Getting Back to My Roots

Are you still out there?

If so, thanks for waiting patiently. I checked in the other day and realized I haven't posted in four months!

Anyway, I pretty much abandoned the blog because I'd grown bored and frustrated with writing about writing when I wasn't even satisfied with writing itself, actually. Not to mention that I felt like I was becoming too outdated to be interesting as a writer because I've only had one book published and that was more than two years ago. It was kind of a self-imposed mind-fuck and pity party; as my man and many, many others are always reminding me, having even one book published is a seriously major accomplishment. And it is.

My agent made a good point recently, though, and that's that a lot of writers have trouble with the ominous "Book 2" because all of a sudden you're not writing for yourself, you're writing for your editor, your publisher, your audience--and all of a sudden it's very possible that you might start tripping yourself on what you think you need to be writing versus what you really do need to be writing. I envy, and applaud, all the first-time published writers who never let themselves fall into that trap. At the same time, therein lurks yet another trap--the horrible thought that if all of them can keep it together, then what's wrong with me?

And then comes the desperation of having to hurry and catch up--seeing writers who came out about the same time as yourself already releasing their third, fourth, fifth books.

But you know what, screw it. Prior to having LLT published, I didn't pay much notice to what other writers were doing and I never followed the progress of their personal publishing process. I never played these little mind-games with myself like: Would anyone actually read this? Why would they want to? What's my story got that's more interesting than any other submission? Is it stupid of me to assume that just because I spend a lot of time writing, I can actually write?

My point is, there used to a time when I wrote books because it was something I enjoyed doing. It was my favorite thing to do. And now when I go back and read some of my old stuff, I think to myself, did I really write that? Because it's actually good.

So after dabbling with the revision of some of my older manuscripts, I started sending them to my agent in hopes that something, anything, would resonate with her. But, nothing did. I'll be the first to say she's picky, and demanding, and not so easily impressed (all traits part of her job, actually)--but then I realized the desperation was probably showing through in my writing. Not that I think everything I've been writing lately amounts to crap, but there is a difference when you write because you love it versus trying to force it out of you, just to have something to sell. Of course, there could be another agent out there who would grab up one of my manuscripts without a question, but that's what's kept me from seeking other representation this whole time. Because if an agent is happy with something that I'm not even all that happy with, then what am I really trying to accomplish?

The bottom line is that I've finally returned to the realization that I don't need to write with a potential sale in mind, I just need to write because I want to. Who cares if I write a book and it never gets published. Actually completing a novel, from start to finish, is every bit as satisfying.

So to get out of my funk, I decided to write the sequel to Love Like That--never mind that I no longer work with its publisher and that there's been a somewhat lengthy lapse of time since its release. I'd actually written the first 30 pages back in 2005 in preparation for a third book with RDI, then let it go when that contract fell through. And I never really intended on finishing it until a couple of weeks ago when I gave a copy of LLT to my 22-year-old assistant and she clamored for more. So why not. I spent enough time staring at blank pages over the past two years, completing nothing new--so why not write a book I was actually interested in finishing?

Saturday, July 21, 2007. I wrote the last sentence of a new novel.

I forgot what that feels like. It feels great.

And now I remember why I've always written, why I've always loved writing--because it's fun to be somewhere else, living someone else's life, experiencing other environments and problems and just everything from the mundane to the major. I love writing. It's the only thing that's ever made sense to me, the only thing I've ever been truly confident about. So just forget the sale. If it happens it does, or maybe it doesn't. As long as I can still write. Which, as it turns out, I can.

The next installment to LLT is traveling to my agent right now, and who knows what she'll think when she's done reading it. Maybe she'll come back and say it doesn't really work. Maybe she'll come back and say, "Let's do this." Who knows. Who cares. I'm not done writing, or finished as a writer, just because I've run into some unflattering situations along the way. Not even close.

As my veteran journalist father is always telling me, writing is a tough business--and you have to stick with it.

And that, is my plan.