I was just reflecting on how hard it was to write my first novel. It took years. It took so long, I thought I would probably die before I ever finished it. But I pushed through and got over 100,000 words written down – they even kind of make sense when you read them – and then I spent several months editing, writing a blurb, and designing a cover. It was really difficult. Easily the most challenging thing I have ever done in my life. And now I’m working on a sequel.
Why? Why am I torturing myself (again)? On the one hand, I try to be honest with myself and acknowledge that I really don’t love the process that much. It’s painful, and it takes forever – which probably means I’m not very good at it, because I compare myself to other authors who are cranking out a book every year. On the other hand, I have more story to tell (I think) and I’m willing to put myself through this to get that story onto paper so others can maybe read it one day.
I don’t really know how to interpret all of that. Either I’m just a struggling novelist (along with all of my other struggling writer friends), or I’m suffering from severe imposter syndrome. I am often forced to consider the very real possibility that I’m not actually a writer, and that the first book was just a fluke. At other times, I feel compelled to write things down, even if they don’t make sense.
I hope I’m not alone.