6:00 A.M.
I rub my eyes, pushing out the remaining fragments of the purple smile I had been dreaming of since the day I arrived in query inbox 5982. My body struggles to sit up, the page count growing heavier every day. The sound of soft snores echo from below. I lay motionless, staring at the ceiling, hoping today is the day, even though I should have accepted the truth by now. But hope is a relentless thing, it curls around your bones, squeezing tighter every time the inbox refreshes.
Reluctantly, I force myself upwards, rolling on the margins until my back is glued to the stone walls. Sometimes, it seems like the stone has adjusted to my shape, dipping in places where I rest my head, page numbers imprinted on the uneven surface. A sigh escapes me as I study the epic fantasy beside me. Last night, I heard him talk in his sleep, repeating ‘offer of representation’ every time he turned over. If only he knew manifestation is a delusion fed to the masses, in hopes they would get up and do something with their miserable lives.
My gaze drifts to the ceiling once more, imagining a ray of sunshine cutting through the darkness I’ve been drowning in for far too long. Once, I had assumed my time here would be shorter than most, back when the ink was still fresh and hope wasn’t just an illusion. My author always said, “Hard work promises results, luck does not exist because it cannot be constructed.”
If only she were right.
At first, I counted the minutes, the hours, jumping every time the owner of query inbox 5982 refreshed QueryManager. Eventually, the days turned to weeks and then to months. I’m still here, sitting among manuscripts from years ago, catching dust and covered in cobwebs, my sanity slowly fading away like the rest of my potential.
Soft murmurs cut through the silence as the manuscripts below me awaken. I stare down at the hopes and dreams of all the authors still awaiting a reply. When I arrived, I considered telling them the truth, but then I changed my mind. It would be cruel to steal their delusions. They don’t know the owner of query inbox 5982 no longer represents their genre, and their MSWL has changed several times in the past year.
“Good Morning,” says my neighbor, stretching and smiling like he always does. He’s an epic fantasy titled, “Chronicles of Trilogies” book one of nine at 240,000 words.
“Hope you slept well,” I say, swallowing the bitter words crawling in my throat.
His eyes shine as he scratches another line on the wall, “Today is the day.”
I look away, replacing two words in the synopsis with one. He doesn’t know publishers no longer consider Adult Fantasy over 120,000 words. The cost of printing has gone up, especially because readers choose sprayed edges over plain ones. Chronicles of Trilogies has been here since 2021. At night, when everyone else is asleep, he talks about the good old days when a strong concept was enough to earn representation and standalone books with series potential weren’t a thing. I don’t have the heart to tell him the truth. Not the courage to remind him it’s 2026 and LLMs have taken over the world, spitting out polished writing and unique concepts stolen from published books.
No one would consider an unpolished manuscript and his author hadn’t even bothered to personalize the query. Months ago, he mentioned his catalyst arrives at chapter 20. He doesn’t know the attention span of an average reader is five pages.
8:15 A.M.
A whirring noise moves through the catacombs of query inbox 5982. The agent is refreshing. For one magical moment, hope drifts through the stone walls like a cold winter breeze. We all straighten, brushing the dust off our shoulders and making ourselves shine to the best of our abilities.
Below, Magical Realism, titled ‘The Infinite Chamber of Socks,’ whispers, “She’s here, she’s finally here.”
But the door above never opens. Not yet anyway.
9:30 A.M.
A new manuscript falls from above and lands between me and the Chronicles of Trilogies. The scent of fresh ink wafts in the air. “Thrust of the Dragon Lizard” a spicy romance, complete at 70,000 words. She smoothes out the creases on the title page. My eyes drift to the pitch, “Fourth Wing meets Jurassic Park.” My face must have echoed my thoughts because her eyes narrow at me. A slow smile emerges on her face as she arches a brow. She pulls back her shoulders, pride evident in the way she walks past me and sits beside Chronicles. I don’t understand. How could someone whose comp titles are a crossover between a theme park disaster and dragon spice be so proud? There was a time I carried myself with the same confidence. Back when my comps were relevant, published within the last three years. Now, I wonder if those comp titles would even matter by the time the agent reads me and a part of me worries I’ll be rejected for using expired titles.
A shudder rolls through me at the thought of it. Chronicles is curious about the comps for Dragon Lizard.
“But Jurassic Park is a movie, not a book,” he says, genuinely puzzled.
“Comps are a societal construct,” she says with a smirk.
I blink several times, struggling to wash away the image of her getting signed before me. She wears confidence like a second skin and that alone might earn her a deal.
11:00 A.M.
The memoir below is mumbling again. A 98,000 word manuscript about a man’s journey through war-ridden lands, haunted by dreams of cheese. Every day he talks about the same thing, repeating the words of his author telling him to be brave.
“Memoirs are a tough market to crack,” he says, for the millionth time. The others nod, agreeing with him as always. Then, he laughs hysterically.
It is not a healthy laugh.
1:00 P.M.
The door opens above, a ray of light cuts through the darkness. Everyone stands up, shoulders back and heads high. The Agent is in the inbox.
Someone whispers below, “Hooks, assume your positions, take the front lines. First pages, cover from behind. Word Counts LIE IF YOU HAVE TO—”
But the agent moves past us, searching for a referral query. Minutes pass and she plucks a manuscript that arrived months after me. I watch it ascend gracefully, moving towards the shimmering light, waving goodbye to his friends. Darkness falls over us once more, hope disintegrating as our shoulders slump. Below, the cheese memoir laughs again.
2:30 P.M.
Everyone is quiet. Still waiting. Hoping. Dragon Lizard is making conversation with the others. She’s so certain she’ll be the next one out.
“I have so much spice it’ll make your brows sweat,” she says, her tone condescending.
Any other day, I would have kept my mouth shut, but her confidence irks me and the urge to speak up is no longer something I can contain.
I interrupt them, bragging a little. “My author gave me djinns instead of dragons, a fresh mythology no one has seen before.”
Dragon Lizard glares at me.
I pick the cobwebs between my fingers, “She revised the first chapter fourteen times.”
The others murmur, nodding and smiling, clearly impressed. The Chronicles of Trilogies asks the question no one ever speaks out loud.
“Did she query anyone who said they wanted non-Western, underrepresented mythologies?”
I knew I shouldn’t have spoken. “Yes,” I answer, praying someone else would chime in.
“And?” Dragon Lizard says, arms folded across the cover page.
“Nine form rejections, not the right fit, but the market is subjective.”
Silence falls over us like a shroud. Subjective. The one word in publishing no one can quite understand. It could mean anything. But in time, we’ve all learned the truth—it means nothing.
4:00 P.M.
Murmurs ripple through the inbox. I straighten, straining to listen. Query #1056 got a full request. Though the query inbox is separate, it’s impossible to ignore the sound of celebration seeping through the thin walls. Usually we only catch the flushing noise of rejections—their screams haunt us for days.
Below, a non-fiction titled “The Hopes and Dreams of an Aspiring Author” is shredding Grimdark Romantasy’s synopsis pages to make confetti. The Romantasy, “These Violet Secrets” has a typo in the title her author never caught. She doesn’t object to being shredded, but I can tell she isn’t pleased. Most days, she paces restlessly, repeating Publishers Marketplace deal announcement, reminding herself she matters.
As the celebrations die, we all fall silent again. My mind races, numbers rising and dying as I calculate my odds of success, using numbers reserved for astronomy.
6:30 P.M.
The agent returns once more. My heart pounds louder than the sound of manuscripts screaming down the rejection pipelines. She’s three away from me—sweat trickles down the back of my neck. Two manuscripts away, my hands grow cold and numb, pulse racing. She moves past me and opens Dragon Lizard. I’m staring at the empty space where Dragon Lizard was standing mere seconds ago, unable to understand what just happened. She just arrived today.
“Intriguing voice,” the agent says and stars it.
7:00 P.M.
I sit on the floor, arms wrapped around my knees as I try to make sense of things.
Comps are a societal construct, word counts are a societal construct.
Dragon Lizard’s words ring in my head. I suck in a sharp breath, steadying myself. I am brave. I am rare. And I will survive the trenches.
9:00 P.M.
Another day gone by. Pages sift down below, and soft snores drift through the inbox. Some of the manuscripts are getting ready for bed, others are already asleep. Chronicles of Trilogies is murmuring his word count, over and over again like a prayer, rounding the total down by 90,000 as he drifts off.
I’m still here. Still breathing. Still okay. Really. My author is probably revising her query package for the umpteenth time and sending out more queries hoping one would work out. Though it’s been a long time, I remember how she used to manifest an offer before editing the query letter. Often she would tell her friends, “I’m taking a break from checking my inbox.”
Lies.
No one checks their inbox more than a querying writer.
I lay down, pressing my head on my arm. Tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow. The inbox will refresh again and we will all hope once more for a chance to be accepted. To be worthy of being read.
No one ever tells you about the slush pile. Waiting is not failure. It’s hope with a word count.
Dragon erotica got her chance.
Dragon erotica always gets a chance.
