The hard truth is, there are no magic beans

Here's why "advice" from authors often leaves people wanting more

Photo by Isaac Quesada on Unsplash

Want to know the secret to getting published? To landing a six-figure deal? To hitting the NYT bestseller list? To becoming a household name?

I don’t have it.

Neither do my author friends.

Hell, neither do most agents and publishers.

It’s a multi-factorial thing that combines luck and talent and hard work and privilege and creativity and timing and on and on and on.

The first two things above? I’ve done them, but I have no magical guarantee of doing them again.

The second two—dang, I have no earthly idea. And even my friends who *have* done these things; they don’t necessarily know how to repeat them.

We’re all living on a wing and a prayer and a new book idea that we *hope* people will fall in love with.

Basically, the magic beans that build you that castle up there in the sky? They don’t exist. They’re not real. They’re a fairytale. Please don’t trade your last cow for them. People who say they have some magic sauce or formula are, at best, not very knowledgable about the industry, and at worst, trying to scam you.

We are all tending our gardens, hoping our stalks will grow tall, will break out into the stratosphere, will lead us to a giant castle and a glowing NYT review and a movie deal and all of the rest. But even those of us that get there, momentarily, are usually just like Jack, back down to earth before long.

So why am I saying all this? Because I’ve noticed something, when being asked for advice … I’ve talked about it with my writer friends who also get asked stuff like this.

People are secretly hoping that you DO have magic beans.

I recently was approached by a friend. Who had a friend who had a friend. Who wanted to publish in an area of publishing I had no knowledge of. Now I told this friend that I wasn’t really a good resource here, but since it was a friend connection, I said they could email me if they still felt they needed to.

They did, and I replied. And I actually, though I didn’t have anything super helpful to share, did collect a couple of links and resources related to the area of publishing they were trying to break into.

Anyway, I wrote this very nice email back, and guess what?

Radio silence. No reply. No thank you. Nothing.

See, this kind of thing actually happens a lot. Maybe not in such a glaring way as that interaction, but a lot of times, when you write back to people asking for favors or help, there is this vibe of awkwardness that pervades the whole thing. A “that’s it?” that simmers between you, tense as a taut wire.

Because what a lot of people are seeking, whether they consciously realize it or not, are the magic beans. They want you to hear about their idea and write back, tell them it’s the greatest thing you’ve ever heard, offer an intro to their agent, beg to read it, hook them up with a publisher—all that jazz. This is, after all, how it usually goes down on TV!

But, as I’ve talked about on here a lot , it’s not really about having someone pull strings for you. It’s about doing the work.

So what are you saying, Leah? You’ve learned nothing? No, not at all. I have learned a lot.

You have to keep going.

You have to be willing to “fail” again and again.

You have to keep coming up with ideas.

You have to read WIDELY.

You have to support other writers. Whether by buying their books or asking for them in the library or shouting them out on social or whatever else you can do.

You do not—EVER—need to use ChatGPT or other generative AI which is bad for the planet, bad for the soul, and steals from all your favorite writers (in other words, all of us).

Above all else, you have to keep writing.

You have to put in the work.

So if you ask for a favor or advice and an author you know tells you a version of the above, try not to be too disappointed. They’re not blowing you off. They’re not refusing to do you a favor. They’re most likely being honest.

And, even if you don’t love the response, say thank you anyway. Come on, y’all.

Happy writing, and happy tending your beanstalks.

Leah