprises that the better time never came, and I would end up not writing at all. 

You can’t progress in your writing business if you don’t write at all, so now I write in 30-minute blocks. I get more done than when I was waiting for perfect conditions.

And I’m mad it’s taken me this long to embrace the 30-minute power write, but alas, here we are. 

The Myth Of Needing Writing Hours

We writers romanticise the writing process: we need a quiet morning, coffee, hours of uninterrupted time, a gradual flow state, and beautiful prose will emerge as a result.

That’s not how most writing happens. 

Most writing happens in the moments when we’re least suspecting or when the pressure is on. What’s happening in our lives doesn’t seem to change it either; we power write between meetings, before work, during lunch and after the kids are asleep.

We all know that 30 minutes is enough. We just have to use those minutes differently.

How To Write In 30 Minutes (101)

I know it’s easy to say all you need is 30 minutes, so write, but let’s be real here. There is an artform to make the writing sprint work for you, where you are actually producing content with the clock breathing down your neck.

What I Don’t Do In 30 Minutes

I don’t try to write a complete piece. 30 minutes isn’t enough to draft, revise, and polish an article. Trying to do all three guarantees failure.

I don’t wait to “warm up.” I don’t have time to ease into it. I don’t have the luxury of journal writing first or the minutes to stare at the blank page before getting started. There is certainly mo browsing for inspiration.

30 minutes means I start immediately.

I don’t edit while drafting. Every minute spent rewriting a sentence is a minute not generating new words. I write, and then I edit later. I never do both simultaneously.

How I Spend My 30 Minutes Writing

Minute 1: Open the document and start typing.

Not “think about what to write.” Not “outline.” Just type. Whatever comes out, I keep going (and I find dictation helps with this too. It makes braindumping quicker, and you don’t stop to make corrections).

Minutes 2–25: Pure output mode.

Keep going without stopping or rereading or fixing typos, and just get the words on the page fast, messy, and incomplete.

Minutes 26–30: Quick scan and note the next step.

I don’t edit. Instead, I just skim what I’ve written and then add a note at the bottom: “Next: explain the second point” or “Add example here.”

This makes restarting tomorrow easier, and then I stop, even in the middle of a sentence if necessary.

The 30-Minute Framework

I don’t always use my 30 minutes the same way, as I’m always working on different writing projects and am at different stages with each. So I have several approaches for using my 30 minutes wisely. 

Strategy 1: The brain dump (for new ideas)

I set a timer and write everything I am thinking about the topic with no structure and no concern for coherence. My goal is to get raw material on the page. In 30 minutes, I can generate 500–700 words of rough ideas. That’s enough to shape into an article later.

Strategy 2: The single section (for in-progress pieces)

I pick one section of the article, just one, and write that section from start to finish without touching anything else. In 30 minutes, I complete one full section, and the next day I will move on to the following one.

Strategy 3: The outline sprint (when I’m stuck)

I do not write prose; instead, I focus on bullet points. I identify the five to seven main points, list them clearly, and add sub bullets under each one. In 30 minutes, I can outline an entire article, then write it later in 30-minute blocks.

Strategy 4: The editing pass (when drafting is done)

I do one editing pass per thirty-minute block. Today I focus on fixing the structure, tomorrow I tighten the sentences, and the next day I cut the unnecessary parts. Editing in layers works better than trying to improve everything at once.

The Key To Writing In 30 Minutes: Lower the Bar

When I have 30 minutes, my standard isn’t “write something good.”

My standard is “write something.”

If I write three hundred messy words, that is a success. If I create a rough outline, that is a success. If I improve just one paragraph, that is a success. The goal is progress and not perfection.

Why 30 Minutes Works

You might be wondering if there is something magical about 30 minutes. Well, it’s not a specific number guaranteed to change lives, but it does help me write without too many issues. 

There is no time for overthinking. I can’t spiral into “is this good enough?” because that’s a waste of precious minutes. 

I’m forced into effective prioritisation. I have to pick the most important thing to work on, meaning there is no time for distractions.

It builds my consistency. I can find 30 minutes almost every day. I can’t always find two hours. And we all know that 30 minutes daily beats two hours once a week.

It removes pressure. I’m not trying to finish the whole article, chapter or novel in 30 minutes. I’m simply trying to make progress. That’s manageable and far less intimidating.

The Tools That Help

There is nothing complicated about the tools I use, but they make the 30-minute block far more effective.

First, I use a timer. I set it for thirty minutes, and when it goes off, I stop. Even if I am in the middle of a sentence, I close the document and walk away. That boundary keeps the habit sustainable.

I also remove distractions. Sometimes that means using an app blocker. Sometimes it simply means turning on aeroplane mode. The goal is to make writing the easiest available option.

Before I finish for the day, I leave myself a note for tomorrow. It might say something simple like, write the section about a specific point. That way, I can begin immediately instead of wasting time deciding what to work on.

Finally, I track my word count. Not to create pressure, but to see progress over time. Watching the numbers add up reminds me that small sessions compound into something meaningful.

When 30 Minutes Isn’t Enough

Some tasks genuinely need more time. We all know we need to do any or all of the following tasks for our writing projects: 

Deep research

Complex structural revisions

Final polish before publishing

Meet tight and stressful deadlines 

For these particular tasks, I wait until I have a longer block, or I break them into 30-minute chunks over multiple days.

But what I’ve found is that 90% of writing can be done in 30-minute increments.

Start Tomorrow

If you believe you do not have time to write, test this approach tomorrow.

Find 30 minutes somewhere in your day. It could be early in the morning, during a lunch break, or before bed. The specific time does not matter. 

Choose one clear task. Don’t pick something vague, like "write an article," but something specific and manageable. This could be:

Draft an outline. 

Write one section. 

Brainstorm ideas. 

Make it small enough to finish within the time you have. Then set a timer for 30 minutes and write until it goes off. When it ends, stop. Do not stretch the session just because you are on a roll.

Then look at what you produced. It will likely be more than you expected. Repeat the process the next day.

Thirty minutes a day will not turn you into a full-time writer overnight. But it will make you consistent. And consistency is what builds a writing career.

---

I write about the emotional and practical reality of being a writer — drafting, doubt, discipline, and publishing while still figuring it out.

Mostly for people who write because they have to, need to, want to | https://linktr.ee/ellenfranceswrites