The Last Thing the World Needs Is Another Love Song (or Another Book)

Zero dollars, ten author copies, and the unexpected reward of writing a book anyway

Okay, I’m going to whine.

No one’s reading books. Or, less hyperbolically, reading feels like an endangered habit. While millions of books are still sold, long-term surveys consistently show that the percentage of adults reading for pleasure has steadily drifted downward, and even some of the most educated, curious, and caring people I know tell me they haven’t read a book in years. Meanwhile, the market is completely flooded—including a wave of content churned out by AIs. It’s never been easier to publish, and never been harder to be read.

Publishers rarely back anyone outside of guaranteed bestsellers anymore. Authors can no longer expect publishers to hire publicists, fund national book tours, or set up books signings. Today, even major trade presses typically let authors do the heavy lifting. And given the number of hours, months, and years that go into writing a book, it’s hardly a way to make money.

I was hellbent on never writing another one. As a young adult—really, as a teenager and even a child—writing books was my number one dream. And I fulfilled it. Nonfiction, fiction, trade publishers, university presses, self‑published. I imagined I’d do it forever, as long as my brain worked.

But over the years I came to see that the ROI on books was a lot less than on journal articles or, even better, editing the writing of others. Years of work for a moment of glory, and then nothing. And the money per hour? Blech. Of course, I wasn’t primarily writing for the money (despite Samuel Johnson’s quip that any writer who doesn’t do that is a “blockhead”). I found joy in the process itself—putting thoughts on paper, shaping them, sharing them.

Until I didn’t. Until I found better ways to do that. Or so I thought.

For nearly 30 years I worked on a book close to my heart. Publishers loved it. Marketing departments did not. I wasn’t an “expert.” Or more to the point, I didn’t have a ready‑made market. “If you ever want to write about sleep, though,” they said, “bring it on.”

Meanwhile, I was making a difference on the ground at Start School Later. The writing I did there—turning messy studies into Facebook posts and tweets—used the same skills but reached more people. It didn’t pay more (my editing did), but it mattered more.

But Amy Wolfson, my friend and colleague in the start school later movement, persisted. She said it was time. And I thought of those marketing department comments, all the years I’d pondered this passion of mine, and I relented.

Our backstory is in Educating the Exhausted, the book Amy and I just published together: decades of research, advocacy, PTA meetings, school board battles, and the strange vitriol that erupts when you ask a community to let teenagers sleep. Our joint passion and collective battle scars eventually convinced us that the story mattered—and that someone had to tell it.

If money is what you want, there are easier ways to get it. Same goes for spreading a message. Articles, social media, heck, standing on a street corner waving a sign are more cost‑effective.

You could say writing a book is ego. And, yeah, for the first moment you see your name on the cover, or have a few friends rah‑rah around you at an event you paid for yourself, it feels great. You feel important. But then it all goes away faster than a bottle (however great its message) sinks to the bottom of the sea.

When I wrote my first books back in the stone age, it was already a losing business. But at least publishers hired publicists, paid for ads, arranged signings. Now they leave pretty much all of that to authors.

And the money? Back then I got advances—sometimes sizable ones. Not superstar‑level, but enough to feel like this was a low‑paying but super‑fun job. Plus it felt marvelous to write. I felt like I was doing something important, lasting, that might matter. Hahaha.

Now there’s often no advance, no marketing help, and if you don’t have your own pre‑existing platform ready to buy your book, you don’t get a contract. Not even a contract with no guarantee of a cent.

Most of my writer friends are paying to publish their books—self‑publishing, hiring marketers and book packagers, using hybrid presses. I do know a few exceptions, still with agents, still getting respectable advances from the trade press, but these stories are becoming increasingly rare, and often require painful compromises about subject matter and style. The writers who are still “making it” in the traditional sense tend to be the ones who can bend their work toward whatever the market already thinks it wants. Everyone else is left to fund their own passion projects, hoping their books will somehow find readers in a world where fewer and fewer people are actually reading.

And yet. There are other rewards. The sheer joy of pouring my heart out on paper is exhilarating. And when it comes to this most recent book, I actually feel it’s important to capture this stuff and get the word out. Amy convinced me, as did the publishers.

But to what end?

It hurts when even my closest friends evince only mild interest. Few buy the book. And that includes some of the equally passionate advocates and health professionals at SSL who worked alongside me for years—the very people whose story the book tells. What they don’t understand is that if they don’t buy the book, who on earth will?

I live in misery thinking they consider me vain or mercenary for promoting it and stingy for not giving them a free copy. Many seem to think I have 100 boxes of books sitting in my garage. The reality: I got literally zero dollars for the years of toil I put into writing this book. Amy and I each received ten copies. Ten.

When my closest friends respond with “That’s nice,” or a lukewarm “Congratulations,” and no interest in reading it, I marvel at my insanity.

So what am I asking? Or am I just whining?

I am proud of this book. I loved the writing process. Amy was a joy to work with. I still feel good when I see the beautiful cover on my desk. I feel like I turned years of craziness into something coherent—something that might actually help people understand and maybe even do something important.

But if you’re thinking of writing a book, I can’t say “go for it.” As with many creative pursuits, only do it if you have to. But don’t expect fame, fortune, or even your friends to care.

And here’s the small truth I didn’t expect to find at the end of all this: Books may no longer be the center of the culture. They may not command attention, or sales, or even curiosity. But they still do something nothing else does. They force you to make sense of chaos. They force you to tell the truth, even when no one is clamoring to hear it. They force you to finish something that won’t reward you.

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe the book itself, or even the process of writing it, is the reward. Maybe the world doesn’t need another love song—but sometimes the writer does.