Got another 1000 words hammered out last night, between before and after a barbeque. Yes, I worked on Independence Day.
I work every day.
I work on Christmas. I work on Thanksgiving. Last year, I spent New Year's Eve alone, fingers on keyboard, emerging only briefly ten minutes before midnight to kiss a girl or three, then retreat back to my office once the sound of cheap noisemakers faded.
Box of Trouble sits at 73K words now, and I've found a pace.
Writing your second novel is a very distinct experience from writing your first. Before the first one, no one knows who you are, no one is expecting anything. There's no career to manage, no shows to appear on, no conventions to attend, no previous books to sell, and most of all, no ticking clock of reader expectations.
I'm not surprised that some authors flame out on their second book, especially if the first one is a great success, and that the "sophomore slump" is common among a large percentage.
It can be frustrating and frightening if you don't expect it... you've just gotten your process worked out, and suddenly the terrain changes and every habit must be revisited, revised, adapted to the new normal.
Doing any kind of creative work requires an insane amount of self-belief... you are bringing something into the world that literally no one asked for. They couldn't. How could they if they didn't know what it was going to be?
But doing creative work well require one to simultaneously have an insane amount of self-doubt as well. Without the drive to tirelessly revise and polish, your work will be garbage.
Sustaining these two feelings simultaneously is an interesting experience. It is a small wonder that most artists are slightly mad. But that's the price you pay for your dream job.
And that's important to say, also. I make it sound like the salt mines, but the complexity and responsibility of the work is rewarded by pleasant working conditions, utter creative control, and most of all by a level of job satisfaction I couldn't possibly explain without resorting to recreational chemicals.
All that being said, let's address the bloated, corpulent greybeard in the room.
Sequel when?
When your work requires an audience, it's less than ideal to make them wait, but far worse to disappoint them with poor quality, and worst of all to break promises.
Their trust in you is utterly broken if you are so self-indulgent as to promise next year, next year, next year, until a dozen years have passed, and the prince that was promised never comes.
So I won't lie to you.
November 11th is a thin and fading hope, now. It would take a series of minor miracles. Perhaps the manuscript will not done by then, but the post-production work every story requires is likely to need more time.
Early next year is slightly more reachable, if things go well.
But the truth is, I don't know. This is a different experience than the first one. The rules have changed, the terrain has shifted under me, and I must adapt.
But I can promise you this: behind the curtain, work is happening. That light you see around the edges and through the crack is a welding torch, and structure is going up.
The story exists now, the frame and form of it, in a smooth arc from where we left off to... well, somewhere you might find surprising.
I'll get faster at this with time and repetition, not slower. But right now all I can do is place one foot in front of the other, knowing I will eventually reach Samarkand, because the road is only so long.