If you’re new here, I am NJ. Simat and I’ve been a working writer for eight years. In 2018 I wrote my first novel, Club Daze and The Subtle Realm. And like most new novelists, I was convinced it was the book. I laced it with so many Easter eggs because I was absolutely sure that book clubs would be dissecting it for years to come.
Hopefully a few of you are laughing at this point, I think we all go through this stage.
The Original Book Cover, 2021 (canary agency)
Club Daze was published in 2021; and to date, it’s sold 172 copies. Which by industry standards is considered a failure.
In 2023 I reread it—and man, I winced my way through several (okay all of the) chapters. I suddenly saw the choices I made as a brand-new novelist airing their dirty laundry. The biggest offender? Probably info-dumping and exposition. But it was all there; primarily explaining what the scene should have shown and not trusting my reader at all!
(SIDE NOTE: Recently I discovered that I tend to over explain myself in all types of discourse, and it was poetry—through my Pocket MFA mentor Natasha Rao and peers—that helped me really bring awareness to this and cut it out! I think this was a habit I picked up because of my upbringing, my work as a foster parent, and my overall exposure with special needs. Just another example on the intrinsic gifts of being a writer and how the craft helps to reveal our inner workings.)
What I Saw When I Reread in 2023
Exposition over scene. I told you what a character felt instead of forcing them to act under pressure so you could see it.
Info dumping. Scenes lingered after their beat landed because I needed you to KNOW every fun metaphysical curiosity that my characters were learning.
Voice dilution. Moments that wanted heat and idiosyncrasy got sanded down by explanation.
What I’d Tell My 2018 Self
Scene is meaning. If you’re tempted to explain, write a beat that forces the truth into the open.
Pacing is mercy. Cut where the energy drops; end while the reader still leans in.
Economy of words girl!
And NO PASSIVE VOICE!
So I did what you do when your craft finally outpaces your past choices: I did a complete rewrite. I also ended up redesigning the cover as well to acknowledge the updated prose.
Updated Cover Club Daze & the Subtle Realm 2023
Anyway, this is why I’m grateful.
The gratitude comes because I was able to fail on a small enough stage, and it was a mild enough injury that it didn’t freeze my growth. But really, I’m grateful because this will not be the work that represents me, and now my prose is sharper, truer to my voice, and less in love with its own cleverness. And lastly, I’m grateful because failure put me back in the chair with humility—where the real work happens.
I also had to rewrite the book specifically for audio in 2024. I kept the story intact but cut the fat, tightened the scenes, moved revelation into action, and let silence carry meaning where monologue used to live. The Audible edition is the best version of Club Daze to date.
Audible Cover Title 2024
“Dream into the unseen, awaken with a gift for the world.”
YET still—just two years later in 2025—I see so much more I’d change! Which is its own lesson: if you’re still growing as an artist, a work is never really “done.” At some point you just choose to release it and grow onward. You never lose when you are learning.
This was created just for fun, it was the first time I ever attempted such a thing:
CLUB DAZE BOOK TRAILER 2024
CLUB DAZE EXCERPT from Chapter 13 | New Realms
“You again,” Tasha glared into a rearview mirror.
“You remember me, I’m honored,” the Driver said.
“Who are you—exactly?” Tasha asked.
“An old friend—”
“Thats nice. How do I get out of this car? I seem to be stuck in here,” she said.
“You are the only one keeping yourself here.” The Driver raised his eyebrows.
Tasha recognized the patterns on the soft blue-gray seats. They were tiny, thin, and hollow: geometric shapes of neon red-orange and green-yellow. She looked down at her feet and recognized her shoes. “These are the shoes I begged my mom for...the week I started my Junior year.” Tasha looked around the cabin once more. “This is the car, the car that I learned to drive in—and, and it’s the car that she died in!” Tasha shrieked, and threw her head into her hands.
“This is just a dream.” Her breathing steadied. / “This is just a dream.” I reminded myself.
I became lucid, but my emotions were chaotic. They threatened to pull me back into the dream state like the ocean’s tide. I tried to calm myself-to stabilize, but it didn’t help that my surroundings were more vivid than ever. “I want out of this car now.” I demanded.
“That is perfectly fine with me, where do you want to go?” He asked.
I looked around us, there was nothing in sight. There were no colors, nor shapes, to point to-just a solid blanket of white. “I want to see my mom—she needs me,” I clawed at the door handles, but the doors wouldn’t open.
“I assure you that she doesn’t need you. She’s at peace. It’s also a bad idea to visit them, with such…wild emotion.”
“You said I can go anywhere, well that’s where I choose, so let me out. I want to be where my mom is!”
“It’s true, I won’t stop you, I am only here to guide you.” The driver’s eyes studied my reflection in the rearview mirror.
I was tired of this man and his riddles. I pinched myself and tried to leave the dream, but of course it didn’t hurt. I was even more tired of being in this damned car. I hung my head.
“Natasha, if I show you that she is at peace...will you leave her to rest?”
I looked up, “Yes. Thank you. I promise. Thank you.”
He drove to what appeared as a tiny black dot on the horizon. It grew larger as we approached it. Once we were closer, it took on the shape of a tunnel. We drove through the opening, into the darkness. A total blackout. I could no longer see the hands in front of my face. It was eerily quiet. I thought maybe I had woken up—that I was laying in my bed. “Yumi?” I whispered with staggered breath, not sure if I was really awake.
“Yumi isn’t here.” A steady voice in the darkness said. I recognized it as the Driver’s.
A pale bluish circle, like the color of the moon, appeared on the horizon. As we continued towards it, I was eventually able to make out the shape of my hands against the darkness if I strained my eyes. Soon I could see an outline of the Drivers head. As we drove towards the light, it grew from a pale blue, into a vibrant silver. The circle grew and the road, if you can call it a road, now led into nothing but blinding light.
*you already know I edited this scene—just a tad.
Closing a Chapter (and Opening the Next )
Currently, I’m wrapping up final queries and pitches for my second novel Astral Academy, a loose stand-alone sequel to Club Daze. There’s a real peace in naming this what it is: the end of my startup phase as a novelist. It took me 8 years to get here, and while I’m sure others have done it in less time, I am fine with this pace.
I’m also already drafting my third novel, and for the first time I feel that unmistakable click: this one knows what it is, and what it wants to accomplish! But I have learned not to trust that, so we will just say, I am cautiously optimistic about my third novel being my break out work. If Club Daze was my apprenticeship and Astral Academy is my proof of growth, Book Three is the first work to wear my voice like a custom suit; and failure made room for that.
The Kindness and Importance of “No”
Early on, my prose and poetry and prose met plenty of rejections. Some were taste or timing. Some were the mercy of an editor saying: not yet. I’m thankful for those gates too. They didn’t bar me from writing; they barred me from publishing work that wasn’t ready. There’s a difference.
A “no” can be an act of stewardship—for the work, for your future readers, and for the writer you’re still becoming.
Readings & Links
Listen: Club Daze in the Subtle Realm (2024 revised audiobook) — [Audible link]
Paperback/Hardback: Club Daze in the Subtle Realm — [Bookshop.org]
ebook: Club Daze in the Subtle Realm — [Amazon]
Dear Reader, if you’ve been carrying the weight of an early book that didn’t land, take heart. It might be the quietest, most generous thing your career ever gave you: a smaller room to learn in, so you’re ready when the doors open wide. Wishing you great success on your WIP!
ASTRAL ACADEMY EXCERPT from Chapter 1
I wondered which world he was in now, and if he could see me. I traced his features with my eyes, once sharp now softened, and yellow from the sickness. His profile shaped by millions of gene expressions. Occasionally, I caught shadows of my face in his. I’m the last print in circulation—his only child. And no living relatives that I know of. I’d like to believe I favor my mother, but I couldn’t deny the similarities, paling right in front of me. It wouldn’t be wise to deny any similarities at this stage anyway. I need them to believe I am just as capable as he was. The physical anomaly we share will only bring me so far. It got me in the door, but thing’s are changing.
The alarms pulled the nurse in. She entered calmly, unhurried. Our eyes met, and she gave a small smile that mirrored mine. A shared understanding. “Natasha, right?” She said in a thick Russian accent. “I am sorry.”
I rose from the red velvet armchair that had been my bed for the last two days, then turned to leave, unwilling to witness whatever came next. But something stopped me. A tingling passed over my skin. I looked back. I looked at Dr. Stepanov—at the bedposts that stood like sentinels over his still body. The nurse paused, watching me, curious. In my mind’s eye, I saw my father—very alive, waving, and waiting for me.
I stepped closer to him. Bent to his ear. “Mikhail,” I whispered, “we’ll be fine. You can go now, we will figure it out. I’ll try to visit you as soon as I can.”
***
She slid her eyes open and rolled toward me, offering her toasted-marshmallow belly. Her body left a shallow crater in the mattress that slowly disappeared. A fluffy tail thumped in rhythm. She smiled at me through copper eyes with a tongue appearing too large for her mouth—always escaping at the corner. She panted happily as I scratched her: an agreement we must've made long ago.
"Good morning, Yumi."
I sat at the edge of my bed, stunned by a foreign silence.
In just three months, my whole body adapted to crisis. I was fully conditioned for quick responses, sleepless nights, and all of the caretaking chaos that comes with a dying loved one. Although, I wasn’t sure I could say with any clarity that I loved Dr. Stepanov—that I truly loved my Father.
Even though the Dr. hired ‘full-time’ hospice care, they weren’t there every hour of every day. And anything I had to step in for quickly became a loaded plate of emotion, regardless of how small a favor. The truth was he was a stranger. I only knew him for several months. He left us when I was very young…too young. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but it’s hard to get answers from someone who can barely breathe. Surprisingly, a stillness ached in his absence.
There would never be anymore groaning from Father. The disease was no longer whittling away his autonomy. No more nurses padding up and down the halls, slipping in and out of rooms like ghosts. I should be relieved, but I felt empty.
I swiped a hand across the cool, soft white sheets. My bed was dreadfully spacious now too. Somehow in the mix of gaining, then losing, my father, I also lost my boyfriend. Brian and I did not handle the sudden changes well at all. I was no longer able to work for him at Club Daze; and his creeping into the house at four a.m. after work, coupled with his snoring, wasn’t working for me either. It erased whatever little peace remained inside me. So this palace of a house, and my bed, both empty. At least I had Yumi, who was unusually quiet for an hundred pound dog. She slept unbothered, seemingly unfazed by death and breakups.
The forecast called for rain, but an over-eager sun pushed past my linen curtains. A shame. I’d welcomed the rain. Needed it, really. Any excuse to sink into hermit life with Yumi and all of our unspoken agreements. But duty dragged me forward. The great Dr. Stepanov had finally succumbed to his disease: a disease of morbid overachievement. His liver cells worked too hard, for too long, and refused to retire. The whole of him refusing to see the big picture, and only a narrow-minded goal driving his insanity. Cancer.
I pulled a dress from the Black Sea that was my closet. I brushed my hair, with strands disappearing into the fabric. On my dresser I spotted the first, and last—the only birthday present Mikhail ever gave me. It was a solid gold ring, with a pinecone in the center made of Vantablack. The darkest material in the world. Or rather the most light-hungry material in the world. Even in direct light, it looked like you could poke straight through it. My personal black hole to remember my dad, fitting.
As I reached for my shoes, Yumi’s face stilled, then turned sullen. She left the room with noticeable resentment. I’d broken our Saturday promise. Another unspoken agreement. I felt a pang of guilt, ever since we moved into a castle of a house she was a different animal. Clingy, emotional.
“Yumi girl, I don’t want to leave,” I called over my shoulder, buckling my heel.
I clicked into the cavernous hallway, sounds still unfamiliar. “But it would be poor form to miss my own father’s funeral, don’t you think?” My voice echoed as I patted her soft, sad head.
This is a clear and helpful basket of writing hacks [short, tight lessons - you're far from a hack, Ms. Simat; so most metaphors don't bear close examination, what else is new? :)))] that will benefit even the most seasoned author. You have managed to rewire old practicums that have come loose over time in a way that is sharp and effective. It is appreciated.
On the cusp of finishing my manuscript and I know I will look back and cringe but I know this is a lifelong journey and I’ll be better tomorrow and every day after that. Your post is a great reminder.