I've got the book release blues...
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This post was originally sent to my newsletter subscribers on November 6, 2025. Click here to subscribe.
They sat side by side, looking into the fire, just their hands touching. After a long silence, Rose finally spoke. “I’ve been thinking about that. About how nonsensical people can be. Like how much I want to kiss you, even though I know I shouldna.” She smiled at him. “Or— Tisn’t just lust. ‘Tis emotion. Feelings that run contrary to reason. Like the men in the village, holding on to their hatred of our girls even though they dinna even ken them. Or you with your father. You fear you’ll be like him even though you’re not. You couldna be.”
Charley’s jaw tightened, but thankfully, Rose kept talking. “Or me with my hand, I suppose.” She lifted her injured hand, examining it in the light. “Somehow, deep down, I still believe that accident was my fault. Even after all these years… If I’d only done my job correctly, stayed focused, not been distracted…” Her voice died to a whisper.
- from Chapter 19 of The Caretaker
This is one of my favorite passages from my new release, The Caretaker. It’s something I think about a lot—a type of cognitive dissonance, I suppose. We feel a certain way, even though we know, logically, we shouldn’t.
For me, there’s no better example than when I release a book, a process I’m in the middle of right now.
In the course of a release, people often congratulate me and ask what I’m doing to celebrate.
How exciting!
You must be so happy!
Another book? What an amazing accomplishment!
It's often an uncomfortable exchange, and a superficial one. Most of these people haven’t read the book, and many of them never will. I smile. I say “thank you,” and I move on…
But the truth is, in the silence after I hit publish, when my book—that string of words I’ve poured every part of myself into for the better part of a year—is really and truly complete, I feel… empty. Sad. Let down.
I know, I know. It makes no sense.
And the feelings are only made worse by that cognitive dissonance. By knowing that I should feel happy. That by feeling the way I do, I’m being ungrateful, or unreasonable.
I mean, I’ve finished my sixth book, the culmination of months and months of hard work… I’m fortunate to have the time and money to publish, a group of really great fans, and an incredible support network. Of course my books aren’t for everyone—I should still appreciate the accolades, and anyway, a book release is only the beginning. Even if it’s not screamingly successful today, there’s no reason to think it won’t be in the future.
I have every reason in the world to be happy, to celebrate. But somehow… I’m just not in the mood.
At first, I thought I was alone in this experience, but after commiserating with other authors, I’ve learned that it’s a common thread.
In that article, author Inga Simpson says, “The overwhelming sound on publication day is silence. It takes time for a book to leave bookstore shelves, to be read. The moment, the day, is always an anti-climax.”
That’s where I am right now. The silence… and in the lull, in the empty space that the all-consuming work of writing once filled, doubt creeps in:
Maybe the book is terrible.
Maybe it’s just mediocre.
Maybe no one will read it.
Maybe no one will care.
Maybe I took on themes that were over my head. Maybe it will just make me look dumb.
I know—I absolutely know that these fears are baseless. And pointless. I mean, no one’s even had a chance to read the book yet. Why worry?
Yet I do worry. And I doubt. I simply can’t help it.
Perhaps that’s because, deep down, I know that this book (or any book for that matter) will never live up to my subconscious expectations—those hopes and dreams that have snuck in over the course of the writing process, despite my every effort to banish them with logic.
As author Jock Serong says in the article linked above:
“Fiction moves so slowly, and over this long period, you’ve poured everything—your dreams, your technical ideas, your time, your love—into the piece of work. At least at some subconscious level, you come to believe that anything is possible for the book when it comes out. This is not egotism—it’s a kind of logic. Everything went in, so in theory, everything can come out. It might change lives. It might change my life.
“Then it doesn’t. The world consumes the book in a few weeks. People say nice things. Family, friends and fellow writers are supportive. Then the publicity campaign ends, and suddenly it’s over. Two cold realisations occur inside you. One is that you haven’t changed the world—you’ve barely made a dint—and the other is that you have expended yourself creatively. The everything has left nothing.”
The everything has left nothing.
That’s heavy, and some days—release day, for instance—the weight of it feels absolutely real.
But it’s not the whole story.
Because if I pay attention, if I look back on all my past book releases, I can see that “the everything” I pour into writing a book doesn’t leave nothing, not really.
It leaves something… it’s just not on a larger-than-life scale, and it almost never comes when I expect it to—certainly not on release day.
It’s when I’m standing in my darkened kitchen at 6am on a random weekday, waiting for the coffee maker to finish and checking email on my phone… and all of a sudden I’m crying over a message from a reader who finished my book in the wee hours and just had to reach out to tell me how much it meant to them.
It’s when I’m chatting with a fellow author—an author I respect—and they casually mention how they stayed up half the night reading my book… How they really should have gone to sleep, but they just couldn’t put it down, and how they admire my writing, my ability to immerse the reader in the world of the story.
It’s when I stumble across a review from a stranger on Amazon, someone who randomly found my book, who read it, and who really and truly understood… saw my words—and me—in the deepest possible way.
It’s when I come home from dropping my kids off at school, to a message from a friend, tipping me off about a thread on a Facebook reading group they thought I should see. I open it up, and all of a sudden I’m crying into my coffee again, as I read comment after comment about my books, how readers admire my unique voice, the gritty reality in my stories, and how they prefer my work over some of the best-selling authors in the genre.
It’s those small, individual moments of connection and appreciation—moments that aren’t planned, that don’t follow a calendar, and come with no expectation. Moments that don't change the world in any great, earth-shattering way, but absolutely do change my world.
Those moments are not nothing.
They’re everything.
They're the rewards of my writing—the opportunity to touch another human heart.
And they make everything—the months of hard work, the investment in time, emotion and money—worth it.
And they make everything—the months of hard work, the investment in time, emotion and money—worth it.
Why am I writing this to you?
Of course, I hope you’ll read The Caretaker. And of course, I hope you’ll tell me what it means to you…
But more than that, I hope that we can all see those small, random moments of connection for what they are.
Not the afterthoughts to the larger milestones in life—those milestones that can sometimes feel so empty—but the core of our joy.
The things that makes it all worth it.
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