The cost of being a “Good Literary Citizen“
As a debut author back in 2022, I was generously supported by an incredible literary community. People bought my book, turned up to events, shared my posts, and cheered me on. And I remember every single person who showed up for me. That kind of support is humbling. It’s something you want to honour and pay forward.
In the lead up to my June release of Someone Else’s Child (and throughout the post publication period), I was devoted to the fact that I needed to support others just as they had supported me. Any event in Melbourne that I could attend, I did. We are spoilt for choice here, there is an event on nearly every week, often across weeknights and weekends. I met so many bookstagrammers and fellow authors, booksellers and book lovers. And I made it my second full-time job to show up and cheerlead as a sign of my appreciation.
I was a GLC. Good Literary Citizen.
Over time, I started to feel the exhaustion of attending so many events. My (social worker) sister warned me I was on a road to burnout, but I didn’t listen because I saw it as part of my duty as an author. A part I loved, mind you!
But here’s the bit we don’t talk about, paying it forward has its costs. Emotional, financial, and logistical.
I have four kids.
I do not have endless money.
I live an hour from the CBD where most events are held.
A ‘quick pop-in’ is a three-hour round trip, parking fees, fuel, rearranged family logistics, and often a late night I’ll be recovering from for days.
I want to support every writer I admire, but I’m also bone-tired and on a tight budget.
Yet there’s this unspoken pressure in the industry that you can’t simply be a writer. You must be a literary citizen. A good one. A visible one. The kind who attends launches, buys books at full price, posts photos, shares every reel, boosts each author’s announcements, and keeps the community machine running.
The intention behind this culture is beautiful and I fully support the concept. Someone who operates at their desk solo, and remains there without connecting with others is not the type of author I ever want to be, but it was becoming clear over time that my execution as a GLC was unsustainable.
GLCs in action!
A writerly group hug at my 2022 launch
When I stopped going to every. single. event. I had someone ask why I’d missed a few. ‘Oh I didn’t see you at [insert author’s name here]’s launch or [other random name]’s library event.’ I had hoped it was a mere observational comment not a judgment, but I felt I had to justify it all the same.
So I’m asking—gently and honestly—can we widen the definition of what support looks like?
It doesn’t have to be loud to be real. Nor does it need to blow the budget to be meaningful (and I realise I posted this on Insta to encourage people to buy books as investments, but I also recognise they can be an expensive past time when you are buying one at every single event and at the RRP). Support doesn’t have to be constant, or public, or perfectly timed.
Here are some other ways we can show support and still be a GLC:
Sharing a social media post when it resonates.
Buying a book when budget allows.
Reading it weeks or months later because life is full.
Sending a private message saying, ‘I haven’t stopped thinking about your story’.
Recommending something you genuinely loved.
Showing up to events when capacity exists.
Cheering in ways that suit your season of life.
We need to stop measuring a writer’s generosity by how many events they attend or how often they post about other people’s work. Many of us are caring for kids or ageing parents. Some of us are working multiple jobs. Some are grappling with mental health, or live far from the city. And some of us are simply exhausted.
And none of that should exclude us from the community. None of that makes us bad citizens. It makes us human.
I’m endlessly grateful for the support I’ve received. And I want to give that back—I really do. Just not at the cost of my health, my finances, or the tiny scraps of time I have left at the end of the day.
Maybe the most supportive thing we can do for each other, moving forward, is to release the pressure. Allow flexibility. Trust that quiet support is still support and let people show up in the ways they can, not the ways they ‘should’.
Do you ever feel the pressure to attend events? Or to post about a book you read to prove you are a GLC? What’s your concept of being a GLC? Join the conversation.
Kylie
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