So, I sold the book. Began writing it in 2012, finished it in 2015, submitted it to the eventual publisher (among many agents and another publisher) in 2016, sold it in 2018.
Now what?
Well, as it turns out, what happens now is I panic.
I mean, not entirely. But the book is scheduled for release in March 2019, and I’m expecting the edits in August or September 2018. Maybe later. So now, I write book 2 and hope the editor likes it enough to add it to the schedule. But… how can I? After all, I’m a fraud and I’ll never manage a book as good as the first one. Look at these crappy words I’m making! GAH!
Which is prime, grade-A bullshit, but it’s what my brain is feeding me lately. I plotted the book out, broke it into scenes, wrote a synopsis, and then wrote 1300 words of the first chapter. And then I deleted them, and wrote 1900 words that were marginally better, in both craft and structure.
Every pro writer I know has said at some point that they deal with this, too. They fear not being able to write another book. They feel the cold and nasty tendrils of Impostor Syndrome. So I know it’s not really unique. But digging out of it? It’s not easy.
In fact, the only thing I can think of to do is to keep my head down, ignore the news, and continue to write. The first draft will be horrible, but the second will be better, and the third better than that. And hopefully it, too, will become a book.
So for now, I avoid the siren song of video games and movies, and continue to plug away at this book. I mean, I already plotted it out and broke it; I guess I ought to go ahead and write it, yeah? And I trust that eventually, I’ll break out of this stupid brainspace and be convinced my stuff is worth reading, again.
Stupid brains.