I’ve published books.
Not viral TikToks.
Not perfectly packaged Instagram reels.
Not pitch decks or newsletter giveaways.
Books.
And I want them to find readers. I really do. But I’m realizing that I have limits—and I’m learning to honor them.
📉 The Numbers So Far
The Cancer Diet has sold 15 copies.
Empire, Nevada sold fewer than half that.
I could lie and say that doesn’t bother me. Of course it does. You pour yourself into something that cost everything to write, and you hope it echoes louder than it does.
But those 15 copies? That means 15 people said yes. That’s not nothing. That’s not failure. That’s survival making contact.
🛑 The Treadmill I Won’t Run
Here’s the part that really guts me:
I’ve already spent more on advertising than I’ve made in sales.
That’s not a business model. That’s a treadmill.
One where you pour money into Facebook boosts, podcast pitches, AI campaigns, or paid reviews—only to be met with silence or shallow engagement.
I see other writers doing it:
- Creating fake “fan” accounts to like and share their own posts
- Paying for suspicious Goodreads or Amazon reviews
- Reposting the same hook over and over, hoping the algorithm finally bites
That’s not connection. That’s theater.
And it’s not what I’m here for.
🐍 What I Won’t Do
I won’t fake an audience to attract a bigger one.
I won’t pay strangers to lie about loving something they didn’t read.
I won’t contort my story into an ad.
I won’t hustle myself into a hollowed-out version of a “successful” author just to say I tried everything.
Because if I lose the why—if I start treating the work like content—I lose the only part that ever mattered.
🥾 Not Picked. So I Built My Own Team.
Sometimes I do wish I had the patience to jump back into the traditional publishing grind: the query letters, the agent rejections, the hope that someone might finally say yes.
But I’ve never been the one picked for the team.
Not in school. Not in life. Not in art.
So I made my own team.
Built my own press.
Set my own timelines.
Published on my terms.
It’s not easier. It’s lonelier. But it’s mine.
And I’m finally learning to work with the person I am—not against him.
🎲 The X-Factor I’ll Never Control
When I look at people who did break through—who got the agent, the book deal, the traction—I see one of two things:
- Some uncontrollable variable: timing, luck, virality, or a personal connection.
- Or someone like Stephen King, who collected rejection letters for years and then hit the lottery.
That’s a slog. And it’s one I’m okay skipping.
I don’t want to chase luck.
I want to build work.
I want to finish books that feel like they mattered to write, even if no one notices right away.
🛠 What I Will Do
I’ll keep creating new work instead of obsessively pushing the old.
I’ll tell the truth—even when it’s uncomfortable.
I’ll trust that one honest reader is more valuable than 1,000 bots or click-farm likes.
I’ll write for the people who need what I wrote, not just those who happen to scroll past it.
Because I didn’t survive everything I’ve survived just to turn my stories into ads.
🕯️ I Love My Books
They may not be perfect. They may never break wide.
But they are mine. And I love them dearly.
They are not products.
They are not promotional vehicles.
They are pieces of my grief, my healing, my humor, my life.
I don’t want to be a brand.
I want to be a writer.
And I want to be a writer who still likes writing.
⏳ Why I Rushed One, and Why I Won’t Rush the Next
I published The Cancer Diet on a hard deadline—not because of a marketing push, but because I had a mental expiration date I needed to outlive.
Getting that book into the world wasn’t just a creative act. It was an act of survival.
I needed to prove I could finish something. That I could stay. That I could write my way through the darkness instead of letting it bury me.
And I did.
I’m proud of that book.
But I also know I rushed it.
If I’m honest, I’d give Empire, Nevada a B.
The Cancer Diet gets a B+.
They are real, earnest, emotionally true—but not yet my A+.
And I want to write A+ books.
Not in the eyes of a market or a critic—but by my own standard. I want to finish something and say: Yes. This is the best I could possibly give. This is the one I needed, and maybe someone else will too.
🌱 What’s Next: Slower, Deeper, Better
With the new program I’m starting through M. Judson’s Writeshare, I’m finally giving myself permission to take my time. To build something with layers. To test sentences against silence. To revise not out of pressure, but out of love.
I’m not done writing. I’m just done rushing.
What comes next will come slower.
But it will be stronger.
And I’ll know, when I finish it, that it wasn’t written to meet a deadline—
It was written to meet me.
I’m not here to win.
I’m here to build.
To write.
To make beautiful, strange, imperfect things—
and to do it on my terms.
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
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