What I Wish I’d Known is a regular series where we ask some of our favourite writers to reflect on their writing and publishing journey, and share some of the unexpected and useful things they’ve learned along the way. In this instalment, writers reflect on what comes after your debut.
Image: Wikimedia Commons (PD)
Bri Lee (second book: Beauty)
From what I’ve seen and experienced, there are really different pressures for second-book writers depending on the so-called ‘success’ of the first one. If your debut has done well, sold well, received awards or favourable reviews, then people will feel a lot more comfortable criticising your follow-up. This is often good, because healthy critical culture is good, but it’s bad when it’s coming from Australia’s extreme ‘tall poppy’ problem. You have to constantly remind yourself to focus on the work itself, and that the rest is noise. On the other hand, if your first book hasn’t ticked these ‘success’ boxes, it can be really difficult to get anyone to publish or read your second book. The way we celebrate and fetishise debut authors is totally a marketing tool, sure, but you can’t expect early-career writers to somehow miraculously insulate themselves from how their book is sold and ‘received’. If a writer shoots their debut shot, and it doesn’t land according to these metrics, it seems like they’re not allowed a second chance in Australian literature. Also, in real terms, if your book sells, it means you might have the money required for the time to write a second one. That’s the ultimate luxury. The best piece of writing advice I ever received was from my friend and mentor Krissy Kneen. She told me to always have your next project underway as the previous one is coming out, so that you’re always focusing on the work. That’s the advice I’d pass on.
Leanne Hall (second novel: Queen of the Night)
I didn’t think at all about my second book until my editor broached the topic with me—getting my debut published had been such a surprise that I had not been thinking into the future. I agreed to write a sequel—despite having not planned for a follow-up book at all—and to an ambitious deadline. Four months later I’d smashed out a first draft, and my editor had the awful job of telling me that what I’d produced was completely unpublishable (maybe those weren’t her words, maybe it was more like ‘this isn’t working at all’). We decided to take the foot off the accelerator and let me work on a second draft for as long as it took, no official deadline. It turned out that I work best without time pressures, because I did eventually end up producing a book that I was happy with.
What I wish I had known is that the first book often empties a writer out completely of energy and ideas and creative juice, and that it can take time to bounce back from that. I also wish I’d known that it’s okay to factor in my own ways of working and personal schedule, when negotiating publishing deadlines. I don’t regret any of it, though. It was a great lesson to learn early in my career.
Royce Kurmelovs (second book: Rogue Nation)
Things are different when you square up for round two. The first book gets written in a rush of nervous excitement, sheer terror and ambition. This is needed to override the exhaustion and insecurity. When it is finally published, there’s a spike of adrenaline seeing your name in print. Everything is new. Being in the spotlight is fun—so of course you want to do it again.
The second book is harder than the first. Now there’s expectations. People start talking about branding and audiences. You’re also starting from scratch. Before you might have spent years thinking about that first book. Now, it’s a matter of months. I only ever wanted to write one book—everything after was just a bonus.
Still, if I had the ability slingshot around the sun and travel back in time, my message to my former self would be this: all that matters is the work. Focus on the research and the writing. Make it tight. The rest will take care of itself. But then, you already know this—as a wise mentor once told you, the whole reason why we write books is to get better at the craft. Everything else is a distraction. Act accordingly.
Eliza Henry-Jones (second novel: Ache)
I wish I had understood the value of joy; and how vital it is to cultivate and preserve it in my writing practice. When I say joy, I mean that some part of the novel writing process has to be for me—even as it exists as something that will likely (hopefully) be commodified. It means writing stories that engage me, interest me, haunt me, and challenge me. Even when elements of the project are difficult and tedious and confusing—particularly then.
Drew Rooke (second book: A Witness of Fact)
I am not a confident writer: like many others, I struggle with self-doubt about my literary abilities. Writing my debut book didn’t eliminate my self-doubt, as I learned while writing my recently published second book, A Witness of Fact: The Peculiar Case of Chief Forensic Pathologist Colin Manock. But I found the process of overcoming my self-doubt this time around was easier than the last because I knew I had overcome it before. When things got hard—when I was seated at my desk questioning the quality and value of my work and thinking I would never, could never finish this book—telling myself, this isn’t the first time you’ve been through something like this, really lifted my spirits and helped me keep going. As did having a loving partner tell me this in those difficult moments.
Emily Bitto (second novel: Wild Abandon)
What I wish I’d known about second books is this: it is no easier to write a second book than it is to write the first. The reason I suffered so much in the learning of this valuable (read: painful) lesson is that, as I was finishing my first novel, I really felt the process getting easier. The final scenes felt almost effortless in the writing. ‘I’m getting better at this,’ I thought. What I had fundamentally misunderstood was that it was easier because I had spent years developing the characters, the voice, the world. When I started book two, I was in the dark again, and it was a terrible place to be. What I now know is that the beginning will always be hard, but there will be a point at which things start to flow again.
Robert Lukins (second novel: Loveland)
The time between the publication of my first novel and my second was one of even more discombobulation than usual. I thought, for some reason, I would be immune to the brain warping that I had been warned may follow the release of a debut novel. Put simply, I didn’t know what to write next. For me, this confusion had nothing to do with any real or imagined pressures or considerations of an audience or publisher. It was certainly nothing to do with money (I wish). It was me thinking, for the first time: hey, if I write something, it might actually get published, and then maybe the next thing too. Maybe even the thing after that. If I go on to publish a little stack of books, they might eventually start to look like a body of work. I’d never thought of that. Never, really, thought of what kind of writer I wanted to be. So for a time the thought of this sent my writing off in unhelpful directions. I wrote a comedic novel. I wrote a science fiction novel. I wrote a parable set in an imagined medieval village in Southern Italy (I still don’t know why).
The thought of how my novels might sit—work—together was tying me in knots and it was only when, in something like a miniature crisis, I abandoned this questioning that I was able to move on. I couldn’t work out what kind of writer I wanted to be, so I would stop wondering. I never used to worry about it, so why start now? So I stopped pondering and started writing. Maybe some writers know what they’re trying to do, in some great sense, with all these words, but that ain’t me.
Check out the previous entries in the series, on what writers wish they’d known about being edited, book covers, reviews and publicity.
Want to learn more about the ins and outs of the publishing process? Check out Getting Published with Rebecca Starford and Hannah Kent, or any other of our Online Writing Courses, available to complete in your own time, at your own pace.
