I’ve been trawling through literary agent websites lately, and I’ll tell you what: each one has their own quirky little rules. Some want a guaranteed happily-ever-after. Some will accept robots, but only if they're unattractive. And still others insist that the protagonists must be a lesbian couple, or the deal’s off. But despite all the wild variations, there’s one thing they all seem to agree on: the “correct” length for a novel is somewhere between 90,000 and 120,000 words.

Neat, tidy, boring...

Which brings us to House of Nepenthe, my latest and greatest dystopian cyber-thriller opus, weighing in at a lean, mean 170,000 words. Yes, it’s long. Yes, it’s heavy. Yes, it takes stamina. I’ve tried dressing it up in the query letter—“it’s really four novels in one,” or “every POV has plenty of room to breathe”—but the question still lingers: is it too much for most people to handle?

Is this the longest by far?

House of Nepenthe is the wordiest book I've ever written, but just how wordier is it? Let's take a look at word counts going all the way back to Xronixle.

Looking at the numbers, House of Nepenthe isn’t so much a wild outlier as it is the logical endpoint of a long, steady trend. My books have always lived comfortably above the so-called “sweet spot,” with even my shortest, Por Vida, clocking in at a chunky 126k. The rest routinely push past 140k without breaking a sweat. In that context, House of Nepenthe isn’t a freakish monster; it’s just the next evolution, a little taller, a little stronger, the natural apex of an aging science fiction writer who has never been content to cut corners or leave character arcs undercooked. At 170k, it’s not an unwieldy brick... it’s a deluxe, extra-thick, full-flavored experience.

So if House of Nepenthe isn’t a statistical anomaly, why does it feel like such a towering giant on the bookshelf of my career? That brings us to the obvious question, the one every agent will ask before they even get to the pitch: why is it so long?

Why is it so long?

So why is House of Nepenthe so long? Part of it comes down to its origin story. The novel grew out of a short story by the same name, which originally juggled two POVs—Ken and Delia. When I adapted it into a full-length book, I dropped Delia’s perspective and let Ken’s narrative breathe. What had once been compact and restrained stretched naturally toward its proper conclusion. The story simply demanded more space, and I gave it room to grow.

Of course, multiple POVs will always push a book toward the longer side, especially if you want each one to really live. It’s not enough to hand a character a name and a quirk; they need their own arc, their own oxygen. And when you weave them together, you’re not just writing a single narrative; you’re orchestrating several, all running in parallel, all crashing into each other at the right moments. That takes pages.

And then there’s the genre stew. House of Nepenthe is cyberpunk at its core, sure, but it pulls in elements of crime thriller, literary drama, even the quiet, aching melancholy of something like Never Let Me Go. When you mix flavors like that, you can’t just toss them in and call it soup... you have to let them simmer. They need time to thicken, deepen, and blend into something wholly unique. That means the book can’t be a snack. It has to be a meal.

I also don’t rush anymore. In my early days, I sometimes barreled through stories, eager to hit the next twist. These days, I let moments linger. I let characters argue, reconcile, stumble, and fall in love. I’m not writing to an industry standard of 90–120k words. I’m writing the story as it needs to be told. And though my books are fast-paced cyber-romps, they’re built for the long haul. A marathon, not a 100-meter dash.

More than that, House of Nepenthe is epic by design. It’s a pivot point in the Vinestead Universe, the keystone in the arch. This is where everything turned and how the world you’ve read about in earlier books came to be. It was also a chance to revisit things that matter to me: the chaos of Winter Storm Uri, the texture of the late 90s, the little fragments of childhood that sneak their way into dialogue and detail. Those things deserve their time on the page.

And, honesty corner, I was excited. Excited about the story, excited about the characters both old and new. Excited enough to keep going past where someone else might have stopped. Every new book I write is better than the last, and House of Nepenthe is no exception. It’s an opus, not because of its size, but because of its ambition. The length is just a side effect of giving it everything it needed to become what it was meant to be.

Cutting it down to size

Of course, there’s always the nuclear option: just lop off one of the four storylines and call it a day. I can see how it could be done. The word count would come down, the spreadsheets would smile, and somewhere a literary agent’s intern would breathe a sigh of relief. I could even repackage that fourth POV as a standalone novella, something readers could pick up before (or after?!) House of Nepenthe. It might even work. But honestly, what’s the point?

Every piece of advice I’ve gotten says the same thing: 170,000 words is too beaucoup. Cut it in half, pad it back out, aim for that magic 90–100k zone. But here’s the thing: why would I want to? If I’m going to miss the target, I’d rather miss it on my own terms. If I’m going to fail to find an agent, I’d rather fail my way, which is telling the story exactly as the dark forces demand.

I’ve spent twenty years chasing commercial success for my books, often trying to twist my vision into something that looked more like what “the industry” wanted. And sure, I could spend another twenty doing the same. But by then, I’ll be sixty-five, hopefully with more time to write the kinds of books that follow rules. But I probably won't.

Because here’s the truth: House of Nepenthe is a great book. Everyone says so. Big, ambitious, a little unruly yet mature, and worth every page. I believe there’s a chance an agent will see that and want to represent it. And if not, then at least I’m finally learning the rhythms of querying, practicing the craft of pitching, and reminding myself that none of this will matter in 100 years, if even that long.

Setting things straight

So yes, House of Nepenthe is long. It’s thick. It’s not for the faint of heart. But it’s also the book I set out to write, and I refuse to snip the tip just to fit inside someone else’s box.

If it lands with an agent, amazing. If it doesn’t, I’ll keep querying, keep writing, and keep telling stories the way I want to tell them. Because at the end of the day, the length isn’t the problem. The only real problem would be not finishing the story the way it needed to be finished.

Also:

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