The Second-Book Shudder

Our guest today is Shelley Burbank, whose second Portland-based P.I. book, Night Moves, debuts today.

Shelley Burbank: I refuse to call it a slump.

With my second mystery novel about to launch and an odd heaviness settling over my mood, I realize the disturbing ennui that sometimes overtakes second-year college students has struck. My emotions this week border on, dare I say it?

Dread.

It’s a mild dread. Nothing too serious, but pernicious. A weak but notable anxiety, like the hour before an exam for which you’ve studied but, gosh, you never know if you might have missed that one section of the reading the professor chooses to emphasize.

And okay, fine, some nausea. But that could be all the coffee.

When I search “sophomore slump” online, hundreds of articles and blog posts shuffle down my computer screen like a dusty window blind. I skim and gape. The contents read like a horror story.

Failure to live up to standards. Frustration. Boredom. Lack of motivation. Loss of momentum. Existential dread.

Is this me?

I pat myself down like a triage nurse looking for signs of injury. I’m okay. I’m okay. I repeat the words like a mantra, and no gaping wounds appear. I’m okay.

I’m not as okay as last year.

Last year I was a freshman novelist. When my first Olivia Lively mystery, FINAL DRAFT, launched, I felt excited and hopeful. Not quite cotton candy fluff, but close. My attitude tended toward cheerful and energetic. I jumped into my life as a published novelist, grinning, throwing launch parties, gushing on social media, and exuding manifest positivity. Life was good. My dreams of publication had been realized. People will read my book, I thought. Maybe not a ton of people, but some! How marvelous!

I didn’t consider myself totally naive. Although I was a debut novelist, I thought I knew the score. I’d spent years in the apprenticeship trenches learning all I could, not only about the writing craft but also the industry. I firmly told my husband, “Don’t expect me to become famous or make a ton of money. It just doesn’t happen.” He said he got it. “And I’ll have to hustle, you know, to make sales.” He said he heard me loud and clear.

Going into a contract with a small press, I knew I’d be taking on the bulk of marketing responsibility for the book. I knew sales would be counted in the hundreds, not thousands. I knew publication wouldn’t change my life or anything. I considered myself prepared.

As predicted, my first book launched and sales were what I and my publisher expected. While I’d hoped for even more, of course, the numbers themselves didn’t faze me. It was a start. I was pleased by reader response. People liked—some even loved—my first book. They shared it with their friends and bought it as birthday presents for family members. Ratings on Amazon and Goodreads were above average. Reviews were positive.

I saw the first book as a platform on which to build.

Once FINAL DRAFT launched, I had this idea to write prequel novella to use as a lead magnet. Before long, I realized it was actually book two in the series and expanded my original plot. On advice from an experienced and excellent Maine Crime Writer, I made it a murder mystery.

I set the story once again in Portland, but I also sent my main character, female private investigator Olivia Lively, to a cozy cabin in the north woods. Think loons and kayaks and crows in the pine trees. The smell of lakewater and smoke from mesquite grills. A dead body. I then spirited Liv back to Portland for art galleries, restaurants, and runs along the Eastern Prom and Back Cove. I threw in a secret erotic novel, a seedy stripclub, possible Russian mafia dudes, boyfriend troubles, and a goofy Labradoodle to lighten things up.

Writing this book was fun.

Now NIGHT MOVES: An Olivia Lively Mystery is ready to launch into the world, and I’m feeling oddly panicked. Last year’s cheerful optimism has faded into a miasma of doubt. Uncertainty spirals like fog from a Maine lake on a chilly morning.

I love my book. I did the best I could. What if it’s not enough?

It’s the second-book shudder. I know more now than I did last year. The realities of the publishing industry–specifically marketing–bum me out. I wonder, can I do better this time? What if I do worse? Is there really anything I can do about it? Because standing out in a super-crowded market kind of seems impossible even if you spend a big chunk of time and energy and money promoting yourself and your work.

Marketing is a beast devouring my writing time and joy. I picture it with sharp spines, slavering mouth, and a bloated, ravenous belly dragging on the ground.

I grapple with the marketing monster on a daily basis. I wave my sword. I identify and resolve tech issues. I post several times a day on social media in hopes of reaching new readers. I then read that social media doesn’t work anymore to reach new readers. I see a billion ads that tell me all I need to do is take “this awesome Masterclass” to learn how to use social media to reach readers. I pivot from one email marketing software (EMS) to another. I spend hours in webinars. I read books and articles and blog posts on marketing. I join groups to learn more about growing a reader base. I buy a domain email that, sigh, doesn’t “authenticate” with the new EMS. I end up on yet another platform using my old free gmail.

All this to sell a few hundred books? When I think about it, my heart stutters.

“But, Shelley,” you say. “This is just business. It’s part of the writer life. Grow up.”

It is. I know it. I know I’m being a sophomoric crybaby.

Something about this imminent second book launch has panic gathering inside me like a thunderstorm, all dark purple clouds and flashes of distant lightning. As launch approaches, I start to wonder, what’s all this hustling for? What’s so great about being a published author? Could I simply write for myself and leave marketing behind forever? Would I be happier?

I love writing. Conjuring a story onto paper that was once just a glimmer in my head gives me all the feels. I get huge joy from sharing those stories with others, and that’s what hooks me. In order to share, I need to market. In order to market, I need to chill out.

After a few days of this existential dread, I go in search of help.

I send a “save me!” text to my cohort in Las Vegas, and she listens and offers some perspective, asking, “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

I realize that the worst thing would be nobody buys my book and I’ll have spent a year of my life on a failed project. I will have embarrassed myself–and probably my relatives, too. They’ll pretend not to know me if they run into me at Devaney, Doak, and Garrett where I’ll be staring mournfully at the Maine author shelves while my lucky writer’s shirt falls to shreds around me like Miss Havisham’s dress.

I’m kidding. I don’t have a lucky writer shirt.

However bleak this scenario, my life wouldn’t end. I’d still have a home and food and coffee and books to read. I’d still have a lovely husband and friends. I’d still be living in two beautiful places, Maine and San Diego, and experiencing all there is to love about these locales.

I realize I could shut down my social media and website tomorrow, abandon the internet completely, throw away my email list, and still manage to live a good, meaningful life full of reading, writing for fun, knitting, and making lots of soup.

But I’m not ready to give up. Harnessing the power of Google search, I seek out some Stoic principles that actually help with the imposter syndrome I’m experiencing. I’m reminded that I can only control my thoughts and decisions and actions, not external events.

I learn that hope and despair are dual and connected. Failure and success are dual and connected. Everything is itself and its opposite. Trippy.

I learn the key to life is progress, not perfection. If I work hard, write as well as I’m able, learn from my mistakes, and take reasonable steps to market my books, the rest is out of my control.

The panic subsides, and I feel better. It’s just a sophomore shudder, I realize. Nothing terminal. I’ll live to write another day. But maybe I should get a lucky shirt just in case?

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Night Moves: An Olivia Lively Mystery

Encircle Publications, August 14, 2024

After a splashy success with her last big case, Olivia Lively, P.I. is struggling to manage Lively Investigations’s sudden—and exciting—growth spurt. When an old friend offers her a chunk of cash to investigate his wife and brother who may be having an affair, Liv reluctantly agrees. She heads to a cozy cabin in the Maine woods to investigate, thinking it will be a chance to enjoy summer while also solving her cash flow problem. When the suburban wife turns up dead, Liv discovers a possible connection to a seedy strip club and the Russian mob. It’s a sticky summer in Portland, Maine, and in the heat of it all, Liv discovers that often the most complex relationship a woman has is the one with herself.

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Shelley Burbank is a mystery and women’s fiction author and journalist based in Maine and San Diego, California. She’s a contributing writer to the Waterboro Reporter newspaper, and her short fiction has been published nationally in True Story, True Love, and True Confessions magazines. Regional and literary publications include San Diego Woman Magazine and The Maine Review. Final Draft, the first Olivia Lively Mystery published by Encircle Publications (March 2023), was her debut novel. The second in the romantic mystery series, Night Moves, will be released on August 14, 2024. For the latest news, find Shelley on Facebook and Instagram, and visit http://www.shelleyburbank.com.