Marketing Books While My Heart is Breaking
The strange dissonance of promoting my work during grief
One thing you don’t prepare for when you become an author: how to sell books with a smile when your world just fell apart.
My father passed away on September 1st after a battle with cancer. Three weeks later, I found myself sitting behind a table at the Midway Fall Festival. My books were arranged just so, but I struggled to remember how to talk to strangers about murder mysteries when all I could think about was death. The real kind, not the fictional kind I write about.
I was a zombie. I didn’t talk to the other authors. Sold maybe two books. And I don’t even remember the drive home.
If you’re a creative who’s experienced loss, you know this feeling. The world expects you to keep showing up. Book launches don’t reschedule themselves. Marketing plans don’t pause for heartbreak. And there’s this weird guilt that creeps in about trying to separate work from personal stuff.
Turns out, that’s not how grief works.
Early November, I did it again. An author room at a local craft fair with my Bluegrass Writer Coalition friends. This event was great business for me last year. I knew all the authors there, so I should have felt comfortable. I didn’t. The grief was still too raw. I hadn’t really started writing again, just some planning and an article or two. I sat with my books and tried to engage, but I was still underwater. Still masking to get by. Still not myself.
That’s when it hit me: grief doesn’t follow a marketing calendar. We put so much pressure on ourselves to “bounce back,” stay productive, or not let people down.
Then came Boston Crime Bake in early November. A mystery conference I’d been looking forward to, before my dad got sick. A dear friend drove me (I don’t fly), and we made it a road trip. Sightseeing before and after, just the two of us and her five-year-old son, whom I adore.
And something shifted.
Maybe it was being far from home, away from the constant reminders. Maybe it was being forced to listen to K-Pop Demon Hunters soundtrack for the first time.
But I think it was networking with other authors who didn’t know my story. No sympathetic looks, no assumptions, or preconceptions. Sometimes I feel more confident around people I’ve never met before. And interacting with other authors who share my fascination with poisons and art theft? That’s a special kind of inspiration.
The workshops pulled my brain back into mystery author mode instead of grieving daughter mode. The grief came with me, riding along quietly, but for the first time in weeks it wasn’t the only thing taking up space in my head. Spending almost a week with my best friend and her son away from home helped more than I expected.
When Writing Returns
(But Not the Way You Expected)
When I got home from that trip, I discovered that I wanted to write again.
The problem was what I wanted to write wasn’t the book I’d promised readers for January. You know, Beyond Tarnish, book three in the Carson Crime Files series. The one people are waiting for.
Instead, I found myself working on character backstory, a novelette, and other story ideas. It was enjoyable but scattered, and I kept avoiding the main project because the story I’d already plotted involves Katherine reliving the trauma of her parents’ deaths.
My dad didn’t die in the Colombian jungle when I was nine years old. But trauma is trauma, loss is loss, and sometimes fiction gets a little too close to reality. Even when the details are completely different. I just couldn’t bring myself to write the scenes I’d already outlined, not yet.
December 6th. Franklin County Band Booster event with my Bluegrass Writers Coalition friends.
This was the first author event since my father’s passing where I actually felt like myself. I enjoyed talking to people and genuinely wanted to share my books with them. The conversations with other authors felt natural instead of something I had to force myself through.
Small victory, but it showed me something I needed to see. Grief doesn’t stay at that initial overwhelming intensity forever. It starts to integrate, becomes part of your life instead of the thing that’s swallowing it whole.
The grief isn’t gone. It isn’t going anywhere. This holiday season is going to be rough. But I’m figuring out how to give myself more grace and work outside the lines I’d drawn for myself.
This is why I’m glad I chose to self-publish. Traditional publishing has its upsides, but flexibility isn’t really one of them. When you’re indie, you can adjust publication dates, be honest with readers about where you are, honor both your commitments and your need to be human about things.
So will I finish Beyond Tarnish by January 2025?
Ask me next month.
Here’s what I can tell you: when it comes, it’s going to be worth the wait. I’m not rushing, I’m not forcing words onto the page, and I’m writing from a place where the grief informs my work instead of overshadowing it. Katherine’s journey through trauma and healing means something different to me now than it did when I first outlined this third novel.
For Anyone Marketing Through Heartbreak
If you’re trying to promote your work while your heart is breaking, here’s what I want you to know:
You’re not failing. Grief and creativity don’t follow the same timeline. That’s okay.
Show up in whatever capacity you can. Some days that’s a full book signing. Some days it’s posting on social media. Some days it’s just not deleting your author accounts. Showing up while struggling actually is the productivity. All of it counts.
Give yourself permission to adjust. Deadlines aren’t more important than your mental health. Readers who matter will understand. And the ones who don’t are not your people anyway.
Find what helps your brain shift gears. For me, it was a conference away from home. For you, it might be something completely different. Trust yourself to know what you need.
Work on what calls to you. Even if it’s not the “right” project. Sometimes character backstory or a random novelette is exactly the creative energy you can handle. Honor that.
The strange dissonance of marketing books while grieving is real. You’re not imagining it, and you’re not alone in feeling it. Being present in whatever way you can manage is actually enough. We don’t have to choose between honoring our grief and honoring our creative work.
We can hold both. Imperfectly. With grace.
What about you? Have you navigated the challenge of maintaining your creative career during a season of loss? I’d love to hear how you handled both the struggles and the small victories.