I haven’t been writing as much as I used to in this blog, mainly because of how exhausted I’ve been lately. There was a lot of work leading up to the launch and I’ve also been working on stuff from my end for Book 2. Lots of interviews, which killed my social anxiety for a bit. I also did my first panel last weekend and I didn’t die!
So I’ve been too exhausted, I suppose, to truly be that excited about the prospect of seeing my book in stores. I mean, I am, and also extremely, exceedingly grateful. But I think people are wondering if I’m just cresting by on ecstasy the whole time, when it’s the furthest thing from the truth. When I first walked into the store and saw my book on the shelf, I just stood there and stared at it and felt like… I don’t know. Look, I’ve given birth twice, and both times were a lot less painful than the process of getting a novel out into the world. It’s at least over eventually. Books seem to bleed you forever.
I saw all the work, flashing before my eyes, and I was more proud of that than anything else. But there was a thread of anger there, too, that it had to take this long to get there. That it had to get to the point where the stories I now tell are stories that reflect the years before me, the rage and the anger included, that I felt like I had to crack my head and my heart open before I could get this far. It’s bittersweet. What kind of writer would I have been without all of this? What avenues would I have pursued, where would my work have taken me? I can tell light-hearted stories, too. At least, I’d like to think I can. A good portion of the stuff I used to write in my teens were parodies.
We don’t always get what we want. We make do. That has been the resounding theme of these last two series I’ve written (Bitch Queen and Blackwood Marauders), and it’s propelled me further than I’ve ever dreamed possible. But I’d like to go further. I’d like to prove to myself I’m just as good at creating as I am at tearing something down. Maybe that’s just the same old artistic discontent. The seeds of inspiration, for me, has always been in imperfection, so it’s probably a good thing. Otherwise there’ll be no more adventures, no more trying to fix people who can’t be fixed, and in many ways, that has been half the fun of all this, hasn’t it?
But anyway, it’s done. I told your story, Talyien, and now you’re out there. Give ’em hell.
