I woke up the other night with an epiphany about my current WIP. It’s that element of the story I’ve been struggling to find the last year as the words eeked out in miserly fashion. Of course, it means rewrites. Lots and lots of rewrites.
Doesn’t it always?
I keep telling myself it’s ok. I was starting to avoid the story because it didn’t feel right and now I’m energized about Jackson and Riley finding their HEA. I’m even starting to put together elements of another book in the series, but keep telling myself to write this one before plotting out the next.
It’s a known phenomenon: the dreaded second book. Like every sequel out there it’s doubtful to live up to the first. I mean who likes Rocky II as much as Rocky I? The only thing I’ve really got going for me is not many people read the first, so there’s not many people who I will disappoint. A little self-deprecating writer humor.
I will always adore my readers, whether there are ten of them or ten thousand. But I worry they will find my books lacking in whatever spark drew them to my story in the first place. Getting a message from someone who tells me my story made them laugh or cry or scream is addictive. I don’t want the cure.