I Wrote a Book. Now What?

Immediately after you finish a big project there is an overwhelming feeling of elation and relief. What comes after that? Usually a big hovering question mark over your head and the dreaded words to go with it; now what?

Even though I was already ten chapters into the sequel to Hunter’s Moon (the second book in The Witch Speaks series), I felt that question following me everywhere. It didn’t come alone, either. There were the annoying friends of the “now what,” those awful questions of doubt like “what if I can’t write a second book?”  and “what if my inspiration for the first one was a fluke?” and “how did I even write so many words?”

As would be expected with this kind of doubt and fear, my inspiration withered. The joy that came with sitting at my desk and tapping out a story for hours seemed to be dead. It was a slow death, one that I began to notice during the grueling nine months of editing for Hunter’s Moon. I was comparing my fresh writing to my edited-to-perfection finished work. I was burned out on reading and re-reading and never wanted to think about books again.

But I haven’t stopped.

I’ll be honest, some days I feel like I could dump my kitchen garbage on my keyboard and get the same results as what I’m writing in the second book. Don’t we all experience this at one time or another? Pride quickly twists into disgust.

“I wrote that?”

And yet, I still haven’t stopped because I believe the only true secret to success as a writer is never quitting. No matter how frustrating or exhausting or terrifying the process gets, you have to keep going.

So, every morning on every day of the week (even my precious day off), I’m writing. Sometimes I sit for thirty minutes and squeeze two awkward sentences out. Sometimes I can knock out a thousand words before the timer goes off. That, my friends, is the real ebb and flow of creativity. You ride those big waves when they come and try not to get disappointed when the water is flat.

Are you a writer? An artist? Are you struggling with your muse? What does it take to make you feel inspired? What do you need to hear to get back on the horse when you feel like your muse is a crunchy old flower you forgot to water for two months?

And just because you stuck around, here’s a quick peek at what I’m currently working on:

Excerpt from the second book in The Witch Speaks series

“Three times, Cash? You cannot claim a lack of self-control three Goddamn times!”

“I was hungry!” Cash insisted.

“You have four fridges stocked with enough food to feed an army of…” she paused to consider but decided her original word choice was as fitting as they came. “werewolves.”

“Yeah but none of them are stocked with cake.” The mischievous grin returned to his face.

Charlie had released Mari, assuming she would actually relent. As if. She wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the butcher’s knife and tossed it as hard as she could before the alpha could stop her. He gripped the back of her neck—much gentler than he had her wrist—and pushed her face down toward the counter, growling at her defiance. She didn’t see where the knife landed but Cash let out another yelp and she could only hope it was because she chopped a few of his toes off.

“I said enough!” Charlie removed his hand but hovered behind Mari in case she decided to defy him again and go for another projectile. There were a lot of sharp, pointy objects in her reach.

“Sorry.” Mari mumbled even though she wasn’t.

“Don’t lie to your alpha, she-devil.” Cora chided, raising her magazine once more to cover her smirk.

“I love my first born, little witch, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t dismember him.” The anger had already disappeared from Charlie’s voice and there was an amused smile warming his genial face. “Cash, clean up this mess. When you’re done you can go buy Mari a new cake.”

“Buy me a new cake? Oh no. That won’t do. You can’t buy a cake like that. It was rosewater and vanilla. The rosewater was homemade!” Mari crossed her arms and pouted.

“Okay,” Charlie began.

“Want to know what the last one was? Lavender and chamomile, both of which I grew in the greenhouse and painstakingly harvested. Don’t even get me started on the first cake. That one was a masterpiece! I cried over that stupid cake. It had plum blossoms and I made this incredible white chocolate ganache filling.” Cash was nodding eagerly as Mari described each cake. She flipped him her middle finger and yelled “I can’t redo that cake! There are no more flowers on the plum trees!”

“Can’t you just magic more flowers onto one?” Cash shrugged.

Mari rolled her eyes. “God, you’d think someone as old and crotchety as you would have learned not to be an idiot by now.”

“Crotchety?” Charlie raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry.” Mari mumbled again. She sort of meant it this time.

“Cash,” Charlie tried to begin another sentence.

“I know. I’m too old to steal food and far too old to antagonize a child.” Cash rushed out.

Mari coughed an angry “not a child,” but neither of them were listening.

“And here I thought I was alpha of a ferocious pack of werewolves, not counselor at a center for juvenile delinquents.” Charlie shook his head and padded over to the table to take a seat next to Cora.

Cora dropped her magazine and leaned over to kiss Charlie’s cheek. “One in the same, sugar.”

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