I'm Not Behind. I'm Becoming.

At twenty-three, I've written two novels, a poetry collection, and started a fourth book. None are published yet. This is the story of becoming the writer my stories deserve.

People often ask me if I’ve published a novel. The answer is no. What surprises them even more is that I have already written two novels and a poetry collection with over 100 poems. I have always felt an urge to write an article about my writing journey, what fascinates me about writing, and everything in between ever since I joined Substack four months ago. But I feel like now is the perfect time to pen down everything.

So, my dream of becoming a writer blossomed at the age of 17. I used to go to college for pre-medical (my parents wanted me to become a doctor). Well, I had no intention of becoming one. It was the worst time of my life, truly. All day at college, they made us sit on wooden chairs with no recess and lectures from 8:00 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. Now, thinking back to that time, I find it kind of strange. How did someone like me survive that? The answer is simple: it was my imagination. It has saved me multiple times.

At that time, I had no escape but to imagine beautiful stories. It truly was an escape. That was the time in my life when I seriously thought about writing a book, though it seemed quite odd at first.

“Girl, how would you even write a damn book?”

But inside me, a voice whispered, and my intuition told me. That voice echoed in the chambers of my heart, saying, Yes, I can write a book!

Years passed, and it was 2022, the year I took admission to university for a BS in English Language and Literature, with high hopes that by the time I graduated, I would have at least four books in hand. Then, after graduating and getting a job, I could publish those books. The first year passed without any progress on a book. I didn’t even start writing. But I was good at something, though: academics and drawing, of course, which had been my companion since childhood. Drawing and art had always been a home for my imagination. Speaking of imagination, I used to draw romantic couples a lot.

Romance illustrations I used to draw in 2023

My sketchbook was my first storyteller.

Romance lived in my drawings before it lived in my novels.

I did attempt to write a story I had crafted in my mind at the age of 17, but it wasn’t any good, and I thought I wasn’t a good writer after all, so I should just give up. Still, I kept imagining romance for my future books.

Then 2023 arrived, and my sister went abroad to pursue her studies. That was the time in my life when I truly decided to write a book, but I still couldn’t take action. I had started making an outline and plotting chapters, but I didn’t begin writing my first novel until after my father’s death.

It was February 2024 when I wrote the first chapter of the book. I had so many pent-up emotions inside my beating heart. Somehow, I kept working on that book until the summer, when I gave up and put it aside, once again believing I wasn’t a good writer and that I should probably never think about writing again.

Well, then came 2025 the year I became a romance novelist. My draft was at 30k words. I needed to expand the word count and come up with interesting ideas to develop my plot. During the summer vacation of 2025, I finally completed my manuscript.

I still remember the satisfying feeling I had when I hit 100k words. Most importantly, it was never about the word count. It had always been about bringing to reality what I had constructed and imagined for years in my walnut (brain). God, it felt unreal! It felt so damn good. My dream couple, my dream fictional characters that I used to imagine since childhood, were finally existing inside a document I had worked on with my blood and sweat.

My sister was so supportive during that time. It was the first novel I had ever written, When the Wild Sun Loved the Soft Moon, and it has been sitting in a folder for almost two years. Every now and then, I open the document, change a few sentences, move a chapter around, convince myself it’s still not ready, and close it again.

Art has always been another home for my imagination. Digital Painting I made in 2020, the year I took admission in Graphic Design Degree just because I was good at digital art, but I dropped out.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m protecting the book. Other times, I wonder if the book is protecting me. Finishing a novel and feeling ready to share it with the world are two very different things. For a long time, I felt guilty about not publishing. Social media has a way of making it seem as though every writer is constantly announcing book deals, cover reveals, and launch dates. Meanwhile, I was quietly rewriting the same chapters, learning my craft, writing poems, filling notebooks, and wondering whether I was falling behind. Lately, I’ve realized something. I’m not behind. I’m becoming.

Around the same time, I had written dozens of poems and was actively submitting them to literary journals. One of them, Poetry Hall (a Chinese-English bilingual journal), was incredibly generous to me and published several of my poems.

As far as I can recall, I didn’t take any rest after finishing my first novel.

I quickly jumped into Novel Two. (It wasn’t really my fault because I have an imaginative mind, and the laziness comes from not writing. I just wanted to bring all my stories into existence. My burned-out self decided it could write another novel, assuming that, after all, it was summer vacation, I was free, and I was staying at home. So why not write a novel about war with a twist of romance? I had just finished reading A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway, and the genocide in Palestine became an inspiration for that kind of story.)

So I brainstormed ideas, plotted chapters, wrote the plot, scrapped all of it, and began again. This continued for a few weeks. I began gaining momentum and wrote extensively, not even realizing how burned out I was. What I needed was rest, not another 100k-word document to label as a novel. So, at 30k words, I gave up. I couldn’t produce any more words. Enough brainstorming, it was also a science fiction and fantasy novel with a lot of romance, but I had this craze for discussing major issues like war and addressing world problems, as it has always been my passion to make a difference through art.

But I do have my whole lifetime to write about major issues, right? But I won’t be in love forever, will I? For me, it’s kind of weird to write romance in my forties, so it’s better to pursue it in my twenties, right?

It was my attempt to understand what love looks like when the world around it is falling apart. I’ve always believed stories and art can change people in ways arguments cannot. Maybe I can’t end a war, but I’ve always wanted to be someone who tries to make the world a little more compassionate through the things I create. That dream hasn’t gone anywhere. Neither has that novel. One day, I’ll return to it.

Then something unexpected happened. It was autumn, and a beautiful idea found its place in my heart by the grace of God. It was when I looked into the eyes of a man, and those glances felt eternal. I knew it wouldn’t just stay as glances, it would definitely grow into something more.

Days passed, but I couldn’t shake that feeling. True butterflies in the belly.

I still remember the day I felt the first surge of intimacy washing over me. I was wearing a white dress, a dress passed down to me by my sister. She had worn it during a beautiful time in her life when she was very much in her lover-girl era. Somehow, after she left to study abroad, it ended up in my closet, and I’ve been wearing it ever since because white is one of my favourite colours.

The dress had white lace attached to the sleeves quite bridal, but not too showy. Just simple, pure, and beautiful. So feminine, and perfect for imagining a love too good to be true.

So my imaginative mind had an idea that refused to leave me alone. I was tossing, turning, and believing too many forbidden things. Those ideas might not have had a place in my actual life, but they were moderately wild, romantic, and full of blooming passion, and they fit perfectly into my novel.

So I made a difficult decision.

I paused the war romance.

Not because I stopped believing in it.

Not because it wasn’t important.

But because I knew it deserved a version of me with the patience, maturity, and life experience to write it well.

So yes, I cheated on my war romance novel with that new book idea that started during a writer’s block and bloomed into something I still cannot believe I had the ability to create.

I worked on it for seven months straight. I stayed in love for seven months, and though reality crushed me in various ways, I did not give up. Seven months later, it became The Neuromantic Journey.

I still remember writing a Substack note on 30th May, the day I completed my second literary romance novel at a word count of 130k. Not to forget, my very personal poetry collection, Midnight Silk Curtains, with over 100 poems, was complete as well.

Some dreams arrive quietly. Mine arrived at 4:00 a.m. Photo from the journal “Poetry Highland”.

Seeing my poems published reminded me that quiet dreams do move forward.

The back cover of Poetry Highland, Spot me on the back cover lol.

Some stories whisper. This one demanded to be written. Every day I ignored it, I felt it fading around the edges. I was afraid that if I didn’t begin immediately, I’d lose the emotion that had sparked it in the first place. Most importantly, I pursued this project because it aligned with my current state.

“Your art is a reflection of you.”

And I do believe it was a beautiful, somewhat imperfect, and dreamy reflection of me. Writing my first novel taught me how to finish a story. Writing my second taught me how to tell one better. Every poem I’ve written has sharpened my language. Every essay has made me more honest. The Neuromantic Journey, however, belonged to this season of my life.

There are stories you can write at fifty. There are stories only your twenty-something heart can tell. Youth has its own language. It falls in love too quickly. It believes impossible things. It stays awake imagining conversations that never happened. It notices tiny details and mistakes them for destiny. It aches without embarrassment. I don’t know if I’ll feel romance the same way in my forties. I hope I’ll still believe in love. But I know I won’t be this version of myself again. And I wanted to preserve her. So I wrote. Not because romance is more important than the world. But because every story has its season. The world’s struggles will still need thoughtful writers years from now. My longing to capture love exactly as I experience it today may not.

I don’t see this as delaying my dreams anymore. I see it as arranging them.The war romance is waiting for me. My first novel is waiting for me. Publication is waiting for me. None of those dreams have disappeared. They’re simply growing quietly while I continue growing beside them. For now, I’m choosing to become the kind of writer who doesn’t rush a book into the world just to prove that she’s published.

I’d rather wait until I can say, with complete honesty,

“This is the very best story I know how to tell.”

And when that day comes, I hope my readers won’t just be meeting a novel. I hope they’ll be meeting the woman I became while writing it.

So, here I am at the age of 23, with three books I’ve written and a fourth one still waiting for me to complete it. Each one holds a fragment of me that my older self, in her forties or fifties, might read one day and smile at. Most importantly, they’ll hold so many human moments that my readers can relate to. I hope women around the globe will see their youth, their passion, the relationships they dreamed of, and stories that will, of course, bring a new twist to the world of romance. I hope these books will be published by then.

It’s a big dream.

Link to Poetry Highland Journal

P.S. I hope you enjoyed this piece. It means so much to me because it serves as a reminder to stop rushing and to embrace the changes that come slowly and softly. I hope it inspires some of you to trust your own journey, too.

Thank you for reading.

With love,

Dua ~ xoxo