Why Don’t I Give Promises?
There is a reason my work as an author will remain obscure, shadowed, looming in a backdrop. I understood that long before I ever thought about publishing a book.
It’s because I don’t offer promises.
That doesn’t sell in mainstream marketing.
I don’t position myself with authority. I don’t walk into a room with command presence. Nothing in my writing suggests that I possess knowledge greater than anyone else, or that my voice should be the one you listen to above the rest. My lane? A fellow traveler, perhaps.
This isn’t some clever design choice. I simply find that positioning reprehensible. And honestly, a little embarrassing. I’m not a charlatan, a gimmick, or a grifter. I’m also not a mad scientist, pouring colorful concoctions into beakers thinking I’m on to something but am stuck in some fringe dungeon where voices cannot escape. I’m not even sure what my audience looks like, if I had to describe one.
Of course, every writer hopes their work resonates with someone somewhere. For some authors, monetization and authority are the goal, even if they pretend otherwise. For others, it is connection - finding the right people at the right time with the right words. Whether it’s my handing my book to a seatmate on a flight, or the daredevil who lands without knowing why on this site, or amazon.
I’m friends with quite a few authors. Some wildly successful, others not. Truthfully, there are times I’m not even sure what “genre” I belong to. It’s not fiction. It’s not quite non-fiction either. If I had to label it, I suppose I would say my books simply are.
There was a time when I read a lot of spiritual and self-help writers. The names are familiar to anyone who has spent time in that aisle of a bookstore. At the time, their ideas felt profound. Some of them still are quite thought-provoking. But as I learned more about the world - science, probability, biology, the quiet brutality of physics - I began to notice something that made me just a little uncomfortable. Much of it wasn’t grounded in anything that could ever be tested. It was manifestation language. Confidence language. Promise language. And I realized that once a name becomes large enough, the ideas around it start to behave like a marketing funnel.
Over time I started noticing something else as well. The people who promise the most certainty about life also seem to sell the most tickets. There is always another seminar, another retreat, another stage, another stadium. A laminated map of existence for sale in the lobby. The message rarely changes: clarity is just one more step away, one more purchase away, one more transformation away. I don’t necessarily blame them. People are often drawn to certainty the way moths are drawn to light. But the longer I paid attention, the more it felt like a performance - confidence presented as wisdom. And confidence, I’ve learned, is not the same thing as truth. Books lead to seminars. Seminars lead to speaking tours. The message slowly transforms from exploration into certainty. My positioning here is not to mock any part of that process; it’s just that that lens stopped working for me. It isn’t because curiosity is wrong – indeed curiosity is essential - but because I’ve grown to trust only two things when it comes to understanding the experience of existence:
Facts.
And speculation that at least has some path toward becoming a fact someday.
Everything else starts to feel like theater.
I can’t write down anything that is a promise if I don’t have one.
Could I though? Could my goalpost be to make my name in print become larger than the title itself?
Could I wordsmith my way into sounding authoritative on the topics I write about?
Could I convince a few readers that my education qualifies me? Or that my brief time within mortuary science and working in hospice somehow elevates me to the level of a grief counselor when I touch on topics of death?
Could I remove the skepticism from my writing and replace humility with bold claims? That my pretty physics papers prove anything at all? Perhaps. But even saying that feels dishonest. I could write the claim. Sure. Anyone can. But even then….I don’t know with any certainty that it would mean anything to anyone. I can only guess that outcome. The probability might be high.
But it’s still unknown.
And that’s the entire point. No one should claim authority over ideas that require a pinky promise. If it’s unknown, that’s the label authors, speakers, and scientists should aptly apply.
There’s an old saying:
“The road to Heaven is hell. The road to hell is Heaven.”
In other words, I’m not taking the easy street. My writing will never hand out promises if I know it to be false. I’ll choose honesty instead. I don’t write to lead anyone. I explore and write to walk honestly through the questions. Because if you’re anything like me, you’ve got a lot of them, and you’re wanting to find answers. Not promises. If someone happens to walk beside me for a while, I consider it good company.
There is a reason my work as an author will remain obscure, shadowed, looming in a backdrop. I understood that long before I ever thought about publishing a book.
It’s because I don’t offer promises.
That doesn’t sell in mainstream marketing.
I don’t position myself with authority. I don’t walk into a room with command presence. Nothing in my writing suggests that I possess knowledge greater than anyone else, or that my voice should be the one you listen to above the rest. My lane? A fellow traveler, perhaps.
This isn’t some clever design choice. I simply find that positioning reprehensible. And honestly, a little embarrassing. I’m not a charlatan, a gimmick, or a grifter. I’m also not a mad scientist, pouring colorful concoctions into beakers thinking I’m on to something but am stuck in some fringe dungeon where voices cannot escape. I’m not even sure what my audience looks like, if I had to describe one.
Of course, every writer hopes their work resonates with someone somewhere. For some authors, monetization and authority are the goal, even if they pretend otherwise. For others, it is connection - finding the right people at the right time with the right words. Whether it’s my handing my book to a seatmate on a flight, or the daredevil who lands without knowing why on this site, or amazon.
I’m friends with quite a few authors. Some wildly successful, others not. Truthfully, there are times I’m not even sure what “genre” I belong to. It’s not fiction. It’s not quite non-fiction either. If I had to label it, I suppose I would say my books simply are.
There was a time when I read a lot of spiritual and self-help writers. The names are familiar to anyone who has spent time in that aisle of a bookstore. At the time, their ideas felt profound. Some of them still are quite thought-provoking. But as I learned more about the world - science, probability, biology, the quiet brutality of physics - I began to notice something that made me just a little uncomfortable. Much of it wasn’t grounded in anything that could ever be tested. It was manifestation language. Confidence language. Promise language. And I realized that once a name becomes large enough, the ideas around it start to behave like a marketing funnel.
Over time I started noticing something else as well. The people who promise the most certainty about life also seem to sell the most tickets. There is always another seminar, another retreat, another stage, another stadium. A laminated map of existence for sale in the lobby. The message rarely changes: clarity is just one more step away, one more purchase away, one more transformation away. I don’t necessarily blame them. People are often drawn to certainty the way moths are drawn to light. But the longer I paid attention, the more it felt like a performance - confidence presented as wisdom. And confidence, I’ve learned, is not the same thing as truth. Books lead to seminars. Seminars lead to speaking tours. The message slowly transforms from exploration into certainty. My positioning here is not to mock any part of that process; it’s just that that lens stopped working for me. It isn’t because curiosity is wrong – indeed curiosity is essential - but because I’ve grown to trust only two things when it comes to understanding the experience of existence:
Facts.
And speculation that at least has some path toward becoming a fact someday.
Everything else starts to feel like theater.
I can’t write down anything that is a promise if I don’t have one.
Could I though? Could my goalpost be to make my name in print become larger than the title itself?
Could I wordsmith my way into sounding authoritative on the topics I write about?
Could I convince a few readers that my education qualifies me? Or that my brief time within mortuary science and working in hospice somehow elevates me to the level of a grief counselor when I touch on topics of death?
Could I remove the skepticism from my writing and replace humility with bold claims? That my pretty physics papers prove anything at all? Perhaps. But even saying that feels dishonest. I could write the claim. Sure. Anyone can. But even then….I don’t know with any certainty that it would mean anything to anyone. I can only guess that outcome. The probability might be high.
But it’s still unknown.
And that’s the entire point. No one should claim authority over ideas that require a pinky promise. If it’s unknown, that’s the label authors, speakers, and scientists should aptly apply.
There’s an old saying:
“The road to Heaven is hell. The road to hell is Heaven.”
In other words, I’m not taking the easy street. My writing will never hand out promises if I know it to be false. I’ll choose honesty instead. I don’t write to lead anyone. I explore and write to walk honestly through the questions. Because if you’re anything like me, you’ve got a lot of them, and you’re wanting to find answers. Not promises. If someone happens to walk beside me for a while, I consider it good company.
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