Self-Critique: My first book

When I finished The Crystal Debt, it felt like I’d poured not just a story onto the page, but an entire world of wounds, lost names, and the weight of memory. It’s a novel obsessed with one question: what happens when power isn’t simply inherited, but stolen—or even forgotten? For months, I lived among ashes and crystals, haunted by that tension between identity and oblivion.

Reading it now, I see that what I most wanted to convey was uncertainty—the push and pull between the self and all the echoes that came before. The characters (Kaien, Löez, Narel…) aren’t just mages or wanderers; they’re fragments of memory fighting not to disappear. The central conflict isn’t good vs. evil, but the right to remember—and to choose what part of the past gets to define us.

But not everything turned out as I hoped. With some distance, I can see several areas where I would have done things differently:

  • Narrative pacing: The novel can move heavily at times, especially in the first half. Out of fear of leaving loose threads or losing depth, I overburdened the story with symbolism and introspection. This makes it harder for readers looking for a quicker adventure.

  • Lore complexity: I’m proud of the memory-based magic and the unique worldbuilding, but I know the mythology can get confusing or overwhelming in places. Not every concept lands on the first read, and I miss having more moments to pause and explain naturally.

  • Character voices: I wanted each character to carry distinct emotional weight, but sometimes their voices blur together. The atmosphere can overpower individuality, and it’s not always clear who is feeling or suffering in any given moment.

  • Darkness vs. hope: The novel isn’t afraid of pain or trauma, but maybe I needed more moments of relief, light, or everyday life. Both reader and author need those flashes of possible future.

Despite everything, The Crystal Debt is deeply personal. I’m not sure it achieves all I intended, but I know it holds my obsessions, my doubts, and my hope that fantasy can ask: “What part of me is still mine?”

If I had to sum up the lesson, I’d say writing this book taught me that memory—my own and others’—is never neutral. As an author, you leave pieces of yourself on every page, often without realizing. Maybe that’s why the book is imperfect, contradictory—and maybe that’s what makes it real.

Would I write it again? Yes. But with less fear of forgetting, and more courage to remember what matters.

—T

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