Hi, readers! As the semester and general busyness of fall proceeds, we’ve decided to make a scheduling adjustment to the newsletter. You can now expect an essay from us every other Monday. Let us know if you have any questions, and thank you for reading.
Earlier this year, while I was still working on the first draft of my first novel, I would not have been able to give you a straight answer to what are you going to write next? Part of me figured I would go back to writing short stories, maybe put together a collection I had in mind. Another part of me was terrified I’d never have another good novel idea for as long as I lived. Could my first novel be a fluke? But then, a name came to me and, with it, a sketch of a character. She has a very particular name and she couldn’t be doing her line of work without an air-tight backstory, so I created that. From there, the novel sprouted. But comparison grew, too. Not to other writers or published novels or any other external circumstances, no. I started comparing my second novel—which is very much in the ideation and generation phase—to the completed manuscript of my first novel.
Don’t get me wrong: In the core of my being, I know these are two different projects in two different stages that have different stories and voices and characters and locations. I know there’s no room for comparison. And I know, once this novel is completed, too, that it will be great in its own way. But that doesn’t keep doubt from creeping in as I nestle into this next project. So in case you’ve felt this way too or have yet to jump from one big project to the next, I figured I’d share my anxieties and how I’m debunking them.
Anxiety #1: My story idea isn’t as interesting as the first
While I don’t feel ready to share much about my first novel, just know that it has a very compelling and unique hook. Two years ago, when the idea (in the form of a what if? question) came to me, I knew immediately that it was worth exploring and that it might have a fighting chance at standing out from the hundreds of hooks that literary agents are reading at any given time.
My next novel idea follows the trajectory I see my writing going. In a way, it’s investigating the same self-worth issues as my first novel by asking a different question. I’m excited for this story and this protagonist. Similar to the first novel, she’s in search of someone. But this time, the person isn’t someone unique and her mind isn’t exactly playing tricks on her and, and, and…
Not every story I read has a spectacularly distinctive premise, but I read them because the writer is bringing the story to life in a way that only they can. When I shared my new story idea with one of my writing friends (which included me spoiling a lot of the plot up front), she messaged me several days later saying that she couldn’t stop thinking about this idea. What is a compelling premise if not one that has staying power?
Key takeaway: Different does not mean worse.
Anxiety #2: What if I can’t write this story?
Prior to writing my first novel, I wrote short. I still do. You will never find me saying I want to write an 80,000-plus-word novel. My first novel currently sits at 56,000 words. Because of my background in flash fiction, I knew the only (realistic) way for me to craft a longer story would be to write it in vignettes. So that’s what I did. What I didn’t realize at the time is that my protagonist’s anxious mind required that formatting. The medium is the message, after all.
Now, I am writing a protagonist who is less anxious and moves about her life in very specific ways. She is not my first protagonist, therefore, the formatting of my first novel wouldn’t make sense. But if I’m not writing in vignettes, then how can I comfortably write this story? The answer is that I can still write it in vignettes, they just won’t feel as choppy because my new protagonist, not my first protagonist, will be telling this story. Yes, the formatting and structure will be a bit different, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t still utilize my strengths.
Key takeaway: If a story idea comes to you, it means that you are the right person to tell the story.
Anxiety #3: What about the voice?
My first protagonist is a very anxious, neurodivergent woman. I understand that kind of mind. I have that kind of mind. So getting into the rhythm of her thoughts and behaviors, her movements through the world, felt like a natural extension of sorts. Because of this inherent understanding, I believe it was easier for me to capture her voice, which sets the tone for the story.
My next protagonist, who is still neurodivergent, is less anxious, or rather her anxiety manifests as perfectionism, which doesn’t show up as the same looping thought cycle of my first protagonist’s mind. I still relate to this protagonist, but I also feel a layer of separation between us. Because my own anxiety manifests more like my first protagonist’s, I worry that I’ll struggle to capture my next protagonist’s voice. But why worry about something when I’ve barely even scratched the surface of this next novel? Won’t writing excavate this character’s voice?
Key takeaway: As you write, you learn who your characters are and how they inhibit their worlds, which includes what their voices sound like.
Anxiety #4: Am I a terrible writer?
Every time I have written something, I witness my growth as a writer and then think: Well, I can’t top this. Then I write something else and think the same thing. I have a couple thousand words written toward this new novel and those words feel different from my first novel. After all, I have a new protagonist who has an original voice and perspective—she won’t let me move on the page in the same way that my first protagonist did. Instead of seeing that for what it is, different, I wonder if my writing is just bad. How can I decipher different from bad?
Instead of answering that question, I’ve decided to trust the process. I am at the start of a first draft. It is far from a final, polished draft. I questioned my writing all throughout the process of writing my first novel, oscillating my opinions on its quality. It only makes sense that doubt will resume its passenger seat privilege for this novel, too.
Key takeaway: Focus on what you know to be true and trust the process.
Anxiety #5: What if there is no depth in the form of intricate sub-plots?
A good novel has layers, it’s texturized, it brings together characters and their desires and that naturally creates sub-plots. While writing my first novel, the secondary plot came to me rather quickly. When I first started this new novel, the pieces weren’t all there, yet. As I began research, I learned more about my character’s world and what would be in it to create conflict. The sub-plots came to me—and they still will as I write and discover more of this world. What I remind myself when thinking about my first novel is that even in the last two months leading up to submitting it to my workshop, I was still threading in an important part of the story—hell, I hadn’t even thought to write two key scenes that happen toward the end of it until then. I remind myself because it’s easy to collapse time once you’ve accomplished a long-term project, which sets up false expectations. I can’t know everything about this new novel, and why would I want to? Part of the fun of writing a novel is the discovery aspect as you write your way through it. This also comes back to trusting yourself and your abilities as a writer, that you will be able to hold these various threads and weave them in as they are needed.
Key takeaway: Write your way through your novel to discover its full potential.
My kernel of advice: Acknowledge the uneasiness of starting a new writing project, but don’t let it inhibit your creativity.
Do you have writing anxieties when it comes to starting a new project? Let us know in the comments below and we can help each other out.
Inspiration, Information, & Insight
Shelby is making progress on her new novel and settling into a new-old fall schedule, which she hopes will include more time for reading books and less time spent doom scrolling.
Sarah read Claire Kilroy’s excellent novel Soldier Sailor. Organized as a letter from a mother (Soldier) to her young son (Sailor), it describes the love, mania, and deep frustrations of early parenthood, how it often feels “so stupid,” so “manual.” Sarah has read a lot of books about ambivalent motherhood, but never has she read a novel that so perfectly captures the actual texture of those heady days. Kilroy nailed it.
Natalia finished The Other Name and is in awe of the slow poetic rhythm of the protagonist’s internality and Fosse’s ability to capture a mind that wanders and imagines and remembers so fluidly with the present. The transitions are seamless and make the experience of living through two days a dynamic reality.
Neidy is under contract for a house and is solely focused on being more excited than anxious!