So I Wrote a Novel…

A few days ago, I published my first novel.

That's still a weird sentence to type.

For years, writing a book lived in the same imaginary world as learning a second language or finally getting that six pack. One of those things I'd get around to…Someday.

Then, little by little, Someday started happening.

I wrote at night. I wrote on weekends. I wrote on my phone during my daughter’s dance classes. I wrote when I was excited about the story and when I wasn't. I wrote scenes that survived all the way to the final draft and plenty that ended up in the trash.

Two long years later, there was a book sitting on my desk (well, in my Google Docs).

Then came the strange part: putting it out into the world.

The moment you tell people you've written a novel, some percentage of them immediately start looking for reasons to dismiss it. Maybe that's always been true or maybe I'm just noticing it now because I'm on the receiving end of it.

But it does feel like we're living through a particularly skeptical moment.

Just a few years ago, if someone published a book, the assumption was that they wrote a book. Today, the first question often feels like, "Yeah, but did you actually write it?"

And honestly, I get it.

The internet is flooded with AI-generated content, low-effort content, engagement bait, and people trying to game algorithms. Every day we're exposed to more stuff than we could possibly consume, so we've all gotten pretty good at filtering. I know I have.

The problem is that filtering can turn into cynicism.

Recently, I shared my book in an online forum community (you know the one) where I thought folks might find it interesting. The reaction was... educational.

It was a flood of immediate dismissal by all those brave, anonymous usernames hiding behind their keyboards. Most of the commentary was something to the effect of “AI slop.” Some even made crude puns about my last name (nothing I hadn’t experienced my whole life). If any one of them had so much as read a sample chapter, they would tell that the book was very obviously created by a human.

I found myself sitting there thinking, "Man, this is a tough environment for creators."

If someone reads a work and hates it, that's their right. I'd almost respect that more.

What surprised me was how little curiosity there was.

Nobody owes me their time. Nobody owes me a read. But there is something strange about deciding you know what a thing is before you've looked at it.

Maybe that's just where we are now. And, as a creative, it kind of sucks.

We've gotten so used to protecting ourselves from junk that sometimes we close the door on things that might actually be worth exploring.

The funny thing is that none of this has made me regret writing the book.

If anything, it's made me appreciate creative work more.

Not just books. Paintings. Music. Films. Small businesses. Any project where someone spends months or years building something with no guarantee that anybody will care when it's finished.

That's a vulnerable thing to do.

And increasingly, it feels like a lonely thing to do.

Still, people keep doing it, and I'm glad they do.

Because despite all the noise, despite the algorithms, despite the skepticism, and despite our growing habit of immediately assuming the worst, I still think there's something special about encountering a thing another human being made and thinking: "Someone cared enough to create this."

Whether my novel finds ten readers or ten thousand, I'm proud of the fact that it exists. Even if it exists in a cynical world.