For Wenark Green, December’s almost done, marking the end of 2025, which arrived 12 months ago already tired. It’s been an up-and-down year, more the latter than the former. Difficult, testing, the kind that asks you to repeat yourself because it wasn’t listening the first time.
When we decided to join the great self-publishing carousel, webinars, podcasts, social media, and gurus at writers’ conferences/festivals who smelled like ambition, warned the book market was saturated. Not just full, but drowning, a deluge, a swamped literary bathtub with both taps still running. Everyone had a book or more. Genres had multiplied and mutated. Algorithms and readers had opinions, never-ending options, and a cascade of titles. By 2025, we had two self-published novels, Deadly Dough and Fatal Fungus, and a growing sense that shouting into the void only works if the void deigns to listen.
We self-published our first two books in the Windy & Darling mystery series with all the love, tenderness, and meticulous attention we could muster. Of course, they were imperfect—what’s perfection, anyway?—they were earnest, and the debut, maybe a little too long, but we sold copies, not many, but enough to prove someone, somewhere, finished them and reviewed. That mattered, yet by early 2025, we, along with the year itself, were exhausted, That crazy little thing called reality had closed in, and while self-publishing had taught us much, it stole twice as much back. Time, health, and hope, fuelled by dwindling optimism measured in marketing stats.
As the year rolled on mercilessly, and commercial success seemed as remote as the sun, we did the unthinkable and stopped. Not writing, never that, but self-publishing. One morning across the breakfast table, we looked at each other, laptops poised, notepads open, freshly brewed coffee tasting like watered mud, and admitted a truth sketched with betrayal to our original goal. We wanted change. A chance to focus on the words and the stories, instead of patterns and stat graphs of online attention, or sadly, for us, the lack of it. We were under no illusion. Wenark Green wanted out of indie.
The decision wasn’t dramatic. No overture. No popping of corks and dripping in sparkling celebration. We simply revisited our vision and USP, overhauled our manuscripts, and started again. We revised. Cut beloved scenes. Re-edited until sentences, scenes, and chapters stood straighter, knowing they’d been good but could be better. We learned a handful of traditional publishers accept self-published scripts, especially if reworked and submitted with a well-written synopsis and query letter. We don’t have egos bigger than ourselves, so we queried with humility, not apology, nor an outrageous rhetoric about outstanding ability or dynamic writing. In short, we stayed true to ourselves.
Ark: The thought of rejection sent me into severe panic mode, a demonic side effect of severe anxiety. For me, self-publishing was like a “get-out” clause, not easy, but the lesser of two evils. It still terrifies me, but I’ve accepted it’s a leg of a long journey and must be walked. Slush pile, get ready.
It’s important to note, life wasn’t only struggle. There were bright, almost ridiculous moments. We laughed a lot—at our old blurbs, at cover trends we’d chased like fashion victims, at the idea success wouldn’t take long to wrap us in victory, wearing a sash when it did. We found pleasure in the reworking of scripts. Days when chapters clicked with the addition, alteration, or elimination of a few words. Those moments were like winning a small, private lottery. There were times when our bodies’ cooperation felt merciful and words rolled from our heads, hearts, and lips like honey off a hot spoon.
We missed opportunities, too, but satire and humour, the forces behind our lives and lifestyle, come from realising the right time’s a moving target, and everyone else can also be late.
Wen: I used to think success was loud. In 2025, it was quieter. It sounded like persistence.
Ark: It tasted like cake eaten slowly. A sweet sentence that finally said what it meant.
We don’t know how our querying story will end. This blog isn’t a victory lap, but a progress report, and choosing traditional publishing wasn’t a surrender, but a strategy. An act of faith that our work deserves room to grow, as do we.
If 2025 has taught Wenark Green anything, it’s that art survives saturation by becoming specific. Honest. Human. Two authors, imperfect health, revised books, and a decision to keep going—together, with humour intact and hope underlined. In the margins of a demanding year, we wrote ourselves forward.
With that merry-go-round changing direction, it leaves Wenark Green to wish you all success, growth, health, and prosperity in 2026. Do it your way, and warmest wishes going forward. Happy New Year.
That’s us away! After while.
Wen & Ark xx
For Wenark Green, December’s almost done, marking the end of 2025, which arrived 12 months ago already tired. It’s been an up-and-down year, more the latter than the former. Difficult, testing, the kind that asks you to repeat yourself because it wasn’t listening the first time.
When we decided to join the great self-publishing carousel, webinars, podcasts, social media, and gurus at writers’ conferences/festivals who smelled like ambition, warned the book market was saturated. Not just full, but drowning, a deluge, a swamped literary bathtub with both taps still running. Everyone had a book or more. Genres had multiplied and mutated. Algorithms and readers had opinions, never-ending options, and a cascade of titles. By 2025, we had two self-published novels, Deadly Dough and Fatal Fungus, and a growing sense that shouting into the void only works if the void deigns to listen.
We self-published our first two books in the Windy & Darling mystery series with all the love, tenderness, and meticulous attention we could muster. Of course, they were imperfect—what’s perfection, anyway?—they were earnest, and the debut, maybe a little too long, but we sold copies, not many, but enough to prove someone, somewhere, finished them and reviewed. That mattered, yet by early 2025, we, along with the year itself, were exhausted, That crazy little thing called reality had closed in, and while self-publishing had taught us much, it stole twice as much back. Time, health, and hope, fuelled by dwindling optimism measured in marketing stats.
As the year rolled on mercilessly, and commercial success seemed as remote as the sun, we did the unthinkable and stopped. Not writing, never that, but self-publishing. One morning across the breakfast table, we looked at each other, laptops poised, notepads open, freshly brewed coffee tasting like watered mud, and admitted a truth sketched with betrayal to our original goal. We wanted change. A chance to focus on the words and the stories, instead of patterns and stat graphs of online attention, or sadly, for us, the lack of it. We were under no illusion. Wenark Green wanted out of indie.
The decision wasn’t dramatic. No overture. No popping of corks and dripping in sparkling celebration. We simply revisited our vision and USP, overhauled our manuscripts, and started again. We revised. Cut beloved scenes. Re-edited until sentences, scenes, and chapters stood straighter, knowing they’d been good but could be better. We learned a handful of traditional publishers accept self-published scripts, especially if reworked and submitted with a well-written synopsis and query letter. We don’t have egos bigger than ourselves, so we queried with humility, not apology, nor an outrageous rhetoric about outstanding ability or dynamic writing. In short, we stayed true to ourselves.
Ark: The thought of rejection sent me into severe panic mode, a demonic side effect of severe anxiety. For me, self-publishing was like a “get-out” clause, not easy, but the lesser of two evils. It still terrifies me, but I’ve accepted it’s a leg of a long journey and must be walked. Slush pile, get ready.
It’s important to note, life wasn’t only struggle. There were bright, almost ridiculous moments. We laughed a lot—at our old blurbs, at cover trends we’d chased like fashion victims, at the idea success wouldn’t take long to wrap us in victory, wearing a sash when it did. We found pleasure in the reworking of scripts. Days when chapters clicked with the addition, alteration, or elimination of a few words. Those moments were like winning a small, private lottery. There were times when our bodies’ cooperation felt merciful and words rolled from our heads, hearts, and lips like honey off a hot spoon.
We missed opportunities, too, but satire and humour, the forces behind our lives and lifestyle, come from realising the right time’s a moving target, and everyone else can also be late.
Wen: I used to think success was loud. In 2025, it was quieter. It sounded like persistence.
Ark: It tasted like cake eaten slowly. A sweet sentence that finally said what it meant.
We don’t know how our querying story will end. This blog isn’t a victory lap, but a progress report, and choosing traditional publishing wasn’t a surrender, but a strategy. An act of faith that our work deserves room to grow, as do we.
If 2025 has taught Wenark Green anything, it’s that art survives saturation by becoming specific. Honest. Human. Two authors, imperfect health, revised books, and a decision to keep going—together, with humour intact and hope underlined. In the margins of a demanding year, we wrote ourselves forward.
With that merry-go-round changing direction, it leaves Wenark Green to wish you all success, growth, health, and prosperity in 2026. Do it your way, and warmest wishes going forward. Happy New Year.
That’s us away! After while.
Wen & Ark xx