Writing Again

Here’s what they don’t tell you about writing your second book:

It will break your heart as much as the first one did.

Maybe even more.

When I set out to write Harpies last November, I felt like it was made of poetry. Pure rage. A simmering undertone of loss. Great love. It was not an easy task. I had an arc and that arc changed as I learned more about the world I was writing. I stalled before the second act, trying to find the connection that would carry the main character into the next step. I felt like I was breaking everything as I made it, tearing down the expectations of my main character over and over again as the world around her grew more complex and, with it, so did she.

I still feel like this story is my heart hemorrhaging on the page. It isn’t the most polished, but I am half-stunned by the fact that a) I wrote it in under three months and b) it is legible.

I’m not even sure where I’d fix it, except to find a way to expand the subplots. That’s probably because I am emotionally exhausted from writing the damn thing. I suppose that is what critique groups and partners are for.

Writing remains to be the scariest and most difficult thing I have ever done.  

And now I am off to do it again with a third novel, already 10K in.

This time in a completely new genre.