Understanding Book Marketing: Why Is Nobody Buying It?

“I Accidentally Became an Author. The Marketing Part Remains Unclear.”

I didn’t set out to become an author in the way people imagine authors do. There was no lifelong declaration, no dramatic vow made in a notebook at age twelve. I wrote because something kept insisting on being written. Because stories have a way of piling up when ignored, and eventually they demand structure, titles, and ISBNs.

What no one prepared me for was the moment after the book existed.

The quiet shock of realizing that writing a book and having people read it are two entirely different skill sets. That passion does not automatically translate into discoverability. That the world does not pause, lean in, and say, Ah yes, we were waiting for this. Instead, it refreshes its feed and keeps scrolling.

Why Is Nobody Buying My Book was born out of that uncomfortable gap—between creative inevitability and commercial invisibility. It’s the space where vulnerability meets analytics, where you oscillate between believing deeply in your work and wondering if you’ve misunderstood the assignment entirely. The question in the title is funny because it’s true, and dangerous because it’s personal.

This book isn’t a complaint disguised as a manifesto. It’s an inquiry. What does it mean to create earnestly in an ecosystem that rewards noise, certainty, and repetition? How do you market something personal without flattening it into a slogan? At what point does self-promotion stop feeling like advocacy and start feeling like performance?

I wrote this book for anyone who has ever poured themselves into something meaningful and then stared at the numbers, baffled. For the artists who were told to “just be authentic” and then handed a spreadsheet. For the writers who discovered—slightly too late—that visibility is a craft of its own, and not a particularly romantic one.

If the earlier books were about making sense of life and language, this one is about reckoning with the systems that sit quietly underneath our creative dreams. It’s about learning to ask better questions than Why isn’t this working? and resisting the urge to let silence rewrite your self-worth.

I’m still an author, whether or not the numbers agree. The stories are still coming. The learning hasn’t stopped. And if nothing else, this book stands as proof that confusion, too, can be documented—and sometimes, that documentation is the most honest work you can offer.