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Something I’ve been thinking about recently: the publishing industry is like a big vat of soup. Big publishing companies are at the top, stirring the soup, adding the herbs and spices they want to add. It’s a big yummy soup, full of all different kinds of books and stories and worlds.

The author is just one individual cup. Please buy my soup! we say, shouting into the void. If you buy MY cup of soup, I get paid! Whereas if anyone on the planet buys any book cup of soup: the industry top bosses will always benefit—they profit from the mass machinery of it all. It increasingly feels like a vast amount of soupy SOUP, and we’re all swimming in it, often without realising it.

I have been swimming in this particular soup for ten years. I like the idea of contributing my stories to the pot. Sometimes it’s fun being part of the soup, especially when it’s cold and rainy and someone wants to buy your particular tasty speciality. But most of the time: you are just sort of sitting in the vat, waiting for something to happen, going stale and slightly bored.

When you’re part of a big publishing house, you feel a bit like Heinz—recognisable, polished, shiny, and you even get validation from your grandparents! Everyone knows what Heinz is! You also don’t get to make many decisions in how it’s all made, and it can feel a little bit like you’re conforming to somebody else’s mould.

I’m going to stop with the soup analogy now.

The good thing about self-publishing, at least for me, is that I’ve been able to be my own soup kitchen. (Woops sorry! I’ll stop now.)

Launching A Year of Nothing in January was my first self-published book project, and it felt super special. I gathered 30 of my nearest and dearest in a bar in Farringdon to celebrate, and the vibe was noticeably different from my other book launches. There was no ‘networking’, no professional photographer, everyone who was there was my actual friend in real life, and they were there to support my creative passion project. I roped my husband in to sell books, taking card payments via my iPhone at a friends-and-family rate and I wrote long personal messages in each one. I put money behind the bar, and a display of little mini burgers, and I did a speech about how grateful I was to my community for supporting my new venture. I was going back to basics, back to my creative roots—and my book was entirely self-funded for the joy of it. I mentioned Virginia Woolf and the Brontë sisters in my speech who financed their own work. Life’s too short not to celebrate things we care about.

I got to decide how my book would look, feel, get edited, even the size and print quality, and got to choose which early readers got sent a copy. I got to decide how I’m paid. (When it comes to ebooks, for example, I can choose whether I am paid weekly! monthly! or quarterly! How empowering is that?) No invoicing, no slow royalty cheques, just whoosh straight into my bank account. I went on my Amazon KDP reporting dashboard just now and saw how many copies of my book sold just this morning! I don’t have to email anyone in an office somewhere to beg for information. The information is all mine—it’s been amazing, and exciting, and I’ve loved working with the team who helped me bring it all to life.

HOWEVER.

Self-publishing is not necessarily the golden ticket, or yellow brick road either. I am not saying it’s perfect. I’m also not saying it’s for everyone. Even though I personally loved the experience, and I worked with a fantastic team, I found that I shouldered a lot of the promotional decisions (you’re the final boss!), and I guess you can’t have it both ways. When you self-publish, you are not just an author, you are also an entrepreneur, and it’s not always easy. I was solely responsible for actually selling my book.

I didn’t have a publicist for example, which is usually folded into the mix if you are publishing traditionally, and so I didn’t have anyone to help me with events. (I could have hired someone but I had spent my budget on other things, mainly on Whitefox services such as editorial and design—and they set me up wonderfully across multiple publishing channels with various logins and customer support). Not surprisingly, I still ended up with a lot of admin around the launch. I even had to speak to Waterstones’ accounts team to get set up (so they could buy my books directly for a big event). Do I really want to be doing that? No, I don’t. I want to be writing my next book. It’s up to me to fill all these gaps next time, and reduce any admin that comes my way.

With self-publishing, unless you’re literally hand-selling directly on the street, you’re still going to have to work with other big corporations—like retailers or distributors—all of whom were lovely, but still: part of a big system. I am working directly with Amazon for example—a company many authors have mixed feelings about. Amazon is a big part of how we reach our readers, and I value the speed, direct royalties, and global distribution. BUT: I am at the mercy of their algorithm, their system, and there is a power imbalance there. I’m still finding ways to discount and do “Kindle Deals” and promote my book to retailers who I’d like to stock my book. Basically, I might be doing things on my own terms more than before, but I am not free from the industry.

I guess you could say….
I’m still PART OF THE SOUP!!

The gatekeepers of the trad world might be the agents in glass offices or the editors you want to impress—and the gatekeepers of the self-publishing world are the Big Tech giants who use algorithms to shift or hide their products—i.e. your book. Your book can gather dust through both avenues, and it has the opportunity to absolutely find tons of readers via both avenues. I love hearing huge success stories when it comes to self-publishing, but we can’t get carried away with thinking that’s the norm.

The reality is: you can only really self-publish effectively if you have the money to invest in the product and launch. If you need the money upfront to write or create your book, you’d probably need to pitch to a publisher and hopefully get an advance. (Even though it seems that advances are shrinking.) Or: you self-publish in a super low-fi way. You publish on Substack, or you self-publish an e-book, and you see if there is any interest first.

Self-publishing, for me, is currently a better use of my time. I have already made my initial investment back, and now every time I get paid royalties directly, I am profiting from my work. I OWN the work. I am in complete control of how it looks, what price I sell it at, what platforms I work with. I am in a direct relationship with my readers, and it feels wonderful.

Also? The media and general public don’t care if you’re self-published! They might not even know! My book was picked for two mainstream book clubs, got loads of press, and no one asked me anything to do with self-publishing as part of the interviews. They couldn’t care less! They just wanted to talk about the book! (Which I loved. The book itself should be the most interesting thing.)

ALSO: your book can easily end up in brick-and-mortar bookstores (which I know is important for many authors), especially if you use a platform like IngramSpark. My friends all over the world regularly text me photos of A Year of Nothing in physical stores (this week, from Berlin and Australia!) Self-published books are in Waterstones and Barnes & Noble all the time.

Do you need a platform to self-publish? I mean, of course it helps. But honestly: you’re going to also need one with a traditionally published book (unless you’ve been hand-picked as one of the 0.001% of authors who get a MASSIVE advance and shitload of marketing and tube ads.) Otherwise? You’ll be doing a lot of the heavy lifting yourself anyway. Everyone is stretched, and even traditionally published authors are very much expected to promote their own book.

I enjoy straddling different industries and ways of doing things and always have. I enjoy working with big publishers, and I enjoy working with indie start-ups. I enjoy working with Penguin Random House, and I enjoy working with The Pound Project. I enjoy writing on Substack. And I (occasionally) enjoy pitching for magazines still. I enjoy doing the work (or proposal) first, and then figuring out where it might live. Is it a podcast, is it a Substack, is it a book? I am the source of my own ideas, and I know my worth.

There are many, many ways to get an idea out there. We live in a world of endless choice. There are no rules and no one-size-fits-all. Yes it’s slightly annoying (and overwhelming) when we have to constantly do our own digging, sifting through the bullshit, and it would be easier if there was just ‘the official BEST and ONLY way’ of doing things, but this is the reality world we live in. Endless opportunity, and yes, endless reasons to clam up and doubt every system we come across.

Even if Substack announced tomorrow a new book-publishing arm, where they match you with brilliant freelance editors and artists, and then print and distribute your book—would we still be part of the soup? I don’t know. But I do think whatever is coming next will include technology that helps authors build their own creative ecosystems.

Now’s the time to make our art, take our chances and follow our curiosity no matter what. We can try new things. We can report back. We can support each other.

We have to follow our intuition and creativity more than ever right now. We have to do what feels right for us, and move towards whatever feels the most freeing, expansive and warm.

Right now, self-publishing feels the warmest. I will 100% do it again. It might not be the perfect temperature just yet, but it’s warm.

And hey: I’m okay with warm soup for now. I’m sure I’ll find a way to heat it up over time.

(I promise I’m done with this analogy now.)

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A close friend rang me in tears the other day. She’d just had a baby, and a healthcare worker had ended a phone call with a well-meaning sign off: “I hope your village is supporting you.”

“I don’t have a village!” My friend said to me. Of course the kind healthcare worker didn’t mean to cause any upset, but it had reminded her that something was missing. She felt alone, geographically away from friends and family, and she longed for a village. Where was it?

If we are lucky enough to have a village, the odds are it might be spread out all over the world. Many of my closest friends live miles away from me. A creative friend I have so much in common with and long to talk to regularly is in Los Angeles, and the time difference is often difficult. A childhood best friend lives in San Francisco. My family are all a two-hour train ride away in Somerset and Devon; some further away in Scotland. A close London pal moved to Lisbon. Actually two good friends have now moved to Portugal. Writer pals in a Whatsapp group are based in Kent, Berlin and various parts of America. Most of the people I speak to daily are not based near me.

Like many of us, a fragmented village lives in our pocket, inside a phone—there are people to talk to. But a digital village can’t help you carry a toddler or make dinner or give you a hug or go for a walk or help clean up endless spillages. The clue is in the name: a village should ideally be in your local area.

So many people I know are secretly lonelier than they make themselves out to be, especially on social media. We live in a strange society that rewards our individualistic efforts, and so many of our communal spaces, over time, have been taken away. The office, the church or whatever [insert space] that might be, even a pint at the pub has become too expensive in some neighbourhoods. So where do we gather? Since giving up drinking, I no longer find it as interesting meeting up in a pub or having a long dinner. I prefer a walk, a coffee, an activity. Many of us gather online, in comment sections. Or in sweaty yoga studios or on retreats—but it seems many of us are missing a regular communion with each other. What does your community look like these days?

My friend speaks about the loneliness that comes with forging a spiritual path. If you are doing inner work—and find yourself changing and morphing—you might one day look around and feel like you don’t belong in your old life anymore. You sit across from old friends and have nothing in common. You long for a new community, people who can meet you where you are now.

Recently, after spending two miserable weeks housebound with a throat infection and finally ready to enter the world again, I was invited to lunch at a new friend’s house. I walked there, a 45-minute walk from my front door to hers, through open grassland, on the edge of Epping Forest, with the sun shining. She’d made us a Thai breakfast, another friend brought her new baby, and another new person who was radiant and open. We sat around the table, eating, talking, being honest, sharing stories, laughing, passing bowls and napkins and cutlery around. It is what I needed: a casual hang—a walk away.

I walked home feeling topped all the way back up. Community looks different for everyone and it’s okay if it is fragmented—and doesn’t always come in the shape you expected. Sometimes, it really is as simple as getting around a table together.

I’ve always felt connected to an online community through my writing work, which now lives here on Substack, and last year I even brought 40 of my readers together for a group dinner to celebrate my novel Table For One (out in PAPERBACK in May, btw!) My brain often whirs trying to come up with new ways to bring people together, while also not overwhelming my inner introvert.

My ‘village’ is beautiful and big and continues to be spread out all over the world. But like my friend, would happily welcome some more local hangs.

(As I went to schedule this newsletter, I saw this, which made me laugh):

In case you missed it, some new posts on The Hyphen:

Over to this week’s Slow Sunday Scroll Picks…

Every other Sunday, I share all the joyful things I’ve been consuming! Inspiring links, including book/podcast/article recommendations. These Sunday Scrolls are read by over 80,000 people. Get the full experience by coming a paid subscriber :)

A reader recently said: “Taking a stroll through Emma’s Slow Sunday Scrolls is the literary croissant and coffee of my Sunday morning. A delicious, indulgent way to ease yourself into the day.” 🌸

Under the paywall: the rise of the ‘book doctor’, a juicy media podcast, why an early Substack employee is leaving, a chance to win a £400 book voucher, and Lena Dunham talks memoir:

Read more

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I want to fall back in love with London. I’ve lived here for over fifteen years, and like with any relationship, sometimes it needs to be refreshed a little. A lot of my friends have moved outside the city now, but there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. I love London. 8 million trees! Large green spaces! Culture on my doorstep.

I find myself going to New York a lot these days—for work, and to get another, different, city thrill. I went to a Broadway show recently, and got talking to the person sitting next to me:

“Where are you from?” they asked.
"London,” I replied.
”You know this exact show was playing in London for the past few months? You could have seen it there!”

(They made a good point! Why don’t I do more cultural stuff in London? Why do I seem to wait until I’m in New York to do the thing and buy the ticket? I know, I know, it doesn’t make sense.)

I am tasking myself with doing a weekly London “artist date”. London isn’t just police sirens and bin bags and traffic—I can hear the birds in the morning in my corner. I love my home and garden, and there is also so much out there—to see and do and experience. On my upcoming artist-date menu: Teeth ‘n’ Smiles starring Self Esteem; reviewing The Hari hotel, various book launches, seeing Deborah Levy at the Southbank.

When I was 22, sometime in 2011, Time Out London published my “Five London Top Spots”. At the time I had a little blog called Girl Lost In The City (I really did tragically see myself as a Shoestring Carrie Bradshaw in my early 20s) and it was incredibly exciting to be sharing my recommendations in one of the biggest (at the time) weekly magazines. (My recs consisted mostly of places on Church Street in Stoke Newington, the area I lived with my best friend at the time. We were beside ourselves with excitement.) It was maybe the first time I ever saw my name properly in print. I remember we went out for breakfast to celebrate.

[Related funny story: my hairdresser rang me last week and asked to check if they had the correct email address:

“Is it girllostinthecity@gmail.com?”
“DEAR GOD NO” I responded.

It was like someone reading out my MSN name from when I was sixteen.]

Right, onto my current top spots! I recently sent a list of my favourite spots to a friend who was visiting, and it made me realise I should probably write them all down in one place!

I’m paywalling this one as it took a while to compile :-) enjoy! And I’m leaving the comment section open, in case you want to add your favourite places or suggestions!

Below the paywall, you’ll find:

Places to eat dinner

Places for breakfast/brunch

Places to have a work meeting

Indie bookshops

Where to get a treatment

Favourite hotels

Best places for a culture hit

Misc! Enjoy!

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“How did you know you don’t want kids?” (I am often asked).

The other day, I answered it slightly differently to a friend, while catching up over breakfast in a London café.

“Grace Dent,” I mumbled through a mouthful of croissant.

“Grace Dent? As in, from MasterChef?”

“Yep.”

Let me explain. It’s 2017. The 19th of December to be exact. I’m 28 years old. I’m in my parents’ house in Exeter in my childhood bedroom, pottering about, unpacking a weekend bag. I’m listening to BBC Radio 4. It’s an episode from ‘One to One’, one of their long-running interview programmes. The British columnist Grace Dent and Welsh writer Sian Harries are discussing a topic I’ve not really heard discussed much before: ambivalence towards motherhood.

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I had lots of great plans last week—a snazzy lunch with a publishing legend; a dinner invite at The National Gallery; a studio slot to record my A Year of Nothing audiobook. But…..NOPE! None of it happened. Life had different plans for me. I had a pretty miserable bout of strep throat instead (turns out I’m quite fond of eating and talking—both of which suddenly became painful to do). So yeah. I had to cancel absolutely everything.

The pharmacist at the end of my road is kind and tells me what he had for lunch while inspecting my throat. I need five days of antibiotics. I get home and book tickets to see the Tracey Emin show for the next day, I want something to do. Instead, my husband and I end up pulling an impromptu all-nighter in A&E for a different reason. I donated the ticket to someone else.

One thing I remember from reading a Byron Katie spiritual book years ago was that pain and suffering are different. Pain is a reality: ‘this hurts. ouch’. Suffering is: ‘well, this shouldn’t hurt. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to get ill.. I feel bad for cancelling plans, etc etc.’ Turning the volume down on the inner suffering, while acknowledging actual pain, is a breakthrough.

So, ouch. I allow my throat to be daggers and my body to ache. I take my medication. I lie in bed and I think: “Okay, world! I’m just going to be ill!” I let my whole body accept it. I am too uncomfortable to even simply concentrate on a TV show or a book, so I just lie with my Cushy pillow (I love the long giant squishiness of it) and listen to a podcast and stare at the ceiling and let the days pass. In the words of many a Love Island star: It is what it is.

The weekend brings some relief. The equinox. A bright spring day: sitting on the outdoor sofa in my garden, with cups of tea, doing my Morning Pages. Friendly birds, green plants, sunshine. Voicenotes with my friends and family. Antibiotics kicking in. A sense of renewal on its way.

***

This week on The Hyphen, I wrote about my former life as a Girlboss™️ and it felt a little more vulnerable than usual. Thank you to anyone who read it!

I love leaving the comment section open for most things to encourage community chat—but I’m also experimenting with leaving the comments off sometimes too. I think this is what is really lovely about running a newsletter community, you can put yourself and your work out there in a way that suits you. I feel the Substack energy is supportive and understanding.

As said on a panel I hosted a few weeks ago: “Substack has revived something old: patronage. Writers aren’t funded by advertisers or book deals, but by readers who believe in a sustained voice. If books are bursts, newsletters are rhythms, and there are so many nuances in the ways they can work alongside one another.” Hear, hear. All to say: thanks for being here.

Here is the piece below⤵

Over to this week’s Slow Sunday Scroll Picks…

Every other Sunday, I share all the joyful things I’ve been consuming! Inspiring links, including book/podcast/article recommendations. These Sunday Scrolls are read by over 80,000 people. Get the full experience by coming a paid subscriber :)

A reader recently said: “Taking a stroll through Emma’s Slow Sunday Scrolls is the literary croissant and coffee of my Sunday morning. A delicious, indulgent way to ease yourself into the day.” 🌸

Under the paywall (usually, but this one’s free!): a therapist’s interesting advice, the books I’m reading, and some dopamine hits in my shopping basket:

— I couldn’t stop worrying until I learned about the 6.30pm rule
— Should you write a Substack instead of a book?
— Don’t be that miserable person
— How we think about our relationships with other writers
— Texts I’d sent with ‘lol’
— Saturday Night Live UK is here
— What to read when it all feels too much
— ‘Instagram makes me feel bad. Substack doesn’t.’
— The magic and tenacity of Jenni Murray
— Something I’ve come to call “hype aversion”
— People Are Allowed to Want to Be Polyamorous

— The new Meg Mason novel Sophie, Standing There. (Sorrow and Bliss is one of my all-time faves, so it’s very exciting to have my hands on this proof.)
— I am also in a memoir mood, so I have pre-ordered Lindy West’s new memoir, and bought Craig Mod’s walking memoir.
— Proofs of my new book, A Creative Compass! (Out in June!)

— Jessie Buckley (Oscar winner)’s appearance on Desert Island Discs.
— The new Cheryl Strayed podcast, where she interviews people about their adventurous inner and outer lives.

— Last One Laughing, Season 2, is not disappointing! I love Diane Morgan. Good for the soul.
— Tickets to see Project Hail Mary at the cinema.

— My aforementioned Cushy pillow.
— I’ve discovered Loeffler Randall and want everything, but alas looks impossible to ship to the UK.
— I did an Anya Hindmarch x Boots haul. Everyday products that look pretty. I think they will sell out quickly. I got the tote bag, body wash, bath salts, and hand wash.
— There was a Beyond Nine sale on, I love their comfy clothes.
— These fisherman sandals via .
— Some more of my Spring picks here → on my ShopMy page.

Happy weekend! Do hit the ❤️ if you enjoyed this post :)

*This email may contain affiliate links to Bookshop.org, ShopMy or LTK whereby a small commission is earned for any purchases made.

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I keep memory boxes in my office cupboards. I wouldn’t say I’m a hoarder, but I find it hard to let go of small sentimental items. I love to print meaningful photos for albums. Something my Mum has always done. I like to store these things away, and imagine myself as an old lady one day leafing through the boxes, sighing and smiling.

One of these boxes I call my “girlboss box.” It contains the years between 2015 and 2019, when I inhabited a very specific version of myself: shiny, ambitious, and, like one of my favourite movies—The Devil Wears Prada—wanting a career [*Stanley Tucci voice*] a million girls would kill for.

It contains: a glossy badge from my first TEDx talk. A lanyard from the 2018 Forbes 30 Under 30 party, the year I was on the list. A badge from a talk I did alongside Google at The Founders Forum. A printed out message from Richard Branson saying he liked my book. A photo with the original Girlboss , who I will always admire, from a podcast interview we did together in West Hollywood. A photo from a panel with the editor of Marie Claire in our matching floral dresses. A mini photo album from my book launch for The Multi-Hyphen Method at WeWork, back when WeWork was still a new and exciting company.

It was fun at the time, but I’m happy to have stepped off that particular treadmill (or stepmill). Trying to frantically climb, climb, climb… higher higher higher… is quite tiring after a while.

***

Many former Millennial/Gen X girlbosses are hanging up their hats. I’m reading a book at the moment called Life After Ambition, a memoir about a writer giving up the relentless performative hustle. I also loved Jenn Romolini’s memoir Ambition Monster, reckoning with her work addiction and unpicking where it all came from. Bloomberg recently did a piece referencing this cultural sea-change, and included a mention of my new memoir A Year of Nothing—it turns out a lot of women are burned out from climbing the never-ending ladder in return for ‘exposure’, a Britney mic, and some Instagram likes. (I joked to a friend the other day: is the 24/7 online hustle simply ‘a young person’s game?’)

A Year of Nothing has been described by the press as a ‘burnout memoir’. My work is often reduced to a passing trend—something that, admittedly, helps books sell. Though to me, it is a documentation of something much deeper I went through on a personal level. It was my year of reaching a certain point in my life; and then metaphorically shaking my branches to see what could fall away. It was my version of the great unravelling that a lot of us go through during our 30s or 40s or 50s, or beyond. The year before my unravelling, I wrote a book called The Success Myth, and then, ironically, I was too unwell to promote it.

***

A writer called wrote a very interesting review of A Year of Nothing recently, and she explores the rise of the ‘Substack book’. In amongst the review of my book, she also mentioned this:

“For millennial media women like me, The Multi-Hyphen Method was one of those books you had to have. […]

Another way to look at having many strings to your bow, though, is that you might have too many plates spinning. This was what I found surprising about A Year of Nothing. [Gannon] repeatedly describes how feeling split into too many selves contributes to her burnout. Yet this is the same author who celebrated being a “slashie”, juggling multiple roles and projects. There is not much introspection about how much that approach may have contributed to her own slump, nor any questioning of whether this means she has been championing an unsustainable way of working to her readers.”

In a world where book reviews are diminishing, I am truly always grateful for anyone who engages with my work in a meaningful way.

It’s true that in A Year of Nothing, I don’t reference my past works much, or my former life as a girlboss. Should I have done? I reflected on this—and it felt interesting to me that I naturally didn’t feel the need to include it. I think, deep down, I didn’t feel I owed the reader a ‘justification’ for my burnout. The book is about the nothingness I experienced, and I wasn’t in a fit state to unpick it. A Year of Nothing is edited and curated, as all published memoirs are—but it is also based on some very raw journalling during that strange year. I wanted it to be purely about my experience, I didn’t want to give a wider journalism analysis, or a post-mortem through a cultural lens. I didn’t have the energy. I also think writers feeling like they ‘owe’ certain things to their readers is a very murky territory.

My burnout was so much deeper than working a bit too hard. This is why I wrote about deep ‘existential burnout’ rather than a jokey ‘I girlbossed too close to the sun’. I had a full blown breakdown/breakthrough because I hit a wall on the metrics of success I’d made up for myself. My whole identity was transforming—and it felt much, much deeper than “I worked a bit too hard in my twenties.” My burnout wasn’t really to do with the hours worked; it was about the deep-rooted people-pleasing (in my professional life, but actually, I would say more in my personal life.)

Changing career lanes doesn’t mean you instantly regret or take back all the things you’ve done before. Everything you’ve ever done becomes an important part of the journey.

***

Before I continue, I feel like I need to say thank you to the girlboss movement. I specifically remember being in my early twenties in 2014, on a bench in Central Park in NYC, reading Girlboss by Sophia Amoruso and knowing I should quit my job and do things my own way. That decision led to decades of fruitful, freeing self-employment that continue to this day.

As I got older, of course things started to shift. Things that had worked super well for years no longer did. Late nights that used to be fun suddenly became intolerable. Networking events I used to enjoy became icky and uncomfortable. The pace of communication I’d become accustomed to became sickening. Weekly uploads of a podcast became too exhausting. People asking for favours became infuriating.

At some point, the maths stopped mathing, and you burnout when you don’t listen to your body. But for those few years, between 2015 and 2019, pre-pandemic and pre-burnout, I had so much fun. It was fantastic. I was flying. I loved being in my twenties and having boundless energy to say ‘yes’ to everything.

Until of course, I couldn’t anymore.

You are not a hypocrite for simply growing older, and changing.

***

I also wonder how fair it is to place a sense of duty—or indeed put writers on a pedestal—when we’re simply living out loud and learning as we go. Will we always be judged so closely by what we wrote 10, 20, or 30 years ago? Are writers not allowed to change, to make mistakes, or to shift our perspectives? I was 28 when I wrote The Multi-Hyphen Method. As I get older, I feel even prouder of that book. My younger self was brave and I thank her for that.

The Multi-Hyphen Method is a nuanced book. You cannot judge it by its title alone. It’s about how working to make different income streams, instead of having one office job, has the potential to make you happier, less stressed, and more free in the long run—*if* you’re someone who thrives outside of an office environment. *If* you’re someone who happens to be incredibly self-motivated. *If* you’re someone who doesn’t really like to follow rules.

Fundamentally, I felt like the book was initially misunderstood, often conflated with the laborious gig economy, which is not the same thing as choosing to build multiple income streams, mostly from your remote laptop. These are two different things. I wrote a book with digital-native entrepreneurs in mind. It’s okay for something to be a specific thing.

I also think it wasn’t taken as seriously as other books (written by older men, let’s just say it) because I was a young woman who wore bright clothes. It was on the Sunday Times Bestseller business list next to an all-male line up. As my friend Claire from The Women’s Prize said recently: “There is an ‘authority gap’ associated with women’s non-fiction.” Women are still not seen as having as much expertise on certain topics. There was a book on a very similar theme to mine that came out the following year by a male author in America that celebrated having multiple passions and “juggling many interests”—it received zero backlash and was an instant worldwide hit, described as a “landmark book.”

***

We are a product of the era we grow up in. We grow, we learn, we become more ourselves over time. It was once cool to wear flares and blue eyeliner. It was also cool to wear a skirt over trousers. It was once cool to get up at 4am. Then it was cool to get a standing desk. Whatever. Trends happen. They come, and go. Like the clothes we wear, it’s OK to try things on, and then one day, decide to take it off, and try something else. The important thing is you work things out for yourself—you realise what works in your private life and space. You stop needing the validation you once craved.

I’ve never been an advocate of spinning plates, but I admit I was naturally much better at it when I was 28. I hadn’t yet realised what I truly wanted from life. Now I’m older, I have a much clearer sense of how to preserve my energy.

Performing a girlboss version of myself to the world may have added to my burnout, sure, but the multi-hyphen approach has ultimately been a positive thing for me. It has allowed me to have multiple income streams—through books, Substack, events, retreats, selling rights, self-publishing works—and I earn passive income from the past decade of building a multi-hyphen creative life. It’s allowed me the privilege of stepping back whenever I want to.

Maybe the two books have more common ground than you’d think.

Nowadays, I don’t want to be busy. That, of course, might change one day. But right now, I want my calendar to be left as empty as possible, so I can light a candle, drink tea, and write.

My inner girlboss might be gone, but I have a lot to thank her for.

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It’s been a fun week! On Tuesday, I spent the day at the London Book Fair in Olympia, and on Wednesday I hosted a panel with Substack at the ICA. Both events were about discussing writing, community, newsletters, and book deals in the Internet age—exploring how things are changing, how authors are making different choices, and why transparency matters.

At the Substack event, there was so much warmth, curiosity, and honesty in the air. I shared some of my story about how post-burnout I was able to find my pizzazz again by creating (and releasing) my work on my own terms. The event felt like a big group hug.

At LBF, I contributed to two panels hosted by the wonderful Natasha from —one about building a digital ecosystem as an author, and another unpicking the pros and cons of different publishing models. One of my favourite moments, however, was listening to a panel before mine on the topic of the ‘authorpreneur,’ which really resonated with me. I’ve written about it in more detail below:

Next week, I am very excited to be recording the audiobook for A Year of Nothing! I am investing some profits from the print version back into the project, and working with the dream team at again. My first indie audiobook! I am doing it in a way where I, the author, retain full IP, receive all my royalties directly, and distribute it widely on various audio platforms. Excited to fully own my own audiobook for the first time :-) You can’t pre-order just yet, but it’s coming! And it feels GOOD!

Over to this week’s Slow Sunday Scroll Picks…

Every other Sunday, I share all the JOYFUL things I’ve been consuming! Below the paywall are inspiring links, including book/podcast/article recommendations.

A big part of being a writer is being a reader too — and I love to share. These Sunday Scrolls are read by over 80,000 people every two weeks...

I recommend becoming a paid subscriber :) A recent paid subscriber said: “Taking a stroll through Emma’s Slow Sunday Scrolls is the literary croissant and coffee of my Sunday morning. A delicious, indulgent way to ease yourself into the day.” Couldn’t have said it better myself. Come and join the fold… 🌸

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I’ve spent this week talking about newsletters, community, writing, book deals, self-publishing, marketing, getting ideas out there sans gatekeepers at London Book Fair—and yes there was a lot of chat about Substack, so I have had an influx in subscribers. This is just a quick note to say hello and welcome!

I met some wonderful people at the London Book Fair on Tuesday. I was on two panels about the business of being a writer in 2026, but one of my favourite moments was from the panel just before mine, on the rise of the “authorpreneur.” It felt really validating to hear some brilliant authors—including from the Alliance of Independent Authors—talk about the freedom of self-publishing, Substack, and having the internet at our fingertips. I felt really seen by everything they said. They had moved away from old systems. They had built their own creative ecosystem. They were excited about the future, and it felt contagious. Slow, crusty, smoke ‘n’ mirrors publishing might soon be over. London Book Fair this year felt like a big group hug. Creativity matters. Author equity matters. Money transparency matters. A reminder that we are very much in the creator economy. Not the gatekeeper economy.

Last night I spoke on a panel with the team at Substack at the ICA, alongside fellow panellists discussing life ‘beyond the traditional book deal.’ A lot of authors (myself included!) are finding new ways to publish outside the mainstream system for many reasons: advances are shrinking, there are fewer book review slots, and authors often have to do a lot of the heavy lifting themselves. Burnout is rife. Many authors are finding more security in owning their audiences and speaking directly to communities. There are other avenues of publishing that still carry prestige and countless other benefits—but when it comes to today’s landscape, let’s just say our conversation was very lively and honest.

It feels like a shift is happening. Being an author doesn’t have to mean being alone, or feeling judged by a board of people in a shiny office somewhere. It can be about you and your artistic desires, your taste, your dreams, your self-trust, your creative output, your ideas, your readers.

Authors are often expected to hand over their work and then not be seen as too “demanding” by asking too many questions. But regardless of how a creative project is put out into the world, it should be about teamwork, with everyone on that team feeling empowered and valued. Creativity is about collaboration, and we all need each other—and we all offer different skillsets.

In an exhausting world of social media, 24/7 news, and endless dancing on TikTok, this newsletter is a space to slow all the way down. To read, to connect, to write. To talk about living a creative life. Going a bit more analogue. Making new friends in the comments section.

I put my longer pieces and cultural round-ups behind a paywall; it’s my way of showing that time, effort, and creative output have value.

Recent (and popular) posts:

Today, I’m offering a big discount to become an annual member of The Hyphen: £12.50 instead of £50 a year. I’d love to see you here—it’s such a fun corner of the Internet, and there’s so much creative joy ahead in 2026. I’ll be sharing a lot about creativity and intuition as my new book, A Creative Compass, comes out this summer.

your discount code here

If you’re still on the fence, the team at The Women’s Prize recently said about The Hyphen: “It’s the newsletter to subscribe to if you want to be in-the-know about the realities of being a writer and creative in 2026.”

Take care,
Emma xoxoxo

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There’s a bit in ’s comedy show "Broad Strokes”—a show I saw at Edinburgh Fringe last year, about a stroke she had in her early 30s—where she shares a story about a casting director describing her as a “normal girl”. She is horrified by this! She sings beautifully about not wanting to be a Normal Girl. On stage, with a microphone, Cohen is dressed in a sequinned dress, cabaret-style—she is anything but ‘normal’.

As Catherine’s show goes on, we hear about her hospital stay, her health scare, her relationship, her dreams, and it turns out that, actually, just for a period of time she’d perhaps like to just be a Normal Girl. When life gets hard, it turns out all you really want is for life to be very ordinary.

Most people in the media, entertainment or showbiz usually don’t want to be normal. There is a fear around normality, or blending in. They make bold decisions, want to stand out, or even be embarrassed for the sake of their art, have a spotlight on them, anything to avoid being seen as normal.

For a long time, I didn’t want to be seen as ‘normal’ and certainly not, gasp, ‘basic’. I definitely had a fear around this. I didn’t want a boring, ordinary life. The idea of having an average life scared me—the idea of just having a middle-of-the-road experience. I didn’t (and still don’t) want to wear beige, for example. I found ‘normal’ things really dull, I hated going to the supermarket, hated restaurant chains, and didn’t like watching things like popular Saturday night gameshows. I’d rather be doing something, anything, that felt ‘different.’

Lately though, my day-to-day life has become increasingly ordinary. Maybe it’s getting older, and calmer. I’m simply not as busy as I used to be. I don’t go to many parties, or go on many short-haul trips. I just handed in my new book, A Creative Compass, and whenever I get a massive project off my desk, I’m usually twiddling my thumbs for a few weeks afterwards. Because it takes over my life, and then, poof, it’s gone, and I suddenly have an expanse of free time. So I’ve been going for walks in my local park, organising my cupboards, cleaning my fridge, refreshing my garden furniture, going to the big M&S, watching old re-runs of my favourite TV show, cooking basic meals, reading some books.

In a recent interview with Harry Styles for Runner’s World, Haruki Murakami talks about living an ordinary life. Yes, he happens to be one of the most famous novelists in the world, but, he says:

“I’m still an ordinary guy living an ordinary life with my wife and everything […] When I get interviewed, I sometimes feel awkward because why would an interviewer think that I’m special?”

He repeats a few times how he is just an “ordinary guy”.

“Bullshit,” a friend laughs when I read it out loud to them. “He is far from ordinary. The way he thinks, he is not ordinary. The way his brain works! He makes up such incredibly large worlds...”

“Okay, true, but apart from his novels, his life does sound pretty ordinary…” I reply. “He reads. He drinks tea. He runs. He goes to bed early…..”

His daily routine is repetitive, and Murakami has said that this repetition ‘mesmerises’ him in some deeper way:

“When I’m in writing mode for a novel, I get up and work for five to six hours. In the afternoon, I run or swim (or do both), then I read a bit and listen to some music. I go to bed at 9:00 pm. I keep to this routine every day without variation.” — The Marginalian

I think there is actually a link between the two. An ordinary daily life can also lead to creative thinking and relaxing the nervous system. I get lots of my ideas for books doing very, very ordinary things. Having a bath, having a shower, washing up, travelling in a car, going for a walk. When your life isn’t very dramatic, you have more space to think, dream, create.

There’s also a quote from Cillian Murphy, one of the best actors of our time, which keeps doing the rounds on social media:

“I like being at home. My life is very simple. I read a lot of books. I watch a lot of movies. Listen to a lot of music. Walk the dog. Cook with my family. I am boring.”

It’s hard to believe somehow—an Oscar-winning Hollywood actor is boring? Maybe we don’t want to believe it? That the person who worked on a huge, blockbusting, out-of-this-world film like Oppenheimer, is actually likely to just be walking his dog and sitting at home, and occasionally reading some scripts for work? Of course I do believe it. It makes sense. To do big things in your creative life, I think everyday life has to be quite small. Famously, in 2015, Adele said to Rolling Stone: “The bigger that your career gets, the smaller your life gets." I can easily imagine Adele pottering around the house in her comfies and slippers.

This isn’t even about needing to be extra-ordinary in your creativity or career. There is something powerful about celebrating the ordinary life full stop. The power of living an ordinary life, and noticing all the tiny ordinary things. Appreciating the ordinary parts of the day.

One of the most content people I know loves his ordinary life. He loves getting the bus to Aldi. He loves his garden, and all the surprising things that grow and pop up through the soil. He loves watching the same David Attenborough programmes on repeat. He loves eating a schedule of repeat things for each day of the week. He loves his family. He loves a cup of tea and (1) biscuit. He loves a good pub roast. He loves mending and repairing little things.

Sounds appealing, really, to live an ordinary life.
With, perhaps, an unpredictable sprinkling of the extraordinary.
Because I think life is made up of both.

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I’ve had a book contract, in some form, since I was 26 years old—that’s ten full years of selling my work to big mainstream publishers. I have been grateful for this. This summer, my eighth traditionally published book will come out (it’s called A Creative Compass: Finding Your Way to a Creative Life). After that, I’m taking a break from the traditional publishing world. I will be ‘out of contract’ as I have fulfilled 2 x two-book deals across fiction and nonfiction (and won’t be re-signing) and what that means is: freedom. It’s time to approach things differently. As another wise friend once told me: “Nothing changes if nothing changes.” Sometimes, a change is exactly what you need.

This decision to step back from traditional publishing has kept resurfacing—in this newsletter, in my writing groups. It had been building for years, but any time I got a sense that it wasn’t working for me, I pushed the thought back down. It also felt counterintuitive. Why would you ever leave the traditional publishing industry if you want to be taken seriously as a writer?

My burnout taught me so much, especially how to listen to my body and recognise both emotional and physical signals. The industry had not done anything wrong per se—it is how it is, and it works brilliantly for lots of authors, and of course the publishers!—but it dawned on me that the model itself was no longer working for me. (I’ve listed all the reasons, in more detail, below.) As a friend once shared, quoting her therapist: “What got you here, won’t get you there.”

Making big career choices based on gut feeling alone is often totally scary. (What if I regret it? What if I lose touch with all my brilliant previous editors? What if no one cares without the stamp of the ‘institutional prestige?’)

Well, firstly you can always change your mind. And secondly, I’ve been inspired by new trends, new opportunities, and the people and world around me. This is not a negative post, but a very positive one. I’m so excited about the future of authors, books, and writing. I’m the happiest and most creatively fulfilled I’ve ever been.

Author Chelsea Fagan, who is also the co-founder of The Finanical Diet, who I’ve followed since her Thought Catalog days (around 2010, I think), self-published her first novel A Perfect Vintage. She founded her own imprint, Orsay Press, and I believe she also worked with Gatekeeper Press, which offers a ‘full service’ for authors who are striking out on their own. In an interview with NetGalley, she said: “[I] really enjoyed the ability to have control over the creative and marketing decisions.” I watched all her YouTube videos about the process with great interest.

Inspired by people I admire like Chelsea, I struck up a relationship with Whitefox Publishing last year, who describe themselves as “a creative, collaborative agency” bringing your book to life. They say: “We are not a traditional publisher. Among other things, that means we don’t retain rights to your work or to your royalties. We are not bound by lengthy publishing schedules; instead, we will work around the timing that suits you.” The experience has been faultless. I cannot speak more highly of the care and attention I have received, every step of the way. The book they helped me produce, A Year of Nothing, has already outsold some of my other books. It was beautifully edited, by a fantastic freelance editor. It has my favourite jacket of all my books so far. (I also LOVE my jacket for A Creative Compass, we used the same excellent designer, Anna Morrison.)

A Year of Nothing was a successful experiment for me. I even made a really geeky powerpoint presentation. It has received great reviews everywhere from Bloomberg, to The Guardian, to Elizabeth Gilbert. Every time I promote the book, do an event, sign a copy—all the royalties go directly to me. It’s an amazing feeling. A feeling of equilibrium.

This Telegraph piece “No publisher, no problem” shows examples of how authors can have a bountiful writing career without a traditional publisher. (And this one: the authors who make millions through self-publishing.) I’m also inspired by Taylor Swift and the whole conversation around owning your own work (she spoke about it beautifully on New Heights podcast. She says she didn’t even buy it back for savvy business reasons necessarily, she just didn’t like the idea of someone else owning her poems, diary entries, photos etc.)

Authors and creators might have once done things for exposure and a stamp of approval—and now, it’s about ownership.

This might not feel like a big deal to some people reading this (so what? You’ll just release your writing, newsletters, and books in a different way! You’re lucky you can now do that!) Which is true. I am in a position where I can totally bet on myself. But it still feels a bit scary sometimes, and I still wanted to write about it—as it feels like a turning point, which I’m sure anyone who has sort of ‘changed careers’ or at least ‘changed lanes’ will often feel.

This feels like publishing 2.0: Authors investing in themselves. Authors getting a bigger piece of the pie.

For paid subs, here’s a bit more nitty gritty about my decision below, and sharing a few things I’ve learned from self-publishing A Year of Nothing — which to date, has sold enough copies to already have earned me back my initial investment (since publishing on 22nd January this year.) My top market is the US, and it was selected for The Observer Book Club and Happy Place Book Club—and will soon be launching in audiobook form :) More thoughts and practical tips below:

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To receive these round-ups in full every other week, sign up to be a paid subscriber. <3 A recent paid subscriber said: “Taking a stroll through this Slow Sunday Scroll is the literary croissant and coffee of my Sunday morning. A delicious, indulgent way to ease yourself into the day.”

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Happy to be back in your inboxes after a short break! I wrote a bit about my recent trip to South Africa here—and I’ll be writing more specifically about two epic experiences from the trip soon (a visit to a healing farm and a life-changing safari. More soon.)

It’s my four-year anniversary of launching The Hyphen on Substack! I’d been writing a newsletter since 2015 (first on Tinyletter, then Mailchimp) before joining this platform one rainy afternoon in a Hackney café in March 2022. I had a good feeling about it. I’m still enjoying being here—the culture, the arts, the creativity—and I find I don’t scroll as much. I come here for inspiration, from travel to fashion to literature.

And so much has happened as a result. My first New York book tour. My first venture into self-publishing. My first dinner party for subscribers. I’ve met so many readers IRL, and I’ve made new writer friends along the way.

Coincidentally, I visited the new London Substack offices last week to meet with their International team. I was invited to share my story—how I run my editorial schedule, what I like (and would improve) about the platform, and how growing my own mailing list has been crucial to expanding my life and ambitions as an author.

I spoke about how I took a leap of faith in 2022. I stepped away from hosting a successful podcast—and anything remotely influencer-y—and took some time out to creatively re-centre myself. It was a risk. But I knew I needed to follow my intuition and find myself again. (Something I call my Creative Compass.)

I was also invited to speak at a publishing event hosted at the lovely Faber offices. I spoke about my career across traditional and self-publishing, and why I believe we are moving into an era where authors are becoming increasingly empowered through greater access to their own audiences, and will expect closer creative and financial partnership with their publishers, rather than feeling somewhat on the outside.

I’m also speaking at the London Book Fair in March, appearing at three events. I’m always happy to wave the flag for doing things differently—and to be open about the challenges creative people are currently facing. I love writing, but I also think it’s important to talk honestly about the business of writing.

If you have any questions, leave them below—I’d love to put together a Q&A post soon. xoxo

Right, over to this week’s Slow Sunday Scroll Picks…

Every other Sunday, I share some links, including book, podcast and article recommendations. Most of my recommendations are below the paywall. A big part of being a writer is being a reader too — and I love to share what I’m consuming with you. I recommend becoming a paid subscriber :)

— How Toni Morrison shaped the way we think
— They don’t like the term ‘hybrid publishing’
— The 20th anniversary of Eat Pray Love
— Pop stars are joining Substack
— Lena Dunham on having a ‘jobby’
— A Movie Deal Is a Writer’s Dream—or Is It?
— Cheryl Strayed On Entering Her “Crone Age”
— Creativity is good for your health
— Do You Need a Writer’s Room?
— Deliciously Ella burnt out and joined Substack
— One publisher’s take on Amazon and Jeff Bezos
— The Burnout Feminism Era
— on being ‘mid-career’ as an author
— The decline of book reviews
— Substack thoughts and prayers
— The Case for Artist Dates in a Burnout Culture
— Delia Ephron Writes Her Way Through Cancer

— I ripped through Belle Burden’s memoir Strangers in one afternoon on a sun-lounger. Fast-paced, vulnerable and brilliantly written, about an unexpected marriage breakdown. I also read Mark Ronson’s memoir Night People—I loved reading about the DJ scene in 90s NYC. Though I must say I didn’t realise how much Ronson was already incredibly well-networked via his parents.
— Co-founder of Substack is writing a book on how to save the media and I’ve pre-ordered it.
— I returned home from my holiday to some amazing proofs on my doorstep ↓ (a big perk of being an author!) and thought I’d share with you here. I can’t wait to read all of these. Top three: I love ; Yesteryear was recommended to me enthusiastically by Fearne Cotton, and Jem Calder’s debut novel has a rare endorsement from Sally Rooney.

— This is an informative episode discussing the mass Washington Post layoffs.
— A good Zadie Smith interview recommended by .
— A fab interview by with (here)
— interviewing Belle Burden about her memoir (here).

— When I was ill a few weeks ago, I practically watched the entire first season of The O.C (available on Prime.) It was so nostalgic. And Sandy Cohen is hot.
— I love a behind-the-scenes documentary about interesting entrepreneurs, and Being Gordon Ramsay is a good watch.
— Suranne Jones investigates the most infamous witch trials in history.
— Anna Wintour and the new editor Chloe Malle talking about what Vogue represents in 2026.
— For any fans of Phil Collins, this.

— One of my favourite memoir writers is doing an online workshop about food and memory, I’m very tempted to join.
— This new aluminium Away suitcase is on my wishlist.
— I bought this cute polka dot cardigan from a shop called Poetry in South Africa.

Happy weekend! Do hit the ❤️ if you enjoyed this post :)

*This email may contain affiliate links to Bookshop.org, ShopMy or LTK whereby a small commission is earned for any purchases made.

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INT. BOOKS ARE MAGIC – BACK STORAGE ROOM – DAY

Picture this. It’s November 2025 and I’m slightly flustered from still trying to understand the New York City subway system. I arrive at the beautiful indie bookstore BOOKS ARE MAGIC in Brooklyn Heights, Montague Street. I am going to be in conversation at the store with fellow writer Aminatou Sow in the evening about my new novel TABLE FOR ONE. It is a dream come true to be doing events in New York about my novels — I can feel my younger self glowing inside.

The co-owner of BOOKS ARE MAGIC (with her husband Mike) is the beloved New York Times bestselling novelist Emma Straub, and she has made some time to meet me before my event. She has a new novel out in April. We go into the back storage room and I record our conversation on my phone. We discussed Emma’s new novel, her love of boybands, her life as a writer and what it was like seeing her book featured on The White Lotus. Hope you enjoy our conversation!

In conversation with Emma Straub

EMMA STRAUB: I love your dress. I didn’t properly compliment you. I didn’t take it all in. It’s very good.

EMMA GANNON: I feel like in New York, you can dress up, and no one really looks at you. Whereas in London, I feel like everyone is like, why are you so dressed up? I don’t know. It’s great, this New York energy.

Big congratulations, Emma, on your wonderful new novel American Fantasy! We’ve got your main protagonist, Annie, newly divorced, who is on a cruise ship for the themed reunion tour for a band she used to love in the late 80s. She encounters Keith, the slightly depressed, fifty-something lead singer from the band. From the minute I opened the novel, I was like, oh, I’m in for some fun here.

EMMA S: The previous book to this one was all about my father dying, and, I mean it was excruciating to write. I cried every day, and I just wanted, needed to give myself pleasure. And for better or worse, one of the things in life that brings me just obscene pleasure is the New Kids on the Block. I wanted to run toward pleasure in writing this book, and I wanted it to be fun to read. I just thought, let me do this for myself and for anyone else who needs it. Did you watch the Boyzone documentary series?

EMMA G: Yes. It was amazing. I hope it wins awards.

EMMA S: I wept. You know, loving boybands—it’s so fun, right? But the other truth of this book is that I actually have spent probably too much of my adult life really wondering what it’s like on the inside of these machines. What is it like to be in one of these groups where you are.. not kidnapped.. but basically. You’re separated from your family for huge amounts of time, and you grow up under the auspices of someone, you know, there’s usually a sort of creepy man—or not always creepy, but like, predatory in some way—whether it’s financial or sexual or whatever, who’s sort of in charge of you and then you have the blaring adoration from the outside while you’re still developing your brain. And then, the big crowds go away, but you still haven’t quite grown up. And you’re still stuck with these four schmucks who you got put together with when you were 14.

*Emma’s husband, who also owns Books Are Magic comes in*

EMMA S: This is Emma. This is my husband, Michael. We’re podcasting!

EMMA G: Lovely to meet you!

EMMA G: I love the themes in this book. Annie befriends one of the boyband members on the cruise. We have these themes about aging and fame, I feel like both of them are on a similar journey. What it’s like to be a woman aging, and then also to be like a man who had loads of adoration in the past, like you say. I saw a video of Justin Timberlake on stage recently, and, you know, he’s not young anymore, he can’t be who he was in his twenties. We have to find a new 'you’.

EMMA S: They are the only men who I actually think know what it feels like to be a woman. If you’re a man in a boyband, then you absolutely are thinking about your jaw line and your hairline and your waistline, because you know that people are looking at you and judging you.

EMMA G: On the novel format: I love how each chapter is on a different cruise deck. Such a fun way of delivering it in stylistically. How did you plan the novel out?

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Even the most successful and prolific of authors have moments of self-doubt, wondering if their creative flame has finally gone out for good. One of my favourite authors, Sue Monk Kidd, writes about this in her new creativity book Writing Creativity and Soul which blends memoir, craft, and spirituality. She is an absolute icon.

After years of writing spiritual nonfiction, Sue turned to fiction in midlife, publishing The Secret Life of Bees in 2002, which went on to be a global bestseller. It was an Oprah Book Club pick, adapted for stage and screen (starring Alicia Keys and Jennifer Hudson no less)— and it spent over 125 weeks on The New York Times Bestseller List. Her subsequent novels include The Invention of Wings, and The Book of Longings.

Very luckily (for me and for you, my dear readers!) Sue’s publishers at Canongate are happy for me to share a whole chapter extract with you, and it’s one of my favourite chapters. It’s about The Brontë sisters, the love of writing, and how to keep our inner fires going. I think you’ll like it.

Grab a cup of something hot, curl up under your favourite blanket, and enjoy!

On the subject of creativity 🪄: did you know I have a new book out in June called A Creative Compass: Finding Your Way to a Creative Life? Pre-order a signed copy here.

The Brontë Table by Sue Monk Kidd

During the summer of 2014, I nearly gave up writing. No one was more shocked than I was by my sudden desire to stop. I had always believed I would write to the end of my days. “Writers don’t retire,” I’d often said.

A proponent of late-life renaissances, third acts, and inexhaustible creative wellsprings, I’d never given much weight to the idea that writers could reach the point where they ran out of things to say, where the energy to keep going reached some natural conclusion. The funny thing was that I was exactly sixty-five years old that summer, the age most commonly associated with retirement. It seemed unthinkable there was some writing clock in me that was winding down, and yet I felt utterly depleted, like the wick on the candle just after the flame is blown out. The whole thing was bewildering and extraordinarily disconcerting.

Nearly fourteen years before this need to quit struck me, I’d read and saved a New York Times essay by writer Gish Jen, in which she described the time she tried to quit writing.

“I was not written out,” she explained, “something for which I have perhaps morbidly always watched: I have long vowed not to keep on past the point where I ought best stop.”

But that wasn’t why Jen gave up writing for a time. It was because she came to feel the writing life was not life, because she felt she was writing instead of living. Clearly, that was not my reason, but when I dug up her essay and reread it,

I homed in on her phrase “written out” and I wondered if such a condition was possible after all. I told my family that I felt like I might have come to the end of my work as a writer. They gazed at me as if I was having a crisis of some kind. I was, of course, having one.

Gish Jen described her experience as a crisis of faith in the writing life itself, one tied to midlife. She began to doubt its worth and rue its cost. But after giving it up, she found that “life without prose was prosaic”; it was strangely lifeless. She went back to it because, as she put it, “it seemed as though the wind had stopped blowing. It seemed as though someone had disinvented music.”

My crisis, though, was not a loss of faith in the writing life. It was a crisis of extinguishment. I felt “written out.”

For the last five years, I’d been consumed by my novel The Invention of Wings. Writing about American slavery had been a gargantuan challenge. I’d spent the first year reading forty or so books on slavery, particularly first-person slave narratives. There were days when the horror of what I was reading was so painful I had to leave my desk and go for long walks in order to ingest it. Then came two and a half years of unrelenting writing, followed by a year and a half of the wonders and stresses of pre-publication, publication, and a thirty-city book tour. I arrived home from the last stop on the tour entirely spent. Soon afterward, I was pretty sure I had no more books left in me.

It was while I was in this depleted state that Ann and I, along with Trisha, our travel cohort, set off on a long-planned literary trip to England. Our first stop was the small Yorkshire village of Haworth, surrounded by wild, sheep-speckled moors, home of the Brontë sisters—Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. Shortly before our trip, I’d reread Charlotte’s Jane Eyre, Emily’s Wuthering Heights, and for the first time, Anne’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, startled all over again by the wildness of their imaginations and the boldness of their writing. “I have an infernal fire in my veins, that all the waters of the ocean cannot quench,” Anne Brontë wrote.

We arrived in Haworth on a cool summer afternoon, the sky thick, low-slung, and charcoal gray. The cobbled main street curled down a steep hill lined with shops, pubs, tea-rooms, and strewn with leftover remnants of the nineteenth century: the little shop where the sisters had posted their manuscripts, the old wooden stocks where townspeople had been punished for swearing or drunkenness, and the centuries-old Black Bull Inn, complete with a stone trough that had once watered stagecoach horses. “You think Branwell is in there drinking?” Ann joked. It was easy to imagine the sisters’ only brother might stumble out, having had a bit too much drink, just as he’d notoriously done when alive.

Pausing to take in the façade of St. Michael and All Angels Church, where the Brontës’ father had served as parish minister, I gazed past its clock tower up a sharp hillside, and there presiding over a sprawling graveyard was the millstone parsonage where Charlotte, Emily, and Anne had penned their timeless books.

Shortly before embarking on the trip, I’d come upon a “cut paper collage” print online—Brontë Moon by Amanda White, which depicted the Brontës’ two-story parsonage. The artist had created pages of the sisters’ writings swirling around the house, flying over the roof—a blizzard of pages, giving me the impression of a creative whirlwind. As I gazed up the hill, the image floated back to me, and to my surprise tears formed briefly along my lower lids. My lack of will to go on writing felt particularly poignant in this place.

We waited at the steps of St. Michael’s Church to meet Mr. Briggs, a local Blue Badge Guide who was to give us a private walking tour of the village. I was disappointed that our visit inside the Brontë house was not until the following morning. Mr. Briggs, however, was worth the delay.

We followed him up the lane into the graveyard, where we walked through the vast thicket of headstones, squinting at the epitaphs in the foggy light beneath the trees. The Brontës could not have ventured out the front door or even peered out their windows without being confronted by the specter of death, something that loomed large not only in their landscape, but in their lives. Anne died at twenty-nine, Emily at thirty, Charlotte at thirty-eight. Their mother died when they were all under the age of six. Their two older sisters died soon after.

As we strolled through the village, Mr. Briggs pieced together the story of how the sisters came to write: Even as children the Brontë sisters dreamed of becoming writers. It was an unlikely profession for three young women living in a remote, tiny village in the nineteenth century. They tried to make do with being governesses and teachers, but they despised the work. At twenty-one, Charlotte boldly wrote to Robert Southey, the poet laureate of England, and told him of her desire to be a writer. He wrote back to her in a now famous letter:

“Literature cannot be the business of a woman’s life, and it ought not to be. The more she is engaged in her proper duties, the less leisure she will have for it.”

Disheartened, but also incensed, she wrote back.

“Sir, I do my duties, and as a woman, I have a need to read and write, too.”

This fragment of the story sent a wave of sadness and anger through me. Southey’s response felt weirdly personal. Maybe it was because of what my high school guidance counselor had said when, like Charlotte, I’d revealed my desire to be a writer.

The response I’d gotten wasn’t all that different. Or maybe I was simply tapping into a thread of collective pain that’s buried somewhere in all of us and trickles to the surface when stories like this hit us in a certain way. Just about everyone has had a Mr. Southey to contend with.

We walked to the edge of the moors, where the heather was turning purple and the windswept emptiness seemed to stretch forever. I gazed into the distance, envisioning hidden peat bogs and ruined dwellings. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the sense of seclusion the sisters must’ve felt being hemmed in by all this bleak beauty, though, as our guide pointed out, the moors were known to be the wild workshop of their imaginations, a kind of muse, especially to Emily. I tried to picture myself living in this small, brooding place in the nineteenth century, yearning to write as badly as the Brontës had . . . or as badly as I once had myself.

I wondered if the fire that had compelled Charlotte and her sisters to write was the same fire that kept them writing. Was it longing that had sustained them?

I dug through my shoulder bag for my small travel journal. I wrote: Return to your longing. It will teach you everything, that phrase that would eventually turn up in The Book of Longings.

As we made our way back to St. Michael and All Angels Church, Mr. Briggs went on with the story. Knowing their father wouldn’t live forever and that they couldn’t depend on their brother, Branwell, who often staggered home drunk and struggled to find and keep a job, the unmarried sisters clearly understood they would have to earn a living for themselves. After studying to become proficient in the necessary subjects, they opened a school, the Misses Brontë Establishment. Not a single student enrolled.

The situation became dire as their father’s eyesight deteriorated from cataracts, jeopardising his position as church rector and as Branwell spiraled deeper into addiction. The Brontë women gathered at the dining room table in the parsonage and made a pact—they would write. The entire world seemed designed to be in opposition to the decision, but they set their course. It was the defining moment of their lives.

I took a slow, deep breath trying to tamp down the emotion in my chest, an inflamed, stirred-up feeling, as if the windstorm in the art print I’d seen had taken up inside me and the pages I’d written over the last thirty-five years were whirling about. I thought of the day I’d set my own course, not at a dining room table under the sort of desperate circumstances the Brontës faced, but at a kitchen table on my thirtieth birthday with an urgency in me nonetheless with so much longing and passion pent up inside.

Inside the church, we sat on a pew near the back listening to the conclusion of the story. The sisters began by publishing a collection of their poems. It sold two copies. They pressed on, deciding they would each write a novel. In the evenings, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne gathered around the dining room table and wrote by candlelight, pausing to read their work to one another and discuss it as they paced around the table into the late hours.

In 1847 their novels, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and Agnes Grey, were published under the male pseudonyms of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. The books dared to challenge convention and promoted a woman’s right to identity, education, and equality.

The Brontë sisters produced seven novels, some of which are considered among the greatest in the English language.

When the guide departed, Ann and Trisha wandered over to read the historical plaque that marked where Charlotte and Emily were buried in the church crypt, but I went on sitting there, deeply affected.

The next morning, when we finally entered the Brontë house and peered into the dining room, I stared at the mahogany table where Charlotte, Emily, and Anne had made their pact to write, composed their novels, and collaborated together. Its surface was marked with inkblots, a large candle burn, and a carved letter E. Anne’s writing slope sat on the table. Charlotte’s tiny shoes were tucked under a chair. Against the wall was the crimson horsehair sofa on which Emily died.

As I took all of this in, the sisters’ passion and perseverance felt alive in the room, a vivid, contagious kind of energy. I pictured my desk back home with a sudden, inexorable longing.

By the time I’d moved through the rest of the house, the desire to return to my writing was like a small furnace inside me. In the gift shop attached to the back of the house, I purchased a card that contained a quote by Charlotte:

“I’m just going to write because I cannot help it.”

Not long after returning home, I was seized by the idea for The Book of Longings and plunged into the long, passionate odyssey of writing it. The abrupt turnabout I underwent during those pivotal twenty-four hours in the Brontës’ world was perhaps the purest and most profound inspirational experience I’ve ever had. I’d arrived there burned out and convinced that writing was behind me. I left reignited and returned to my longing, to the “infernal fire” that Anne Brontë described.

Inspiration has often been sentimentalised and trivialised, but it can produce a powerful transaction in the soul, a kind of infusion. The word inspiration comes from the Latin inspirare, which means “to breathe into.” Etymologically speaking, inspiration occurs when something is breathed into you—or in-spired. My immersive encounter with the Brontës blew my ex-spired flame back to life. Their longing and passion became mysteriously transmissible, calling forth my own longing and passion.

When we become uncommonly weary, stressed, or discouraged, the energy that drives the creative life can waver. It can even go out. This is the time to breathe in.

We’re just going to write because we cannot help it.

This is an extract from Sue Monk Kidd’s new book Writing Creativity and Soul: described as an intimate work on the mysteries, frustrations, and triumphs of being a writer, and an instructive guide to awakening the soul.

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Get a signed copy of A Creative Compass

I can finally share something I’ve been alluding to for a while. I have written a new non-fiction book—this time all about creativity.

This is a personal look at my creative process—how I follow my intuition and call upon our inner guidance system during times of big change.

Announcing…

A Creative Compass: Finding Your Way to a Creative Life 🧭 🔮

As readers of this newsletter know, I’m as much a reader as I am a writer, and my shelves are brimming with books that have enabled me to live a big bold creative life. And I finally felt ready to contribute my own version.

Two years ago, I sat down at my desk and thought: could I write an in-depth and truthful book about my relationship with creativity? Am I ready? 8 books later, creativity retreats all around the world and over a decade in - turns out I have so much to say and share on the topic. There are very few quotes or interviews from other people in this book. I challenged myself to follow my own theories, what I know to be true; and the benefits of following your own personal creative path —and how we can all tune into our own intuition especially during chaotic times. Something I call my Creative Compass. 🧭

On my creativity retreats, I am asked questions such as: how do you know which idea to stick to? How do you carve out time? How do you build self-belief? How do you prioritise your creativity? How do you make and maintain creative friendships?

Well—I’ve answered everything, and it’s ALL in my new book. This is not a book of interviews or regurgitated quotes or tips: this is a book of individual essays, anecdotes and stories. I’m so excited to share it with you.

Isn’t this cover wonderful? It was designed by the brilliant Anna Morrison, who also illustrated the cover of A Year of Nothing.

Link to all retailers here

*SIGNED COPIES* via Bookshop.org!

You guys know how much I love Bookshop.org—a place where you can support independent bookshops with your purchase. If you order via this link above you can get a *signed copy!* You can also get 10% off when you order (your signed copy!) with the code LOVEBOOKSHOPS. There are a limited number available, so I do recommend pre-ordering quickly :)

I’ve been working on this behind-the-scenes for a while now, and quite simply I wrote the book I wanted to read right now. This book is a companion, a gentle guide, a friend. As I’ve written before, I believe books have energy. And the energy of this book is a soothing one. This book wants you to make things, and live out a creative life on your own terms.

This is what my agent, friend (and first reader of the book!) Viola said:

“A CREATIVE COMPASS is a book we all need in our lives. Each time I’ve read it I’ve felt renewed, inspired, and like Emma is tapping into a part of my wellbeing and psyche that I’m much less practiced at accessing. It’s a call to reconnect with what’s important in life, what’s important to you – and for all of us, especially in such a creative industry – it’s a call we need to listen to.”

This is a guide for artists, makers, writers and anyone seeking to live more creatively, with confidence, calm and joy.

During my Year of Nothing, I had to forge my own creative compass to rekindle my spark when it was running dangerously low.

This book is all about setting our own inner compass, with mindsets, rituals, and actions that help us overcome burnout and mental blocks, reignite our creative inspiration and flow, and reconnect with intuition and self-trust.

We all possess creativity: whether it’s in the clothes we wear, the way we arrange flowers, or the patterns we choose for our bedroom walls. And in today’s fast-paced, AI-driven world, many of us have lost touch with our innate creative abilities. By chasing trends, productivity hacks and protocols, we forget to trust ourselves, and instead rely on algorithms to dictate what we like, what we make, and crucially, how we feel.

By designing my own Creative Compass, I broke free from the need for outside approval and created an even more vibrant, fulfilling life from the inside-out—and I’m SO excited to share it with you.

It has everything I know. In this book.

Coming 25th June 2026!!!!!

pre-order yours here x

*And some exciting (related) news!*

I’m hosting a retreat in Greece…

A special, one-off opportunity - a chance to experience an exclusive workshop inspired by the tools in A Creative Compass before the book is out —and learn some of the creative prompts firsthand!

I’m so excited to share that I’m collaborating with the brilliant team at Rosemary’s House on a bespoke creativity workshop in Greece this May 11th-18th. (Previous retreat mentors at Rosemary’s House include alumni Coco Mellors, Maggie Smith and Megan Stielstra so I’m certainly in good company!)

apply for your spot here

All the details are here, and the team is now accepting applications! Admissions are rolling, so apply at your earliest convenience.

For questions, don’t hesitate to contact apply@rosemaryshouse.org.

I only run one retreat a year and they are always different! Hope to see you there! <3

To receive these round-ups in full every other week, sign up to be a paid subscriber. <3 A recent paid subscriber said: “Taking a stroll through this Slow Sunday Scroll is the literary croissant and coffee of my Sunday morning. A delicious, indulgent way to ease yourself into the day.”

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It’s been quite the week. I’ve been trying to protect my energy because it would be pretty ironic to burnout, when launching a book about burnout. Let’s not do that, eh. I am bowled over by the response to A Year of Nothing though. Lots of people reading and sharing the book. Thank you!

I have been promoting the book during January like there’s no tomorrow. Alas, this has meant my screen-time has been through the roof: because this is my first self-published book-baby, I have been obsessed with looking at my analytics. I can see all my book sales data for the first time!! Where the sales are coming from, which countries/markets, how much revenue etc. It’s addictive—I feel like one of those little mice used in studies who keep pressing a lever to get more treats. Maybe it’s time to put a lock on my phone before I get an eye twitch.

This week I went on NPR; I guested on a new podcast hosted by The Observer; it has been picked as a book of the week by a big podcaster which I will announce soon. I spoke to my friend (and Wintering royalty) for the next season of her delicious new podcast. I’ve been talking a lot—self-promoting a lot, and now I feel I need to hide under a rock for a wee while.

At home, we’ve had some new bookshelves built in our living room. It has added so much colour to the space, and I get to show off my collection of beloved hardbacks, and in general, I am so pleased. I always wanted to be a thirty-something lady living in London, surrounded by books, and feeling very grateful indeed.

I have realised that ambition and softness can go together. The more ambitious I am with my work, the more snuggly I need my home to be. Case in point, I spend *a lot* of time in my office armchair, reading.

Events!

I had a fantastic time with “Lit Nights” in East Croydon last week (this video sums up the utter magic of the evening). I’m also going to be speaking at the London Book Fair this year on two panels, all about self-publishing vs traditional.

*And… tomorrow!* There are still some tickets available for my event tomorrow night, February 2nd, in central London, with The Observer, as part of their iconic book club! Tickets here*.

*The Observer team have very kindly offered five free tickets for Hyphen readers wanting to attend the in-person event at their offices in central London tomorrow eve! Comment below if interested, and we can reach out :-)

In terms of press for A Year of Nothing, I have been giving it my all, but also choosing wisely and going with quality over quantity. As I’ve been managing it all ‘in-house’, it’s enabled me to reflect more clearly on the key things I’d like to say yes/no to.

The self-publishing experience has been amazing—and I will definitely do it again. But I’m also looking forward to working with a bigger team again for my next book which I’m announcing soon. I think traditional publishing and self-publishing both come with their own pros and cons, which I’ll talk more about here and at the Book Fair.) Either way, it’s shown me how empowering it can be to have multiple paths and choices available.

Here are some of the recent highlights below.

I picked five key ‘moments’ for my book campaign:

1. An interview with The Guardian 🗞️

One of my favourite journalists is Elle Hunt. She has written great pieces ranging from thin-slicing your joy, to beating overwhelm, and building community. For the release of A Year of Nothing, I reached out to Elle and she interviewed me for her US Guardian column on all things wellbeing. We spoke about how to feel your feelings and reconnect with past passions: how to recover from burnout.

2. Bookstore Blitz! with Simon & Schuster— filmed at McNally Jackson Rockefeller Centre in NYC🗽

This was SO fun. I met the brilliant team at S&S and I raced around a big bookstore of 60,000 books and picked five based on the criteria they gave me. I had a blast and I always love visiting New York. I reached out to the team after reading this article (“Can Simon & Schuster Become the A24 of Books?”) last year. I love what they’re doing, and I think publishers need to be way more innovative on their own channels—this series is a great example of that. Watch here, or below.

3. An interview with ’s MemoirLand 💻

I really admire . She has a big Substack presence (over 100k subscribers) across her publications , and . She interviewed me for Memoir Land where I answered a series of questions about writing, publishing and my career to date. You can read it here.

4. An interview on NPR! 📻

This opportunity came in very organically, but how fun is this! This was a vision-board moment for me—I love NPR (who doesn’t?) and I am a loyal listener. So this was a very fun experience being invited on. The theme of the topic was being child-free by choice, so I got to speak about Olive and A Year of Nothing. You’ll be able to listen via the It’s Been a Minute podcast soon.

5. A video conversation with

I spoke to fellow author about her brilliant book Rough Patch, which is her memoir about a year in the vegetable patch, following a very challenging year. It was really lovely to get to speak openly to her about our books and the crossover of themes, of spending a difficult yet healing year reconnecting with the nature around us. You can listen below, or via Apple Podcasts here.

(I also have a few other exciting podcasts I’m doing, and will share these with you soon!)

Right, over to this week’s Slow Sunday Scroll Picks…

Every other Sunday, I share some links, including book, podcast and article recommendations. Most of my recommendations are below the paywall. A big part of being a writer is being a reader too — and I love to share what I’m consuming with you. I recommend becoming a paid subscriber :)

— The lost art of paying attention
— On Not Enjoying Motherhood
— Meet Lena Dunham’s social media manager
— 30 things I learnt from my 30s from
— A Conversation with Virginia Evans
— Catherine O’Hara’s memorable roles
— Free yourself from the punitive attention economy
— Farrah Storr’s burnout boltholes
— on escaping the internet
— Anyone Can Be an Auntie
— How manages travel commitments

— I have pre-ordered The Best Dog in the World — an essay collection about the love for our canine friends, with contributions from Isabel Allende, Roxane Gay, Jodi Picoult, Elizabeth Strout and more.
— I have three novels lined up to read next: Jennette McCurdy Half His Age, ’s Wreck and ’s Whatever Happened to Madeline Stone? Which one shall I read first?

Read more

After reading Kathy Slack’s Rough Patch: How a Year in the Garden Brought Me Back to Life, I immediately wanted to speak with her. I had a feeling we’d have a good conversation, not least because her book shares so many themes with my own, A Year of Nothing, which launched this week.

We both write about deeply personal years in which, against our will, we were forced to let go, opt out, and go underground—years that made very little sense at the time. Mine unfolded recently; Kathy’s took place more than a decade ago.

Our situations differed in many ways, and we used different language to describe our experiences—and while I’m not sure the word burnout ever fully captures what the soul moves through in these dark times, it remains an easy shorthand for the culture around us. Beneath the surface, there were striking similarities in our stories. We were both looking back on particularly challenging years in our lives, and we both chose to write them down and open up.

We both lived through turbulent periods in which our worlds were turned upside down, and later wrote about the slow process of coming back to life: emerging from dark, fallow seasons and digging our hands back into the soil of life.

In Rough Patch, Kathy writes about leaving her glossy advertising career in London—a life that looked like a ‘dream’ but was quietly draining her soul: and discovering unexpected solace in her vegetable patch. Her book offers a brilliant exploration of the healing power of nature and the practice of self-compassion, and along the way, I picked up some useful gardening tips and nourishing recipes.

In this honest chat, we discuss the differences between depression and burnout, the importance of deep rest, kindness toward ourselves, how a memoir isn’t a manual, abundance vs ‘success’, choosing to be child-free, and the deeply satisfying feeling of growing your own vegetables from scratch.

Hope you enjoy. 🌱

A Year of Nothing—available here

Rough Patch—available here

Other books/links mentioned:

• Kathy’s Substack ‘Tales from the Veg Patch’

• Kathy’s cookbook: From the Veg Patch: 10 favourite vegetables, 100 simple recipes everyone will love

• The Success Myth: Letting go of having it all

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To receive these round-ups in full every other week, sign up to be a paid subscriber. <3 A recent paid subscriber said: “One of my all-time favourite Substacks, I love getting an insight into Emma’s creative career and she has the best recommendations in her Sunday scroll!”

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This week, I spent some time in sunny Barcelona. I said yes to an invitation from the gorgeous indie bookstore Backstory to do a Q&A and signing with my friend . (Side-note, you must read Donna’s new novel, it’s a thriller about a woman who regrets having a baby. It’s a page-turner.)

Apparently Table for One is selling well at the indie bookstore which is always nice to hear! It is a story, after all, about a woman learning to love time alone—and I wonder if Barcelona has quite a few single or solo travellers. Also, the evening before the event, there was a book club dinner dedicated to Table for One. I saw pictures on Instagram. How lovely is that? (It’s been part of many book clubs and supper clubs. It might have themes about dining alone, but it is a book that also brings people together.)

The wonderful team at the Almanac Barcelona hosted my stay. Wonderful location, super friendly staff, a stone’s throw from the Passeig de Gràcia: a boulevard of shops, bars, restaurants. It has the Azimuth rooftop bar, a pool, an atmospheric restaurant. The rooms are simple and clean, with crisp white bedding and marble bathrooms. I enjoyed my sunny view of the bustling streets below.

Immediately upon arrival I wandered to my (other) favourite Barcelona bookstore La Central del Raval, which has a café, garden and fountain out the back, perfect for reading. In the evening I had dinner alone—the hotel’s restaurant is called Virens. I can’t help but judge a restaurant on how good the bread is—and it was delicious green tea bread! Laid back vibes but everything was beautifully presented: plant-based, nourishing, delicious and special. I read Mary Oliver’s essay collection Upstream in silence. HEAVEN.

Thank you to my readers in Barcelona for coming to the event, it was so nice to see you and talk about books and writing together.

For more information on Almanac Barcelona visit almanachotels.com/barcelona. Instagram: @AlmanacBarcelona. Other hotel properties include Almanac X Alcron Prague and Almanac Palais Vienna almanachotels.com.

I’m going against the usual advice and not having a slow January. My new book, A Year of Nothing, publishes on 22 January — next week. I’m nervous, excited, and feeling reflective. This little book has been on a journey. I first released a summer 2024 edition with The Pound Project, and people really connected with it. So I decided to make it more widely available. With a new team at Whitefox Publishing, it’s been slightly reimagined — new cover, new page design, a fresh introduction, and a book jacket and illustrations I’m obsessed with.

This release marks a turning point for me: choosing to do things my own way again.

pre-order yours! (worldwide)

Some unexpected things have happened: I sold some translation rights directly to a bigger publisher that will end up recouping some of my initial investment costs. I had a phone call with Waterstones regarding directly selling them some books (pre-pub) for an event. I worked out how to take payments via my iPhone (it’s so easy!) if I ever want to sell copies directly at festivals or events. I’ve enjoyed trialling the life of an indie author after a decade inside the mainstream publishing machine. Here’s the thing: I LOVE TO LEARN.

Not all authors want to get all techy and entrepreneurial like this—or have the upfront investment to make. Many authors just simply want to write, and I don’t blame them. But I’ve loved the experiment. I’ve loved learning about how books are ACTUALLY sold and HOW. I have not said goodbye to the traditional publishing world by any means, I’ve just put my fingers in different pies, because that is what I find interesting and enjoyable (and always have done since The Multi-Hyphen Method days). I’ll take everything I’ve learned from this experiment and it will inform all of my work going forward. Knowledge is power, people. 🤘

A Year of Nothing: Live Events!

1. I’ll be in East Croydon on Tuesday evening with the brilliant team at ‘Lit Nights’ at Croydon Town Hall. Get your ticket here, if there are any left.

2. The Observer Book Club have, excitingly, picked it as part of their event series and I’m doing an event on Feb 2nd here.

Slow Sunday Scroll Picks

Every other Sunday, I share some links, including book, podcast and article recommendations. All my link recommendations are below the paywall. A big part of being a writer is being a reader too — and I love to share what I’m consuming with you. I recommend becoming a paid subscriber :)

— What’s it like to start your career again at 43
— Can we normalise the “career break”?
— Another top editor leaves legacy media
— A conversation about first lines with Jon Batiste
— The AI revolution is here. Will the economy survive?
— Thoughts on the Golden Globes podcast category
— How to avoid burnout without compromising your goals
— Everyone Is Talking About being Phonesick
— January’s peculiar cruelty by
— How to prepare for bed
— How to make a vision board and spend less time online
— You can now print your favourite Substack
— Working at Balthazar in 1997
— What it’s like to appear on Desert Island Discs
— Sally Rooney on Ronnie O’Sullivan
— A Year of Progress for Kids Online

Read more

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This piece was first published in ELLE magazine in May 2024. I’m re-posting it here to celebrate the new release of A Year of Nothing.

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