When I decided to enter the world of self-publishing in 2020, like every writer, I had a burning story to tell. I had big dreams and hopes of reaching millions of readers, being selected for book clubs, and receiving deeply felt reviews—both good and bad. Now, in 2025, I still dream.

Big.

I dream of scaling my book sales.

I dream of hitting the one “million readers” mark.

I dream of having my book picked by multiple book clubs.

While many of my dreams remain unrealized, I continue to dream, plan, and dream some more.

I cannot deny the heartbreak that comes from pouring my soul into a story, only to watch it sit quietly in the digital void.

The burnout that comes with months of stressing over creative latency.

It’s a struggle, one I’m all too familiar with.

In 2023, I spent countless nights writing Call Me Naeto. I crafted vibrant characters, built intricate worlds, and pushed my prose until it read just right. My electricity bills soared as I kept my laptop running into the early hours. My coffee consumption reached concerning levels, and friends began calling me a hermit. I truly lived and breathed my story.

Then came the harsh reality of self-publishing.

The costs.

The professional editing costs more than my rent. The cover design made my bank account wince, and the marketing expenses seemed to multiply by the day.

Each investment felt like a gamble with increasingly high stakes.

The result?

A handful of downloads, a sprinkling of reviews, and many Instagram DMs from “book reviewers” who were asking fees that ran in the thousands for Amazon and Goodreads reviews. I felt the crushing weight of algorithms pushing my book further into obscurity, felt my books gather literal dust, while I watched other writers with larger platforms soar.

I considered quitting, walking away, and channeling my energy into a “real” job that didn’t involve pouring my heart onto blank pages. I thought about sleeping in more and binge-watching true crime documentaries instead of writing.

But here’s the thing that kept me going—the one thing that refused to let me quit.

The story.

The characters who wouldn’t stop whispering their tales in my ear.

The sharp burst of inspiration I’d receive while doing something as basic as taking a sh**.

The readers who found my work and reached out to tell me how it touched them.

The sweet, written expressions of, “Hey, Timi, when’s your next book coming out?”

Those things kept me going.

Woke me to why I started writing.

The numbers are great for my bills, but, no, they’re not why I write.

I write…for you.

I write because these stories demand to be told.

I write because you deserve to read them.

Through the doubt, I write.

The financial strain, I write.

The nights it feels like I’m sending words into a void, I write.

To every writer facing this struggle: your words matter. Your stories matter. Keep writing.

And to my readers, waiting patiently for the next story: you are the light that keeps this flame burning. Thank you for being there.