The Magical Story of My First Book Deal

Would you believe me if I said it all started with a wish?

I can barely process what I’m typing right now. I’ve signed with an amazing editor, and my debut novel is set to release in the latter half of 2025. Ironically enough, words cannot describe my gratitude. I’m an author without a dictionary large enough to provide adjectives for how I am feeling.

Nearly four years ago, I took my very first step into the world of publishing. In October of 2021, I tried my hand at writing a real, actual novel. With pure delusion and audacious confidence on my side, I pledged a goal to send that novel out to literary agents by January of 2022. Unfortunately, I only made it around twenty-thousand words in. In March of 2022, I haphazardly resurrected a beloved idea from my adolescence, but once again, only made it to the twenty-thousand word mark.

I just couldn’t seem to land on a story capable of holding my attention. I was writing out of desperation to fulfill a dream, not out of pure, unfiltered, unobstructed passion. Desperation wasn’t sustainable. Dreams weren’t sustainable. What I needed was a project that filled me with such joy, such sunshine, that I’d be completely unable to bear the thought of leaving it unfinished.

In October of 2022, I found that project. In January of 2023, I sent that project into the Query Trenches. In April of 2023, I got a job at Barnes and Nobles, convincing myself it was vital market research. In May of 2023, I connected with an incredible agent who has since become one of my dearest friends. In August of 2024 — after one year on submission — my agent and I decided it was time to go out to publishers with something new.

Dearest fellow writers, do not bring out the tissues yet! This was not a tragedy. In fact, it was the start of something more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. While my first beloved book was being considered, I found myself in a state I’d never experienced before. For some reason, all of the frantic, desperate energy that halted my first two stories had dissipated the moment my agent hit Send. As I waited for responses from publishers, I felt like I could write just about anything, and it was that magical anything that became my debut.

1 | I Wrote Like No One Was Watching

After many months of contemplation, I think I’ve finally discovered what — exactly — made my post-submission project so easy to work on. Even though my first novel was born of pure love and passion, there was still a part of me judging it from over my own shoulder. Editor Brittany was constantly harassing Writer Brittany, making good-natured but overzealous remarks about what should end up on the page.

My second full novel was, well… chaos.

I approached it with no confidence, no expectations — and therefore — no worries. The first was to be my magnum opus, the second… a messy, violent, anarchic little mayhem baby that didn’t need to live up to Editor Brittany’s standards. It was an act of shameless, defiant fun. I genuinely couldn’t imagine a single person reading it, let alone enjoying it, because I was convinced my first novel would be the one purchased. This little disaster would surely die in a shadowy Google Drive grave.

To put it simply, I wrote like no one was watching, not even myself.

There were no big dreams this manuscript had to live up to. Its only job was to exist, and solely for the sake of keeping me entertained while the “real” thing was making its rounds. Due to this new approach, I unknowingly wrote one of the most authentic, unblushingly genuine pieces in my creative arsenal. I wrote something unafraid and unembarrassed to be itself, and in more ways than one, it taught me to be unafraid and unembarrassed to be myself.

2 | I Edited Mercilessly

Somewhere in the temporal maze of 2024, I mentioned the Great Mayhem Baby to my agent. She was beyond supportive and enthusiastic about giving it a place in my career plan. In fact, she was among the first people in my life to tell me this project could actually go somewhere. My loved ones had been telling me to get this one out there for years, but naturally, I assumed a bias born of love. When my agent advised me to get this one ready for submission, I was genuinely surprised.

Since I wasn’t as attached to the Mayhem Baby as I was to my Magnum Opus project, I was able to edit it with a bit more vigor. I wasn’t particularly attached to any of the details, so I was very flexible in terms of incorporating changes and considering new ideas. I had a few brainstorming sessions with my agent and with beta readers that led to massive creative eruptions in the manuscript. In retrospect, I feel I barred myself from this sort of creative freedom with the first project because I was so attached to the draft I’d landed on.

This time, flexibility and fun led the editing process entirely. Chapter 7 has to go? No problem! Add a new character? Sure! Anything and everything was on the table, and the manuscript was a living, breathing beast ever-eager to grow. Through it, I — as an author — found myself more eager than ever to grow.

Arriving at the draft dubbed “final” felt like a playful wink at the creative cosmos. Something in me knew there’d be more to come, but for the time being, I felt satisfied with sending it off. When the call came in that someone wonderful had made an offer, I couldn’t help but feel the story springing back to life, ready to thrive on the edits ahead.

3 | I Kept One Big Secret

I wrote the first paragraph of this article months before this was true. On a particularly dreary day when my hope-levels were dangerously low, I took to the keyboard to cheer myself up. Booting up Medium, I opened a blank draft and wondered, “What is it I’d like to be true?”

A wish manifested in my mind like a glimmer in the void, as good a fallen star as any. I gently grabbed hold of it, then transcribed it in four sentences as though it had already come to be. I allowed myself to wonder what I might actually be feeling in this not-so-distant, writerly future. Instead of focusing purely on the joy, I welcomed emotional complexity to make it even more real.

Surely, I’d be over-the-moon with happiness, but knowing myself, I’d also be wrought with imposter syndrome. I like my writing, but if I’m being perfectly honest, I often wonder why anyone else does. I’d be excited beyond compare, glowing with a sense of accomplishment and hope. I’d be thinking about cover designs and audiobook narration, smiling like a child on Christmas whenever either comes to mind. However, my anxious little brain would also be overrun with concern for deadlines, revisions, and arriving at the best draft possible.

Sat in my bedroom, at the same writing desk where I’d written my novels, I meditated on these emotions. I wasn’t arranged like a devout yogi or urging my thoughts into any specific form. I simply stepped into my future self, just as I’d step into any character in one of my stories.

All of a sudden, it just felt… real.

It wasn’t pure, unrelenting joy placed atop a pedestal. It was a complex, multifaceted experience. It was down to Earth, down here on Earth. It felt less like a dream and more like a tangible thing, translated from wish-language to the language of my human self.

I laid out the chapters for this article, chronicling what had already happened first, and loosely predicting what might come after. Then, I closed the draft and let it disappear beneath others. I didn’t lose sight of my wish or of my future self, though. Invigorated in a way I’d never been before, I started approaching each day with the confidence of a published author.

I played pretend. Playing pretend, however, unlocked the hope I needed, and I believe it unlocked my future, too.

Whenever I felt lazy about starting a new story or diving into an abandoned manuscript, I reminded myself that I was a published author, and that my agent, editor, and readers were counting on me. Whenever I felt hesitant or insecure about a budding idea, I let myself scroll through imaginary tweets from readers excited about my next work. I felt love and support beyond the confines of time, and even on my hardest days, it kept me going. Even in my most difficult moments, it kept me from giving up.

Perhaps some kind of cosmic magic aligned me with the most wonderful editor I ever could have asked for. Perhaps there’s something to be said about falling stars and the wishes we make on them. Perhaps all one needs to achieve their loftiest goals is a bit of belief and a dash of delusion. Either way, acting like my dream self is what led me to become her. It helped me write through stone-strong blocks, weather each rainy day, and hold onto hope regardless of circumstance.

Dare to believe in your fantasies, writer friends. They’re closer and more possible than you think.