I have written seven books in my life: Three published, a couple on their way to being published, one sitting on the back burner, and one in limbo.
I finished the last in June: A young adult fantasy novel, my first excursion into writing young adult fiction, and my first attempt at fantasy. It is currently residing with my literary agent.
It took me four years to write my YA novel. That’s not a particularly long time to write a novel—some take decades—especially when you’re teaching full time and blogging as well. But still, it was four years of hard, hard work. Day after day, week after week, month after long month.
It was an adventure. Like all adventures, it was a mix of drudgery, fun, fear, and excitement. It was exhausting and frustrating and glorious.
At the beginning of summer, I put the finishing touches on my novel and sent it off to my agent. I felt a deep sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. I’m proud of my novel, and I’m proud of the fact that I’ve finished another novel. But what a huge relief it was to be finished! No longer was that 450-page manuscript hanging over my head. I no longer had to mentally lug around that cumbersome, complicated story with all those characters and plot twists and scenes. I felt like I was diving naked into a cool pond, free to swim and splash.
Then a terrible, wonderful thing started happening. An idea popped into my head. Actually, it was an idea I’ve had for a long time, but that I kept neatly tucked away in a pocket somewhere. Now that my novel was out of the way, it wouldn’t keep silent. It showed up everywhere—on my desk, in my bed, in the car as I drove to the market. It brought along a bunch of its friends. There were strange dreams. There were voices in the night. There was that irrestible, undeniable urge.
And I knew a horrible truth: It’s time to start another novel. To begin the process again, from the first tentative sentence. The path in front of me leads into a forest full of darkness and magic. Once I take that first step, a single word on the page, there’s no turning back.
But, the truth is, I have no choice. Another novel is calling to be written, and the only thing I can do is answer the call.