I’m between books and lost again.
(Rooftop yelling. I usually type these and delete them without posting, but sometimes I get weak and just let it all out. I’m weak today.)
Okay, I still deleted most of my rant. And then wrote more.
But the gist was I finished my first novel (a romance in a category incompatible with my pen name) and I don’t have a clue what to do with it. It’s going to fail just like the dozens or erotica shorts before it, and I’m not ready to face another whole avenue for failure.
When I get to $1k/mo, my life will change. When I hit $2/mo, my life will become worth living for the first time ever.
I look forward to a future where I know what I’m sitting down to write, because (hypothetically) bad boy billionaire daddy romance novels (or whatever) paid my bills in June-September, and readers can’t get enough of it. Another twist on that trope, it is!
Experimental novels in between those sure-sell novels? Absolutely! Let’s see how other categories and genres work!
But sitting down to write yet another bad boy billionaire daddy romance novel (or whatever) when the (hypothetical) last two I wrote sank to 11 billion in the ranks and average $2 per day is soul-crushing.
Staring at a blank page or screen with no idea where to start, because nothing so far has worked is soul-crushing.
Being ten months in and still at $200/mo churning out smut, unable to pay the bills, and clueless about what to write next, makes it really, really hard to keep morale up.
I’m sure it’s all part of the game, research and all, but I’m clearly stupid. Because I just don’t get it.