Money Matters

The Part Nobody Likes to Talk About

There’s something quietly missing from most conversations about writing and publishing: money.

We talk endlessly about craft. About finding your voice, polishing your prose, landing a cover that feels like destiny. We celebrate launches, signings, and the undeniable thrill of seeing your name printed on a book. All of that matters. But almost no one talks about how the money actually works.

Publishing is, at its core, a royalty-based industry. That means most books earn small amounts per copy. This is true whether you go traditional or self-publish. And because the earnings per book are usually modest, the math pushes writers toward one conclusion: volume matters.

Yet this part is rarely explained clearly—especially to aspiring writers. Instead, many are left with vague hope and little understanding of what it actually takes to make writing financially sustainable. So when the money doesn’t come quickly, or at all, people quietly assume writing was never meant to be a career in the first place.

This silence does more harm than honesty ever could.

Because writing can be a career. But only if we’re willing to talk about the unglamorous mechanics behind the dream.

Publishing Is a Royalty Game (And Always Has Been)

From the very beginning, publishing has operated on one basic premise: writers are paid per book sold. Not per hour, or per page. Not per word count, or for story complexity. Per copy.

This is what royalties are. Small payments tied to each unit that makes it into a reader’s hands. The exact percentage changes depending on the route you take, but the structure stays the same. Whether traditionally published or self-published, most authors earn only a modest amount per book.

In other words, the system was designed for scale.

A single book might earn enough to cover a few expenses. Sometimes less. Occasionally more. But rarely enough to sustain a life on its own. This is why most professional authors don’t rely on one title. They build a body of work.

You can see this clearly when you look at authors whose work has endured.

Think Agatha Christie, whose career wasn’t built on a single hit, but on decades of mysteries—many featuring Hercule Poirot—each book strengthening the last.

Or J.R.R. Tolkien, whose Middle-earth stories didn’t exist in isolation. The Lord of the Rings was not one book, but a connected body of work that readers moved through and passed on across generations.

The pattern repeats across genres and eras.

Stephen King didn’t build his career on one novel, but on an ever-expanding catalog, including long-running worlds like The Dark Tower.

J.K. Rowling didn’t stop at one wizarding story. Harry Potter became a series readers grew up inside.

Nora Roberts has sustained a decades-long career by writing extensively, often within interconnected series that reward loyal readership.

None of these careers were supported by a single title. They were built through accumulation. Each book reinforcing the value of the others.

In a royalty-based model, income compounds over time. Each book adds another stream, small on its own, but stronger together. The more books you have, the more opportunities there are for readers to discover you, move through your work, and contribute to your overall earnings.

The problem is not that royalties are small. The problem is that many writers are never told that this is the game they’re entering.

So when a book doesn’t immediately change their financial reality, disappointment sets in. Not because they failed, but because expectations were never aligned with how publishing actually works.

Understanding this early doesn’t kill the dream. It gives it a foundation.

Traditional vs Self-Publishing: Different Systems, Same Math

Traditional publishing and self-publishing are often framed as opposites, even enemies. One is seen as “legitimate,” the other as “independent.” One comes with gatekeepers, the other with freedom. But financially, they are built on the same foundation.

Both are royalty-based systems.

In traditional publishing, the publisher handles printing, distribution, and much of the upfront cost. In exchange, the author receives a smaller percentage per book sold. Payments are slower, and earnings are often spread out over long periods of time. The trade-off is reach and infrastructure.

In self-publishing, the author takes on the costs and the labor. Editing, design, printing, marketing—these responsibilities shift to the writer. In return, the royalty per book is higher and the data is immediate. The trade-off here is risk and workload.

Different paths. Same reality.

In both models, one book rarely changes everything. Income still depends on:

• How many books you sell
• How long they keep selling
• How many titles you have working for you at once

The idea that traditional publishing guarantees financial stability, or that self-publishing guarantees quick profit, is one of the most damaging myths in modern writing culture. Neither is a shortcut. They are simply different ways of playing the same long game.

What matters more than the path is understanding the math underneath it.

Once you see that, the conversation shifts from “Which one should I choose?” to “What am I building over time?”

What the Math Actually Looks Like

Abstract talk about royalties only goes so far. To really understand publishing as a career path, you have to look at the math in plain terms.

Let’s simplify.

Traditional Publishing

Say a traditionally published paperback sells for ₱500.

A typical royalty might be around 8–10% of the cover price.

That means the author earns roughly:

• ₱40–₱50 per copy

If the book sells:

• 1,000 copies → ₱40,000–₱50,000
• 5,000 copies → ₱200,000–₱250,000
• 10,000 copies → ₱400,000–₱500,000

This income may arrive slowly, often split across reporting periods, and sometimes only after an advance is earned out. It is not paid all at once. It is not immediate. But it can add up over time especially when multiple books are in print simultaneously.

This is why traditionally published authors rarely rely on one title. One book helps. Several books change the picture.

Self-Publishing

Now let’s look at self-publishing.

Assume the same ₱500 book. After platform fees and printing costs, the author might earn anywhere from ₱150–₱250 per copy, depending on format and distribution.

That means:

• 1,000 copies → ₱150,000–₱250,000
• 500 copies → ₱75,000–₱125,000
• 100 copies → ₱15,000–₱25,000

The royalty per book is higher, but so is the responsibility. Editing, design, printing, marketing, and distribution are either paid upfront or handled directly by the author. Profit exists, but it comes after costs.

Again, one book helps. Several books stabilize.

What these examples show is not which path is “better.” They show what actually drives sustainability.

• A small royalty × many sales
• A larger royalty × fewer sales
• Multiple books working at the same time

No version of publishing magically turns one book into lifelong income.

But five books each selling modestly? Ten books earning quietly in the background? A backlist that keeps moving while you write the next one?

That’s when writing stops feeling fragile.

The math is not intimidating once it’s visible. And once it’s visible, writers can make informed decisions about pace, expectations, and what “success” actually means for them.

Why Writing Often Doesn’t Look Like a Career

For many people, writing doesn’t register as a “real” career because its financial path is rarely visible.

Most careers come with a clear structure. You can point to entry-level roles, promotions, salaries, timelines. Writing doesn’t offer that kind of ladder. There’s no universal starting pay, no guaranteed progression, no single moment where you are officially “set.” Income arrives irregularly, often delayed, and usually disconnected from the amount of effort put in.

This makes writing difficult to explain. Not just to families and peers, but to writers themselves.

When earnings are inconsistent or slow to appear, it’s easy to assume the problem is talent, or luck, or legitimacy. In reality, the issue is that publishing income is cumulative and long-term, while most people are taught to expect short-term financial clarity.

Because the mechanics aren’t openly discussed, many writers are left navigating in the dark. They may love writing deeply, yet still feel unsure whether it can ever support them. Without a visible framework, writing gets pushed into the category of “passion projects” instead of sustainable work.

But a career doesn’t stop being a career just because it’s nonlinear.

Writing becomes viable when it’s treated with the same seriousness as any other profession: with an understanding of how income is generated, how momentum is built, and how time and effort translate—not immediately, but eventually—into stability.

The problem is that the career model is rarely explained.

The Quiet Math of Sustainability (And Why Honesty Matters)

At the end of the day, publishing is not mysterious. It’s quiet math.

Small amounts earned per book. Repeated over time. Supported by multiple titles. Strengthened by readers who return. This is how writing sustains itself. Through accumulation.

The problem is that this math is rarely stated out loud. Without it, writers are left to guess, hope, or blame themselves when the numbers don’t add up quickly. Silence turns a manageable reality into unnecessary disappointment.

Being honest about money doesn’t cheapen the art. It protects the people who make it.

Writing can be a career, but only when expectations match the system. When writers understand that royalties are modest, volume is intentional, and sustainability is built slowly, the path becomes clearer. Not easier, but clearer.

There is dignity in choosing to write with both passion and awareness. In treating stories not just as expressions of self, but as work that deserves to last.

Publishing rewards patience, consistency, and clarity. And clarity begins with talking about the parts we were told not to.