- Catherine Mwitta
- Apr 21
- 5 min read
by Catherine Mwitta for The 44 North, Contributing Writer - Politics
"Burnout became inevitable, and writing fiction became a hustle rather than a creative art form. This pace of creation wasn’t sustainable, but unfortunately, something else appeared to be."
When I was ten years old, I gathered sheets of printing paper to write stories whenever I found myself daydreaming. I remember the first time I wanted to write. Maybe I was bored, and writing kept me busy. Or rather, I was moved by novels, magic, and life in such a way that only writing could help me respond; help me wake up without leaving a dream.
As I grew older, writing became an activity I returned to in my free time. Everyone turns to writing for different reasons, but each—no matter the form—is connected to a core desire to distill and share our relationship with the world around us. I didn’t start publishing my work until I was much older, and decided I wanted to pursue a career in writing, but I never lost sight of that very human feeling, propelling my words across the page: Being Seen.
For a long time, choosing writing as a career was discouraged based on income. According to a 2022 Authors Guild survey, referenced in Publishers Weekly, established full-time authors earn $23,329 a year—up 21% from 2018. The job site Indeed.com says authors in the United States earn on average $52,625 per year, which translates to $22.57 per hour. Change the search to “Writer,” and these numbers climb to $70,641 and $30.24, respectively.
These numbers are well-known and circulated, but even so, many writers, including me, see writing as an opportunity to escape the rat race of a nine-to-five job. Yet, unbeknownst to most (myself included), pivoting to a writing career means entering a whole other race. Another, perhaps unanticipated change was on the horizon.
The rise of indie/self-publishing technology and markets.
During the digital revolution, Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) launched in 2007. This technological innovation allowed anyone to publish a novel without having to bypass the well-guarded gates of traditional publishing. For much of the early and mid-2000s, self-publishing was a surefire way to bar yourself from traditional publication, often seen as a last resort for frequently slush pile-rejected writers. This all changed during the pandemic.
Around this time, indie/self-publishing by writers increased exponentially (Vancouver Sun, Self-publishing Advisor, EA Books Publishing). Publishers no longer catered to their mid-list-tier authors, resulting in lower advances and a lack of marketing that often prevented them from recouping already abysmal advances to earn royalties as passive income. KDP offers a 30 percent to 70 percent ratio on royalties, an enticing upside considering traditional publishers offer a 15 percent split after factoring in literary agents (who take another 15 percent of the cut).
Writers opted for self-publishing over traditional publishing due to its high return on investment. They uploaded digital novels to Kindle and advertised them to readers through social media ads. The biggest bestsellers were (are) romance novels, and many indie-published writers made six figures writing Romantasy and now dark romance.
Becoming a full-time writer was more accessible and possible than ever before. But, as always, there were conditions: Authors had to release at least three to four books a year to meet readership demands, and marketing became a side job, considering most “self-pubbed” authors didn't have the same connections as “trad-pubs.” Burnout became inevitable, and writing fiction became a hustle rather than a creative art form. This pace of creation wasn’t sustainable, but unfortunately, something else appeared to be.
The Indie & self-publishing demand meet generative AI.
Why spend years on a novel when you could write solely to generate income and pump out a book within an hour?
In the New York Times piece, “The New Fabio Is Claude: The romance industry, always at the vanguard of technological change, is rapidly adapting to A.I. Not everyone is on board,” romance novelist Coral Hart stated that she used to write 10-12 novels per year. Her output is now 200 novels per year using generative AI.
“If I can generate a book in a day, and you need six months to write a book, who’s going to win the race?” Hart said.
Readers debate the quality of Hart’s books, but what’s certain is that she’s sold around 50,000 copies and currently earns six figures.
Traditional publishers have also recognized the profitability of AI, much like how many of them have now recognized the profitability of signing bestselling self-published authors, rather than cultivating submissions from their slush piles. In 2024, HarperCollins inked a deal with an unknown AI company to train their models on non-fiction books, and last year announced plans to use AI for translations, deciding to replace employees with tech. Regarding content creation, many readers contend that Silver Elite by Dani Francis (a pen name) was an AI-written novel, and that the Hachette-acquired book Shygirl by Mia Ballard was as well.
As AI-generated books flood the market, I wonder when readers will no longer be able to tell whether a book was written by a large language model or by a human. I fear that day is soon. But even so, writing isn’t dead. Writers have and will continue to tell the stories closest to their hearts. We just have to look for them—and listen. And personally, quality over quantity not only matters most, but shows.
For example, Tomi Adeyemi signed a six-figure book and movie deal with Henry Holt and Co. (BYR), an imprint of Macmillan Publishers, for her first novel, Children of Blood and Bone. Jill Bearup has sold over 54,468 copies of her book Just Stab Me Now since its release in 2024, published by an independent press. Adeyemi wrote a West African-inspired YA fantasy, uncommon in 2018, and Bearup wrote a meta fantasy novel about an author’s characters acting out-of-character, a book no publisher knew how to sell. These two authors have done well in the publishing market because they chose to write deeply personal stories.
When I feel I could be writing stories faster, or worse, that I’m not writing for market trends, I come back to my core beliefs and values: I don’t use AI for research, writing, or editing. The stories I write come from a part of me. Likewise, synthesizing what I hope to communicate to an audience during revisions is just as important to me as the final copy. All aspects of writing challenge me as a human, and as a reader, books do the same.
What AI can’t do isn’t profitable. Maybe that’s a good thing.
As Western society pushes for more efficiency and higher profit margins, I continue to search for how to exist within this system.
AI might be able to move me deeply as a reader, but it can’t expand my worldview. Anthropic recently settled a lawsuit over the illegal use of pirated books to train Claude, widely regarded as one of the better generative AI applications. Human experiences are not singular, and large language models can only replicate preexisting ideas.
And thus, the greatest gift a writer can ever give a reader is the ability to think differently.
Catherine Mwitta has a bachelor’s in creative writing from Kwantlen Polytechnic University and a certification in Journalism from Langara College. She is an editor at Augur Magazine and INKspire. Likewise, bylines at Stir Vancouver, SAD Mag, This Magazine, C Magazine and Bluffs Monitor.
