Author name: Roger Hyttinen

First of all, a little disclaimer: in this post, I talk about my own experiences and what I learned. These may be completely different from your own experiences and/or beliefs. And that’s fun. I’m just letting you know where I’m coming.

Okay, now that that’s out of the way…

So, here’s the thing nobody tells you when you gleefully hit “publish” on your first self-published queer novel and think I’m gonna be the next Casey McQuiston and everyone will love me and we’ll all ride off into the rainbow sunset together — the indie publishing world is basically a scrappy underground speakeasy where you have to knock three times and whisper a secret code just to get your foot in the door. And then once you’re in? Someone hands you a broom, points to a dusty corner, and you realize oh this isn’t the party at all, I actually work here.

Don’t get me wrong — I love being a queer indie author. I love being able to put out stories where the gay detective actually survives chapter three and doesn’t spend twenty pages angsting in a dark alleyway. I love writing about trans necromancers and bisexual vampire therapists without some agent telling me to tone it down because “the mainstream market might not get it.” But wow…nobody warned me about the amount of hustling and emotional whiplash that comes with it.

Let’s start with the niche audience thing. In theory, niche audiences sound great. You find your people, you write for them, and you all vibe. In reality, it sometimes feels like screaming into a void that only echoes back “thanks but I only read omegaverse selkie romance”. You can write the best paranormal noir featuring a broody gay detective and a haunted speakeasy (yes, I’m absolutely calling myself out), but unless you manage to put that book in front of the exact person who wanted “1930s Chicago + ghosts + slightly traumatized but emotionally available gay men,” they might never even know it exists.

And that’s where the hustle part kicks in. You become a one-person marketing department: designing graphics even though you barely know how Canva works (I happen to know Photoshop, so I’m lucky there), writing newsletter copy at 2am, trying to figure out how BookTok trends even happen, and posting memes on Bluesky in the hope that people think “haha that’s funny, maybe I should check out his books.” There’s nothing quite like watching someone like your spicy gay meme…but completely ignore the actual buy link you posted directly underneath it, like it’s cursed.

Also, the algorithms absolutely do not care about you. They care about engagement. They care about likes and shares and comments, sure, but only if they happen at precisely 2:37pm on a Tuesday when the moon is in Virgo or some nonsense. One time I spent three hours crafting a post about queerfound family in SFF and it got two likes (one of them was my own mother). Then I posted a blurry photo of my desk and wrote “lol my brain is soup” and suddenly it reached a thousand people. Make it make sense.

Let’s not forget about the gatekeeping disguised as “advice.” Oh, you want to write queer horror? “Well, that doesn’t sell, you should add a female love interest to make it more appealing to everyone.” Thinking about having your gay MC actually stay with his boyfriend? “Maybe consider a bittersweet ending instead, people like trauma arcs.” (Yes, people have actually said this to me.) Sometimes the indie world can feel just as gatekeep-y as traditional publishing, except instead of editors, it’s random Facebook group folks telling you that your book is “too specific.”

But…there’s a beautiful side, too. Like the reader who messages you out of the blue and says “hey, I’d never seen anyone write a queer autistic character in a cozy witch book before and it made me cry in a good way.” Or the moment you realize your tiny little niche audience is actually full of incredibly loyal, passionate people who will read every single thing you put out and scream about it to anyone who will listen. There’s a real sense of community over competition, especially within queer indie circles. People share resources, cross-promote, and hype each other up in a way that still makes me kind of emotional (and maybe a bit feral).

And here’s something I really wish someone had told me upfront: you’re allowed to grow slowly. You don’t have to hit bestseller lists in week one. You don’t have to churn out five books a year or drop $2,000 on ads just to be seen as “serious.” There’s something ridiculously powerful about writing the stories you actually want to write and letting your audience build organically over time — even if it sometimes feels like you’re just yelling into the fog with a megaphone made out of cardboard.

So yeah. Self-publishing as a queer author sometimes feels like trying to sell handmade zines out of the trunk of your car at a farmer’s market where nobody actually came for books at all. But every now and then someone walks by, picks one up, and says “oh wow, this is exactly the thing I didn’t know I needed.” And that, honestly, makes the whole chaotic hustle worth it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go design yet another Instagram post that says “buy my gay book, I swear it’s good.”

This post is mainly for my writer friends though anyone who enjoys YA novels may find it of interest.

So, experience has shown me that writing teen characters isn’t just about sprinkling in a couple of “likes” and calling it a day. Teens aren’t little kids, and they’re not adults either—they’re kinda in-between liminal creatures, like those weird amphibians you learn about in science class that live in water and on land and somehow survive off algae and sheer stubbornness.

When I was writing my young adult series, I did a ton of research on how to make teen voices feel natural—not just because I wanted the dialogue to ring true, but also because I read a lot of YA fiction for fun and absolutely hate it when a teen character sounds like a 47-year-old philosophy professor. Especially when we’re talking about queer teens. LGBTQ+ adolescents often navigate a totally different emotional landscape, full of secrecy, self-discovery, awkward crushes, internalized guilt, external labels…the whole rainbow-flavored psychological buffet.

Anyway, here are some things I learned along the way:

Teens Are Not a Monolith

Don’t write every teen as snarky or rebellious or angst-ridden. Sure, some are, but others are painfully earnest, overly polite, deeply nerdy, ridiculously optimistic, or just exhausted. Capture the individuality. A teen who binge watches Ghibli movies while knitting in their room is going to talk differently than a queer kid who secretly goes to underground drag shows in the city on Friday nights.

Put Emotion in the Gaps

Teens don’t always say what they feel. In fact, most of the time, they aggressively don’t. They hide behind sarcasm, jokes, distraction, or silence. When a teen is scared or confused (especially about sexuality or identity), they might talk around the issue rather than about it.

Example:
“I mean, whatever, it’s not like I like him or anything…he just has a nice smile. Whatever.”

They’ll flood a moment with disclaimers (whatever, I dunno, kinda, maybe, I guess) because the truth is too naked and terrifying.

Vary the Rhythm

Teen speech often jumps from topic to topic like a squirrel on espresso. One minute they’re talking about the chemistry test, the next they’re spiraling over a TikTok trend, then they’re—oh my god—panicking because their crush just liked their Instagram post from four months ago.

That rhythm—fast, fragmented, sometimes awkwardly paused—is what makes it feel real. Don’t be afraid to give them unfinished sentences, abrupt transitions, or sudden moments of self-consciousness.

They Absorb the World Around Them

Queer teens, especially, pick up language from online spaces, fandoms, friend groups, LGBTQ+ creators, etc. Somebody growing up in a rural town with no queer community in sight might sound totally different than someone in a progressive school with an active GSA. Let their environment influence their voice.

Internal Monologue Matters (A LOT)

It’s not just the dialogue that needs to sound believable—it’s their thoughts. Teens overthink everything.
Did they laugh too loud? Was that text too aggressive? Are they even allowed to exist or are they cosmically cursed to always feel out of sync?

Let the internal voice spiral a bit. Let it contradict itself. One second they’re convinced the world is ending, the next they’re casually eating cereal and humming. That emotional whiplash is very teenage.

Let Them Be Funny (Even When They’re Not Trying)

Teens often use humor as a coping mechanism. Even shy kids end up saying unintentionally hilarious things while trying to make sense of their feelings:

“So yeah, I might be like… attracted to guys. Or pizza. Honestly not sure which one is giving me more anxiety right now.”

Let those little unexpected jokes land naturally in the middle of chaos.

YA Novels Are Your Best Teachers

Seriously. Read them. (I mean, you probably already do—YA is wonderful and sometimes I enjoy it more than “adult” fiction because it tends to cut straight to the emotional guts without pretending not to care.) Notice how the pacing of the dialogue works in authors like Becky Albertalli or Adam Silvera—the way they balance humor with low-key heartbreak.

Listen Before You Write

Eavesdrop (respectfully! No lurking in bushes). Overhear real conversations at coffee shops, school campuses, gaming servers, YouTube comment sections, Discord chats. Just absorb how actual modern teens phrase things.

And for LGBTQ+ teens specifically? If you’re not part of that community, read their stories. Watch their videos. Follow their channels. It isn’t about mimicking their slang—it’s about understanding the emotional territory they’re navigating.

Alright, I’ll stop rambling now. Hopefully this gave you some useful ideas (or at least a couple of “ohhh right” moments).