The Public Self
Or, my life as a literary publicist.
I spend a lot of my time as a writer’s publicist giving writing advice.
That might sound surprising—publicity tends to evoke images of slick media placements, splashy launch campaigns, maybe a few shiny social media graphics. And yes, I do all of that. I design author websites, create brand kits, build marketing funnels, and schedule interviews and events. I’m a strategist.
Yet more often than not, I find myself on the page—editing Substack posts, polishing author bios, tightening pitch emails, and offering feedback on fellowship applications, essays, and full-length manuscripts. I help shape not just how a project appears, but how a writer sees their own work and future. A writer’s work is the writing, so to be a good publicist, you have to invest in the writing, too. This means seriously developing your own skills as a reader, writer, and editor. I’ve realized I spend just as much time copyediting prose as I do offering creative direction, strategy, and confidence. I’m a reader of my clients first, and a publicist second. It’s not a hard position to be in, especially when you work with writers who write like
and do. Seriously. I get paid to read gorgeous writing all day long! And writing that may not even be out in the world yet. It’s pretty amazing.However, this isn’t the norm for this type of work. Most people with my title today—publicist, marketer, strategist, copywriter—are cranking out content at scale. They’re automating posts, chasing SEO tricks, editing ChatGPT drafts, or flat-out replacing original writing with AI sludge. In my last in-house role at a Silicon Valley tech startup, I spent most of my time cleaning up content no human had ever touched, with my CEO once asking me if I could build a system that would produce 500 social media posts in a month.
But the kind of work I do now doesn’t operate like that at all. Not only am I working closely with someone, but I am knee-deep in their work and thoughts. With each writer, it’s a meeting of minds: our unique ideas, knowledge, and expertise working in tandem—“marrying the art and business of [the] work,” as Sophia once put it.
I was reminded of this recently while corresponding with a professor. I’d reached out to her about partnering on a future project. She responded kindly, but with hesitation: she already had a reputable publicity firm behind her latest book, and asked me a practical question—when do you typically enter the process? Pre-pub? Launch week? Post-release?
It’s a fair question, and one I’ve come to expect. Most publicists orbit a single project: a book’s pre-order window, its debut, maybe a short tail of events. But I’ve never thought of my work that way. My clients don’t hire me for just a campaign. They hire me for the next stage of their career. Her book was wrapping up its own successful year of media touring, but it was unclear what might happen to it—or her—next.
So I realized this was a good opportunity to update my website to reflect what had slowly but surely emerged as my key thesis statement:
“Punctuation PR is your strategic partner for long-term career growth—built for the next generation of public intellectuals.”
It might seem unconventional to describe a publicity firm as a kind of career coach, especially in an industry as dogmatic as publishing. But that’s precisely the point. The terrain has shifted: the expectations have evolved, the timelines have accelerated, but the infrastructure has barely budged.
Once upon a time, institutions like publishing houses, universities, and legacy media offered something like full-stack support—not just a platform for a writer’s ideas, but a long-term investment in their intellectual arc. That scaffolding no longer exists.
What’s left is a widening gap. Writers, scholars, and journalists are expected to do it all: craft the work, grow the platform, manage the optics, and somehow build a lasting career—alone. Not because they’re lacking in talent, not because their work isn’t worth investing in, but because no one ever showed them how to construct the framework that sustains a creative life.
The real question is: why is that burden placed on them at all?
Writing is already an all-consuming act. Asking writers to also serve as their own publicist, strategist, social media manager, and opportunity scout is more than unreasonable—it’s a waste of their time and talent. Some of the most brilliant thinkers I know are burning out not because they lack ideas, but because they’re being asked to do too much that has nothing to do with their actual work. There are just better ways for writers to spend their time (e.g., doing the whole writing bit).
That’s where I come in.
When I tell clients that I’m 100% invested in their long-term success, I don’t mean it as a marketing line—I mean it quite literally. I read every draft. I offer them structure. I help them workshop newsletter names and event pitches and about pages. I write their bios like they’re my own. I think about them in the shower and while doing the laundry. I want their books to do well, yes. But I want them to become the writer they imagined when they started this whole thing, when they came into this world kicking and screaming and ready to say something.
And to my surprise, the industry has made room. Editors at the Big 5 don’t blink when my clients loop me into email chains—they’re relieved. It’s normal and even necessary to work with independent publicists these days. Overworked, underresourced in-house publicists want the author to have someone on their team who cares as much as they do, to be supported by someone who has the time, the language, and the vision to keep things moving.
But if this work isn’t just about launch week, or assets, or media placements, then what is it?
Before I was a publicist, I was a full-time humanist. Until recently, I was still in school, studying the art and science of language and thinking constantly about how ideas move through the world—how they live, how they’re lost, and what it takes to keep them alive.
Publicity, at its core, is not about visibility for its own sake. It’s about the creation of a meaningful presence, the act of helping someone build and inhabit a public self—one that can speak clearly, withstand pressure, and hold space in a noisy world.
To be a publicist right now—in this precarious, transitional moment in publishing, academia, and public thought—is to ask bigger questions:
What do you want to be known for?
What do you want to stand for?
How do you build a self that can stand in public, again and again, and be part of the culture and conversation?
That’s the work. That’s the job.
And I love it.
In addition to writing New Material Girl, I have also started Publicly Known As, the newsletter extension of Punctuation PR. Through interviews, playbooks, and behind-the-scenes insights, PKA shares what smart publicity actually looks like today. Whether you're building your platform from scratch or figuring out how to talk about your tenth book, I’m here to help you navigate the process with clarity and confidence. Read PKA here.
If you’re interested in working together, please send an email or book a call with me. For more information on my publicity work, please visit Punctuation PR’s website. It’s worth the peek!