Will I ever Write a (Good) Book Again? And Other Self-Doubts

ONCE UPON A TIME, I WROTE A GOOD BOOK.

Even that is debatable—just ask the sixty-odd agents who rejected me. Honestly, the only thing I can say with complete confidence is I wrote a book, it got selected for Pitch Wars, and then I signed with a literary agent who thought it was pretty OK. Anything beyond that is speculation. But, hey, I like the book. I had a blast writing it. I was, and still am, proud of myself.

But what if it never happens again?

Logically, I know that makes no sense. Books aren’t something that happen to you, like finding a surprise onion ring mixed in with your fries (that’s the dream right there). Novel writing is an active skill set, requiring time, dedication, and a hell of a lot of vulnerability. The good news is, if you’ve done it once, you know you can do it twice, and three times, and so forth until you die a wealthy, award-winning, bestselling author. You never forget how to write a book.

Right?

I’ve completed three books in total, all some flavor of fantasy. The third manuscript I wrote landed me an agent. My journey’s road is littered with half- and quarter-finished projects, abandoned short stories, and long, bulleted lists of ideas that amounted to nothing. I worked really, really hard to get here, which does not come naturally to me. I proved myself! And yet every time I sit down to start a new WIP, I have the same fear: what if I can’t do it anymore?

What if I can’t think up a plot? What if I can’t create compelling characters? What if my prose takes a sudden nosedive in quality, as if I woke up one day and forgot how to word? Sounds ridiculous, huh? But it’s a real anxiety, and so, so many writers struggle with it. It doesn’t manifest out of nowhere, either. We hunt for and find heaps of evidence, from dozens of sources, proving that we suck more now than we did before.

For one, it’s hard not to compare your new rough draft to the last book you wrote, which by this point has been revised, rewritten, tweaked, critiqued, and polished to a shine over the course of months to years. Switching from that sparkly final product to a sandbox full of inchoate plot threads and half-baked tropes would give anyone self-esteem whiplash.

Then there’s the opposite of the Dunning-Kruger effect. The internet tells me that would be Imposter Syndrome, but I don’t think that’s quite right. I’m talking about how the more you know, the less you understand. (The internet also tells me this quote is attributed to Lao Tzu, but I’ve been burned before. DYK nobody famous ever said anything?) The more experienced of a writer you are, the harder it is to ignore those first-draft problems riddling your poor MS. It’s not like last time you wrote a book. Back then, you were young, naive—blissfully ignorant of all the myriad ways you can fuck up. With every new project, you become a harsher critic. Because, ironically, you’re better at this now.

Most discouraging of all, each time I open up a blank Word doc, I worry that I won’t like my new book. My emotional bond to my previous MSs is so strong it could pull aircraft carriers. But what if I never fall in love with another idea? What if I’m stuck cranking out soulless, dispassionate commercial fiction for the rest of my career—not because I “sold out” (which I would do in a hot minute—call me, Hollywood), but because I have nothing real left to say? Would writing even be worth it, at that point?

This is perhaps the stupidest thought I have on a regular basis.

We’re writers for a reason: we have to be. You think anyone would put themselves through this by choice? No, we’re here under duress. Yet somehow, against all expectations, we manage to love every minute of it. (Well, most minutes. Kinda. Okay, a statistically significant non-zero number of minutes.) That’s not some transient mood or a fleeting emotion. It’s part of who you are. And you can’t escape yourself, no matter what—believe me, I’ve tried. The person who wrote that last book is still inside you. They always have been and always will be. It may take some time to coax them out, but what’s the rush? Your next book isn’t going anywhere.

And while you’re waiting for your muse to grace you with its presence, write some smut. Smut never gets old.