How I Wrote Three Novels in a Year, But Was Too Scared to Query An Agent
They say fortune favors the bold. Unfortunately, I’m more of a trembling little mole person.
Not that you could tell from my writing, mind you.
Let’s review: the first smut scene I EVER wrote was (brace yourselves):
First person.
Gay sex.
From the perspective of a top.
As a queer woman with no practical experience in topping anything more sentient than a bag of flour.
And I didn’t just dabble, okay?
I infiltrated gay Reddit forums like an undercover cop who’s too emotionally invested. I was taking field notes as if it were nuclear physics meets National Geographic.
Full David Attenborough mode:
“Observe: the gay male in his natural digital habitat. Note his ritualistic declaration of emotional ruin. He wishes to be railgunned into a new emotional plane and then tenderly called a good boy. Truly… breathtaking.”
I was out here writing smut like I was applying for a research grant from the Smithsonian.
And it SLAPPED.
I mean, I had people (actual gay men) telling me, “Hey, this emotionally wrecked me in a good way.”
Sir, thank you. I gave part of my soul for it.
Our Seasons in Monochrome is, and I say this with full chest and zero humility, a masterpiece.
To the point where two indie presses praised it like it was a wounded Victorian orphan they desperately wanted to adopt — only to promptly leave it out in the cold because:
…it’s 200K words long.
That’s right.
My first novel is basically the gay Lord of the Rings trilogy, but with more yearning, crying, and better lighting.
Every editor said, “We love it, but it’s too long.”
And I said, “So is my suffering.”
Please clap.
Needless to say, I didn’t query agents for it, despite it being my actual firstborn child.
Because here’s the thing: it doesn’t matter how brilliant something is.
No one is taking a risk that big on an unknown author (which is fair).
So I did what any reasonable, totally stable creative person would do.
I pivoted.
Enter: Unscripted.
“WHAT IF,” I whisper-screamed, pacing my bedroom at 2 a.m. while my four cats and husband watched in silent horror. “WHAT IF I WRITE A SEQUEL THAT’S PUNCHIER, SHORTER, AND FUNCTIONS AS A PROOF OF CONCEPT?? I can release that first, then OSIM can be the prequel!”
Surely, I thought, this will work.
Surely the heavens will part, the angels will descend, and someone up there will say,
“Yes. This one. This trembling Gen Z goblin with an overdeveloped sense of narrative symmetry. Let her in.”
And lo, another masterpiece was born. Except this time, instead of emotional devastation, it’s chaotic bisexuals, a male siren, a screenwriting rivalry romance, and so much existential dread it borders on medical concern.
Starring the most unhinged character I’ve ever written: a man so powerful, so feral, so unreasonably funny, he nearly clawed his way out of my Google Doc to fight me, his literal God.
I’m, of course, talking about Dylan Royce.
Never have I been so threatened by my own creation before. Ten out of ten. Do not recommend.
And (get this), the very night I finished writing it, I submitted it on a whim to an indie press.
The next morning, I got a reply from the managing editor.
Cue: months of hope, memes, and borderline flirtatious professional banter with a man who did, eventually, have to say no.
Because, plot twist, behind all that bisexual excellence lurked a 200K-word monochrome behemoth.
To be clear, I was fully transparent about my Trojan Horse plan.
“Yes, sir,” I essentially said, “you are being seduced by a sequel to a war crime of a manuscript.”
I stand by it. Integrity is always the right move.
And props to this man, he read both books. He praised the writing, the voice, the execution — everything except, tragically, the length. Because apparently “over 300K words across two novels” is “a logistical risk not possible for a debut author.”
Then he gently suggested I write a true standalone.
Naturally, I ignored all survival instincts and did exactly that, instead of querying agents (once again).
DRUMROLL, PLEASE.
Night Shift: Seoul Sleepers enters the chat.
You guys.
Let’s just say, if OSIM is my firstborn golden child (adored, untouchable, weeping into a velvet pillow full of dreams), and Unscripted is the next-door neighbor’s chaotic kid who moved in with a skateboard and refuses to leave…
…then Night Shift is the offspring that shows up in a tailored blazer, gets hired at a Fortune 500 straight out of college, pays off the other two’s student loans, and whispers, “Mom, don’t worry. I’ve got this.”
It’s the child I can actually trust to succeed in life… and fund the emotional and literal debts of its older, more dramatic siblings.
And yes. Definitely the best my writing has ever been. The tightest arcs. The cleanest prose. The most to say.
Sharp. Romantic. Appealing to weebs and Kpop fans alike. An ending so moving it could singlehandedly broker world peace.
All of it contained within a very reasonable 73K words.
The moment I typed the final two words, I knew: this one… this one was destined.
So here I am. Finally. Ready to take the plunge.
And I’m shaking.
I don’t understand how I can write three novels in a year… and still stare at an agent email like it’s a live grenade.
The math is not mathing.
The logic is not logicing.
The common sense is very, very absent.
Like, picture this:
I stare at the email. I revise it for the seventh time. I delete it. I rewrite it. I consider attaching a PowerPoint. Maybe a haiku.
I scroll back up. The subject line: is it too aggressive? Too humble? Will they think I’m unhinged instead of charming?
I open a new tab. I research every agent like I’m running a CIA background check. Do they like humor? Do they prefer strict professionalism? Do they have a favorite color I can subtly reference?
My soul physically trembles like a feral cat in a haunted library.
And yet.
And yet… I know that if I don’t hit send, the world will never meet Night Shift: the book that might finally open the door for everything else.
So I breathe. Deeply.
Summon every ounce of courage a gremlin with three novels can muster.
Then, I press send.
…And immediately melt into a puddle on the floor.
There you have it. I did the thing.
If you’re an agent reading this: yes, I finally made a QueryTracker account. Can you believe it?
I’ve never been more ready to conquer the literary world with you, laughing and joking the whole way.
Please. I beg. Don’t ghost me. I’ve suffered enough.
I can handle rejection, but not more existential dread.
And to all the other writers out there: don’t give up.
Keep going, keep sending, keep writing.
This one might be it.
Writing Is Fun Until You Have to Edit
Y’all, I finally figured out what makes my brain shut up.
I knew it was bad when the plot suddenly stopped writing itself.
“Oh??? SILENCE???”
I said aloud, like a crazy person.
The characters stopped talking in my head.
Turns out, cutting 50k words from a manuscript will, in fact, unplug your soul.
Not in one sitting, mind you. But like... almost.
It was, what, a week?
Bro.
After a while, I turned into Jared — 19.
I stopped being able to read.
My neurons? OFF.
My motivation? OUT TO LUNCH.
My manuscript? A bloated whale carcass.
Why do I do this to myself?
I’m only halfway done, and I still have, what, 50k more to cut??
Excuse me??
Like.
How did I even write this much in the first place???
10K ALONE was just one character describing every single meal he cooked and ate.
Like okay, chef, calm down.
This is not your sad frog cooking channel.
And yet. Somehow. I’m not sad. Or mad. Just a little numb.
I’m sorry to this man (my manuscript), but you were so bloated it bordered on a health hazard.
90% of the cuts are making it better.
Shoutout to Josie, the MVP who read the entire original version.
Girl.
You’re unwell. I say that with love.
And then she had the audacity to say:
“I feel like you could’ve added more insecurity!”
MA’AM.
THE BOOK IS LONGER THAN THE BIBLE.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN “MORE INSECURITY”?
IT’S 400 PAGES OF EMOTIONAL DAMAGE AND GAY YEARNING FOR CUSTARD.
Anyway.
Don’t mind this blog post.
This is just me coping from inside the editing trenches, screaming into the void.
All I want is to write. But every time I try, my soul goes:
“NO. YOU MUST FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED.”
And I’m like:
🥲 okay
My Thoughts After One Weekend on Social Media
Some say I have too much audacity.
I’ll do you one better.
I somehow have both too much audacity and too much shame.
I’ll do something with my whole chest, then immediately shrivel into a sentient anxiety spiral.
Case in point:
I got irrationally angry at Instagram and took it out the only way I know how.
Slam poetry.
Directed at Mark Zuckerberg.
While my cat watched from the toilet seat. Horrified.
Was that a neurotypical way to process frustration? No.
Was it effective? Actually, yeah. Cathartic, even.
So I posted it.
Felt proud.
Vulnerable.
Alive.
And then the TikTok got zero views in the first five minutes, and my soul physically left my body.
So what did I do?
I deleted the app.
Just dipped.
Left my digital mess like,
“You know what? Time for me to perish.”
Then I stared at my reflection and redownloaded it.
Muttering:
“You coward. You’re the closest you’ve ever been to your dreams, and you can’t handle a little algorithmic rejection??”
Because apparently, that’s what authors do.
Yell into the void, emotionally combust, and then gaslight ourselves back into the delusion.
What can I say?
Being perceived is the most exhausting thing in the world.
I’m out here chewing through the wires of my self-worth like an emotional rodent with imposter syndrome.
And when someone gives me attention?
The rodent energy escalates.
I panic like I’ve been caught holding a dream too big for my tiny, trembling hands.
Especially when it's a dream everyone scoffs at.
“‘Being a writer.’ What are you, twelve?”
No, Carlos. I’m just delusional with intent.
And also… maybe.
I was a weird little contradiction at twelve.
Like, emotionally ancient, but also genuinely convinced Red Bull was a gateway drug.
That’s what happens when you’re the main caretaker of a five-year-old, because your mom won’t get help for her long-term postpartum depression.
Seriously… I think that explains a lot about why I am the way I am.
Why social media freaks me out.
Why attention feels like a threat.
I spent my whole life taking care of and trying to please other people.
And then I woke up at twenty-five like,
“Oh shit! I’ve never lived for myself.
Everything I ever did was to make my parents happy, and they don’t even talk to me anymore.”
So I handled that realization in the healthiest way possible.
Just kidding.
I resurrected my dream of being a writer.
Wrote two books in seven months.
Went so hard that I didn’t menstruate for almost that whole time.
Do you UNDERSTAND??
I poured so much into those books, they physically absorbed my reproductive rage.
And now I’m like…
Please, someone see it.
But also? DON’T.
Because prioritizing myself — my wants, my feelings —
has never gone well for me before.
Anyway, that’s not the point.
The point is… I’ve accomplished so many things in my life that I am grateful for.
Especially at my young ass age.
So yeah, I know I should probably be on my knees daily, praising Jesus for the blessings.
But none of it has ever felt this personal.
And because of that… everything feels like the end of the world.
Like if this one thing — the thing I’ve truly wanted — doesn’t work?
That’s it.
That’s the end.
The voice in my head wins.
Never reaching dreams is already hard… even when you don’t try.
But trying your best, getting close, seeing everything you’ve ever wanted at your fingertips… then having it disappear?
That’s just heartbreak.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to gaslight myself into delusion again.
…
I hope I do, though.
Because if there’s one thing I know about myself, it’s that I can get through anything.
I’ll shatter, glue myself back together, and maybe one day someone will see the gold in the cracks.
And even if they don’t… I’ll leave behind a good story.
That’s all we can ever ask for.
Don’t you think?
I Wrote a Book. The Industry Said, “Cool. Now Dance, Monkey.”
Ah yes, social media.
Where art goes to starve and authors go to dance for scraps of relevance.
The truth is, sometime around sophomore year of highschool, I made the wisest decision of my teenage years and deleted all of it.
There were several reasons for this.
One, it took too much of my precious time. There was painfully little to begin with once I finished all my AP homework, studied for tests, and acted as a couples therapist for my parents.
Two, it made me sad. There I was: pimply, depressed, and again… the emotional bedrock of my family, despite not knowing what a 401K was or how to boil rice properly. I had to watch all these other lucky children go to prom rather than tutor and babysit their younger sibling and actually have a childhood.
Some kids got corsages. I got passive-aggressive texts from my mom and the privilege of explaining divorce to a 9-year-old, only for it to not even happen because codependency.
Three, my psychotic step-sister who tried to kill me several times as a child was viewing my stories, and listen, if anyone's gonna haunt me, it better at least be a literary agent.
Am I okay?
The answer is a solid KIND OF.
The irony is not lost on me.
I deleted social media for my mental health.
Publishing now demands I build a “platform.”
So here I am. Performing. For strangers.
Like the tired, traumatized Aries moon I am.
Let’s hope the algorithm notices.