I’m not great at small talk, so let’s cut straight to the introduction.

• You: Reader, possibly writer, with fabulous taste in newsletters

• Me: Freelance writer and soon-to-be-author with a simple goal: that when you type my name, spellcheck doesn’t ask did you mean “Dean Koontz”?

shakes hands

If you’re reading this, you might know me from Tweets about writing, LinkedIns (?) about writing, or maybe my recent announcement that in 2025, I’m slated to become a published author of a thriller called “The Perfect Home.”

Now that my dream of publishing a novel is coming true, I’d like to tell you what else I’ve been doing at the computer for the last, oh…

…few decades.

Kurt Vonnegut said to start as close to the end as possible. So here’s where my fiction writing career came into focus for me:

At a funeral.

Chapter One:
“Third of Forty”

In late 2016, my grandma died.

She was a devout Catholic, both intelligent and wise, with a sharp sense of humor that stayed with her all her years. And she was the matriarch of an enormous family. For reference, I am child #3 of her 40 grandchildren. Later in life, after she and my late grandpa raised 9 children (including my mom), she went back to school and studied literature.

As you might imagine, this made her something of a kindred spirit. Grandma loved Dickens and Austen. She had Cervantes and Dante on her shelves. Though she’d raised a family of doctors and lawyers, she was always encouraging about writing.

So when she died, part of me felt like I'd let her down. 

My cousin, himself Child #4 of 40 and also an author by the name of David Salvi, was publishing book after book. I was really impressed by how he'd seized the initiative.

And I also thought: Wait, what exactly am I doing here?

Wasn’t I a writer, too?

So, like...where was my, you know...um...

...writing?

Where were my books? Not on Grandma’s shelves, that’s for sure.

At the end of 2016, during Grandma’s funeral, I had to face facts: they never would be.

Potential is a dangerous word.

It’s supposed to be a good thing. A bright child has potential. A good idea has potential.

But how often do the high-potential kids never amount to anything because they’re afraid of failure? Because they sit on the sidelines?

That was me for a long time.

I was a natural writer for as long as I can remember writing. I won an essay contest in fifth grade. In eighth grade, I was voted Most Likely to Succeed—and it certainly wasn’t because I was a dynamic ball of charisma. In seventh grade, I wrote my first book on two-hundred or so pages of loose leaf paper. Homework was a drag; writing was fun. If a teacher assigned an essay, other kids would tremble in fear while I just thought, “Nice.” In high school, I read Scribner classics like Hemingway and Fitzgerald during lunch periods in which I couldn’t find a friendly face. To pass time in study hall, I wrote short stories no one would ever read.

One career aptitude test spit out my results:

Creative Writing: 99th percentile.

Oh, the glorious, glorious potential.

But one should never mistake one's potential for one's destiny. Believe too much in your potential and one starts to take the destiny part for granted.

And if you’re not careful, this means you stop working.

As an adult, I freelanced for a living. Kinda cool; I was earning a living writing. Yet when my Grandma died, I had to take stock and consider what really mattered. What was I here, on earth, to do? I always knew fiction was my love. How had I only haphazardly assembled one amateurish novel since high school? I had let so much time go by, my grandma passed away before I ever got to show her anything decent I'd written in print.

I never got to tell her: “Hey grandma, I've got something for you to read."

So late in 2016, something had to change.

It did change—and I had a simple plan.

• Goal: Become a published novelist

• System: Write fiction every single workday

Chapter Two:
“Nope.”

At first, my writing sessions were like driving a car with no steering wheel. All gas, no aim.

I'd write random snippets, paragraphs, poems, whatever. Some days I’d even freewrite just to get words on the screen.

I wasn’t moving much faster than I was when I wasn’t writing any fiction. But somewhere under the surface, seeds were germinating. I was building momentum. I subscribed to the New Yorker and only read the short stories. I scrolled the bestseller lists to find great stuff to read.

I learned a truth about human psychology:

Short stories and poems materialized. A couple got published.

Soon, a more ambitious project emerged.

Like the entire world at the time, I loved Game of Thrones. Then I read George RR Martin’s novels and loved those, too. So while waiting for The Winds of Winter, I decided to write an epic fantasy novel of my own.

Bam. 150,000 words poured out of me.

When I felt it was ready, I posted the first chapter online for critique. I still had that 99th percentile confidence flowing in my veins. Having won that D.A.R.E. essay contest in fifth grade, I knew I was hot stuff. 

(LOL. Nope.)

But that’s why response I actually got was completely devastating.

One reader HATED it. Tore it to shreds. Told me to brush up on basic writing principles I had learned decades before. I remember being so hurt, I eventually asked:

"Is there ANYTHING going right in this chapter? Can you point to anything?" 

I was absolutely desperate for a touch of hope. A touch of acknowledgement that I still had potential.

His response?

Nope.

It was time for a hard, brutal, do-everything-over rewrite.

It took me a year. ALL OF 2018.

A New Year's. A Christmas. A summer. A winter. 

All toiling away in my apartment, alone and aglow in hazy blue computer light, with no promise this now-near 170,000-word behemoth (about a world that doesn't exist) would ever earn me a single red cent.

I submitted the thing to agents all over the place and only got one positive response: a full manuscript request.

I waited months. I imagined the HBO series that was so clearly in my future…

…only to receive a form rejection with zero feedback.

But I wasn’t done yet.

True, the book wasn't quite there yet. (Even my mom's feedback was sort of mixed. And moms are supposed to like everything.) But a year of eating humble pie does wonders for your skill set. I came out of that year having a clearer idea of what a strong book should feel like.

I was reading more and more.

I'd pick up random bestsellers on the merit of their first page alone, just to see what today's writers were doing.

I fell in love with great thriller and suspense writing. Gillian Flynn, Laura Lippman, Lisa Jewell, Stephen King. Domestic suspense like Barbara O’Neal and Sally Hepworth.

I could give up on that fantasy book, sure.

But I wasn’t giving up on myself.

Chapter Three:
Captain Flo-loo Kaboink and the Enormous Space Kerfuffle

No more fantasy. No more George RR Martin impersonation.

Contemporary suspense felt much more natural. I wrote a thriller about an unreliable narrator who encounters the first intelligent message from deep space.

The twist: his marriage was in crisis, which caused him to make all sorts of bad decisions along the way. The book’s drama unfolds when he lies to the world about what the message said, digging him deeper and deeper into trouble.

As with the old book, I posted the first chapters online for feedback.

That’s right: I was back for more!

Fortunately, after all that hard work and becoming a more voracious reader, my feedback had done a 180. I still have some of them saved in my compliments folder:

Okay. Good. So I'd arrived, right? Someone thinks I'm worthy of bookstores. Done and done. Pain period over and writing journey complete. Agent, publisher, TV miniseries, fame, cut, print, check the gate.

Just one little missing part.

Now I had to learn a new skill: selling an agent on the dang book.

My manuscript had something of a wonky genre. Was it sci-fi? Suspense? Thriller? "Contemporary"? I had no clue.

So naturally I guessed wrong. I sent what was a contemporary suspense novel to a bunch of literary agents who wanted pure sci-fi.

These were people who wanted to read fun and wacky adventures with titles like "CAPTAIN FLO-LOO KABOINK AND THE ENORMOUS SPACE KERFUFFLE." 

(Which is, of course, a fine genre and all. But it wasn't mine. I'd written something that takes place on planet Earth in present day.)

But even with that critical error, the genre pivot helped. My responses had noticeably heated up. This time, multiple agents asked to see the manuscript—far better than the near radio silence which had greeted the previous book.

Ultimately, I had a few nice comments and a few close calls, but no dice. One agent told me it was a near miss: he just couldn’t get past how unlikeable my protagonist was.

I had gone from not-even-close to just-barely-missed-it.

It was enough to keep me going.

Next book.

Chapter Four:
The “Call” Happens, But Also Not

And let me tell you:

This book. 

I loved this book.

I wrote a suspense novel about a kind, wealthy old hedge fund manager who pledges to give everything away to charity—and the deadly family squabbling over his fortune that ensues.

I thought I had the one.

At the same time, my queries were getting tighter. I got much warmer responses again. Full manuscript requests. 

At a certain point, maybe half a dozen agents were reading the full thing.

One day, an agent replied with a glowing review of my first three chapters. Said it was some of the smartest writing he'd seen in a while. After reading the manuscript, he asked for what writers and agents dub "the call." 

"THE CALL" is when an agent calls you up to tell you they loved the book and offer you representation.

In my mind, landing an agent was like 75% of the battle. I was being naive, maybe, but what else did I have to go on? I didn’t know any published authors.

I thought to myself: this is it. The Call. I've done it. My dreams are coming true. 

FINALLY, FINALLY...the pain period was over.

Until he ghosted me.

At first, I sent a gentle follow up. 

You there, buddy? 

Nothing.

Week passed. Months passed. More check-ins. Phone calls.

Anything? Hello?

[cue crickets: chirp, chirp]

I was stuck in a one-year contract with an agent who, for whatever reason, wouldn't even talk to me.

Even if I wanted to try and take my book to other agents, I was contractually obligated NOT to.

So what did I do?

What else COULD I do? 

I wrote the next book.

Chapter Five:
The Perfect Home

This one seemed to click right into place. Genre, voice, characters, story: this book had it all—at least as far as my abilities could take it.

Even the title, often a struggle for me, fit right away.

"The Perfect Home."

(Hopefully you'll see why that title fits when you read it

Also, it’s very exciting/scary to think that people besides agents are actually going to read this one)

One beta reader's review came in and he reported the manuscript was in great shape. I still remember the "HOLY S&%@" he left in the comments when he encountered one particular twist.

Haha! Is there a better feeling for a writer than that? Tricked you, suckaaaaaa

But though I had built a solid manuscript, I still had that pesky problem:

The Ghost Agent.

One day, after I posted about this problem online and tried to contact other clients of his to find out what went wrong, something nudged my agent out of his slumber. 

He emailed me with an apology and agreed to let me out of the contract.

FREEEEDDDDDDDOOOOMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!

Now querying agents, the wind was at my back. Even the rejections were improving. They were more like: "Hey Daniel, it's good, I just didn't fall in love."

(Funnily enough, the close-call rejections are probably more painful than the form rejections. If you liked my book so much, just accept me, codsarnit!)

Eventually, things heated up. Manuscript requests from agents started pouring in.

One such agent was Ronald Gerber, who had read and passed on what I now dub the "billionaire book" despite saying some nice things about the writing. This time around, I got THE email from Ronald: he said he'd read it, loved it, and wanted to talk to me on the phone.

And boy was "the call" different this time. 

Ronald was friendly, smart, and professional. He clearly understood the book and its appeal. He even explained his reasoning for passing on my prior manuscript: he'd enjoyed me as a writer but didn't think he could sell the story. 

(Which is, of course, totally legit. For those who don't know, literary agents work on spec. They don't make money until you do.)

Ronald made his offer of representation during that call, I accepted, and I could finally move to the next phase: going “on sub,” i.e. “submission.”

Chapter Six:
R&R, But Not the Fun Kind

Early 2023. This time, the agent experience was how I'd always hoped it would be. Ronald helped me out with a few rounds of light edits, talked to me about his strategy for submitting to publishers/editors, and soon the manuscript was out of my hands.

It wasn’t long before we received an enthusiastic response from a Big Five publisher.

Big Five! The big leagues!

Dream accomplished, right?

Pain period...over?

LOL U CRAY DAN U SHOULD HAVE LEARNED BY NOW THAT ISN’T HOW IT WORKS

This editor wanted an R&R. That's a "revise and resubmit." 

Basically that means they liked it, but they wanted some changes before taking it to the marketing team and making me a full-blown offer.

Ronald and I agreed the suggestions made sense and that the round of edits would improve the book. 

Edits were pretty quick. I gave it back to Ronald after a couple of rounds, and we were back on submission with a new-and-improved draft.

And then...

...

...👻

We didn’t hear back.

Maybe a shakeup at the company? I don't know. 

After that, Ronald kept me in the loop with seasonal emails. One in summer, one in autumn. Both times basically said: "I haven't heard back, I'll keep nudging, and here's what I've been doing."

But even at what felt like a advanced stage for many aspiring authors, I was beginning to have doubts.

• What if the book isn't as good as I thought?

• What if I'm still just pretending to be a writer? 

• If I'm such a professional-worthy writer, would this process really be so hard?

• "Creative Writing: 99% percentile" pshhhh that was just a dumb test

You start to have BIG, LIFE thoughts, too.

• Is this as far as I'll ever get in writing?

• Am I still gonna be at this stage when I'm in the nursing home?

• What if I'm never able to give this gift to my parents? They could have told me a million times that writing was a silly ambition to pursue. But they never did, and I wanted to make them proud.

At that stage, however, I had nothing else but to begin the next book and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Chapter Seven:
The Offer

Summer turns to fall. The air gets crisp. Trees shake off their leaves and speckle the ground in oranges and reds.

I continue to go clickety-clack on the keyboard, doing the best I possibly can on the next book and still staring at the WHITE LIGHT OF MICROSOFT WORD AND ARGHGHGHGHGH I AM BECOMING A VAMPIRE

And then, one day...

Ronald attends a conference and sees the editor at Scribner, telling her about my book’s premise.

This is the spark. 

This editor likes the idea and forwards it to a colleague by the name of Sabrina Pyun.

Ronald emails me the good news: Scribner wants a phone call. It turns out Sabrina loves the book for the same reasons I do, and her suggestions are super helpful. Even her sense of humor seems like a fit.

Oh, and a quick note on those editor calls: they are basically writer-catnip.

After years of trying to convince people to please read my work and do not smash my fragile writer’s ego into a flat lump of mush with your powerful editor hands, the dynamic changes. Finally you have a real life editor telling you that you’ve done a good job. She even mentions other people at the publisher saying the book was SHELF-READY AS-IS

Mindblown.gif

But despite the sugar high, I try to temper my expectations. I already had interest from another big imprint that went nowhere, after all. 

After the call, Ronald says he is cautiously optimistic about an offer. He mentions what a timeline to hear back might be like. Days. Weeks, maybe.

By now, the habit is branded in me: I can only move on to the next thing.

I go to the gym. Friday: back and biceps. Awkward, repetitive movements in places where you’re never confident you’ll ever see results. I mean, they’re back muscles. They’re hard to see.

(And yes, that is a metaphor.)

But once I get home, my phone rings. Ronald. He doesn't call back that quick unless there's very good news.

I pick up and he announces he's very happy to be telling me...

WE HAVE HAD AN OFFER.

From Scribner. Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald and Jesmyn Ward and Tom Wolfe and Stephen King and Ursula K. LeGuin and the Joy of friggin Cooking Scribner.

The same Scribner I’d been reading in high school when I had no one to sit with at lunch except Robert Jordan and Nick Carraway.

Negotiations, a contract, a new website, a Beehiiv account, and that takes us to today.

Whew. 

Still want to be an author?

Lololol.

Chapter 8:
The Hundred-and-First Blow

Actually, now that I write all this out, all those years of writing alone in a room with no promise of success don’t sound that bad.

It never felt linear while it was happening. But in retrospect? It was surprisingly steady. One lesson learned, then a step forward. Another lesson learned, then a step forward.

Do it. Be a writer.

It’s 100% worth it.

I can't pretend to know everything about writing, or publishing, or any of that. In fact, I’m finding out how little I do know. No oracle can tell me where this book is going from here.

But I can tell you how I got here.

It all reminds me of this quote, which I first encountered in Atomic Habits:

I know I say all of this from a position of tremendous privilege. I am like someone who just finished a Michelin-star meal, pats his gut, and says: “Ehh, all those years of starving weren’t that bad, were they?”

Other writers who have been slogging away in the slush pile may roll their eyes at me. "Um, I've already been rejected for twice as long and never had so much as an agent nibble. So why don't you cry some more about your journey and your two agents, Mr. Debut Author?”

Fair enough.

All writers—even highly talented writers—have to go through this exact process. As a teenager, Stephen King hammered a nail in the wall to hang up his many rejection slips. (And then a second nail when he ran out of room.)

But hopefully you’ll trust me when I say that it only takes one “yes” to completely change your life.

And I also know that these yesses would have found me if I hadn't hunkered down, gotten to work, and ignored the voice that said: what if it never happens?

So don't be afraid to fail. 

Failure is not a glitch in the process. Failure is the process.

Write. Ask for feedback. Learn to write queries. Research potential agents. Identify your genre. Get it wrong. Get it right. Put it out there. And if/when it doesn’t work, run the whole process back using everything you learned.

It’s worth it. Because today I finally get to say these words:

Hey Grandma? 

I've got something for you to read.

🖋️Writing Tip:🖋️ Show the passage of time by cutting between “big voice” and “little voice”

Need to show the passage of time in your story?

“Cut between big voice and little voice,” writes Chuck Pahlaniuk in Consider This. 

“Think of the varied chapters in Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. At times we’re with the Joad family as little-voice narration depicts them on their journey. Other times we’re reading a big-voice passage that looks down in a generalized way to comment about the drought, the stream of displaced migrants, or the wary landowners and lawmen in California. Then we cut back to the Joads farther along their route.”

So let’s dip into The Grapes of Wrath. Here’s how two consecutive chapters (17 and 18) begin:

Big voice: 

Little voice:

In movie terms, switching to a finer detail is an establishing shot. Steinbeck keeps time moving simply by switching textures.

Not a single extra word required.

Thanks for reading my newsletter!

This is hopefully the first of many. I’ll send periodic updates about what’s going on in my writing world—and hopefully you’re interested to see what becomes of THE PERFECT HOME.

Current status: second round of edits, closing in on a finalized manuscript.

On top of any (hopefully fun) updates, I’ll always try to pack in some value at the end.

If you’re reading this online and prefer me to come to you, you can just click “Subscribe” below and you won’t miss the next update.

Until next time,

-DK