Picking my next bouquet

As I write this, I am days away from sending my book 2 back to my editor, which means it’s time to think about the next book. For anyone who’s new here, this second book has had a long journey. After a late start coming to agree on which book should be next with my editor, I drafted it in a month and revised for the next two before sending it. Then I got notes back to cut a POV, so that was mostly a full rewrite. Then I got more notes back and while it’s been hard, my book has shifted its ending and I do believe it’s better.

But is it?

If I had been “on track” with the original timeline laid out in my contract, this book would have gone to copy edits six months ago. Instead, we’re still in developmental edits, the first stage of revision. I keep reminding myself this is better than sending a book out in the world that isn’t ready, but there’s still the question of whether it will ever be ready.

In the query trenches, when I reached this point, I sent out the last of my queries, dusted the remnants of the book from my feet and moved on. I threw myself into the next book, because that one was sure to be better, the one where I could apply all the things I’d learned.

I find myself in a similar state now. I know I can’t leave this book and trunk it the way I did with my others (I have an editor and agent who won’t let that happen, who see enough potential in this story to keep pushing), but I have the desire to flee and run into the arms of a new story.

I don’t even have an idea yet. It’s like knowing there’s a beautiful meadow with hundreds of blooming flowers, and I can pick any assortment I want to make the perfect bouquet, or at least an enchanting one.

I can have a creepy thriller. An emotional tale. An adventurous adrenaline-pumper.

I can have a character who is smart and sassy or rebellious and strong. I could write for the girlies who want to sob or the boys who are tired of being bored by books.

I have all these desires and flicks of storylines for each idea. They’re all waiting for me to walk through the meadow and spend hours brushing my fingertips across their petals, feeling for the ones that come alive at my touch.

Once I get there, I’m sure I’ll find some resistant to be plucked. I’ll grab hold of thorns and have roots come up with the stems, shaking dirt all over me. I’ll get sweaty and hot under the sun, just like I am working on this book.

But I have friends who have laughed and had so much fun writing, frolicking through the fields with delight. And I want that. I want to be there again.

Whatever I write next, I want it to be FUN. Maybe not for you, the reader. I might rip your heart out and stomp on it, but I want to be smiling while I do it.

I want to delight in the experience of writing again, to be swept away with ideas and pieces clicking together in an almost supernaturally perfect way. I want to experience the buzz of finishing a writing session and feeling like I completed a marathon.

I want to write with confidence.

That’s the piece I’m missing right now. So while I look out over the meadow of possible ideas waiting to be plucked for my next bouquet, I’m also scared to step outside.

Maybe I need to sit by the window and dream a little longer until one flower calls to me, cries out, “Pick me,” and tempts me into the field.