The Third Book

Or, When the Words Don’t Come, but the Self-Doubt Does

Writing a book is like trying to milk a wolf. It’s weird, unpredictable, and everyone gives you a sideways glance that says, “death wish.” Writing three books? That’s Stockholm Syndrome. And yet, here I am, back in the ring with my third manuscript, asking the muse to hit me harder.

The thing is, I’ve done this before. Twice, in fact. I’ve written two books, and neither has sold to a publisher yet. They sit in the capable hands of my agent in Submission Hell, waiting for someone to notice them or, if nothing else, prove that I could probably write another one. They’re not bad. I’m proud of them. But pride doesn’t silence doubt, even if you have chops and a decent resume.

Maybe they’ll sell one day. Maybe they won’t. That’s the gamble you take as a writer. You pour your soul into something, turn that soul into a PDF, and then send it out into the world like a kid on their first day of school, praying they don’t get shoved into a metaphorical locker.

So why am I doing this again? Because, unfortunately, I’m a writer. And writers, as a rule, are narcissistic gluttons for punishment (sorry, writing pals — I don’t make the rules).

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The Third Book

Some nights, I’m in the zone, banging out pages like I’m possessed. Other nights, I’m Googling things like “how to fake your own death and live off the grid.”

Here’s the truth they don’t tell you about writing: it doesn’t get easier. You’d think by book three, I’d have it figured out. I’d sit down, the words would flow, and the whole thing would wrap up neatly in six months. But no. Writing isn’t a skill you master. It’s a battle you fight, over and over, until one of you gives up.

And the thing is, the book always wins.

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My Advice? Lower Your Standards

If you’re in the trenches, let me offer some solidarity—and a little advice. Not the feel-good kind, but the “this might keep you alive” kind:

1. Lower Your Expectations
   The biggest mistake you can make is thinking you’re supposed to be good at this. You’re not. Writing is messy, awkward, and deeply humbling. Accept that most of what you write will suck. That’s what editing is for.

2. Embrace the Void
   Some nights, you’ll stare at the screen and feel absolutely nothing. No inspiration. No spark. Just the cold, unfeeling void. Do it sad. Do it pissed. Lean into it. Sometimes the void has the best stories.

3. Make a Deal with the Devil
   Writing requires sacrifice. Maybe it’s sleep. Maybe it’s social plans. Maybe it’s your sanity. Whatever it is, accept the trade. Nothing great comes without a little suffering.

4. Find the Poetry
   When it gets hard—and it will—remind yourself that struggle is part of the process. The pain, the doubt, the late nights—they’re all part of the story. Yours.

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Why I Keep Going

Traditional publishing is a notoriously horrible place to be right now. I mean seriously, why bother? Let’s just publish our books online, no major houses, and feel better, right?

Wrong. So many of us are still holding out, aren’t we?

So why do it? Why keep writing when the first two books haven’t sold, and this third one is eating me alive feet first?

It’s a little like mountain climbing, I guess. Because you have to. Because writing isn’t something you do, it’s something you are. You don’t really stop writing, you just stop writing things down. If you’re a writer, you’re always writing in your head. Keep it all upstairs and you’ve got a recipe for a fate worse than death: regret.

Here’s the thing about the first two books (and anything you’ve written before that you haven’t received a Pulitzer for yet, too, by the way): they’re not failures. They’re foundations. Every word we’ve ever written has built us into the writers we are today—the ones who’re crazy enough to tackle a third book, despite all the reasons not to.

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Solidarity for the Suffering

If you’re reading this and you’re a writer, I see you, dumbass. I know what it’s like to wrestle with self-doubt, to pour your soul onto the page and wonder if anyone will care. I know the dark nights, the empty pages, the questioning.

But hey, you’re not alone. Importantly, you’re doing the work. The real work. The kind that matters.

So keep going. Write the bad pages. Laugh at your own misery. Pour yourself a drink and write something bad today. The void may stare back at you, but it doesn’t own you. You’re the one holding the pen.