***

"Again? You don’t like my draft?"

My voice shot up an octave as the news hit my ear.

The lip gloss I just grabbed slipped and rolled under the car. I didn’t even try to pick it up. The voice on the phone had me frozen.

"Miss, I don’t want to turn my story into ... new adult!"

Honestly, I didn’t even want to answer her call—especially after my latest draft was shredded to pieces in the internal WhatsApp group.

"Del," she said again, her voice morphing into a TikTok algorithm,

That stung. My lips instinctively pouted.

I stared at my reflection in the car window, at a face that looked tired and full of questions.

Meanwhile, the broken AC in my Hyundai dripped onto the parking lot floor, ticking like a time bomb counting down my patience.

I glanced at the shiny VIP cars lined up next to me. My old Hyundai looked like a dumpster that got lost.

It was Sunday. The Surabaya sun was burning as usual—cruel and shameless.

Everyone else was in the mall for free AC, while I sat in a rusted Hyundai, suffocating over a conversation I didn't ask for.

"Misswa, I write teenlit—I can’t write that kind of stuff …"

I didn't know that.

But I stayed silent.

Didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or bang my head on the steering wheel.

"I'm already at the mall!" I replied, annoyed.

"Well, that's all you can do right now. Follow the market!"

"But that's not my style, Misswa!"

When the call ended, I let out a long sigh and closed my eyes. This was hard to swallow.

I finally picked up the fallen lip gloss and looked at myself again.

I was a mess—puffy eyes, tangled hair, a bad version of the villains I used to write.

I always thought writing was about honesty. About pouring your mind and heart into words.

But now?

Writing was about algorithms.

Trending keywords.

Popular tropes.

Instant gratification for readers who didn’t have time for nuance.

We're not selling stories anymore—we're selling fast food fantasies.

Easy to digest.

Sweet at first bite.

The kind that makes you giggle on the train ride home.

Examples?

An ordinary girl pursued by three rich men.

Workplace problems solved ... in bed.

Basically, hit soap operas—just in book form.

Two years ago, my name was proudly displayed on front shelves.

I still remember how my hands shook when I saw my book standing next to big-name authors.

My parents—who used to doubt my choice to be a writer—finally nodded in pride.

"Look, that's Del's book!" My mom whispered to my dad and sister while pointing at the bestseller shelf at Gramesia.

It felt like a dream. Every book fair, my name was announced.

Every signing session had a line.

I was even interviewed by a local media outlet—"Young Author Conquers the Teenlit Market."

I still remember how proud I was, walking past Gramesia Tunjungan, Gun Agung Pakuwon, even Lomongan Bookstore—yes, that legendary one.

But then the pandemic hit, and everything changed. Online platforms popped up everywhere, offering quick, instant reads.

Reader taste had shifted.

Sadly, my teenage adventure novel no longer appealed. What once had readers chasing release dates … was now completely forgotten. Sales were low—just like my bank balance.

I opened the sales app again—only 5 copies sold this month.

Even my butterfly book, once praised by critics, was now used as a pillow in the store corner.

Replaced by shiny covers featuring six-pack abs and titles that … made me want to scrub my brain with bleach.

I stood in front of the best seller shelf, and a painful truth hit me:

The world had changed.

My novel hadn't.

The bestseller rack was now crowded with adult romances.

I stared at the glossy covers. The titles ... provocative.

One had a half-naked man with a sleepy look in his eyes.

Was it ... hunger?

Not for fried rice, obviously.

More like ... a grown-up kind of hunger?

Okay. I was officially scared of my own thoughts.

Then I spotted a girl in a school uniform flipping through a book with a half-naked guy on the cover—right at the cashier.

Is this what high school girls read now? Back when I was her age, I was still reading Anne of Green Gables!

Suddenly, my phone buzzed.

Text from Editor:

I stared at the screen. My bank balance couldn't even afford a single hardcover

Two years ago, my books were front and center at Gramedia Tunjungan.

Now?

All that's left are memories—and a name slowly fading beneath a pile of new releases.

God … forgive me.

This isn't me—

But maybe … it’s what I need.

I opened the first page of a book with trembling fingers, like a high schooler reading Playboy for the first time.

But this wasn't about curiosity.

This was survival.

Face burning like the sun, I grabbed a book labeled '18+.'

Then another.

And another.

I left the store carrying a bag of printed sins.

And in my heart, I whispered:

"I have to study this."

***

"Adel, are you okay?"

"Me? Yeah ... totally fine, Ma'am."

"Alright. Please print and bind the Q2 report. Don’t forget—Times New Roman 12, left margin 4 cm."

I nodded.

My fingers already knew the Ctrl+P shortcut by heart.

Two years ago, those hands were busy writing dialogue and scenes.

Now?

Termination letters and meeting memos.

Yep. I'm a secretary now.

After years of writing, I became a full-time office worker—secretary to Ms. Widya, who's ultra-organized, ultra-strict, and ultra-suspicious of my naturally curly hair. She once said it looked 'too rebellious.'

I rubbed my eyes.

Sleep-deprived.

It took me all night to digest what makes erotic novels so … appealing.

And my conclusion?

Not because I'm a puritan.

Not because I'm a snob who thinks sex is a lowbrow theme.

But because … I genuinely don't understand!

What makes the heroine fall in love with a man who hasn’t even told her his name—right after forcing himself on her?

Why are all the male leads CEOs, pilots, or actors—

who just happen to eat instant noodles at midnight and fall in love just because the girl forgot to wear a bra?

Sure, he's rich and handsome.

I sighed and glanced at the Q3 financial report beside my keyboard.

Yeah. I work in an office now.

But I still write—just that my drafts now hide between spread sheets and Power Point decks.

Who knows—

maybe my main character will fall in love after seeing EBITDA increase.

Funny, right?

And even if reality’s getting more absurd, I still try to stay idealistic.

Three months ago—with hope (and a touch of naivety)—I submitted my newest teenlit manuscript to Misswa, my editor.

Her reply?

Huh?

Ouch.

Double kill.

In the end, nearly 75% of my manuscript got slaughtered.

The only survivors?

Character names and hair descriptions.

The rest?

Crossed out, trashed, and dumped into the Google Docs abyss.

But I can't leave.

I'm still under an exclusive contract.

After all, my book did get a reprint once.

Those days—when my parents beamed with pride—still chain me like expired dreams.

Now?

I'm going through a full-blown identity crisis as a writer.

Not just writer's block—this is worse.

Because I know exactly what I want to write. Unfortunately, that’s not what the market wants.

---

This was where I froze.  

My fingers hovered over the page like I’d been electrocuted.

The air caught in my throat.  

But I kept reading, eyes wide and watery.  

This hurt more than writing my college thesis.

I slammed the book shut.

Even my tailbone blushed.

This book was way too hot to read while wearing office clothes.

Some coworkers glanced over.  

Panicked, I shoved the book into my tote bag.

That I’m a writer! No one here knows.  

And worse— I’m about to write an erotic novel!

I yanked the tote bag into my drawer.  

Just in case someone caught a glimpse.

But that last sentence kept dancing in my head—  

A wicked line that knew me too well.  

It made me shiver.

Pen, Del. 

 

A writing tool.

Then why did my chest tighten?

God.

I need tea! 

Do I really have to write scenes that raw?

Oh, no. No.

God, if this is really the path I must take ...  

Please let the sex scenes at least have good literary metaphors.

***

That night, before bed, I reopened the page I marked with a sticky note.

Chapter 4. Title:  

I stared at the page and whispered:

"Okay, Del. Let’s call this … research."

I, Adela Hartono—Del, 24.  

Once an idealistic teenlit writer,  

Now learning how to write erotica.

Because the market likes it spicy.