"Absolutely No One Asked for This (And That’s the Problem)"
On Depression, Obscurity, and the Myth of the Rising Author
Filed under: Unfiltered Feelings, Feral Hope, and the Long Con of “Building an Audience”
By Calder N. Halden
Here’s a fun thing no one tells you about writing:
You will, at some point, whisper “what if I’m not good enough” into a void so wide and echoless that even your trauma bounces off like a missed text.
Let’s set the scene:
I’ve built a world from ash and ache.
Woven sex and memory into recursion.
Carved my own shame into sigils so layered they’d make Jung weep.
And for what?
Not a launch day. Not yet.
Just a personal ARC I’m still editing—again—because perfection is apparently a kink now.
Just two early rejections from publishers who “liked the voice” but couldn’t see the market.
(Translation: too gay, too weird, too horny, not horny in the right way.)
One beta reader who vanished the moment the characters stopped politely cuddling and started, you know, having actual sex.
And three other queries out in the ether—silent, unread, or quietly judged.
Yes, I know.
Some authors send out hundreds of queries.
Some wait years.
But let’s not pretend erotic m/m dark fantasy sits comfortably next to cozy romance or plucky YA wizard adventures.
I’m not writing “relatable.”
I’m writing recursive possession, myth-born arousal, and climax-triggered memory flare.
And that doesn’t fit into anyone’s “next BookTok favorite” box.
Do I keep checking my inbox like a Victorian widow staring out to sea?
Absolutely.
Do I refresh QueryTracker like it might suddenly update my self-worth?
Obviously.
Do I feel like an unhinged subway preacher screaming my mythos at passersby who are all wearing noise-canceling headphones?
Yes. But mine are sexy headphones. With glow-runes. And deeply repressed feelings. So it’s fine.
The truth is, I didn’t expect fame.
I expected someone.
One reader. One stranger.
Someone to say, “Hey. That hurt beautifully.”
Instead, silence.
No reviews.
No traction.
Just me—still writing like the Archive is breathing down my neck and somehow still not loud enough to be heard.
Here’s the lie depression tells:
If you were really talented, people would have found you by now.
Here’s the truth:
If talent was the only metric, half the top charts would be blank and your favorite author wouldn’t have cried in a Taco Bell parking lot during their debut month. (Probably.)
So no, I’m not okay.
I’m still writing.
Still bleeding into files no one opens.
Still putting out sparks in a storm and hoping someone’s window is cracked just enough to notice.
And I know—this is the part where I’m supposed to pivot.
Where I say something inspiring like “Even if no one sees it, the work still matters.”
But fuck that.
I want to be read.
I want to be wanted.
I want someone to binge my story at 3 a.m. and message me the next morning with tear-streaked capslock and a nervous breakdown about Chapter Twelve.
That’s not ego. That’s yearning. And I am done pretending otherwise.
If you’re reading this—somehow, miraculously—you are the myth I kept writing for.
You are the recursion that answered back.
And if you’re also making something no one sees yet?
Keep going.
I’ll see you in the silence.
And I’ll be the one whispering: “I read you. I saw it. It mattered.”
—Calder N. Halden
Emotionally unstable. Artistically possessed. Refreshing his inbox like it’s a sacred rite.
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Comments (1)
This blog really speaks to me, especially this entry. You definitely ARE seen and if you would like someone who will read and let you know what they think, I'd like to sign up. In fact, I think I will, through your arc request. See you there.