Why I Walked Away from a Book Deal and Published on Substack Instead
Nearly one year ago, I published my entire memoir, chapter by chapter, on Substack.
I still remember the day I decided to do it. I was lying in bed, scrolling through the Substack Notes feed, when I came across a conversation about authors serializing their books. It was casual, not a pitch, just a few writers talking about sharing work in real time. Something in me lit up. I got out of bed, walked into the other room, and said to my husband, "I'm going to publish my book on Substack." He looked at me and asked, "What’s Substack?"
At the time, I had just walked away from a traditional publishing deal. I’d spent months in contract negotiations with a publisher I respected, someone I genuinely liked. But deep down, something didn’t feel right. I kept thinking about how much of myself I had put into this story, and I didn’t want to let go of my voice before I even got a chance to use it.
When I finally said no, I was stunned. I couldn’t believe I was walking away from something I had worked so hard to get. I had spent years dreaming about the moment someone would say yes. And now that they had, I was the one saying no? But my gut told me I had to. I had to trust that a different path would reveal itself, even if I didn’t know what it looked like yet.
And then I saw that thread on Substack Notes and something clicked. Within an hour, I had devised an entire launch plan. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I decided I would publish the first chapter on my birthday, July 30th, and gave myself 30 days to promote it.
From July 1st to July 30th, I shared something every single day. I shared stories on similar themes that are in the book, I talked about the writing process, the moments that shaped this story. I spoke from the heart. I didn’t know if anyone would care, but I kept going. By the end of those 30 days, I was completely burnt out. I had poured so much of myself into the launch that I barely had anything left.
And that’s when the real work began, because on July 30th, the first chapter went live. And from there, I released a new one every Thursday night for sixteen weeks straight.
I poured myself into every piece of it. I recorded audio versions of each chapter, designed visuals to bring scenes to life, and handled all the marketing on my own. I treated every Tuesday like a miniature book launch — not because anyone told me to, but because it mattered to me. I had lived this story. I had written it in the quiet moments of my life. And now that I was finally sharing it, I wanted to do so with as much care as I had taken to write it.
It was the most exhausting creative experience of my life. Most weeks, I was editing for more than twenty hours, often late at night or in the early mornings, while still running my business and tending to everyday life. Each chapter had to be polished, formatted, recorded, designed, and delivered. I moved scenes around when the pacing felt off. I cut paragraphs I had once loved but knew no longer belonged. And through all of this, I was learning—learning what it means to write for the internet, how important it is to begin with heart, to give people a reason to keep reading.
Choosing to self-publish didn’t make my life any easier.
If anything, it asked more of me. There was no one telling me what to do next. No team handling the hard parts. But there was also no compromise. Every detail was mine to decide. And through it all, I was learning what it means to write for the internet, how important it is to begin with heart, and to give people a reason to keep reading.
I had thought I was publishing a book. But I was also strengthening my voice, building a relationship with my audience, and learning how to finish something even when I was tired, even when I doubted whether it mattered.
And slowly, it began to work.
People started reading. Subscribing. Sharing. I went from zero to 350 paid subscribers. Lonely Girl became a Substack Bestseller. Thousands of readers found their way to the story—through Notes, through TikTok, through Instagram, and through friends who simply forwarded an email because it meant something to them.
Somehow, I had built momentum before the book ever hit a shelf.
And here’s what I learned:
Publishing without permission changed everything.
There’s something powerful about choosing to put your work into the world without needing anyone’s permission to do so. When I decided to publish on Substack, I was stepping into a version of myself who was no longer waiting for someone to say yes. I stopped looking for approval, and gave it to myself.
Substack gave me the freedom to choose the timeline, the format, and the style.
That freedom made me show up with more style, more clarity, and more belief in what I was sharing.
That kind of trust in yourself is contagious. People can feel it.
Serialization made me a better storyteller.
Publishing in real time changed how I approached every sentence. Each chapter had to stand on its own, not just as part of a whole. That meant every week I had to think about where tension lived, where emotion carried weight, and what would keep someone coming back.
Titles mattered. First lines mattered. Endings mattered.
I wasn’t writing just to express something, I was writing to connect with people.
That pressure, though hard, made me sharper. It helped me learn how to pace a story for attention, without losing depth.
Marketing became part of the writing process.
I learned that if no one knows your work exists, it doesn’t matter how good it is. Talking about the book wasn’t a distraction from writing, it was a continuation of it. The more I shared what I was learning, the more people responded. I repeated myself. I found ways to say the same thing through new angles.
Relentless marketing taught me how to stay connected to the heart of what I was making. How to speak directly to the people without the fluff. It wasn’t about promoting myself, it was about inviting people into the story I was trying to tell, in real time.
Recording the audio brought people closer.
There’s something intimate about reading your own words aloud. I used a cheap mic, GarageBand, and my closet as a studio. People listened while driving to work, walking their dogs, folding laundry. They told me they could hear the pauses in my voice. The nerves. The parts that hurt. And that added something to the experience that I couldn’t have anticipated. It made the book feel more human.
Substack Notes helped readers find me.
Notes gave me a place to drop the polished version and just be in the process. I shared behind-the-scenes updates, little thoughts from my day, the emotional rollercoaster of putting your heart on the internet. And people found me there. Some of my biggest spikes in subscribers came from a Note that took me two minutes to write. There’s a softness to that kind of sharing. It doesn’t feel like promotion. It feels like trust
Burnout is real, especially when you’re doing everything yourself.
By week ten, I hit a wall. One night, I cried at 1 a.m. when the audio file wouldn’t export and I knew I had to be up early. I knew this process wasn’t sustainable, so I started building buffer weeks into the schedule. I realized that doing something alone doesn’t make it more meaningful. Letting others support you is part of the process, too.
Publishing in public made me a ruthless editor.
When you’re releasing chapters week by week, you don’t have time to be precious. You edit with the reader in mind. You cut what slows the story down. You let go of the lines you once loved if they no longer serve the moment. It taught me to prioritize clarity, pacing, and impact. To write not just for myself, but for the person on the other side of the screen, deciding whether to keep reading.
People will pay for your writing, but they need to know it exists.
I gave away the first chapter for free. Then I locked the rest behind a paywall. I worried about doing this,, but I reminded myself that this story mattered. That it was okay to ask people to value it. And to my excitement, hundreds of people subscribed. Some even emailed to say thank you! That exchange, between creator and reader, is sacred. And it starts with believing your work is worth something
Storytelling was the best form of marketing.
I didn’t lead with "read my book." I led with stories, the real and the honest ones. I talked about what was breaking my heart, what I was still healing, what I was figuring out in real time. That vulnerability built connection with my audience. People weren’t just following a story, they were living it with me. That’s what made them stay
Finishing the project changed me.
More than the metrics, the biggest shift was internal. I told the story I needed to tell. I didn’t give up halfway through. I didn’t wait for things to be perfect. I kept going. I honored a promise I had made to myself. And on the other side of that, I found a belief in myself that I had never experienced before.
So… was it worth it? Yes. A thousand times yes.
Lonely Girl is coming out in print this August, but only because I trusted my gut. Even when someone else said yes, I still knew the right path would be the one I carved for myself. I stopped waiting for permission and gave it to myself instead.
If you’re thinking about serializing your work, do it. But don’t do it halfway. Treat it like it matters, because it does. Show up for it like you would anything else you love. It will be hard, grueling and stretch every part of you. But you will learn to trust yourself as a writer. And that is worth everything.
