Second Novel Syndrome is real. I remember reading about it when I was in my teens, still rattling away with fan fiction after I’d finished my homework. Writing a first book is easy, because it’s a labour of love, a private affair that runs every chance of coming to absolutely nothing. As a writer you’re free to do whatever you want; you can throw anything into a blender and writhe around in the resultant slurry, because who cares? It’s your book. It might be terrible, and laughed at, and thrown in the bin by everyone you dare show it to, but that doesn’t matter.
If you never get published, so be it. But you wrote a book.
But say you actually go ahead with this thing. You actually succeed in writing something publishable, then take the time to redraft it, hone it, pay to have it edited and formatted, comission cover art…
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