Craft Development
I started writing my first book in October of 2022. I finished the draft in about 8 months, sent it to beta readers, revised, sent it to agents, landed one, did multiple rounds of edits, and began to understand the "work" of writing. I was learning about craft. I was learning to *be* crafty. I was getting feedback from people who knew so much more about this world than I did. They still do. There's still everything to learn.
Since October of 2022, I have written over 1500 PAGES of fiction.
I'm now working on my fourth book.
It is a bizarre sort of self-conscious bittersweetness to know that the writer your readers are encountering is *no longer you*. It is strange and unsettling to understand that your earliest readers are simply not getting the best of your metaphor, your character development, your pace, your plot, your politics. I will never write a book like Queering Him again, because I don't write like the person who splattered Queering Him out onto a page. I'm a better craftsperson now. I'm nimbler. I'm more honest. I'm less frightened. I'm infinitely more reader-aware.
Sometimes, I'm embarrassed. I want to thrust sections of Book Four under readers' noses and go: NO! LOOK! SEE! ***THIS*** IS WHAT I CAN DO! I'M CAPABLE OF MORE! I'VE GROWN! I'VE CHANGED! But that is a fool's wish. It's needlessly self-loathing. It's grotesquely self-defeating. Book 1 is being lovingly received, why would I dimish it? No artist's first work is their masterpiece. I would deeply and sincerely hope that each subsequent book would showcase my sharpened skill. I would earnestly and dearly wish that readers would expect more of me, and better, and brighter still, as I grow into my new identity as (and I'm twisting my hair into coy little curls as I say this), "a writer."
Just know I'm holding this uncomfy duality. I'm proud of Book 1, I love Avra and Kieran, Queering Him is my first and most precious baby. I birthed it. I grew it in my body and pushed it out of me. AND, for real, you should meet its little siblings.
Since October of 2022, I have written over 1500 PAGES of fiction.
I'm now working on my fourth book.
It is a bizarre sort of self-conscious bittersweetness to know that the writer your readers are encountering is *no longer you*. It is strange and unsettling to understand that your earliest readers are simply not getting the best of your metaphor, your character development, your pace, your plot, your politics. I will never write a book like Queering Him again, because I don't write like the person who splattered Queering Him out onto a page. I'm a better craftsperson now. I'm nimbler. I'm more honest. I'm less frightened. I'm infinitely more reader-aware.
Sometimes, I'm embarrassed. I want to thrust sections of Book Four under readers' noses and go: NO! LOOK! SEE! ***THIS*** IS WHAT I CAN DO! I'M CAPABLE OF MORE! I'VE GROWN! I'VE CHANGED! But that is a fool's wish. It's needlessly self-loathing. It's grotesquely self-defeating. Book 1 is being lovingly received, why would I dimish it? No artist's first work is their masterpiece. I would deeply and sincerely hope that each subsequent book would showcase my sharpened skill. I would earnestly and dearly wish that readers would expect more of me, and better, and brighter still, as I grow into my new identity as (and I'm twisting my hair into coy little curls as I say this), "a writer."
Just know I'm holding this uncomfy duality. I'm proud of Book 1, I love Avra and Kieran, Queering Him is my first and most precious baby. I birthed it. I grew it in my body and pushed it out of me. AND, for real, you should meet its little siblings.
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