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 Gen Z goblin with an overdeveloped sense of narrative symmetry. Let her in.”

And lo, another masterpiece (or felony) was born. This time, instead of emotional devastation, it’s 100,000 words of chaotic bisexuals, screenwriting rivalry romance, and enough existential dread to qualify as a medical condition.

Starring the most unhinged character I’ve ever written: a male siren so powerful, so feral, so unreasonably funny that 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 my survival instincts and did exactly that, instead of querying agents yet 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.
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 opening 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.

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.