I’m on the horns of a dilemma here.
Admittedly, a poor choice of words given the circumstances, but that’s just the way it’s going for me right now.
I’ve written five Angel Ridge Novels. There’s only going to be one more. There. I said it, and I’m putting it out there for the whole Internet to read. As a writer, I’m moving on. As a person, that scares me to death. AR has been good to me. Those books gave me my start in this business. I’d be lying if I said writing something else wasn’t scary. However, if I’ve learned anything about writing, it’s this:
IT’S LIKE STEPPING OFF A CLIFF
And you don’t know what’s going to happen after you fall. Could be good. Could be unbelievably amazing. Could be disastrous. And yet, you do it: take a blind, terrifying, leap of faith. It’s not for the faint of heart, and little secret about me—I’m not all that brave.
So, here I stand, one foot dangling off the edge. The other foot on safe, solid ground. And it’s like that safe foot is freaking nailed down. My gut is telling me what to do, but I can’t let go. Fear’s got me good.
I wrote something new this weekend. Something Non-Angel Ridge. Actually, I wrote something else a few months ago, but I put it away after taking it to my writers’ group and reading it to a shocked audience. An audience of people who know my Angel Ridge, MFA in Creative Writing ways. And they were Shocked (capital S). And it scared me, because what I had written was risky for me, and I was scared, and I don’t know why I’m tearing up while I write that, but I am. Okay, I know why. I’m still scared. And taking it to the group was a self-defeating action, because I actually knew what would happen, even though it shocked me when it did. So, I put-it-away.
I wrote something else this weekend. The beginning of a new small town southern set series that is supposed to be like my sweet, old-fashioned Angel Ridge romances, except it’s going in the same direction as those three chapters I wrote months ago. And today, I’m feeling freaked out and unsettled about it. As I’m wont to do, I’m writing about it to try and make sense of it.
Last week, I was talking to my best friend. And she brought up the chapters I had written several months ago, of course she did, because that’s the way the universe works. Once you start spinning, it grabs you and won’t let you go. You see, I’d sent her those chapters right after I wrote them. Bless her, she reads everything I write. She thought I’d already submitted the thing because that had been the plan. Write three chapters and a synopsis, then submit. When I told her I hadn’t done anything with it, she (as we say in the South) Got All Over Me about it. It started out with something like, “What’s wrong with you? Get that out this week,” as I stuttered excuses, and then she progressed to, “Send that out while we’re talking.” Me? I’m still stammering the excuses out. And I didn’t. Send it out. I did, however, revise it this weekend before I wrote the first chapter of the new series. And you know what? I made hardly no changes.
What the crap?
Back to the horns of the dilemma. Here it is. What’s coming out is steamy romance. History lesson. When I first began writing a hundred years ago, I wrote steamy romances. Couldn’t sell them to save my life. I believe it was because I was learning and my writing was not that great. It had potential, but I didn’t have story structure down. Plus, the publisher I was writing for was very prescriptive about how the stories they publish are written, and I always, always strayed from the formula. Of course, when I told my husband what I was writing now, he gives me the old, “You know, you used to write steamy and it didn’t work out. Maybe you should pay attention to that.” Like it was a sign or something. And I so believe in signs. Okay, and I have good girl, Baptist, Preacher’s Daughter, guilt. Sigh…
But when I sit down to write, that’s what’s coming. (Sorry. Another poor word choice.) And all those years ago when I couldn’t sell what I was writing, I was trying to write something that, at the time, didn’t feel right to me. So I turned completely away from it and wrote something sweet and old-fashioned and just for fun, to have a break from all the rejection, and Angel Ridge was born. Yeah. I was writing small town, sweet romances before Debbie Macomber, but no one in New York would roll the dice on it. Long story short, I went small press. It wound up with Bell Bridge Books, and it’s done great. And who knew? Small town romance is all the rage! And I’m thankful, but I can’t write Angel Ridge for the rest of my life. I have to move on. Intellectually, I know books like Angel Ridge are what I ought to keep writing because that’s what my readers expect, but it’s not coming. (Sorry—word choice again.)
So, here I stand. One foot dangling off the cliff. On foot on safe ground. What happens next is anyone’s guess.
P.S. What the Heart Wants is still 1.99 on Amazon Kindle. Please go buy one so I can keep being a working writer. If you already have it, there’s a handy button there that says “Give as Gift.” Ever thankful for your support. Buy Now