How Hard Is It to Write Multiple Books, Anyway?

I have two new knees, one unfinished thriller and enough plot ideas to keep me busy through menopause. So why is it taking me three years to finish my second novel?

Pecking away at the keyboard as my second novel starts coming to fruition.

I have about a dozen novel ideas tucked away in various places.

Some are outlines. Some are titles. Some are sparks — a single scene I can imagine becoming an entire story someday. A few already have characters, twists and whole conversations playing in my head.

And yet, I am still working on Book No. 2.

Sometimes I feel ridiculously behind in this book-writing journey. How the hell do authors publish book after book? Do they sleep? Have full-time jobs? Go to school? Exercise? See friends? Take their daughter to see Lionel Richie and Earth, Wind and Fire because, well, they're epic? Occasionally fall asleep watching TV in a cheap Big Lots recliner without feeling guilty?

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/6a6853_d18ae5295a844cefb46d06f0a3037132/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

Footage of Earth, Wind and Fire July 25 at the Kia Center in Orlando. One of my many summer distractions. Just because.

See, I have no shortage of ideas.

I just have no idea where to find the hours.

This summer, I stepped away from my second novel for a while to work on a personal project.

I also went to the Blue Ridge Mountains in Georgia with family and friends in early June, which was lovely — until I realized I'd run out of some maintenance meds, which sent me into three days of a seriously sick funk. Not recommended.

The Blue Ridge Mountains in Georgia, where I planned on knocking out some of "The Pact." (Spoiler: I didn't touch it.)

Two knee replacements threw a wrench into my writing time. But I'm on the mend. At least enough to take a bathroom selfie.

I was also recovering from two major surgeries, trying to have something resembling a life and attempting to accept that not every waking minute has to be productive.

I'm still working on that last one.

Earlier this year, I celebrated my 51st birthday by getting a new knee the following day, which is apparently how birthdays work in midlife.

Not girls’ trips to Vegas.

Replacement joints.

Once I finally began feeling stronger, I started working out again. Then I got sick for a good two weeks.

Working out on the Peloton after too long away.

So, no, the summer did not unfold exactly as planned. (But does it ever?)

I also had the chance to celebrate the launch of my friend Lisa Crites’ book, "Beautifully Unbroken: A Life-Changing Invention: Born of Loss, Cancer, Courage, and Faith." Lisa’s memoir chronicles how the loss of her mom, a breast cancer diagnosis and faith led her to invent The SHOWER SHIRT. Her story is about how one of the hardest periods of her life was shifted into a purpose. A way to help other patients.

Watching Lisa bring her work into the world, build momentum and see people respond to it ignited something in me.

I was genuinely thrilled for her.

But as I stood there at her book launch party, surrounded by a room full of her supporters, something ignited in me.

I knew. I needed to do more with my own writing.

“Boomerang” was published more than two years ago. And I'm pretty proud of it (even though I have my moments of, OhmyLordwhatinGodsnamedidIwrite?). Writing a novel was something I once wondered whether I could actually do. Publishing it felt huge.

The stellar reviews, recognition in a couple of fiction competitions and readers who ask, “Are you working on your next book? Hurry!” continue to feed my soul.

But life gets crowded. And months pass while the manuscript waits.

I was so excited for Lisa Crites' success with her memoir on her breast cancer, grief and inventor journey — "Beautifully Unbroken: A Life-Changing Invention: Born of Loss, Cancer, Courage, and Faith."

Seeing Lisa’s success reminded me. I need to stop treating my writing as the thing I squeeze into whatever scraps of time remain.

It needs to be a priority — and on the reg.

Making the commitment to multiple books

I wrote half of "The Pact's" Chapter Six this morning. So, progress.

If you were curious, here's the premise. A close-knit group of recovering alcoholics make a secret agreement to drink together one final time.

One night.

No judgment. No consequences. No one ever has to know.

But the group awakens from their secret bender the next day to find something shockingly terrifying. Which leads to a lot of confusion — and even more questions. The day after, Callie, the protagonist, learns her soon-to-be-ex-husband was found face down in the river.

No one remembers exactly what happened that night — or if any of them had something to do with his death.

Now the group must piece together fractured memories, protecting the secret that could destroy everything they have rebuilt. And decide how far they are willing to go for one another.

“The Pact” is about addiction, friendship, loyalty, guilt and the dangerous things people can justify when they believe they are protecting themselves — or someone they love.

Like “Boomerang,” it lives in the uncomfortable space where people aren't entirely good or entirely bad. They're just people. Complicated, complex humans who make questionable decisions because of grief, fear, shame, love and desperation.

And, sometimes, just plain selfishness.

How hard is it for a perfectionist to crank out thriller No. 2?

Like "Boomerang," "The Pact" will take place in a fictional town based in Brevard County. Just like Cocoa Beach, pictured here as I recovered from my surgeries at my parents' rental condo. A good time was had by all.

Problem is, I want “The Pact” to be better than “Boomerang.”

I know more now. I understand pacing differently. I think more deeply about structure, character development, tension and the emotional consequences of every choice.

I wrote “Boomerang” with a basic premise and pecked away at the keyboard until I found the story.

With “The Pact,” I have a full outline, detailed characters and an ending I can already see.

And I am pretty pumped about it.

I keep telling myself the book does not have to be perfect. It only has to be the best book I can write at this point in my life.

Unfortunately, my brain translates that into: It better be perfect, girl.

Meanwhile, I return to graduate school mid-month. Just one class at a time, but it's a good 20 hours of work a week. If you're a perfectionist, that is.

Leets is my canine companion and shadow. She's often at my feet when I'm working. Or breathing.

At this rate, I should earn my master’s degree around the same time I finish menopause.

And I really don't know which one of those I am looking most forward to.

I'm also trying to accept something. That moving slowly does not mean I am failing.

Some authors publish a book — or four — every year. At the rate I am going, I may be closer to one every three years.

I hope not.

But I also do not want to rush a story simply to prove I can release another book.

It has to feel right.

It has to be worth the wait.

Watching Lisa, another writer, step fully into her moment reminded me of something. I don't want to keep standing on the sidelines of my own dreams.

I need to do more.

I want to do better.

And the only way to begin is to open the manuscript again.

Right after I run to Walgreens for eyeliner and DayQuil.