I don't reply to reviews. Because then you start going down the road of arguing with critical ones, which is just pathetic.
Good art requires no justification, bad art allows none.
But, today, in this review, the one in the picture, someone raised a topic that's worth talking about.
What, exactly, is the "sophomore curse"?
Why do so many authors' second novels represent a slump in their careers, falling short of the quality of the first one? Why is this more likely with first novels that were big hits and took off?
This isn't some psychological phenomenon.
You aren't imagining it.
It's a real thing.
Here's how it happens.
When you write your first novel, you are laboring in isolation. No one expects anything of you, because no one knows who you are. You have no waiting audience, no deadlines to meet, no bar to clear.
You just write.
Not only that, writing is all you have to do. You have no conventions to attend, no podcasts and youtube channels to appear on, no social media channel to drum up publicity. No audiobook to direct.
You have one, and only one, responsibility.
And so you write.
And if your first published novel is greeted with the sound of crickets, or stuffed in a drawer because you can't find a publisher, then the second is more or less the same as the first.
You stay at home, you write the best you can, you hone your process. Things get a little better.
But what if it takes off?
What if you suddenly find yourself a public figure? What if everyone's asking you when the sequel is coming? What if you have deadlines, and an eager audience awaiting?
What if your social media presence is part of the publicity phenomenon? What if you're flying all over the country?
All these thing impose new obstacles to your workflow, new demands on your time, new threats to your concentration.
That's fine if it's your tenth novel you're working on. If you're a veteran midlister who has finally "broken out". You've got your professional habits in place, your workflow nailed down, you're confident in your ability to produce.
So you've got this.
But if it's your second novel?
Well, that's a different story? A new author isn't a guy with ingrained habits and a workflow and a support network.
He's a guy who somehow managed to juggle six eggs and a running chainsaw, once, and he's wondering if he can do it again, or if he just got lucky last time and he's only got so many fingers.
Writing fiction relies on some very fickle creative processes in your brain, and it's not for no reason that the Greeks personified this state of mind as a sort of divine version of a flighty teenage girl.
Not only that, it requires an insane amount of self-belief. You're bringing something into the world which no one asked for. They couldn't possibly have. Because they can't see it. It exists only in your head.
So they don't want it. They can't want it until they see it.
And you have to believe in yourself so much that you don't care.
You must be absolutely sure, every damn day, that it doesn't matter if no one asked for it, because you know what they want better than they do. And they are going to read it, damn it, and love it, because you are a fucking genius, and the only reason they aren't hammering on your door demanding to give you money is that they don't know that yet.
That's not an easy state of mind to maintain.
But it's even harder when it's novel number two, and everyone is looking at you now, expecting, demanding, something that lives up to the bar of the finest thing you ever did.
Most authors are lucky enough not to have this kind of pressure placed upon them until they are scarred, season pros.
Others struggle have to face it on their sophomore effect, and there's a noticeable slump in quality before they pick up again.
Others cruise right through it, untouchable.
Some are destroyed by it. (Just have him kill the fucking king already, Pat.)
So, yes, it can be dangerous to produce a masterpiece too early.
In my case, all that, plus smolwife got cancer, too.
So how am I dealing with it?
Well, I knew the risks, I knew what to look for, I was alert and prepared. And when I found myself struggling, I chose to slow down, rather than flame out.
One of the benefits of self-publishing is that I don't have a publishing house, a managing editor, and a deadline, all breathing down my neck.
Yes, it's delaying my career ambitions, but delay is temporary. Shitty work is permanent. A wise man should fear producing a substandard second novel.
There's good news behind all this, though.
By allowing myself to take the time I needed, by focusing on the journey instead of the finish line, I managed to learn to move forward again.
I have 121,000 words written as of tonight. Some of them are summaries of scenes, scaffolding for what's to come.
Some of them are good, but need polishing.
And of them are the best fucking words I have ever written in my life.
Yes, I wanted to deliver the sequel after a year. It's embarrassing to me that I haven't. But at least I know that, when I get there, I will not have to be ashamed.
I refuse to release anything I would, or should, be ashamed of.
I thank you, once again, for your patience.
Cast your eyes down.
You cannot see Samarkand from here, but the road is before you.
Look to the road, see the footprints in the dust. Others have walked this way. Take one step, and then another, and then a third. Rest in the cool of the evening, and walk when the sun rises, when the muezzin calls the faithful at dawn. Take one step, and then another, and then a third. Others have walked this way. Look to the road, see the footprints in the dust.
The road is before you, though you cannot see Samarkand from here.
Cast your eyes down.
And walk.