SINGAPORE: As an author, one question I always get when I give talks at secondary schools is: How much does an author earn?
I usually smile and say, “It can vary widely for different authors and well, most of us are not James Patterson or Stephen King.”
Authors earn royalties, which means we get a small percentage from every book sold. In Singapore and globally, royalties typically fall between 5 to 15 per cent of the book's selling price. That price could be based on the gross retail price or a net figure after costs.
So if a book sells for S$20, a 10 per cent royalty earns you S$2 per book. And if that royalty is based on the net price, it’s even less.
Then there's the big question: How many books can an author sell? That depends on many things – whether the book is sold locally or internationally, how many titles the author has, their audience reach. But generally speaking, lifetime sales often range from a few hundred to a few thousand copies.
Some books never even sell out their first print run of 1,000 copies or less. That first advance – which is basically a prepayment of royalties for a projected number of sales – might end up being the only money an author ever sees from their book. They only earn more once their book has “earned out” the advance.
So when aspiring writers ask if this is a sustainable career, my answer is: Honestly, not usually; many authors write while holding down a full-time job.
Of course, there are occasional headlines about Singaporean authors landing lucrative book deals overseas. Jemimah Wei’s The Original Daughter recently sold at auction for more than US$500,000.
While that’s incredibly inspiring, it's also rare. For most writers, that kind of story is more fairy tale than norm.
Singapore writers face some unique challenges. First, the market is small, so there are only so many people to sell to. Authors don’t have many publishers to choose from, which limits their bargaining power during contract negotiation. Add to that Singapore’s well-stocked libraries, which make readers more inclined to borrow than buy books.
On top of it all, bookstores are dwindling, which means fewer places for local writers to sell their books.
Singapore has made efforts to support its literary scene – largely through the National Arts Council and various grants. The SG Culture Pass, a scheme that will give each Singaporean S$100 to spend on the arts, including local literature, is a positive step.
Organisations like Sing Lit Station and the Singapore Book Council have helped fuel ground-up initiatives, from school programmes and mentorships to community events. Major festivals like the Singapore Writers Festival and the Asian Festival of Children’s Content (AFCC) have provided vital platforms for local authors to connect with readers and showcase their work.
While these efforts have opened doors, sustaining a writing career in Singapore is still tough. Grants are helpful for specific projects, but they don’t solve the bigger issue of long-term sustainability.
What local authors need are more direct and consistent forms of support like better book advances, more robust marketing efforts and broader distribution channels.
One area that was recently talked about is Public Lending Right (PLR) – a system used in countries like Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and across Europe. Through government funding, it compensates writers when their books are borrowed from libraries.
This could provide a modest but meaningful income stream for local writers, especially in a market where book sales are limited.
For every person who champions SingLit, there’s probably someone else who doesn’t read local books, nor sees the need to. But to say we can do without SingLit is shortsighted.
When a country lacks stories written by its own people, it begins to lose its place in the global narrative. Without those voices, people grow up surrounded by borrowed perspectives, which slowly shapes how they see themselves and their culture.
Young readers, especially, start to feel invisible. If no one in the stories they read looks like them, talks like them, or faces the same challenges, it sends a quiet message: Your life isn’t worth writing about. That kind of absence chips away at self-worth and imagination.
The impact of local stories is hard to measure – but it’s real. I’ve seen it firsthand with my middle grade series, My BFF Is An Alien. The story follows a Singaporean girl and her unlikely friendship with an alien, and the adventures they go on together.
Is this the kind of story that would score me a massive publishing deal? Probably not. Is it Booker Prize material? Again, probably not.
But I’ve had young readers come up to me and say that my books made them want to become writers. I’ve had parents tell me it was my books that finally got their children hooked and sparked their interest in reading. That’s not nothing.
There are so many great middle grade books – but what made mine hit home for these readers wasn’t just their fun plot or relatable themes. It was the fact that the readers could see themselves in the pages. They connected with my stories because it reflected something true about their lived experience. The voices sounded familiar. The setting felt like home. And that recognition – that “hey, this is about me!” moment – is powerful.
One might ask: If writing pays so little, why do it at all? The simple answer for most is that we do it for the love of storytelling. We write stories we wish existed, stories we want to read and see out in the world.
For me, My BFF Is An Alien was the story I wish I had when I started secondary school. That period in my life was incredibly lonely, and I would’ve loved to lose myself in a book that felt like it understood me. I also wrote it for my own children, so they had more choices beyond the Eurocentric stories I grew up with.
Representation matters. When you see someone like you – a kid from your neighbourhood, someone who sounds like your friends – as the hero of a story, it changes what you believe is possible. That’s not just fiction. That’s hope.
But for those stories to keep coming, writers need support – whether it’s PLR schemes, grants, or just making sure their books are on shelves and in homes. Without enough backing, even the most passionate authors can burn out.
In a time when artificial intelligence is creeping into creative spaces, the human voice has become even more precious. There’s a soul behind stories that only people can bring – our humour, heartbreaks, quirks and lived truths. And in Singapore, that voice is rare. That’s worth preserving and supporting.
Vivian Teo is a freelance writer, children’s book author and owner of a parenting and lifestyle blog.
Continue reading...
I usually smile and say, “It can vary widely for different authors and well, most of us are not James Patterson or Stephen King.”
Authors earn royalties, which means we get a small percentage from every book sold. In Singapore and globally, royalties typically fall between 5 to 15 per cent of the book's selling price. That price could be based on the gross retail price or a net figure after costs.
So if a book sells for S$20, a 10 per cent royalty earns you S$2 per book. And if that royalty is based on the net price, it’s even less.
Then there's the big question: How many books can an author sell? That depends on many things – whether the book is sold locally or internationally, how many titles the author has, their audience reach. But generally speaking, lifetime sales often range from a few hundred to a few thousand copies.
Some books never even sell out their first print run of 1,000 copies or less. That first advance – which is basically a prepayment of royalties for a projected number of sales – might end up being the only money an author ever sees from their book. They only earn more once their book has “earned out” the advance.
So when aspiring writers ask if this is a sustainable career, my answer is: Honestly, not usually; many authors write while holding down a full-time job.
Of course, there are occasional headlines about Singaporean authors landing lucrative book deals overseas. Jemimah Wei’s The Original Daughter recently sold at auction for more than US$500,000.
While that’s incredibly inspiring, it's also rare. For most writers, that kind of story is more fairy tale than norm.
TOUGH LOCAL MARKET
Singapore writers face some unique challenges. First, the market is small, so there are only so many people to sell to. Authors don’t have many publishers to choose from, which limits their bargaining power during contract negotiation. Add to that Singapore’s well-stocked libraries, which make readers more inclined to borrow than buy books.
On top of it all, bookstores are dwindling, which means fewer places for local writers to sell their books.
Singapore has made efforts to support its literary scene – largely through the National Arts Council and various grants. The SG Culture Pass, a scheme that will give each Singaporean S$100 to spend on the arts, including local literature, is a positive step.
Organisations like Sing Lit Station and the Singapore Book Council have helped fuel ground-up initiatives, from school programmes and mentorships to community events. Major festivals like the Singapore Writers Festival and the Asian Festival of Children’s Content (AFCC) have provided vital platforms for local authors to connect with readers and showcase their work.
While these efforts have opened doors, sustaining a writing career in Singapore is still tough. Grants are helpful for specific projects, but they don’t solve the bigger issue of long-term sustainability.
What local authors need are more direct and consistent forms of support like better book advances, more robust marketing efforts and broader distribution channels.
One area that was recently talked about is Public Lending Right (PLR) – a system used in countries like Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and across Europe. Through government funding, it compensates writers when their books are borrowed from libraries.
This could provide a modest but meaningful income stream for local writers, especially in a market where book sales are limited.
Related:
WHY SUPPORT SINGLIT?
For every person who champions SingLit, there’s probably someone else who doesn’t read local books, nor sees the need to. But to say we can do without SingLit is shortsighted.
When a country lacks stories written by its own people, it begins to lose its place in the global narrative. Without those voices, people grow up surrounded by borrowed perspectives, which slowly shapes how they see themselves and their culture.
Young readers, especially, start to feel invisible. If no one in the stories they read looks like them, talks like them, or faces the same challenges, it sends a quiet message: Your life isn’t worth writing about. That kind of absence chips away at self-worth and imagination.
The impact of local stories is hard to measure – but it’s real. I’ve seen it firsthand with my middle grade series, My BFF Is An Alien. The story follows a Singaporean girl and her unlikely friendship with an alien, and the adventures they go on together.
Is this the kind of story that would score me a massive publishing deal? Probably not. Is it Booker Prize material? Again, probably not.
But I’ve had young readers come up to me and say that my books made them want to become writers. I’ve had parents tell me it was my books that finally got their children hooked and sparked their interest in reading. That’s not nothing.
There are so many great middle grade books – but what made mine hit home for these readers wasn’t just their fun plot or relatable themes. It was the fact that the readers could see themselves in the pages. They connected with my stories because it reflected something true about their lived experience. The voices sounded familiar. The setting felt like home. And that recognition – that “hey, this is about me!” moment – is powerful.
Related:
THE LOVE OF STORYTELLING
One might ask: If writing pays so little, why do it at all? The simple answer for most is that we do it for the love of storytelling. We write stories we wish existed, stories we want to read and see out in the world.
For me, My BFF Is An Alien was the story I wish I had when I started secondary school. That period in my life was incredibly lonely, and I would’ve loved to lose myself in a book that felt like it understood me. I also wrote it for my own children, so they had more choices beyond the Eurocentric stories I grew up with.
Representation matters. When you see someone like you – a kid from your neighbourhood, someone who sounds like your friends – as the hero of a story, it changes what you believe is possible. That’s not just fiction. That’s hope.
But for those stories to keep coming, writers need support – whether it’s PLR schemes, grants, or just making sure their books are on shelves and in homes. Without enough backing, even the most passionate authors can burn out.
In a time when artificial intelligence is creeping into creative spaces, the human voice has become even more precious. There’s a soul behind stories that only people can bring – our humour, heartbreaks, quirks and lived truths. And in Singapore, that voice is rare. That’s worth preserving and supporting.
Vivian Teo is a freelance writer, children’s book author and owner of a parenting and lifestyle blog.
Continue reading...