The last decade or so has witnessed the rise of self-help books as a driving force in book markets across the globe. In 2019, a study conducted by NPD BookScan ™ observed a compound annual growth rate of 11% in unit sales of self-help books in the United States alone; this does not include sales from 2020, a unique year in which, having been stuck at home for months and focusing on nothing but oneself, many have evidently turned to a bookshop (albeit an online one), searching for possibilities of self-improvement in the form of a nonfiction guidebook. 

I have never really understood the hype around self-help as a nonfiction genre. On one hand, for years I always believed that I would not trust life advice given from anyone other than a therapist. Additionally, consuming self-help books always seemed just another way to impose standards of productivity or perfection that I could never reach – a reminder of things I should be doing to become a happier person, but would likely never be able to incorporate into my daily life. Self-help presented itself to me as a commodified reminder that you should be doing more – and in times like these, it just didn’t seem like something that would help. 

However, what I failed to realize before in my slightly judgemental bubble of ignorance around the world of self-help is that the term itself is far from a hegemonic title, representative of all the genre has to offer. Rather, self-help is more of an umbrella term to describe a range of nonfiction books pertaining to the individual, many of them with opposing arguments as to the definition of the term itself. Observing these different definitions, or sub-genres, of the nonfiction world of self-help may be useful in understanding its pros and cons, its appeals and apprehensions; and ultimately, why it has become something we seek out in a physical, literary format. 

In a 2018 interview with The New Yorker, journalist and writer Will Stor (author of Selfie: How We Became So Self-Obsessed and What It’s Doing to Us (2017)) outlines three major factors that explain why self-help is such a popularized genre today. According to Stor, modern culture, economics, and human nature have all imposed ‘aspirational narcissism’ onto the modern consumer, that which motivates the need for people to seek outlets for self-improvement. Anyone active on TikTok or Instagram who has seen the multitude of ‘quarantine vlogs’ within the last year crammed with daily walks, Chloe Ting workout videos, and productive study sessions may be able to relate to this phrase. We live in a culture of perfectionism, set up to feel as if we are never doing enough to become the best version of ourselves. For the average consumer, a self-proclaimed guidebook on how to do exactly that appears more enticing.This takes form in several of the pioneer self-help books – the seminal texts of the genre – such as Stephen R. Covey’s 2004 book, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People: Powerful Lessons in Personal Change’. These books give readers tips on how to better fit in with contemporary culture, or to at least feel better in the fact that they are working towards improving themselves. 

These assimilatory self-help books have, however, received their fair share of individual and public criticisms. For certain readers (myself included), feelings of inadequacy are only raised after reading them, with any effectiveness stemming from the anxiety they plant in the readers’ head on an endless quest towards standards of perfection which, due to continuous cultural shifts, are ultimately unattainable.This is not to say that all self-help books are wholly ineffective, but rather that, as stated in a 2019 Forbes study, ‘bashing self-help books is as popular as the self-help books themselves’; the self-help world is far from the utopic, positive environment it sets itself out to be. This brings about another grouping of books under the self-help genre, those which see self-help not as a means of doing more, but of doing less, or nothing at all. An example is provided in two of the most popular self-help books published within the last five years: Mark Manson’s The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck (2016), and Sarah Knight’s F*ck No! How to stop saying yes when you can’t, you shouldn’t, or you just don’t want to’ (2020). This constant oscillation between overachievement and underachievement is bound to make the reader feel exhausted, as if nothing in between is good enough standards for improvement are constantly changing in and of themselves. 

There is no need to paraphrase here – these self-help books, rather than advising readers on how to reach societal standards of perfection or productivity, urge us to break free from those constraints, and to adopt a new, literal ‘I don’t give a f*ck’ attitude in work and life. Sarah Knight, a former editor at Simon and Schuster publishing house, has built a career as an ‘anti-guru’ novelist, writing books that propose strategies such as ‘mental decluttering’ to encourage readers to go against the grain and live more intentionally. The ‘you do you’ ideology behind these self-help books, while seemingly less conformist, possesses an idealism to the point of becoming unrealistic. Many can certainly relate to the desire to ‘not give a f*ck’, or to simply stop participating in systems that hold no real value to us; however, day to day obligations point us otherwise. Such a drastic lifestyle change is only available to those in places of privilege, and not to the lives of everyday people. 

In a way, the genre of self-help nonfiction, while not entirely ineffective, lacks an all-encompassing methodology which can provide universally applicable guidance to everyday people. It seems as if self-help, in and of itself, is tethered to an ideal of self-improvement, that which easily falls short in its tendency to profit off our insecurities and perpetuate cultural values which exacerbate such insecurities, within the average consumer. However, recognition of these unattainable standards have led to alternative interpretations for self-help in recent years – one that shies away from self-improvement as the end goal for engaging in self-help practices. Instead, it emphasizes self-acceptance; an anti-self-improvement, self-help book, if you will. One of the leading works in this subgenre is titled, fittingly, Stand Firm: Resisting the Self-Improvement Craze by Svend Brinkmann. Brinkmann’s book reflects on the commodification of self-improvement, and self-help, during the twenty-first century, and offers another way of viewing one’s place in the world. In an interview with the New Yorker, Brinkmann highlights the goal of his book – ‘to accept, with calm resolve, the fact that we are mortal, and irreparably flawed.’ Brinkmann’s interpretation of self-help is to encourage acceptance of the average, rather than ideals of perfection – not in a way that prevents growth, but an acceptance of the average in order to stop and enjoy life more.

Brinkmann’s interpretation of self-help raises an interesting point, one which I had failed to consider before in my discontent with the genre. As much as I may disagree with certain interpretations of the real meaning of self-help, and the way they have manifested in contemporary literature, to dismiss the genre altogether would eliminate the freedom of choice consumers have in choosing which version of self-help appeals to them the most. Self-help as it is defined by one writer or consumer may not work for the next person, or vice versa; however, the differing definitions presented, and the status of self-help as an umbrella signifier, presents a greater chance for each reader to find books that are individually enjoyable and effective. Perhaps the tentative meaning of what self-help can mean for each of us is what makes its ongoing generic growth worthwhile.