The Only Cure I Know for Waiting

Substack Fam, how goes it?

This is my first dispatch of 2026. In the time since we last shared space, I turned 35 years old. To celebrate, I did not do what I did when I turned 25, which was to take advantage of Turtle Bay’s (RIP!) ridiculous birthday drink special (you drank for free, all your friends at a heavily discounted rate), get smizzacked, and end the night poking random people with a pool noodle I held between my legs.

No, this time, I made a trip to Legoland and Peppa Pig Land with my wife and kids and mom. I had a great breakfast at IHop. I did some dad shit, and I honestly loved it. Growth and change is possible my friends, and it’s pretty cool, too.

In the time since we last shared space I also finished revising the third draft of my new novel. A draft which I finally shared with my agent for the first time this week. I’m excited to hear what she has to say about it. But I won’t front with you all, I’m nervous, too.

Not nervous about what she will say. Danielle Bukowski is an excellent, careful reader, and we’ve known each other long enough now that I trust and value her judgement. I also won’t particularly take it too hard if she says to me, actually, Andrew, this novel is wack as fuck, what the fuck have you been doing for the last year? (she wouldn’t say that exactly, she’s very nice, but the point stands).

No, what makes me more nervous is actually taking something that I’ve kept to myself, that has only existed between me and my computer, and letting it out into the world—even if the world, for now, is just one person.

There is something nice and comfortable about keeping a draft to yourself. Working on it in solitude and not having to worry about what anyone thinks about it. Not worrying if the market will like it, or if readers will, or what have you. I didn’t realize this the first time around while writing Victim, not until the novel was bought and the publishing machine started up, which, while exciting and fun and interesting, also made me wistful at times for when it was just me and the draft in silence, when no one was really watching or paying attention.

This time around I’ve tried to consciously value that time. I’ve tried to enjoy it. I’ve tried to remind myself that, God-willing, all of that other stuff will come when it’s time. But for now, I should just enjoy the quiet. I should disappear for a bit, and just have some fun.

Which is mostly what I did for the last year or so. I didn’t pay attention to market stuff too much. I deleted my Publisher’s Marketplace account, I archived a lot of nice Substack posts about trends and so forth that didn’t really apply to me yet, I stayed away from the trendy books, and I read whatever I wanted to read for the most part. I barely told anyone about what I was writing. Even my closest friends and family don’t really know.

I like it this way. It was just this fun little weird project I was working on.

But now the novel is this 100,000 word thing with a shape to it, and a title and I’ve taken it to about the place I can take it on my own, which means it’s about time to invite thoughts inside about its quality and so forth. Time to start thinking about positioning it in a marketplace.

But in the meantime, I wait.

There is a lot of waiting in the publishing business. Waiting for emails, mostly. So how do I cope?

Well, for a day or so I sat around with more time on my hands than usual, which I am historically terrible at managing. When I started going a bit stir crazy, I did the only thing I know how to do to ail myself when I’m sitting around waiting on emails related to something I wrote: I started writing something else.

Or, in this case, thinking about something else. Novel number 3, which right now is just a few journal entries. Random words and concepts and ideas that I’ve drawn arrows between to try and connect, but which aren’t really connected at all. I’ll keep doing this for a bit, keep trying to flesh things out, and eventually, be in a place with more time on my hands waiting for more emails again and I’ll start writing the damn thing and see what happens with it.

The process is very similar to what I followed to finish this current draft I have out to my agent. I had an idea, a little kernel of something, and I kept jotting things down around it. I kept trying to find some connections, kept reading, kept shaping until I figured out a rough shape and tried to find my way through a story. Something about fatherhood, modern parenting, modern domestic life, humanoid robots, AI, optimization, and what life with a toddler is actually like. Something about a long lost father and a son reconnecting. Disparate things that I somehow figured out a way–eventually, after three full drafts–to tie together in a manner that satisfies me.

It was only along the way that I discovered characters and motivations and interesting scenes and plot points—or, put in another way, the creative process took hold.

I’m excited to see what comes of it, and as I wait, and as I journal about this new thing, I’m excited to see what comes of this, too.

To my mind, this is the only way I know how to deal with waiting periods. To deal with all the dumb questions that naturally flood your head as soon as you finish something and share it. Is this any good? Will anyone buy this? Will anyone read this? Again, all natural questions, but also questions that aren’t particularly useful for a writer to circle around for too long.

In any case, that’s where I’m at, and I’m hopeful to share more news soon—if more news comes. In the meantime, I’ve got dates for events coming up in Philly and NYC this winter and spring, and one in the works for the Bay Area later this fall. I’ll be sharing those soon.

This week, I’m also on the hunt for a place in Miami that sells Medalla Lights (if you know, please hit me). I want to have some handy for Bad Bunny’s concert on Sunday night, which I’ve heard takes place in the middle of some football game.

I’m still reeling from him winning the Grammy for best Album of the Year. The Grammy’s still basically suck and still get things wrong all the time. It was a symbolic win, for sure, but man was it still meaningful. Not just as a Puerto Rican, but as a Latino, as a Spanish speaker, and even as an artist devoted to the idea of making art that means something to you–art that doesn’t sacrifice your individuality just to cater to the masses.

To see an album totally in Spanish, an album so dripping with Bad Bunny’s roots (my man brought back Salsa! Do you realize how big that is?), gain that sort of recognition, and especially now when the Spanish language and Latino culture are being demonized and portrayed in ways politically that make my stomach turn, was so powerful to see. Bad Bunny is writing history as we speak, and even if you don’t love the music or think he leans too much into groseria in his lyrics like many people in my family believe he does, what he’s doing is really fucking special.

In any case, I’m rambling now. Which means I should stop.

Thank you for rocking with me, Substack fam. I have some more things cooking for the year ahead—including some fun interviews with other writers dropping soon.

Peace,
Andrew

Share