The Day a Teacher Walked Away (and Why I’m Paying Attention)
Adapted from Amra's Armchair Anecdotes episode 26-How she turned teaching into a business coaching authors, interviewing Kellie Nissen
Some conversations linger with you—not because they’re dramatic, but because they quietly confirm thoughts you’ve nursed for years.
Talking to Kellie Nissen was one of those conversations.
When I talked with Kellie Nissen, that was one of those talks. She described the instant she decided to stop teaching—not a grand plan or a carefully plotted exit, but a simple meeting with her principal. He asked if she planned to return next year. Before she could stop herself, she said, “I think I might just resign.” When pressed on timing, she replied, “Now.” I felt that moment deep in my bones. Any teacher who’s stayed long enough knows that sentence lives inside you, flickering on the worst days—those exhausting days when the part you love, the students and the act of teaching, is drowned out by everything else. We leave not because we don’t care, but because we care too much.
Hidden Abilities
Teachers convince themselves they have no other skills. It sounds ridiculous: we manage people, time, conflict, curriculum, emotions, expectations and systems—sometimes all in one class period. Yet because it’s labeled “teaching,” we fail to see how transferable those talents are. Kellie pointed out that she didn’t really abandon teaching; she simply changed her audience. Now she works one-on-one with writers, guiding them through idea formation, draft revision and—crucially—helping them believe their work deserves completion. It’s still teaching, but without the institutional machinery. There’s a quiet revolution in that and a hopeful model for anyone juggling multiple passions in search of a sustainable creative life.
The Allure of Being Published
We talked about emerging authors, and I felt protective and frustrated because I’ve witnessed this pattern too often. A writer pours years into a manuscript and then hears exactly what they’ve craved: “We love your work.” Followed by, almost as an aside: “There is a fee.” Kellie was blunt: if you’re paying, they’re offering a service, not a publishing deal. It seems obvious when stated plainly, but emotion clouds judgment. The craving for validation can override logic.
I still remember being shortlisted for the Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for an unpublished manuscript—the phone call, the surge of recognition, the feeling of floating above the anonymous pile. That euphoria makes dreams easy prey. We discussed ways writers can verify publishers’ or agents’ legitimacy. Writer Beware is a reliable resource for vetting any unsolicited offer.
When Feedback Becomes Noise
Another less obvious trap is feedback itself. We’re taught to seek it, value it and learn from it—and we should. But endless suggestions can warp your work. Adopt every comment and you end up with something unrecognisable, a manuscript that no longer sounds like you. I’ve lived that. My memoir shapeshifted under the influence of mentors, agents and publishers, each with a valid but distinct vision of what the book should be. None were wrong, but none were fully right for me either. As a writer, there comes a point when you must choose whose voice to trust. If it isn’t your own, your book will fracture.
Writing What Hurts
In my memoir workshops, I see this especially with women writing about trauma—sexual abuse, displacement, loss. These stories have often simmered for decades before finding words, and then fragile drafts venture into spaces unprepared to hold them. Writing groups recoil. Readers soften the truth out of discomfort. Feedback shifts from craft to the reader’s inability to face hardship. It wounds. Kellie emphasized the importance of finding the right person—a supportive editor, coach or reader who can contain the work without diluting it. Delving into trauma opens you up; you need to know who’s standing by when the cracks appear.
The Economics We Ignore
There’s a gap between the public’s perception of authors and our reality. People see a $32.99 cover price and assume we’re making a fortune. Most of us aren’t. We write around day jobs—teaching, freelancing, parenting—anything that pays the bills. Revenue usually comes from related activities: workshops, talks, appearances. In effect, we subsidise our own creative work. Still, requests for free copies persist. It stings—not for the paper’s cost, but for the disregard of our time, labor and expertise. I’ve gradually learned to set firm prices and stick to them. If I don’t value my work, no one else will.
Rethinking Publishing Hierarchies
We also discussed the divide between traditional and independent publishing, often framed as a hierarchy: traditional at the top, self-publishing below. I no longer see it that way. I’ve experienced the perks of traditional houses—mentorship, infrastructure, prestige—as well as their drawbacks: limited control, short promotion windows, a book that quietly vanishes when the next title comes along. Independent publishing shifts all responsibility—finances, logistics, marketing—onto you, but also grants total ownership. You decide a book’s lifespan and evolution. It’s not easier, but it’s more honest.
Building Something Your Own
What resonated most wasn’t the publishing model or marketing tips, but the concept of creating something wholly yours. Kellie spoke candidly about the uncertainties of running a small business—never knowing where the next client will come from, the discomfort of self-promotion. It’s unstable and unpredictable, but it’s yours. As teachers, we operate within systems we didn’t design—timetables, curricula, policies that dictate our days. Stepping outside that framework is both freeing and terrifying. There’s no one to tell you what to do, and no safety net if you fall. Yet the control—knowing every decision is yours—is intoxicating.
The Unscripted Conversation
Midway through our talk, I realised I hadn’t asked a single one of my prepared questions. Kellie admitted she’d printed them out “just in case.” We both laughed. The best conversations aren’t the scripted ones; they unfold organically, fueled by the moment’s energy, leaving room for contradiction and uncertainty. In an increasingly automated, polished and curated world, there’s value in being human—messing up, forgetting how to log into your recording software, admitting you don’t have all the answers and figuring them out anyway.
What I’m Carrying Forward
I’m not handing in my resignation tomorrow, but I’m paying attention—to those thoughts that drift in at the edges of my day, to how my work is changing, to possibilities beyond the structures I’ve always known. Maybe that’s where it begins. This year, I’ve set deadlines, made a plan and started building a business, holding myself accountable. One day, I might say, just as Kellie did, “I think I might resign.”