The Uncomfortable Truth About Cookbook Writing: 5 Signs You're Not Ready (From a Coach Who's Seen It All)

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Everyone wants to write a cookbook. I get it—I'm a cookbook coach, and the excitement people bring to that first conversation is intoxicating. They've been told their lasagna is life-changing. Their holiday cookies get requested year-round. Friends keep saying, "You should write a book!"

But here's what I've learned after years of coaching aspiring authors and reviewing countless applications: most people who want to write a cookbook shouldn't—at least not yet.

This isn't about crushing dreams. It's about protecting them. Because I've watched too many passionate cooks drain their savings, rush half-baked concepts to self-publishing, and end up with garages full of books no one knows to buy.

So if you're thinking about writing a cookbook, let me share the red flags I watch for—the patterns that tell me someone needs to pump the brakes.

When Your Recipes Only Exist "In Your Head"

I was cornered at a family party once by someone who wanted to write a wild game cookbook. "No one's done it before," he insisted (incorrect—there are several). "I have it all figured out. It's all written in my head. I just need someone to type it up."

This is perhaps the most common misconception I encounter: that thinking through your cookbook is the same as writing it.

Here's the reality. What lives in your imagination rarely translates cleanly to the page. Your internal narrative has gaps you don't notice because your brain fills them in automatically. Recipes you can execute flawlessly in your kitchen often fail when someone else tries to follow your written instructions.

Writing is hard specifically because it forces you to externalize your thoughts, organize them coherently, and communicate them clearly to strangers. That's why first drafts exist. That's why professional cookbook authors test their recipes multiple times—not just to perfect the food, but to perfect the instructions.

When I worked at Cooking Light magazine, the test kitchen operated at a level most home cooks never witness. Recipe developers brought dishes to daily tasting tables where five to eight colleagues scrutinized every element. Your recipe couldn't move forward until there were zero notes—no unclear instructions, no missing steps, no inconsistent results.

If you think you "just need someone to write it," what you actually need is a ghostwriter or collaborator, not a coach. And that's a completely different service with a completely different price tag. Writers like JJ Goode and Julia Turshen have built careers as collaborators, working with everyone from chefs to celebrities like Gwyneth Paltrow. But my role as an editor is different. I develop your work with you, but I don't write in your voice or extract ideas from your head and translate them to the page.

When You're Building a Platform "In Tandem"

This one's tricky because it sounds reasonable. "I'll write the book while I grow my audience. I'll do both at the same time."

Except platform-building isn't just marketing. It's not just accumulating Instagram followers or email subscribers (though those matter). Your platform is where you discover your actual message, test your authority, and learn what resonates with your audience.

When I work with clients, I use a magazine pitch framework specifically because it forces you to identify your target audience, articulate clear benefits, and prove why you're the authority on your topic. These aren't afterthoughts—they're the foundation of a successful book proposal.

Publishers want to see that you can sustain audience interest over time. They want proof that when you post a recipe, people make it. When you share a story, people engage. When you recommend a technique, people trust you enough to try it.

Building that trust takes time. And if you skip this step—if you rush into writing a book proposal before you've established your credibility—you'll spend years creating something no one knows to buy.

The authors who succeed are the ones who put in the platform work first. They spend months or years blogging, posting, teaching, connecting. They learn what their audience actually wants, which is often different from what they assumed. They refine their voice. They build the relationships that will become their launch team.

Think of your platform as the laboratory where you test hypotheses about what your readers care about. Without that testing ground, you're guessing. And guessing is expensive when you've invested two years writing a book that misses the mark.

When You Can't Handle Feedback

I once had a discovery call with a woman who'd submitted a sample chapter about her husband. When I started asking clarifying questions—"What's the through-line here? How does this connect to your recipes? Who's the target reader?"—she became visibly frustrated.

She wanted validation, not questions. She wanted me to tell her it was brilliant, not probe for clarity.

If you can't handle a coach asking gentle questions, you're not ready for the publishing process. Because agents will push back on your concept. Editors will challenge your structure. Recipe testers will find problems you didn't see. And readers—readers will have opinions about everything.

The ability to receive critical feedback without becoming defensive is perhaps the most essential skill for authors. It's not about having thick skin. It's about genuine curiosity—the willingness to ask, "What am I missing? How can this be clearer? What would make this more valuable for readers?"

I watch for this in every interaction. Can someone answer clarifying questions without getting flustered? Can they revise their pitch based on feedback? Can they follow instructions, like submitting ten pages of writing samples instead of sending me their Substack link and telling me to "just browse"?

One applicant sent me a Canva movie of her ebook—in French. When I asked if she had an English version I could review, she told me she wanted to know if "this version works first." I speak a tiny bit of French, but not enough to evaluate a cookbook concept. The fact that she couldn't understand why I needed to actually read her work in a language I'm fluent in told me everything I needed to know about how our working relationship would unfold.

If you can't follow a simple application process, you won't survive the rigorous demands of working with an agent, an editor, and a publishing house. They all have processes. They all have requirements. And they don't have time for people who think the rules don't apply to them.

When You're Convinced "No One's Written This Book"

Aspiring authors love telling me their concept is completely unique—that no one's ever written a book quite like theirs.

And while I appreciate the confidence, it's almost always wrong.

More importantly, it's usually a sign that someone hasn't done their market research. They haven't studied comp titles. They haven't analyzed what's selling in their category. They don't know how to position their work within the existing landscape.

Publishers don't want books that have no comparable titles. They want books that fit into proven categories while offering a fresh angle. Your comp titles are how you demonstrate market viability and help publishers understand where your book belongs on the shelf.

The exception is when you're filling a genuine gap—but even then, you need to prove that gap exists with research, not just assumption. And you need to understand why that gap exists. Sometimes there's no book on a particular topic because there's no market for it, not because everyone else missed an obvious opportunity.

When that family friend told me no one had written a wild game cookbook, it took me thirty seconds to search and find multiple titles. The issue wasn't that the idea was revolutionary. The issue was that he hadn't bothered to look.

When Desperation Overrides Strategy

The biggest red flag of all? Desperation.

The person who insists they need their book out by Christmas even though it's August and they haven't started writing. The person who doesn't have budget for self-publishing but is certain it'll be a bestseller. The person who tries to negotiate coaching rates while promising we'll "make millions together."

Desperation leads to bad decisions. It leads to spending money you don't have on rushed self-publishing. It leads to skipping essential steps because they take too long. It leads to treating your book like a lottery ticket instead of a business investment.

I once spoke with a woman who wanted to create a compilation of vendors' recipes—people who work in hospitality, essentially competitors with one another. She wanted it published by the end of that year, just a few months away. When I pointed out that these vendors had no incentive to help her sell the book and that she was essentially providing free PR for businesses that weren't paying her anything beyond maybe a small percentage of direct sales, she insisted I could "make it a success" through marketing magic.

She estimated she'd need around eight thousand dollars to self-publish. Then she revealed she didn't actually have that money. But she was absolutely convinced this book would sell—based solely on people's polite enthusiasm at events.

When she tried to negotiate a lower rate for my coaching services, I knew we weren't a good fit. Once people start trying to negotiate custom packages and rework your entire business model, that's a red flag in itself. But beyond that, I could see exactly how her project would unfold: she'd drain her savings or go into debt, publish a book no one knew to buy, and end up with boxes of unsold inventory sitting in her garage.

Sometimes the kindest thing you can do as a coach is tell someone not to write a book—at least not yet. I sent her a very long email explaining why I didn't think this was the right move, offering alternative paths, and suggesting other resources. I don't know what she ultimately decided, but I hope she listened.

People tell you they're going to do things all the time, and they don't. They say they'd buy your book. They promise to leave a review. They claim they'll help promote your launch. But when it comes time to actually open their wallets or take action, most people don't follow through. If you're banking on hypothetical enthusiasm to carry your self-published cookbook to success, you're setting yourself up for heartbreak.

The Kitchen Nightmares Parallel

This reminds me of those Kitchen Nightmares episodes where Gordon Ramsay asks restaurant owners why they opened their establishment. "Oh, well, my birthday cakes were always really popular at family functions, and my friends started asking me to make them, so I thought I'd open a bakery."

But you don't know how to run a bakery. You don't understand the business side. You're not in it for that. Sometimes a hobby can just be a hobby. Not everything has to get turned into a business model. Some things are just meant for pleasure.

The same applies to cookbooks. Just because people compliment your cooking doesn't mean you should write a book. Just because you have recipes doesn't mean you have a book concept. Just because you love food doesn't mean you're ready for the publishing industry.

So When SHOULD You Write a Cookbook?

If all of this sounds discouraging, that's not my intent. I want you to write your cookbook. I want you to succeed.

But I want you to do it strategically.

Write a cookbook when you have a platform that proves people trust your food expertise. When you've tested your recipes until they're bulletproof. When you can name five comp titles and explain how yours is different. When you can handle tough questions about your concept without getting defensive. When you have a realistic budget and timeline.

Write a cookbook when you're ready to treat it like a business, not a hobby that might accidentally make money.

Because the authors I love working with—the ones who go on to land deals and build careers—they're not necessarily the most talented cooks or the most charismatic personalities. They're the ones who did the work. Who built slowly and strategically. Who asked hard questions about their own concepts before anyone else could.

They understand that a book proposal is a business plan for a book deal. They know that their chapter summaries need to include tested recipes, not just ideas. They recognize that building an audience isn't something you do after you get a deal—it's how you get the deal in the first place.

If you're not there yet? That's okay. Do the platform work. Practice pitching your ideas. Get comfortable with feedback. Study the market. Learn how publishing actually works, not how you wish it worked.

Your cookbook can wait. And when you're truly ready, it'll be worth the wait.

The difference between a hobby and a business is strategy, sustainability, and the ability to handle the unglamorous parts. Writing a cookbook isn't just about creating beautiful recipes and telling your food story. It's about testing those recipes until a stranger can execute them perfectly. It's about revising your prose until it's clear and compelling. It's about marketing and selling and showing up even when you don't feel like it.

Before you commit years of your life and thousands of dollars to a cookbook project, make sure you're ready for all of it—not just the fun parts.