When I was a kid, I thought that to be a writer, you just needed to write a book. As simple as that. But ever since my writing journey with The Dark Oath began, borders blurred, and definitions changed. It’s not as simple anymore—there are authors, writers, storytellers.
Here I am, with a book no literary agent wanted to take on; too long for a no-name novice author; too complicated to describe in three paragraphs of a query letter; not mainstream enough.
At first, self-publishing felt like a loss, like a step back—like giving up. I felt crushed by the publishing industry after almost two years of one rejection after another. But now, after observing what’s happening in indie publishing, I realize it might not be a curse after all, but a blessing in disguise.
I’ve heard many self-published authors say that it’s better when you can control the process—from book covers to ads, promotions, and distribution. Even though just thinking about it all overwhelms me, I must try. If not for my characters, who deserve to have their voices heard and stories told, then for myself and the three years I put into this: all the tears, hysterics, setbacks, and comebacks out of sheer stubbornness (and a little masochism).
Cirris, Noah, and Ayden deserve to have their story out there, and I deserve a sense of completion from publishing The Dark Oath (or so my therapist tells me).
The Path to Self-Publishing The Dark Oath
The plan was to get the book out August 2025, but since I decided to rework the cover at the very last minute, the publishing date will probably move to September. In any case, I’ve decided to make a series of posts about how The Dark Oath was written: the world, characters, my publishing journey, literary agent search, rejections, ups and downs—everything behind this fantasy novel’s origin.
Maybe this series finds someone who needs to hear it, and maybe it helps in some way.
Where Stories Begin: The First Spark
I’ve always been a person of extremes. Everything is either great or it’s horrendous. I either sleep for half a day or suffer from insomnia. And if I want something, I fall in headfirst.
To counter some of my sleeping problems, I started conjuring stories while in bed. Some were inspired by books or movies, and some lasted only a few nights before being abandoned. But one story began when I was 14 and went on for years, growing up with me. It was inconsistent, dramatic, sometimes silly—and it would’ve stayed that way if it weren’t for one long train ride with my husband. To kill time, I told it to him. By the end, he asked, “Why don’t you write a book?” I laughed and waved him off. Writing a book? Sure, right after I curing cancer, and build a starship. But the idea stuck.
A year and a new round of depression later, I decided to try, having no idea what I was doing. My original attempt lasted about two hours before I wanted to throw my keyboard away. But instead of quitting, I did what I do best—Googled a tutorial. That’s when I found lectures on storytelling. Planning was the breakthrough: I needed to know every little reason for my characters’ actions, and what my villains were doing at all times. So I started with a scene list, grouped them into chapters, and finally wrote the first draft.
The funny thing is, the story I told my husband, my first plan, and the novel about to be published all look very different now. Rewriting, editing, savagely cutting scenes, and redoing characters—that’s when the real writing happens—not in the first draft, and sometimes not even the second.
Sometimes what seems captivating in our minds falls flat on the page. But that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be told.