Now what? Here’s what.

A taste of what's brewing post-debut and strawberry-rhubarb pie.

Caught mid-sentence at a book party at Neighborhood Reads in Washington, MO, talking about Saving Vincent.

Hey friends,

Last Thursday at my buoyant book party Neighborhood Reads served up aromatic fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and then on Friday my husband and I went out to enjoy crunchy calamari with friends, and the next evening, Saturday, another couple of chums came over for a succulent dinner of tender chicken with peppers and cauliflower (prepared by hubby) and strawberry rhubarb pie (baked by yours truly while my grandma’s ghost hovered over the pie crust).

At each of these delicious encounters (in between mouthfuls) I was asked the same friendly question again and again.

It’s something I’ve been chewing on.

What are you writing next?

Let me give you a taste of what I’m thinking.

It’s about you too.

Advance the story

One of the many storytelling thingamajigs I learned while working on Saving Vincentcame about when I was revising my clumsy first draft. The initial brain dump of a story is messy because you’re just getting it out of your head and onto the page.

For me the goal every day was simple: Butt in chair, fingers on keyboard.

I have done that a lot in my life.

My default is “Go!”

In this case, I also was chased by the fear that if I didn’t show up, it would crack the door open to distraction and avoidance. There was a lot at stake. I’d quit my executive position to write the book and it turned out to be not just a career switch but an important time to cast off old labels.

Like “I am worthy because I am [a marketing executive, a female in business, employed by an admirable company, etc].” You get it.

I had voluntarily shrugged those labels off for they didn’t serve me any more.

I was revising.

Likewise, once the first draft of the novel was done, the next step was revision. Deepening, sharpening, cutting to the chase of the scene. The question, “Does this advance the story?” served as a carving knife.

For example, does every word of dialogue work to advance the story? I had to excise frivolous conversation like: “Would you like some coffee?” “Yes, thank you.” “Cream?” No thank you. “Sugar” “OK.” Etc, etc. Sure, we say that in real life but a story needs momentum and that sort of prattle stalls action.

Same with does every character advance the story? And does every scene advance the story? No more quirky second cousins for comic relief or dumping a bunch of superfluous info into a scene to show off how much research I did.

“Does it advance the story” sharpened my writing focus.

“Does writing another novel. . .advance my life story?”

I’m stewing on that.

What makes good sense may be nonsense

Here’s the thing: There’s lots to do right now. My just-published novel is newly out in the world and I will be promoting and cajoling and writing many, many persuasive emails to give talks and sit at “Local Author” tables and have fun with book clubs and post reels for months to come.

Saving Vincent took seven years to bear her first fruits. I’ll be her loving caretaker for a long time. To be honest while ferociously revving up to launch the book I couldn’t afford to look beyond the pub date. But now that I’m on the other side, I know my book will need a number of seasons to mature into an abundant harvest.

I’m in.

And I’m patient. Marketing is what I did professionally so crafting ideas for Saving Vincent is a well-worn recipe. I’m not saying that success is a given. Just that it’s a familiar challenge.

And this is my default—going, doing—remember? I have a tendency to rush into the vacant space in front of me and fill it fast.

Conventional wisdom for authors is to always be writing. The more books, the better because once we book lovers find an awesome author we want to read more.

I love that about us.

Yet, I am asking myself if profit is my motive. Career? Commercial success? My name in lights in Time Square? A zillion followers? Return on investment?

Nothing wrong with those things, but I have my carving knife in hand. Remember my question: What will advance my life story? If I don’t give the question space, if I simply plunge into the next project, won’t I be cracking open that door to distraction and avoidance again? There is something to respect about being in-between, giving myself permission to gently ask, “How’d all that go? Those seven years?”

Here are some thoughts:

I was extreme. Too little sleep and lack of movement. I pinched a nerve once from sitting at my desk far too long one week my husband was out of town. This is unsustainable. I think the antidote is balance.

I was preoccupied. Sometimes I’d struggle at dinner to think of anything at all to say besides info about my writing or a marketing scheme or publishing. The world has need for thoughtful perspective. One response could be awareness.

I was forgetful. One time I drove all the way to a book club get-together to exchange holiday gifts, only to realize I’d left the gift behind. Another gathering when I read the wrong book. Perhaps the solution is leaning in on purpose.

Of course, there is a place for concentration. A place for perseverance, courage, enormous drive and absolute integrity. A place to exhaustively use my experiences and to capitalize on them with dedication, but this does not call for obsession.

Making space for space

Have you ever been in the shower when the solution to a problem popped into thought—right when you’re in the middle of crushing Aretha Franklin’s “Respect”?

(I can hear you.)

That problem just needed a little germination time. Like setting aside that first draft for a week or so before returning to it for editing slices. I need to resist my impulse to start carving up my time again.

I have experiences after periods of intense activity when there’s an interval of stasis. It only looks inactive at face value because fermentation and reflection is happening. A breaking up and letting go and coming together, if I hold space for it.

To ask the question and leave it alone. Go sing in the shower. Trusting that the answers I need are forming.

Truth be told, I have ideas for the next book to write and I could jump right in. But just as Saving Vincent was the means to my life’s story (not just an end in itself), I want the next book (should I write it) to be just as purposeful. To serve my life story.

I’m marinating on this.

BTW - thank you for your tolerance. I recognize that all these food metaphors have been a lot to swallow.

Still, I hope there’s ideas here for you to savor.