Books Are Just Kids With ISBNs

Or: Why I Feel Personally Offended When You Leave a 3-Star Review Without Comment

Writing a book is a lot like raising a kid. If said kid required years of solitude, thousands of dollars, several nervous breakdowns, and then, once grown, stood awkwardly on the internet asking strangers to love it.

No seriously, bear with me on this.

You think you're just scribbling a little idea in a notebook, something small and private and full of potential. And then it grows. Both too fast and not fast enough. You shape it. You worry over it. You revise the hell out of it. Eventually you realize it's never going to be perfect, and also you kind of hate it, and also you would step in front of a bus to protect it. (honest parenting FTW)

Then you send it out into the world. Which is a bit like watching your six-year-old son ride his teeny tiny defenseless, Doraemon themed bike towards a six-lane Hiroshima city road towards the bus pick up for his International School in a foreign country where neither of you are worth a crap at the language. “Please be nice to him. He’s sensitive. But also funny! And smarter than he looks! Just—please like him. These are your thoughts. Not “Holy shirtballs don’t die getting to the bus.” (this was Japan. He was perfectly safe. We will talk more about this in another ‘Stack).

The thing is, some people do like him. Some ignore him entirely. And some people, and this part will never ever not sting, will write things like, “I just didn’t connect with this one.”

Oh, you mean the one I nursed with my own tears? That one?

Coolcoolcool.

Anyway. I’ve published a few books now, all without a traditional publisher or a publicist or a marketing team or any serious money. I’ve birthed them, raised them, and sent them into the world. And somehow, they’ve found a few readers. Slowly, messily, imperfectly.

Kind of like my actual kids, who are also somehow turning out pretty cool despite my total lack of a parenting plan beyond “Show them a world where their culture isn’t 100% centered for a few years. Be chaotic and move a lot. Then move home. Keep them alive and make them laugh sometimes.”

Books are like kids because…

You spend months nurturing them in private, and then everyone wants to give you unsolicited feedback the second they show up in public.

You worry you’ve done everything wrong but hope love and snacks will carry them through.

They never look exactly how you imagined, but there’s still something magical about them.

Every time someone compliments them, you feel a little teary and try to act cool.

They somehow always need more money.

You're not supposed to pick a favorite... but you definitely have one.

And then there’s that part where you have to actually sell the kid.

Erm, I mean, book.

Which brings me to the latest discourse happening over on Threads (bookthreads, if you’re trying to find it), where authors are falling all over themselves trying to determine what, if anything, “moves the needle.”

Some say nothing short of a massive publisher-fueled PR blitz will do it. A combination of visible digital ads, influencer campaigns, TikTok “viralness,” celebrity stickers, bookstore events, the whole loud expensive machine. Others swear it’s all about the grind. Hit the road, do the festivals, say yes to every panel and indie bookstore reading within a six-state radius. Then there are those low-key suggesting that if your needle isn’t moving, maybe it’s because your book’s not worth moving. (To which I say: shut your dusty algorithm mouth, because my books are delightful, thank you very much.)

The truth? Alas. It’s probably a miserable cocktail of quality, luck, and visibility. Plus a dash of whatever viral chaos the internet’s cooked up this week.

But yelling into the void about it with other writers is the closest thing we have to catharsis. Or therapy. Or community. Sometimes it even feels like all three, which is why I keep showing up. And also why I keep writing, even when it feels like the needle’s stuck.

Honesty, my stuck needle is why I finally broke down and watched The Righteous Gemstones, as in every single episode, like a woman who grew up in a Southern church (because I did) and still needs to process that through Danny McBride’s swagger and sideburns, Walton Goggins’ dong game shows, and a hymn remix.

I was raised on Sunday school, Sunday evening services, and Wednesday night youth group with questionable casseroles and really good gossip. And while I didn’t grow up in a mega-church with lasers and merch tables, the vibe? Let’s just say it hits close enough to feel equal parts familiar and unholy.

But what surprised me and stuck with me wasn’t just the satire or the spectacle or all the dongs and sex jokes. It was the quiet humanity that snuck in between the pyrotechnics. (SPOILERS AHEAD! STOP IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN IT YET…)

The youngest son, Kelvin, finally marries his man. And instead of hellfire and brimstone, the entire family shows up with nothing but love and pyrotechnics. It was tender. It was ridiculous. It was, dare I say, sort of…Unitarian Universalist? Definitely not the theology of my youth group days, but the kind of grace I want to believe in now.

Because whether you’re raising kids, publishing books, or figuring out what the hell moves the needle, what we really want is what Kelvin got: people who show up. People who say, “You’re weird, but you’re ours.” Preferably with fried chicken and a bourbon cocktail in hand.

So this post is actually a love letter to every writer who’s still in the early stages, querying, revising, crying into their wine, and to every indie author trying to market a book with duct tape and desperation. It's also a thank-you to the readers who treat our little literary offspring with kindness. You don't have to love them. But if you can’t say something nice… maybe just pretend they’re your friend’s toddler with a peanut allergy and quietly scroll past.

So here’s to the books we birth, the kids we raise, and the tender, chaotic, underfunded love that fuels both. May they find their people. May they be understood. And may we, the exhausted creators behind them, get a moment to sit down, breathe, and remember that done is better than perfect, and that reviews are not the measure of worth.

Today’s Friday drink pairing: a slightly weepy glass of cabernet franc something full-bodied, a little earthy, with just enough backbone to handle rejection emails and emotional outbursts from both editors and middle schoolers. Ideally served in a chipped coffee mug at your desk while staring at your draft and muttering “I made you, you sh*tty little monster, now behave.”

xoxo

Liz

PS: Not a wine person? No worries. This emotional journey pairs just as well with:

A strong, dark Belgian dubbel: complex, a little funky, and probably brewed by monks who understand both suffering and joy. Best enjoyed while yelling “I swear this book has a third act!” into the void.

A classic Boulevardier: equal parts bourbon, Campari, and sweet vermouth. It's bold, a little bitter, and very Southern Gothic. Sip slowly while contemplating your life choices and whether your protagonist *really* needs another subplot.

PPS: Side note: My kids (a.k.a. The Murder) all turned out to be full of the sort of bravery and wanderlust and non-fear of new people/places/things I had hoped for. And they’ve all found Their Person, each of whom balances out the Crowe Crazy in ways that make me daily grateful.

PPS: Buy my book, Cul-de-Sac. It’s got mystery, neighborly snark (and some naughtiness). If you loved Big Little Lies and/or are enjoying Friends and Neighbors, you’ll groove on this! Here’s a link: https://books2read.com/u/mZYD12

Thanks!