Why Writing Book 2 is Harder than Writing Book 1

I don’t know if you know this, but I wrote a really kick ass book and published it in 2015. It took me about four years to finish it, which really is not accurate because I had two kids under five when I started. One of which was still attached to my breast, so my writing took a backseat to dirty diapers and sippy cups. I squeezed in a few words during nap time and Dora the Explorer distractions, but I wrote. I wrote every day, and I wrote with vigor.

I had to tell the story. The main character, Paige, took over my life, and her voice wouldn’t quiet. She talked to me all day, in my sleep, in the shower, at the gym, so when I sat down to write her story, the words flowed. Though it contained a bit of darkness, I developed a sweet love story, and Paige’s sense of humor weaved its way through the plot. Writing Dear Stephanie (shameless plug) was fun.

Actually, writing Dear Stephanie was life. The characters were my oxygen. The story was the blood that pumped through my veins.

My current WIP centers around the very light and fluffy topic of Human Trafficking. I know. But hey, my first book was about depression and suicide, so bygones. As all good writers do, I spend a lot of my time researching. Imagine reading articles about Human Trafficking. Now imagine reading those articles every day. It’s a disgusting industry, and although I am perfectly capable of going into the dark corners of my mind to write this book, those places are hard to visit sometimes, and I find myself literally (cliche warning) letting out the breath I didn’t know I was holding almost every time I write a chapter.

But that’s not the problem.

What is the problem? You’re probably (maybe not) asking yourself. I’m glad you (didn’t) ask.

Aside from the typical and normal self doubt that the vast majority of artists experience, there’s this other very nagging problem constantly putting pressure on me.

People are going to read this.

You see, when I wrote Dear Stephanie, I had no audience. I didn’t even know if I would publish it. I virtually wrote that novel as practice, to see if I could see it through to the end. When I actually typed “The End,” I was shocked. I probably, over the course of my life, started a dozen novels. But I only finished one. And I only finished it because only a handful of people knew about it. So nobody was going to read it. My family had no idea I spent most of my free time writing. My friends also didn’t know. Writing was my secret, a world where I could be free and write words that offend, words that slice and rip the flesh, words that bury themselves in your soul.

But the words were good, and with a lot of encouragement from my small group of friends who knew about them, I decided to publish. I kept it a secret going to such extremes that I created a special list of people on Facebook so that when I shared anything about the book, I could hide it from this core group of people (that consisted of all of my family and a large number of friends).

But now, everybody knows I write, and people *gasp* continue to buy my book and consistently ask me when my next book will be released, and I have readers. I have fans. And they/you expect another good read. They/you deserve it. And I desperately want to give that to them/you.

Aye there’s the rub.

That’s a lot of pressure.

Can I compete with the first book? Will my next book tank? Am I a one-book-wonder? Do I have it in me to put in the work that is required to publish another book? (In case you’re wondering, it’s a lot of work.)

Yes.

I will quiet the voices that tell me I can’t. I will squelch the negative noise, and I will write. I will write free, and I will publish this book.

I hope you will read it.

Girls Teaser

Girls Trafficked – coming eventually 

 

 

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Blogxiety

Someone get me some meds, I’m having a complete Blogxiety attack. 

First of all, let’s start with my new addiction:  Blogoshere…or at least that’s what I think it’s called. I wrote this little story about a girl who peed in the driveway…true story, by the way, because well, I was bored, and I’m slightly narcissistic, and I thought…sure people will want to read this, and by people, I meant my one blogger friend, and she read it, and then she shared it, and then she opened the doors to “a whole new world”. 

Birds flew from my computer (you think I’m kidding, but I’m not.  I saw macaws people, real ones.  They’re on a photographer’s blog, and they’re mother freaking beautiful, oh and I found her blog through another blog who was “guest hosting”, which I don’t quite understand, but totally support, and if someone wants to be my guest on my blog, please do so.  How does that work anyway?). 

I found myself in a winter wonderland fighting stuffed elves, falling in love with  crazy aunts, reading about chuck’s terriblemind…, reading thousands, I mean, thousands of book reviews (and books are my crack, so I practically licked my lap top as I ferociously added books to my “to read” category), and then there’s this girl who’s a hacker ninja, and she’s hilarious, and I read about 20 of her posts because…she’s just that good.  And then my husband said, “Hey, what are you doing?” and I said, “Shhh.” (but under my breath I used explicits) because he interrupted my blog hit, and you just can’t interrupt an addict when she’s getting her fix, right?

I guess what I’m trying to say is….

I’m not worthy.  I bow to your Blogness. 

You all are fabulous, and talented, and hilarious, and beautiful, and please keep posting because I really don’t want to pay any attention to my husband or my kids, or clean my house, or pay my bills, or do anything but read your blogs. 

 

Thanks for the welcoming me into this world where I’m completely overwhelmed but totally humbled to be in your presence. 

Please, introduce me to the blogs you follow, so I can continue to get my fix.  Although, I don’t see myself building up a tolerance to any of these I already follow.  What do you like?  Did you have Blogxiety when you started, too?  What inspires your posts?

 

 

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