Now that book one is finished, well as finished as it can be right now, it’s time to pick up and start a new project. You’ll notice on the sidebar that Craving Copper is currently at 15,000 words. This is the sequel to Iron Thirst, and it’s already been started. I was working on it before I decided to go back and revise Iron Thirst. It is the most logical choice.
Then there is a new idea. Something that I have been mentally chewing on. A complete departure from Iron Thirst. This is the idea that I was talking about last week. It is the one talking to me and pulling at me. The problem here is that it scares me. This book is going to take me down some dark paths, some very unfamiliar terrain. On one hand, I am excited. On the other, I am terrified. Even though it is the project that is talking to me, I’m not sure I am ready yet.
But more on the fun side. I’ll give you a dramatization of what’s been going on.
Craving Copper stands arms crossed, toes tapping, clearing his throat in exasperation.
“What?” I ask.
“I think I’ve been more than patient.”
“You have, and I appreciate that.”
“Do you? It’s hard to tell since you started a whole new book. One that has nothing to do with us.”
“I know, I know. It’s just--,” I stare at my toes unable to look into the eyes of the betrayed. “He’s the one talking to me. You haven’t really opened up.”
I can feel the anger radiating from him.“You do realize that the only reason why I shut up is so that you could go back and clear up the unfinished business with Iron Thirst. You said you’d be right back. You promised!” He actually stomped his feet matching each syllable.
Dear God, don’t let him cry. Wet pages are so hard to deal with. “It’s not that I’ve forgotten you. You are very important to me.”
Through wet eyes, he says, “But, shouldn’t you write about us right now. While all the voices are still so clear. Think of the tone.”
“I plan on writing about Fee and Blake and Bristow for a long time. I have ideas for at least two more books. Complete outlines.”
“So, are you bored with us?Is that it? Do you like this, this, Touch of Light better?”
Good grief. Books are just as sensitive and insecure as the writer. “All right, listen. Don’t be jealous of Touch of Light, I mean, that’s just a working title anyway. You have to take some responsibility for yourself.” He starts to interject, but I hold up my hand. “Let me finish. You can’t just blame it all on me. You shut down first. Say it was Iron Thirst, but you know as well as I do that if it was not perfect, you would never see the light of day.”
“So,” sniffles and wipes nose, “you’re saying that if I open up, if I talk—you’ll listen?”
“I owe you that.”
“Thank you.” He gives me a joyous hug.
So after a little tough love, we are all in agreement. We’ll see what happens.