Sure, finding a voice is difficult. Sure, getting published can be a real trial. Sure, all the stumping around for publicity (or worse, lack thereof) can wear you out.
But at least the writing gets easier after the first few books, right?
Not just any writer would tell you this (it’s an admission of weakness, hopelessness, pessimism and despair and I SO want you to feel it too, gentle reader) but the writing — in actual fact — gets harder. And harder. And harder. With each book you write.
HOW CAN THIS BE? Is there no God?? (well no, obviously, but that was book five).
Surely one’s skills improve, structure falls into place, the same mistakes can be avoided? SURELY?
Oh tut tut. You know so very little about life.
The tragedy is, that in order to write a book properly, you need to be in touch with the deepest parts of yourself. You need to be on a constant voyage of discovery, mining your dark places, thinking things through that have bothered you for a lifetime.
So. Think about what happens when a miner brings up the first layer of diamond. He/she then goes on to the next layer down. And is that next layer comprised of more and bigger diamonds just lying around in a soft bed of sand waiting to be plucked and polished?
(Cue demonic mirthless laughter).
That next layer down is deeper and darker with less oxygen and more chance of catastrophic collapse. The canaries start choking to death. The candles flicker and gas leaks in, threatening explosion.
Yup, that’s what the sixth book is like. And the seventh? Well. That one will, no doubt, be even worse.
Not meaning to depress you.
I’m just saying.
Be seeing you.