For the writers writing sequels
There’s something about sequels.
Sequels are difficult for most almost every author I know. For those early in their careers, it's often their first time writing an entire novel under contract, and under deadline. Contracts and deadlines do a funny thing to books: suddenly the fun idea is also work. Suddenly it's not just the writer's; it's the publisher's, too. Add the layer of pressure that comes from reader expectation? Writing a sequel can be paralyzing.
But there's another thing authors talk about with sequels.
It's always said with a self-deprecating smile, in a joking tone, in a way that reveals we're not trying to complain but the feeling is real . . .
"I'm writing this book for the five people who'll actually finish the series."
It sounds contradictory to the crushing pressure of reader expectations suddenly imposed on the book, but it's not. Not really. Because we know the people who pick up our sequels are predisposed to like the book, or they wouldn't bother to continue the series. And those are the people we desperately don't want to disappoint.
But series drop-off is a real thing. Even with series that get bigger and bigger, there are always people who read the first book and decide not to continue -- for whatever reason -- which means sales of the second and third and fourth book are always lower than sales of the first.
"I'm writing this book for the five people who'll actually finish the series."
Yes, it's hyperbole. Chances are that more than five people will read it, but lots of writers are keenly aware that the audience for their sequel is limited. And considering how difficult sequels are . . . it can sometimes feel pointless to put in the extra effort to make sure the sequel is a worthy followup to the first. To make the sequel better than the first.
Honesty moment: I was in this position with my forthcoming sequel, AS SHE ASCENDS. Late in the editing process -- week-before-deadline late -- I realized why one section of the book had been bothering me during every single round of revision I'd done. And there, with one week before my deadest of deadlines, I was faced with a choice:
I could rewrite the last 20,000 words of the book, or I could leave it.
Because the ending I'd been working with wasn't bad. It wasn't wrong. Indeed, most of the events in that version would stay, just get reorganized with new context. But . . . the new ending was better.
I could have left the story as it was, and very few readers would have complained. Most would likely decide to read the third book, too, since they were already invested. But I would always know that I could have done better.
So I did the work. I put in twenty-hour days (I wish this were exaggeration, but it isn't) and I rewrote the end of the book with only minutes to spare before my deadline. Even after the book was off to the copyeditor (dear copyeditor, if you are reading this, I'm so sorry), I kept working on it, rewriting entire chapters again in order to drop them into the copyedited manuscript when it came.
During all this, there were times I thought bitterly about how this could be the best book I've ever written (we always want to think that about our latest), but the audience would be limited. All that effort . . . for the five people who'd actually read it. I could have left the end and they'd never know, but I'd have known.
I'm not telling this story for cookies or pats on the head. My job is to write books. My promise to my readers is to always try to make the latest book the best one I've ever written.
No, I'm saying this for the other writers. For those of you just starting your first sequel and struggling with the feelings of expectation and futility. For those of you who've written sequels before and are sharply familiar with the conflicting emotions. And for those of you who haven't gotten here yet, but hope to have the opportunity to write a sequel one day. You're not alone -- none of you.