The Novelist's New Clothes
Breaking Free from the Social Media Treadmill
Happening at my writing desk: My upcoming book, CHLOE: A Novel of Secrets and Lies, will be published on March 18 (Amistad|HarperCollins). I’m working on chapter reflection questions for book clubs and a Q&A with Karin Slaughter, the international bestselling author of crime fiction, including the novels on which the popular ABC series Will Trent is based.
Last week, I caught myself doing something that would have been wildly unthinkable a decade ago—I spent a ridiculous number of hours planning Instagram and Facebook posts instead of working on my manuscript. The worst part?
This felt completely normal. There I was, arranging perfectly staged photos of my coffee mug next to an artfully positioned copy of the cover of one of my novels, wondering if my "aesthetic" was consistent enough to please the algorithm gods. Meanwhile, my newest protagonist remained frozen mid-scene, waiting for me to return to the actual work of writing.
The creative toll of all this digital dancing is staggering. What began as a gentle nudge from agents, editors, and ourselves to "maintain an online presence" has morphed into a second full-time job, one that exploded during the pandemic when virtual connections became everything. Now, publishers don't just hope for social media savvy—they expect authors to have a ready-made platform with thousands of followers in tow.
We watched this shift happen in slow motion, then all at once. While I'm busy crafting the perfect witty caption or debating which filter makes my bookshelf look more appealing, my characters sit idly in their unfinished worlds. Settings remain half-baked, plot twists unravel themselves from neglect, and the deep work of storytelling—the kind that requires uninterrupted hours of focused imagination—gets squeezed into whatever minutes remain between social media obligations.
The math is sobering. Every hour spent crafting the perfect Instagram reel or responding to Facebook comments is one less hour spent in the world of our characters. Publishers now casually drop phrases like "strong social media presence" and "engaged online following" into conversations about manuscripts, as if building a viral platform were as natural to storytellers as crafting a compelling plot.
In our desperate chase for visibility, we've somehow convinced ourselves that social media posts are the new query letters. In a rush to build our platforms, we might be dismantling the very foundation of what makes us writers in the first place—the ability to sink into the hearts of our stories and emerge with something worth telling.
The irony is that we're often spending more time promoting our novels than actually writing them. And just when I thought I'd mastered the art of perfectly imperfect Instagram posts (you know the ones—”little ol’ me, casually typing away at my immaculately clean desk with my cute coffee mug nearby"), along came BookTok. Sorry, but this was where I drew the line. You won’t catch me pointing at text floating above my head or lip-syncing to the latest trending sound bite. My characters are already giving me the side-eye for all the time I spend on Instagram—I don't need them staging a full rebellion.
For established authors like myself, it's exhausting enough. I really feel for aspiring authors who are told they need thousands of followers before they've even finished their first drafts. They're trying to build their platforms while still discovering their voices, for goodness’ sake, often second-guessing their creative instincts based on what performs well on social media. The pressure to be "always on"—to share every writing milestone, every creative struggle, every passing thought—leaves precious little time or energy for the actual work of crafting stories.
Picture this: a promising emerging writer sits down to work on her novel. She’s carved out precious time between her day job and family obligations, ready to dive into the story. But first, she checks her social media metrics—because she’s convinced she needs bigger numbers to succeed in today's publishing world. Her last post got five likes. Maybe, she thinks, she should spend more time polishing yet another post, one that might be more popular. Something that fits better with what's trending on social media. Before she knows it, her story—the one that burns inside her, demanding to be told—has been set aside, languishing while she spirals into yet another social media posting rabbit hole.
This is the cruel irony of our current landscape. We're asking new writers to become marketing experts before they've had the chance to become confident storytellers. Every creative decision is filtered through the lens of "but will this play well on social media?" The pressure to share every writing milestone, every creative struggle, every passing thought—leaves precious little time or energy for the actual work of crafting stories.
I've seen talented writers give up because the pressure of platform building became too much. Others have put their manuscripts aside indefinitely to focus on growing their followers first as if social media success were a prerequisite for storytelling. It's like asking a chef to become a food photographer before they're allowed in the kitchen. Sure, beautiful photos might help sell the food eventually, but first you need to learn how to cook.
When we sit down at our desks, we face a choice: Do we dive into the complex world of our novels, where our characters are waiting for their stories to unfold? Or do we first check our social media metrics, respond to comments, and plan our content calendar? And do that again and again throughout the day?
After years of wrestling with this dilemma, I've finally found some answers—or at least, a way to make peace with the chaos.
Next week: How I've managed to find a middle ground between completely unplugging and drowning in the digital deluge.