“I Make Things That Matter, But Please Don’t Make Me Sell Them”

A gentle guide to self-promotion for writers who’d rather disappear

Image by ambermb from Pixabay

There’s a note I read recently on Substack that stayed with me. It was written by

Nienke

, a fellow storyteller:

“I love creating, but I hate marketing myself.”

She described being asked, poolside, what she does for a living. Her answer came out in fragments: “I write... design… some children’s books… maybe a novella…” And then came the inward cringe. Why does saying it out loud feel so hard?

“It feels like: look at me, buy me—when what I really want to know is whether what I make could bring someone joy.”

That line stopped me in my tracks. Because I know that feeling. I’ve lived that feeling. I still do.

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Why self-promotion feels so... shameful

I don’t think most writers hate marketing because they’re lazy or unmotivated. I think it’s about self-worth.

Marketing asks us to believe that our story is worth someone else’s time. That we are worth someone’s attention. But many of us grew up learning that pride is dangerous, that wanting to be seen is selfish, that humility means silence.

So when it comes time to talk about our creative work, we hesitate. We qualify. We shrink.

“I find it so hard to just be proud of what I make.”

And yet—Nienke has written children’s books. Illustrated stories. Translated them with friends. She is working on a dystopian, cyberpunk novella. And she’s still unsure whether it’s okay to tell people her stories exist.

If that resonates with you: you’re not alone.

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The reframe that changed things for me

As a priest, I’ve had years of practice staying in the background. For a long time, I worried that talking about my creative projects—my writing, videos, podcasts—might seem self-indulgent.

But then I realized something: the stories I tell aren’t for me.

They’re for connection. For comfort. For delight. For hope.

So I started asking a different question, one that continues to change the way I think about self-promotion:

How can I make it easier for the right person to find the thing I made for them?

That question doesn’t feel arrogant. It feels generous. Helpful. Grounded.

It’s no longer “buy my book.”
It’s: “If this could brighten your day, I want you to know it’s here.”

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What this looks like in practice

Here are a few ways I’ve learned to share my work without cringing. These might help you too:

1. Tell a story, not a pitch

Instead of saying: “Here’s my new novella, please check it out.”
Try: “This story came out of a moment when I felt completely invisible. I wonder if anyone else knows that feeling?”

Lead with the emotion that sparked the work. Let people connect to the why before you offer the what.

2. Share the joy, not the outcome

Post a sketch from your illustration process. A photo of your writing corner. A moment when a line finally came together.

Let people see that the process brings you joy. Joy is magnetic.

3. Ask for stories, not sales

Instead of pushing your book, ask something like:
“What’s a story you wish more people knew about?” or
“Do you remember the first book that made you feel seen?”

People want to talk about the things they love. Let your work be part of that conversation.

4. Use gentle visibility

Sometimes the kindest way to share your work is simply to mention it in context:
“While working on my children’s book, I stumbled into this fascinating rabbit hole about…”
No pitch. No pressure. Just presence.

5. Let others speak for you

Share a kind review. A reader message. A moment when someone said, “This meant something to me.”

It’s not bragging. It’s bearing witness.

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You are not a product

You are not a brand. You are a person making beautiful, fragile, hopeful things.

Marketing doesn’t have to mean shouting. It doesn’t have to feel fake. It can be quiet. Honest. Even sacred.

It can be as simple as saying:
“Here. I made this. Maybe it’s for you.”

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If this resonated, I’d love to hear your thoughts:
Have you found a way to share your work that feels authentic?
Or are you still working through the discomfort?

Let’s talk about it. Because the world needs more storytellers like Nienke. And like you.

Even if we have to learn—gently, over time—how to be seen.

—Fr. Roderick

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