The Deeply Selfish Act of Writing a Book

Writing a book is one of the most selfish things you'll ever do, personally or professionally. And that is a very large, unspoken component of its value.

Not selfish in a destructive way; it's selfish in a way that serves.

When I talk with coaches who are considering writing books, they often hesitate for explanations that sound reasonable: "I should be focusing on my existing clients." "I don't have time for something like that right now." "It feels... I don't know, like too much about me."

What they're really saying is: "I'm not sure I'm allowed to prioritize my own thinking." They're operating from the place most of us live professionally—doing what's expected, following the established rhythms, putting everyone else's needs first.

Writing a book provides the sanctioned opportunity to visit one of the extreme ends of the "how I work" pendulum—the "do whatever works best for ME" end.

Spending time in this "selfish" space—making your book and your work and your professional voice the most important thing for a sustained period—often resets your perspective so completely that you find yourself living in a new reality where different opportunities can appear.

It's a forced "break" from the status quo that lets you walk around in your "real" shoes, the ones that truly belong to you.

Why This Feels Revolutionary

In a book, you are defining your own reality. You're telling your own story your own way in your own time. We almost never do that fully in any other professional setting.

Usually, you're responding to clients' needs, meeting others' deadlines, fitting your expertise into someone else's framework. Even your social media content gets shaped by algorithms and audience expectations.

But a book? A book is yours.

You decide what matters. You choose which frameworks to highlight. You determine the sequence, the emphasis, the examples. You get to be the authority on your own thinking.

And once you've practiced that—once you've had the experience of truly hearing your own voice and your own thoughts AND putting them into the permanent print of a book, into the archetypal physical manifestation of authority—you are suddenly a little more free.

What Actually Shifts

The experience transforms you fundamentally. You become part of an elite group: people who have claimed their self-worth and authority in tangible form.

Not because you're better than anyone else, but because you've done something most people never do. You've prioritized your own thinking long enough to give it permanent form.

And that changes how you move through everything else.

The Permission You Give Yourself

Once you've spent months saying "my ideas matter enough to take up 200 pages," it becomes harder to apologize for taking up space in other areas.

You stop waiting for permission to speak with authority about what you know.

You stop qualifying every insight with "this might be wrong, but..."

You stop shrinking your voice to fit other people's comfort levels.

The book becomes proof that your thinking deserves permanence. That your perspective has value. That you're not just someone who helps—you're someone who knows.

Why This Serves Others

Here's the paradox: the more selfish you become about claiming your expertise, the more generous you become in sharing it.

People who apologize for their knowledge help others timidly.

People who own their knowledge help others powerfully.

When you stop treating your ideas like they need permission to exist, you start offering them with the confidence they deserve. Your clients get clearer guidance. Your industry gets stronger frameworks. Your field gets better thinking.

The selfishness isn't destructive—it's generative.

The Real Gift

Writing a book forces you to practice something most experts never do: treating your own thinking as valuable enough to preserve.

That practice changes you.

You start showing up differently in conversations.

You start pricing your work differently.

You start seeing your expertise differently.

Not because you became arrogant, but because you finally stopped hiding.

The selfish act of writing your book becomes the generous act of claiming your place in your field.

And once you're standing in that place, you can finally do the work you were meant to do.