Poser's Progress

As some of you may know, I finished the first book of a dystopian trilogy more than a month ago. Today, I am forty pages into book two.

Writing a book series presents challenges. Consistency, for one thing. My fictional universe has specific rules, and my characters, specific temperaments. Extending the narrative requires me to maintain who and where my characters are, and I am a person who not infrequently calls my dog by my husband’s name.

I’d give up without my recently acquired what-the-fuck first draft sensibility, along with my perverse enjoyment of slash and burn editing. I’d be rudderless if Sam refused to read the five pages I write daily and provide candid feedback.

Just so you know, I don’t feel smoothly professional about any of this. In fact, serial noveling exacerbates my raging imposter syndrome, and underscores the certainty I’m a dork. I can’t imagine a respected author with real chops waking up at four in the morning thinking, you know what would work in that bedroom scene better than plastic water bottles? One of those five gallon jug water dispensers! A respected author with real chops would know for a fact or rigorously research rather than type into Google how decomposed would an uninterred corpse be after five months?

That’s okay. I’m traveling light. I’m making progress on the first draft of book two with zero pretentions, writing a story I’m still making up, one word at a time.