THE PERFECT PLAY went off to my editor yesterday. That book was so much fun to write. And so easy. It was like it wrote itself, the words just tumbling out from my brain to my fingers. Ahhhhhh, I love books like that. Because books like that are rare.
THE PERFECT GAME, the one I’m writing now? Not so easy. You’d think as the followup book to THE PERFECT PLAY, it would be just as easy. Ha. This one is a giant pain in my ass. Every word, every scene, every chapter is like painful labor, hour upon hour of sweat and tears with very little result, where you know you’re working hard to push out that baby but you’re just. not. getting. anywhere.
Sounds fun doesn’t it? :gah:
But some books are like that. Some books just seem to write themselves, whereas others are miserable every step of the way. And there’s no explanation as to why. It’s not that the characters aren’t awesome, because they are. God I love these characters so much, and I’m having fun with their story. It’s just not coming to me as easily as the last book did.
Like I said, some books are just like that. It’s as if each book is a child. They have their own unique personalities. Some are sweet and easy, and some are petulant and difficult. And how do you handle the difficult as a writer? You just sit your ass down at the computer and write every single day until the damn book is done. And when it’s done you love each baby you’ve given birth to equally, no matter how difficult the labor was.
Some labors are just harder than others. But the end result is worth it.
And so goes my April so far.