What No One Tells You About Publishing a Book: The Hard Part Comes After You Write It

I've been asked a lot lately what it feels like to be a published author.  Funny, it's hard to find the words considering I am, you know, an author.

Maybe it's because it's much different to be IN an experience than it is to revisit something later with the benefit of hindsight. And I am very much still in this experience.

So far, being a published author feels surreal, fun, exciting, humbling, exhausting, joyful, liberating, and, if I'm being completely truthful, sometimes disappointing.

I'm learning that writing a book and getting a book into the world are two very different things.

There was the manuscript. Then there was the publishing process. And now there is this entirely different experience of trying to get people to actually know the book exists.

This part is weird.

Promotion doesn't come naturally to me. There are days when it feels like I'm walking around yelling, "LOOK AT ME! I WROTE A BOOK!" over and over again.  The irony is that I didn't write Rebellious Success because I wanted people to look at me.

I wrote it because I thought my stories might help someone else. Maybe someone sees herself in one of them and feels less alone. Maybe something I learned the hard way saves another person a little time. Maybe a question in the book makes someone question a rule she's been following for years without realizing she ever had a choice.

But for any of that to happen, people have to know the damn book exists.  So I've been learning how to promote it.

I've written my own press release. I've talked about it on my podcast and appeared on other people's podcasts. I've donated copies to libraries around Southwest Michigan. I've spoken about it. Emailed about it. Posted about it. And because I believe deeply in supporting local businesses, I've started visiting independent bookstores.

Which is how, about two weeks ago, I found myself standing inside a bookstore in my hometown of Kalamazoo holding a copy of Rebellious Success.

I'm not going to tell you which bookstore.  That's intentional.  Integrity is one of my core values, and I'm not interested in publicly calling someone out because we had an interaction I didn't enjoy. That's not what this story is about.

I will tell you that I've known the owner for about 25 years. We aren't friends, but we've crossed paths plenty of times over the years.

She recognized me immediately when I walked in.

"Hello, Toni!"

"Hi!"

We exchanged normal pleasantries. She asked how I was doing. I asked how she was doing. Everything felt perfectly normal.  Then I told her why I was there.  I'd published a book the week before and was beginning to reach out to local bookstores because I wanted to figure out ways we might work together.

Her face changed. The energy changed with it.  She told me she was busy and that this type of conversation usually required an appointment.  I had no idea.  Fair enough.  I respect people's time, so I told her I'd be happy to make an appointment and come back.

No, she said. We could talk now, but she needed to continue working on a project while we did.

Okay. No problem.

She asked what my book was about. Somewhere near the beginning of my explanation, I mentioned that it was creative nonfiction.

"I don't like that."

I remember thinking, Well, you haven't read it. How do you know?  Actually, I didn't just think it.  I said it.

Then she asked who published it.  Greenleaf Book Group, I told her. A hybrid publisher.  She dismissed it as self-publishing. The implication was pretty clear. Strike two.

And that's when my body started talking to me.  My heart rate went up. I started sweating.  I know this feeling.  I'm getting mad.

I've learned enough about myself over the years to recognize that physical reaction as a warning light on my dashboard. It doesn't mean I need to ignore what I'm feeling. It means I probably shouldn't let the feeling drive the car.  So while she kept talking, I started talking to myself.  

Be curious, Toni.  

She continued.

"Nobody knows you. You don't have any type of following. You've never been in the media, and it's unlikely you'll be successful with this endeavor."  Okay then.  

Be curious, Toni.  

I let her finish.  Then I did something that makes me incredibly uncomfortable.  I told her about myself.

I told her I'd had my own website for more than five years. I told her my Women In... podcast has around 250 episodes and more than 13,000 downloads. I told her I'd been on FOX 17 the day before talking specifically about the book. I told her I'd appeared as a guest on more than 50 podcasts this year and had hired a PR firm to help grow my speaking work.  Then I told her my TEDx talk has been viewed more than 514,000 times.

She stopped what she was doing.

"I guess you do know what you're doing."  "Yes," I said. "I'm a smart businesswoman."  I wish I could tell you that felt empowering.

It didn't.  I hated it.  I hated standing there rattling off accomplishments like I was presenting evidence in the case of Toni Will v. You Should Take Me Seriously.  Even now, writing them all down makes me uncomfortable.  There's still something inside me that equates talking about what I've accomplished with bragging. I've done a lot of work on that. Clearly, I have more to do.

The funny thing is, people might look at me and assume that part is easy. I've spent nearly 12 years leading a men's professional hockey organization. I speak on stages. I host a podcast. I wrote a book called Rebellious Success, for crying out loud.

And yet there I was, sweating in a bookstore because I had to tell another human being that, yes, actually, I have built some things.  My insides were screaming.

Be curious, Toni.

She told me most authors don't make it.

"That's not my goal," I said.  And that was probably the moment I became the clearest about why I was standing there.  I'm not walking around Kalamazoo trying to convince everyone that I'm going to become some wildly famous author.

I love this community. I believe in buying local. I believe the book can help people. I want to get it into their hands. That's it.

Everyone has to start somewhere.  This is me starting somewhere.  At some point, she picked up the book and scanned the barcode.

"Oh. Your publisher did one thing right. Your book is listed on Ingram."

Deep breath.

Be curious, Toni.

"Yes. They're an excellent publisher."  And then something happened that I didn't expect.  I learned something.

She started talking about what it's like to be an independent bookstore owner when local authors come through the door. Authors want bookstores to carry their books. They want events. They want promotion. They want access to the bookstore's customers.

Then some of those same authors turn around and sell books themselves, sometimes literally out of the trunks of their cars, for less money than the bookstore can sell them.

Suddenly I understood something I hadn't understood when I walked through the door.  This wasn't only about whether she liked me or my book.  She'd had experiences, too.  She was looking at me through the lens of every author who had walked into that store before me.

And somewhere underneath an interaction that hadn't felt particularly good was information I needed.  She wanted collaboration.  The funny thing is, so did I. 

I had walked in thinking my intentions were obvious because I knew my intentions.  That's not how communication works.

I don't want an independent bookstore to put my book on a shelf, promote me, bring people through its doors, and then watch me take all the benefit somewhere else. I want the bookstore to sell books. I want to bring people into their business. I want to use my platform to promote them, too.

Rising tides lift all ships.  That's what I believe.  And I walked out of that bookstore understanding that I needed to do a better job of leading with that.

She told me she'd consider stocking the book and might reach back out in November about doing something together this winter.

I thanked her.  And I walked out knowing that if she does call, I'll probably say no.

I've thought about that part a lot.  Is it my ego?  Am I pissed because she underestimated me?  Am I refusing an opportunity because I want to prove some kind of point?

Be curious, Toni.

No.

At least I don't think so.

Because I'm genuinely grateful for something she taught me that day. Every bookstore I've approached since has benefited from that conversation. I've changed how I communicate. I'm clearer about collaboration. I understand their side of the equation better.

She gave me something useful.  I can be grateful for that and still decide she's not someone I want to work with.  Both things can be true.  Because collaboration isn't just about whether someone chooses me.  I choose, too.

That's probably the part of this experience that has stayed with me.

I've received so much love since Rebellious Success came out. People have sent me pictures with the book from all over the country. I've received messages from people telling me what a chapter meant to them. Friends have bought copies for friends. People have posted about it without me asking. I've gotten hugs, emails, texts, reviews, encouragement, and more atta girls than I can count.

I have a lot of kick-ass people in my life.  Yet for two weeks, my brain kept wandering back into that bookstore.  Isn't that something?  We can receive a hundred pieces of evidence that we're loved and supported, and somehow the one person who questions us gets the microphone.

Maybe that's why I finally decided to write about it.  Not to prove she was wrong.  Not to prove I was right.  But because I don't want to miss what happened in that room.

I walked in wanting someone to believe in my book.  I walked out understanding a little more about her business, a little more about my own discomfort with advocating for myself, and a lot more about the kind of people I want beside me while I'm building whatever comes next.

That's a pretty decent return on an uncomfortable conversation.  There are going to be more of them.  More bookstores. More emails. More people who don't respond. More people who say no. More people who have no idea who I am. Probably more people who think I've lost my mind.  And hopefully a whole bunch of people who say yes.

I'm new at this.  I think that's the piece I don't want to lose.

You can be accomplished and still be a beginner.  You can know what you're doing in one room and have absolutely no clue what you're doing in the next.  You can be confident and still sweat when someone challenges you.  You can learn from someone without needing to align with them.  And you can be proud of what you've built without needing everyone else to be impressed by it.

Maybe that's what being a published author feels like right now.

I'm still figuring it out.  I'm still walking into rooms where I don't know the rules.  I'm still learning how to talk about something I created without feeling like I'm screaming, "LOOK AT ME!"  I'm still getting uncomfortable.  I'm still getting curious.

Are you?