Writing a sequel is HARD. Rumor has it, a writer worked on a sequel and it went well, with no tantrums whatsoever.
What a thought!
I have no discipline, no focus and I’m hungry. That’s all I can think of right now. I love how the first one came out, and how conveniently some of the things clicked, and I’m scared to do the sequel. Will it be as good? Will it be embarrassingly random? Painfully uncaptivating?
I’m not THAT all out of ideas.
But, I WANT IT TO BE GOOD.
Having scattered pieces of its beginning, middle and end in 246 folders and Voice Memos is an additional pain. I have to gather all of that and find a place for it. At least I wasn’t a moron and wasn’t confident enough to think that I’ll remember all that. I’ve done it before. I’ve also pulled my hair in agony for not writing it down five minutes later. Don’t do that. Write it down. You can always throw away something you don’t like anymore. But if it gets lost in the depths of your wretched, under-slept, insane writer head, you will not find it. You might find a better one, but not that same one that made you think ‘oh, I’m so writery and smart’ (Writery is a word, shut up).
Why is it that the internet is always more interesting that the blank Word page?
(Oh, a little tip, this page helped me like, A LOT. If you’re on Facebook instead of writing, and browsing images you don’t care about, at least you can browse images on that page. Many of them are motivational and the best ones end with ‘YOU HAVE A BOOK TO WRITE’)
Another thing is figuring out the type of book trailer I want to have. I want a book trailer.
This is my book. It’s called Coffee, Cigarettes and Crisis. This below is the description:
A girl in a loving relationship with Paris, with two best friends and a father figure she found in Pigalle, leads a perfectly designed life, in her Gare du Nord apartment, with a wonderful job and a lot of coffee. After some irritating, peace-wrecking things happen, her life is suddenly chaotic, and as if that’s not enough, she finds herself batting her eye-lashes at a man she didn’t even notice before. Right before she has a fight with him, and right after her best friend stops speaking to her for something that isn’t her fault. And then, there’s the risk of losing the apartment. And not knowing what to do next.
Escaping yourself is hard. As hard as being a person who squirms at cheesy romance stuff, at the same time living in the city people paint and write poetry about. The question is, are you supposed to keep running, or just be an adult about it?