For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
…
Neither of us knew what to expect, and I had tried to steel myself for the worst. It was war, and I’d seen some awful things, but when it had happened to people you knew, and to a certain extent civilians that were nothing to do with the war, it was all that much harder to both understand why, and see.
There were dead, I counted at least ten, villagers who were innocent of any crime other than the fact they didn’t like Leonardo. They had no chance, shot and left to die in almost the same positions I’d seen them when I’d left earlier.
But, after checking everywhere, I could not find Martina.
Then Jack appeared. He came up to me and tugged on my trouser leg. “So this is where you got to?” I said. Why had he come back, though?
He headed back further into the cavern near where we had been earlier, a doorway I had not seen. It was ajar. Jack simply stood still, looking at it.
I pulled out my service pistol, not wanting to be caught unaware, and moved quietly towards the door, then slowly pulled it open.
At first, I saw nothing, then, looking down, I saw a figure on the floor. I knelt down to see who it was. The boy, Enrico. I’d seen his parents earlier, both dead. He must have escaped and hidden in the room, and, luckily, no one had followed him.
Except for Jack. Or had Jack come back, having sensed something awful had happened?
I checked him but there didn’t seem to be any wounds, and, when I shook his shoulder, he jolted, and jumped up ready to attack me, until he saw who it was, then grabbed hold of me. He was shaking, and suddenly sobbing. He had seen what had happened, and it was not something he was going to forget.
And he was going to want to exact revenge.
He was not the only one.
It took ten minutes before he had calmed, and managed to sit, leaning back against the wall. The room was where empty bottles were stored on wooden boxes, and he must have hidden among the crates. Anyone searching quickly wouldn’t venture much past the doorway.
It had saved his life.
Then, when I asked, he related what happened.
It was over very quickly. There had been a pounding on the door, and Martina had assumed it was Chiara returning. Chiara, he said, had said she had a small errand to run before locking herself in with the others.
When Martina opened the door, Leonardo was there, and they captured her, then set about killing everyone else. Enrico had been in the rear of the cavern looking for extra places for the others to camp when he heard the shots being fired.
Instead of going back to see what was happening, he hid in the bottle room, afraid for his life. Afraid for his parents and the others, but he had quickly realized there was nothing he could do. Leonardo had used the act of surprise.
One of Leonardo’s men had come back to where he was hiding, and just as he put his head in the door, Leonardo had called him back. They had to leave before Carlo and I returned. One of his men suggested they remain and capture us when we came back, but Leonardo said we’d come to him as soon as we saw what had happened.
He was right.
Carlo had made up a list of the dead and found that not only Martina was missing, so was Giuseppe and Francesco.
I told him Chiara was still alive, but barely, that Leonardo and his men had almost killed her, extracting the other’s whereabouts.
Martina and the others were most likely receiving the same punishment Chiara had received, up at the castle in one of the dungeons.
We were going to have to rescue them if they were still alive.
In fact, now that Thompson had sent reinforcements, the fight was going to be a little more in our favor with six of us, instead of two. Perhaps seven, if I could not persuade Enrico not to come, but that was going to be difficult. In his place, I would feel exactly the same.
When Enrico was ready, we went back out to the main cavern where Carlo was sitting, head in hands. It was probably the only time he would get to mourn his fellow villagers/
Jack was seeking forgiveness for deserting me, but I was not mad at him. That he was able to give some form of companionship to Enrico probably saved him from making a mistake thinking he could exact revenge on his own.
I told him Leonardo would pay for this, and, predictably, he told me that he would be coming with us. I promised myself that I would find some way of keeping him safe.
I was about to tell Emily not to open the door but for some reason, I simply stood there unable to do anything. It was not shock or fear, but a hesitation.
Emily looked at me, perhaps for approval, then looked through the peephole in the door.
“Who is it,” I asked, finally finding a voice.
“I can’t see him clearly but it looks like the man in the pin-striped suit, that chap who got in the elevator with us.”
Why wasn’t I surprised.
“What should I do?” she asked when I hadn’t said anything.
I was not sure what to think, but from first appearances, he didn’t look like an assassin, or very dangerous, but what did I know about assassins? Or dangerous people? “Let me answer the door. You stand just out of sight until we find out his intentions.”
“You don’t think…”
“I’m trying not to think right now, but please, just stand out of sight of the door, and have your phone set to call emergency, just in case.”
Another knock on the door, not impatient but nonetheless insistent, motivated her to do as I’d asked, and I took her place at the door. When she was in place, I took a deep breath, exhaled, and then opened the door.
It was, indeed, the man from the elevator. I decided attack was the best form of defence. “You were in the elevator. Give me one reason why you couldn’t speak to us then?” It came out exactly as I’d intended, a harsh tone from someone who was annoyed.
“Forgive me, but I wasn’t sure that I had the right person.” A placatory tone.
“How did you know what room to come to?” He hadn’t followed us, or at least I didn’t think so, but he could have discreetly kept an eye on us.
“I was told you would be here.”
“By whom?” The only person who knew we would be here was Cecile, though she could not know when.
“Your friend said you would be here.”
“Which friend?”
I could see that he was now getting impatient, his expression changing from genial to annoyance.
“We should not be discussing this in the hotel corridor.”
“Perhaps not, but I don’t trust you, and until you tell me what this is about, the hotel corridor is where you’re staying. I’ll ask again, which friend?”
“Cecile Battersby of course.”
Right name, but it could still be a bluff. Her name would be in the hotel computer system, information that could be bought by a clever adversary.
“Describe her.”
“Alas, I have not met her. I have been sent as an intermediary. This is a rather delicate matter, and not one that I wish to discuss in the hotel corridor.”
“Then I suggest you call me when you are in the open in plain view with other people place, but it will not be here, in this room until I’m satisfied I can trust you.”
I could tell by his expression it was not the answer he was looking for.
He took out his cell phone. “I assure you, you are in no danger from me, but if you insist.”
I gave him my number and he put it into his phone.
“You will be hearing from me soon. Let’s hope she does not suffer because of this.”
With that cryptic remark, he left, and I closed the door.
“What do you think he meant by saying she might suffer? Suffer what?”
“It’s just a means to try and scare us into doing something we might regret. We have no idea who he was, or what he wanted, and I was certainly not going to let him into the room. I’m sure we’ll soon find out.”
He might have been a public servant. Don’t they wear pin-striped suits and carry umbrellas?
A stereotype, I thought, that everyone had of the British, but this one was lacking the third element, a bowler hat.
“Let’s wait and see. But, in the meantime, since whoever he represents knows where we are, let’s get out of here, just in case.”
Her face registered the exact same fear level I was feeling.
Once again, I found myself asking the impossible question, what had she got herself mixed up in?
I looked through the peep hole and saw that our section of the passage was clear. I was taking a gamble that he’d left, and if the coast was clear, we would be leaving via the fire escape, just in case he had the elevators monitored.
I opened the door and looked up and down the corridor. Clear.
As we all know, writing by the seat of your pants is almost the same as flying by the seat of your pants, a hazardous occupation.
As it happens, I like writing this way because like the reader, I don’t know what to expect next.
And equally, at times, you can write your self into a corner, much like painting, and then have to go back, make a few changes and//or repairs and then move forward.
It’s part of the writing process, only in this case, the changes occur before you’ve finished the novel if you finish. Quite often a lot of writers get only so far, then the manuscript hits the bottom drawer, to be brought out on a distant rainy day.
Or your cat has mocked your writing ability one too many times.
Therefore, we’re winding back to Episode 16, and moving forward once again, from there.
O’Connor seemed to be more affluent than I because he was living in a flat located in an upmarket building. Getting into the ground floor required a passkey, one I suspect might also be needed to get in the front door of his flat, but I’d worry about that later.
My first problem was that front door, and it was not until a tradesman exited that I took the opportunity to appear to arrive at the same time, pretending to find my card, and brushing past him as he was exiting. He ignored me, his hands full, being in a hurry.
It took a day and a half of watching the building, waiting for an opportunity. His flat was on the third floor and although there was an elevator, I took the stairs, hoping that I wouldn’t run into anyone.
Quickly and quietly, and thankfully without seeing another resident, I came out into the passageway, and it was about ten steps to his front door. Number 37. Not far away, in one direction, the end of the passage, and numbers 38, 39, and 40. In the other, four more flats and the end of the corridor. Windows at either end, perhaps an escape route. I would not use the elevator if I had to leave in a hurry.
There were two elevators and one staircase. Both elevators were stationary on the ground floor.
I knocked lightly on the door to number 37.
No answer.
I knocked a little harder on the door. It was quite solid, and I had to wonder if the knocking sound penetrated the solid wood.
I checked the lock. Simple to open. We’d been given instruction by a master locksmith, and I’d brought my tools.
I waited a minute, checked to see if the elevators were still on the ground floor, then picked the lock and was inside within a minute.
Silence.
I felt along the wall for a light switch, usually by the door, and found it, and flicked it on. The sudden light was almost blinding, but then my eyes adjusted.
Trashed, much the same as my flat.
But, with a difference.
A woman was stretched out on the floor, unmoving. I could see, from where I was standing, she had been hit on the back of the head and could see the wound, and a trickle of blood through her hair.
Five steps to reach her, I reached down to check for a pulse.
Yes, she was alive.
I shook her gently. She didn’t react. I shook her a little more roughly and she stirred, then, as expected, lashed out.
I caught her hands, saying, “I just found you. I’m not your enemy.”
Of course, considering I was a stranger in what could be her flat without permission, I was not surprised she continued to struggle until I tried being reassuring. Then she stopped and asked, “Who are you?”
“A friend of O’Connor. I worked with him. Something happened to him at work and he said if that happened, I was to come here. He didn’t say anything about you, though.”
“I live here, in the flat next door. I heard a noise and came to investigate. That’s all I remember.”
I helped her up into a sitting position, and, holding her head in her hands, looked around. “Did you do this?”
“No. Just got here. But it’s the same at my place. The people who did this are looking for something. By the look of it, they didn’t find it here either.”
“I’ll get a damp cloth for your head. It doesn’t look serious but there might be a slight concussion that might need attention.”
She felt the back of her head, and, when she touched the wound, gasped, “It hurts though.”
I stood and went over to the kitchenette. O’Connor was not much of a cook, the benches looked new, and there was nothing out. I looked in a draw near the sink and found a cloth, still with the price tag on it. So were several utensils in the drawer. I ran it under the water, then went back to her, now off the floor and sitting on one of the two chairs. I handed her the wet cloth and she put it against the injured part of her head.
I made a mental note, it didn’t look like O’Connor had been here long, if at all. Something was not right here, and if that was the case, I should take care when saying anything to this woman.
“Who are you again?” she asked.
“I worked with him. My name is irrelevant. It’s unlikely that he mentioned me to you, or anyone. It’s the nature of our work.”
“Why should I believe you? You could be my attacker.”
“If that were the case, why would I still be here trying to be helpful.”
A good question that elicited a curious expression.
“What do you do, what did Oliver do?”
Alarm bells were going off. Oliver was not O’Connor’s first name.
“Nothing very interesting, I can assure you, and definitely nothing that would warrant this happening. If it had only been me, I would have not thought any more of it, but since we worked together, and this has also happened to him, it seems we are mixed up in something bad.”
“Where is he, by the way?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. If you live next door and know him well enough to be here, he might have told you.”
“No. He never spoke about work.”
She was trying to stand so I helped her up and held on when it looked like she was about to collapse. Last time I had a knock to the head, I had dizziness for a minute of two. Her knock had been a lot harder.”
“Are you alright?” She didn’t look it.
“I will be, I’m sure.”
I let her go, and she took several steps, then gave me a rather hard look. “Why are you here again?”
“Trying to find my friend.”
“How did you get in here?”
Rather than make her disorientated, the knock must have sharpened her senses. Time to test a theory.
“I think we should call the police now, and report the break-in.”
I pulled out my phone.
“Look, I don’t want to get mixed up in this. You go, and I report this when I get back home. And, if you find him, tell him Josephine is looking for him.”
As I thought. She was not able to explain to the authorities why she was in this flat, as I’m sure she believed I couldn’t either.
She started walking towards the door. My staying any longer would raise her suspicions about me, and any search I was going to do would have to wait. I opened the door, she walked out, and I followed shutting the door after me.
I left her standing outside the door and headed for the stairs. A last glance back showed her still where I left her. I went down to the first landing, then stopped. It was part of the training, to treat everyone as suspicious.
Then I heard her voice, as she passed the top of the staircase, on her way back to her flat. “He was here, looking for the files. No, he’s gone.” A minute’s silence, then “On my way.”
Another minute, I heard the elevator car arrive on the third floor.
I quickly ran down the stairs to the ground floor and waited at the door until she came out of the elevator, heading for the door.
Then as she passed through the front door, I came out into the foyer just in time to see a car stop out the front, and a familiar face out through the rear window.
The Weight of Expectation: Essentials to Initiate the Second Novel After the Euphoria of the First
Abstract The transition from debut to second novel represents a critical juncture in a writer’s career. While the first novel is often born of unbridled passion and unexamined confidence, the second novel is typically forged under the weight of expectation, industry scrutiny, and personal doubt. This paper explores the psychological, practical, and professional essentials required to successfully initiate and sustain the second novel writing process. Drawing upon literary theory, authorial testimonies, cognitive psychology, and publishing industry research, I identify four core pillars—re-establishing creative autonomy, managing external expectations, leveraging narrative momentum, and redefining success—that are crucial for initiating the second project. This analysis offers a framework for writers navigating what is often a disorienting and emotionally taxing phase of their artistic development.
Keywords: second novel syndrome, authorial identity, creative process, writer’s block, literary career development, narrative continuity, authorial expectations
1. Introduction
The publication of a first novel is frequently described as a transformative milestone in a writer’s life—a culmination of years of labour, isolation, and aspiration. The emotional landscape accompanying this achievement is one of euphoria, validation, and often, a sense of arrival into the literary world. However, this high tide is frequently followed by a receding wave: the daunting prospect of beginning again. While the debut novel may emerge from a raw, unfiltered impulse sustained by dreams and obsessions, the second novel is frequently obstructed by the sediment of success: expectation, self-scrutiny, and the pressure to prove that the first work was not a fluke.
This paper investigates the essential conditions required to initiate the second novel once the initial euphoria of the debut has subsided. Grounded in both empirical research and anecdotal evidence from published authors, it proposes a structured approach for writers to re-engage with their creative practice. The transition from first to second novel is not merely a technical challenge but an existential and psychological passage. Thus, the essentials to begin again are multifaceted, requiring the writer to reconstruct identity, reframe success, and rekindle narrative desire.
2. The Psychological Burden of the Second Novel
The phenomenon colloquially termed “second novel syndrome” refers to the creative paralysis that afflicts many authors after the debut’s release. Research in cognitive psychology suggests that success, while gratifying, can disrupt intrinsic motivation—the internal drive that fuels sustained creative work (Amabile, 1996). According to Deci and Ryan’s Self-Determination Theory, intrinsic motivation is fueled by autonomy, competence, and relatedness. The debut novel often satisfies these needs through unstructured exploration. However, post-publication, these same needs may be compromised.
2.1 The Erosion of Creative Autonomy
Following publication, authors frequently report a diminished sense of creative autonomy. External agents—publishers, agents, critics, and readers—enter the writer’s internal sphere, shaping expectations about genre, style, and thematic continuity. A study conducted by the Authors Guild (2020) found that 68% of debut novelists felt increased pressure to replicate the success of their first book, with many confessing to self-censorship out of fear of disappointing stakeholders.
The shift from writing for oneself to writing for an audience introduces what Csikszentmihalyi (1996) identifies as “inner conflict” in the creative process. When the writer becomes simultaneously the producer and the critic of their work—monitoring every choice for market receptivity—the flow state essential to sustained storytelling may dissipate.
2.2 The Crisis of Authorial Identity
With the debut, the individual is anointed “a novelist.” This new identity, though celebrated, can be burdensome. As Bakhtin (1981) noted, authorship is not a monolithic self but a dialogic process shaped by internal and external voices. The debut may have been written under the guise of anonymity or obscurity, but the second is written within the shadow of recognition. The author must now negotiate who they are as a writer: Are they the voice of the first novel? The voice the industry expects? Or someone still evolving?
This crisis of identity often leads to creative hesitation. As Zadie Smith observes in her essay “Fail Better” (2012), “You’ve never had a harder job than when it’s time to write the second book. You have a whole world of expectations now, including your own.” The writer’s internal critic, once manageable, now speaks with multiple voices—those of agents, reviewers, fans—amplifying self-doubt.
3. The Four Essentials to Initiate the Second Novel
While the challenges are significant, they are not insurmountable. Based on interviews with published authors and analysis of successful second novels, this paper identifies four essential components that facilitate the initiation and progress of the second project.
3.1 Re-establishing Creative Autonomy
The first essential is the reclamation of creative agency. This requires deliberate separation from external pressures and a return to the writer’s intrinsic motivation. Several authors achieve this by adopting a “draft zero” mentality—a private, exploratory draft exempt from review or evaluation.
Haruki Murakami, known for his disciplined writing routine, describes writing his second novel in a similar way to the first: alone, in silence, with no public announcements or deadlines imposed. This isolation allows the writer to experiment freely, without concern for reception. Establishing a private writing space—physical or mental—recreates the conditions that allowed the debut to flourish.
Additionally, writers may benefit from shifting their relationship with time. Rather than setting outcome-driven goals (“finish the novel by X date”), process-oriented goals (“write 500 words daily, without judgment”) support autonomy and mitigate pressure. In this way, the act of writing itself becomes the reward, not the publication.
3.2 Managing External Expectations
Expectations—both explicit and implied—are inevitable. The second essential, therefore, is not the elimination of expectations but their strategic management.
Writers must cultivate what Brené Brown (2010) calls “boundaries of belonging” in creative work. This includes clear communication with agents and publishers about creative intent, as well as emotional detachment from early reviews or sales figures. Several authors, such as Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, have spoken candidly about refusing to read reviews during the writing of their second books to preserve mental space.
Moreover, authors should acknowledge that audience expectations are mutable. Literary markets evolve, and readers often welcome growth and experimentation. The second novel need not be a retread of the first. Toni Morrison’s second novel, Sula, diverged significantly from the domestic realism of The Bluest Eye, embracing a more mythic, nonlinear structure. Its success demonstrates that risk, when grounded in artistic integrity, can be rewarded.
3.3 Leveraging Narrative Momentum
The third essential is the strategic use of narrative momentum—using insights from the first novel to inform, but not dictate, the second.
Many writers experience a disconnect between their debut and subsequent work, fearing that the magic of the first was unrepeatable. However, the process of completing a novel provides invaluable narrative intelligence: knowledge of structure, voice, pacing, and revision. This “tacit knowledge” (Polanyi, 1966) forms a foundation upon which the second work can be built.
Authors may harness this momentum by identifying the core thematic or emotional engine of their first novel and exploring its inverse or expansion. For instance, if the debut centred on loss, the second might explore forgiveness. If it was rooted in realism, the second could embrace fabulism. This continuity of inquiry—what novelist Rachel Cusk calls “the pursuit of a single question across books”—provides coherence without constriction.
Additionally, repurposing unused material from the debut’s drafts or notebooks can ignite the second project. Many authors discover that secondary characters or peripheral settings from the first novel contain underdeveloped potential. These fragments can serve as seeds for new narratives, easing the anxiety of beginning from nothing.
3.4 Redefining Success
The fourth essential is a recalibration of the writer’s definition of success. The debut is often judged by external metrics: acquisition, reviews, awards, sales. However, these benchmarks are insufficient for sustaining the writing process, particularly when embarking on the second novel.
Redefining success in terms of process—the consistency of practice, the honesty of expression, the courage to experiment—builds resilience. As poet Mary Oliver writes, “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” This ethos redirects focus from outcome to observation and expression.
Furthermore, embracing the possibility of failure is critical. Samuel Beckett’s famous dictum—“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”—encapsulates the mindset required. The second novel may not achieve the same reception as the first, but it may possess greater artistic maturity. Writers who view their careers as an evolving body of work, rather than a series of isolated products, are more likely to persevere.
4. Case Studies: Lessons from Established Authors
4.1 Zadie Smith Smith’s debut, White Teeth (2000), was a cultural phenomenon. Her second novel, The Autograph Man (2002), received more polarised reviews. In interviews, Smith admitted to feeling “crippled by expectation” and attempting to write something deliberately different, which led to mixed results. However, her subsequent novels (On Beauty, NW) reflect a more confident, personal voice. Smith’s trajectory illustrates that the second novel—however imperfect—is a necessary step in the maturation of voice.
4.2 Celeste Ng Ng’s debut, Everything I Never Told You, was critically acclaimed. For her second novel, Little Fires Everywhere, she consciously returned to themes of family and identity but expanded her narrative scope. Ng credits a structured writing schedule and sustained research as key to initiating the second book. She also limited her engagement with social media and reviews during the writing process, preserving mental space.
4.3 Ocean Vuong After the success of On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, Vuong described entering a period of creative silence. He did not begin his second novel immediately, instead allowing himself time to “unlearn” the habits of the first. His approach emphasises patience and the acceptance of nonlinear productivity—redefining starting not as a singular event but as a gradual re-immersion.
5. Practical Recommendations for Writers
To initiate the second novel, writers should consider the following steps:
Create a “pre-draft” ritual: Freewrite, journal, or sketch characters without aiming for a formal narrative.
Establish a writing sanctuary: Designate a time and space free from digital distractions and external input.
Set process goals: Focus on consistent output (e.g., 30 minutes/day) rather than word count or chapter completion.
Engage in parallel reading: Study novels that challenge or inspire—especially those unlike the debut.
Seek peer support: Join a writing group composed of other mid-career authors who understand the transition.
Delay external sharing: Resist the urge to share early drafts with agents or editors until a full draft is complete.
Embrace imperfection: Grant permission for the second novel to be messy, exploratory, or even “bad” in early stages.
6. Conclusion
The initiation of the second novel is less about technical preparation and more about psychological reorientation. The euphoria of the first publication must give way to a more mature, deliberate creative practice—one grounded in resilience, self-awareness, and artistic integrity. While external pressures and internal doubts are inevitable, the essentials for beginning again lie in reclaiming autonomy, managing expectations, channelling narrative momentum, and redefining success on one’s own terms.
The second novel is not a repetition but a recommitment—to the craft, to the voice, and to the self as a writer. It is in this commitment that the writer transcends the anxiety of the aftermath and re-enters the fertile silence from which stories are born. As Virginia Woolf reminds us in A Room of One’s Own, “Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.” The writer of the second novel must, above all, learn to mind their own inner compass. In doing so, they do not merely survive the aftermath of success—they evolve beyond it.
References
Amabile, T. M. (1996). Creativity in Context. Westview Press.
Authors Guild. (2020). Survey of Published Authors. New York: Authors Guild.
Bakhtin, M. M. (1981). The Dialogic Imagination. University of Texas Press.
Brown, B. (2010). The Gifts of Imperfection. Hazelden.
Csikszentmihalyi, M. (1996). Creativity: Flow and the Psychology of Discovery and Invention. HarperCollins.
Deci, E. L., & Ryan, R. M. (1985). Intrinsic Motivation and Self-Determination in Human Behavior. Springer.
Oliver, M. (2004). Long Life: Essays and Other Writings. Da Capo Press.
Polanyi, M. (1966). The Tacit Dimension. University of Chicago Press.
Smith, Z. (2012). “Fail Better.” The New York Review of Books, 59(15).
Woolf, V. (1929). A Room of One’s Own. Hogarth Press.
(Note: Additional primary and secondary sources include interviews from The Paris Review, The Guardian, and literary podcasts such as “Otherppl with Brad Listi.”)
10 Clichés Killing Your Credibility (And How to Fix Them)
We’ve all been there. Staring at a blank screen, the deadline looming, and our brain, in a moment of desperation, serves up a familiar, comforting phrase. “At the end of the day…” it types. “It’s not rocket science.”
Clichés are the processed cheese of the writing world. They’re easy, they’re fast, and they get the job done. But they’re also flavourless, uninspired, and ultimately, bad for your reader’s health.
A cliché is a phrase or opinion that was once clever or insightful but has been so overused it has lost all its impact. Using these signals to your reader that you haven’t put in the effort to find a more original way to express yourself. It makes your writing blend into the background noise of the internet.
Ready to purge your prose? Here are ten of the worst offenders, why they weaken your writing, and what to write instead.
1. The Cliché: “At the end of the day…”
Why it’s weak: This is the ultimate non-statement. It’s a filler phrase used to introduce a conclusion that is often vague and unearned. What does “the end of the day” even mean? Midnight? 5 PM? After all is said and done? It’s a hedge.
What to write instead: Be direct. If you’re making a final point, state it with confidence.
Instead of: “At the end of the day, what really matters is customer satisfaction.”
Try: “Ultimately, what matters is customer satisfaction.”
Even better: “Customer satisfaction is our primary metric for success.”
2. The Cliché: “Think outside the box.”
Why it’s weak: The irony is thick here. The phrase meant to encourage originality is one of the most unoriginal, overused bits of corporate jargon in existence. It tells people to be creative without actually giving them the tools or freedom to do so.
What to write instead: Be specific about the kind of thinking you want.
Instead of: “We need to think outside the box on this project.”
Try: “Let’s approach this from a user’s perspective. What problem are we really solving?”
Or: “Let’s brainstorm without any budget constraints for the first ten minutes.”
3. The Cliché: “Avoid it like the plague.”
Why it’s weak: This hyperbolic simile has lost its punch thanks to centuries of overuse. It’s a dramatic way to say “avoid it strongly” that no longer feels dramatic.
What to write instead: Show, don’t just tell, the level of avoidance through description or a more original comparison.
Instead of: “He avoids public speaking like the plague.”
Try: “He would rather wrestle a rabid raccoon than face a microphone.”
Or: “He has turned down every promotion that involved even a single presentation.”
4. The Cliché: “It was a dark and stormy night…”
Why it’s weak: Made infamous by the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, this is the trope of all tropes for a cheesy, uninspired opening. It tells the reader nothing new and immediately signals amateurish fiction.
What to write instead: Set the scene with specific, sensory details that evoke the mood.
Instead of: “It was a dark and stormy night.”
Try: “Rain lashed against the windowpanes, each gust of wind rattling the glass in its frame.”
Or: “The storm broke just as she turned the key in the lock, and a sheet of water drenched her before she could get the door open.”
5. The Cliché: “Every cloud has a silver lining.”
Why it’s weak: While optimistic, this phrase is a platitude that dismisses genuine struggle. It’s a Hallmark card sentiment that can come across as shallow and unempathetic when applied to a serious situation.
What to write instead: Acknowledge the difficulty and then point to the specific positive outcome or lesson learned.
Instead of: “I lost my job, but hey, every cloud has a silver lining.”
Try: “Losing my job was terrifying, but it forced me to re-evaluate my career and finally pursue my passion for graphic design.”
6. The Cliché: “He was white as a sheet.” / “She turned red as a beet.”
Why it’s weak: These generic colour comparisons are lazy. We’ve seen them a thousand times. They don’t create a vivid image because the image is already worn out.
What to write instead: Use a metaphor or a specific physical description to show the emotion behind the colour change.
Instead of: “When accused, he went white as a sheet.”
Try: “The colour drained from his face, leaving his skin the pale, waxy hue of a candle.”
Or: “A flush crept up her neck, blooming into a crimson that stained her cheeks.”
7. The Cliché: “In the nick of time.”
Why it’s weak: This phrase is used to create manufactured suspense. It’s a shortcut that tells the reader “tension happened here!” rather than immersing them in the moment and letting them feel it.
What to write instead: Describe the frantic, last-second action.
Instead of: “The hero defused the bomb in the nick of time.”
Try: “With one second left on the timer, he clipped the final wire. The readout blinked to 00:00 and went dark.”
8. The Cliché: “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
Why it’s weak: A profound thought boiled down into a tired inspirational poster. It’s often used to sound wise when starting a new project, but it has become background noise.
What to write instead: Focus on the concrete, immediate action required.
Instead of: “Our goal is huge, but a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
Try: “Our goal is huge, so our first step is to conduct market research by the end of the week.”
9. The Cliché: “Read between the lines.”
Why it’s weak: This is telling, not showing. It instructs the reader (or another character) to infer a hidden meaning, rather than letting them discover it through subtle cues, dialogue, or action.
What to write instead: Present the lines and let the reader do the work. Show the subtext.
Instead of: “She said she was fine, but I could tell I needed to read between the lines.”
Try: “‘I’m fine,’ she said, her smile fixed and brittle as she stared at a point just over my shoulder.”
10. The Cliché: “He/She had a heart of gold.”
Why it’s weak: This is another classic case of telling a character’s trait instead of demonstrating it. What does a “heart of gold” even look like in action? We don’t know, because the writer hasn’t shown us.
What to write instead: Show the character’s kindness through a specific, memorable action.
Instead of: “My grandmother had a heart of gold.”
Try: “Every winter, my grandmother would knit scarves for every single resident at the local nursing home, making sure to use each person’s favorite color.”
The Final Word: Write With Your Own Voice
Killing clichés isn’t about using the fanciest words or the most complex metaphors. It’s about precision, originality, and respect for your reader.
The next time you sit down to write, treat clichés like red flags. Pause, question what you’re really trying to say, and find the words that are uniquely yours. Your prose will be fresher, your message will be clearer, and your credibility will soar. Now go on—your readers are waiting.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The Weight of Expectation: Essentials to Initiate the Second Novel After the Euphoria of the First
Abstract The transition from debut to second novel represents a critical juncture in a writer’s career. While the first novel is often born of unbridled passion and unexamined confidence, the second novel is typically forged under the weight of expectation, industry scrutiny, and personal doubt. This paper explores the psychological, practical, and professional essentials required to successfully initiate and sustain the second novel writing process. Drawing upon literary theory, authorial testimonies, cognitive psychology, and publishing industry research, I identify four core pillars—re-establishing creative autonomy, managing external expectations, leveraging narrative momentum, and redefining success—that are crucial for initiating the second project. This analysis offers a framework for writers navigating what is often a disorienting and emotionally taxing phase of their artistic development.
Keywords: second novel syndrome, authorial identity, creative process, writer’s block, literary career development, narrative continuity, authorial expectations
1. Introduction
The publication of a first novel is frequently described as a transformative milestone in a writer’s life—a culmination of years of labour, isolation, and aspiration. The emotional landscape accompanying this achievement is one of euphoria, validation, and often, a sense of arrival into the literary world. However, this high tide is frequently followed by a receding wave: the daunting prospect of beginning again. While the debut novel may emerge from a raw, unfiltered impulse sustained by dreams and obsessions, the second novel is frequently obstructed by the sediment of success: expectation, self-scrutiny, and the pressure to prove that the first work was not a fluke.
This paper investigates the essential conditions required to initiate the second novel once the initial euphoria of the debut has subsided. Grounded in both empirical research and anecdotal evidence from published authors, it proposes a structured approach for writers to re-engage with their creative practice. The transition from first to second novel is not merely a technical challenge but an existential and psychological passage. Thus, the essentials to begin again are multifaceted, requiring the writer to reconstruct identity, reframe success, and rekindle narrative desire.
2. The Psychological Burden of the Second Novel
The phenomenon colloquially termed “second novel syndrome” refers to the creative paralysis that afflicts many authors after the debut’s release. Research in cognitive psychology suggests that success, while gratifying, can disrupt intrinsic motivation—the internal drive that fuels sustained creative work (Amabile, 1996). According to Deci and Ryan’s Self-Determination Theory, intrinsic motivation is fueled by autonomy, competence, and relatedness. The debut novel often satisfies these needs through unstructured exploration. However, post-publication, these same needs may be compromised.
2.1 The Erosion of Creative Autonomy
Following publication, authors frequently report a diminished sense of creative autonomy. External agents—publishers, agents, critics, and readers—enter the writer’s internal sphere, shaping expectations about genre, style, and thematic continuity. A study conducted by the Authors Guild (2020) found that 68% of debut novelists felt increased pressure to replicate the success of their first book, with many confessing to self-censorship out of fear of disappointing stakeholders.
The shift from writing for oneself to writing for an audience introduces what Csikszentmihalyi (1996) identifies as “inner conflict” in the creative process. When the writer becomes simultaneously the producer and the critic of their work—monitoring every choice for market receptivity—the flow state essential to sustained storytelling may dissipate.
2.2 The Crisis of Authorial Identity
With the debut, the individual is anointed “a novelist.” This new identity, though celebrated, can be burdensome. As Bakhtin (1981) noted, authorship is not a monolithic self but a dialogic process shaped by internal and external voices. The debut may have been written under the guise of anonymity or obscurity, but the second is written within the shadow of recognition. The author must now negotiate who they are as a writer: Are they the voice of the first novel? The voice the industry expects? Or someone still evolving?
This crisis of identity often leads to creative hesitation. As Zadie Smith observes in her essay “Fail Better” (2012), “You’ve never had a harder job than when it’s time to write the second book. You have a whole world of expectations now, including your own.” The writer’s internal critic, once manageable, now speaks with multiple voices—those of agents, reviewers, fans—amplifying self-doubt.
3. The Four Essentials to Initiate the Second Novel
While the challenges are significant, they are not insurmountable. Based on interviews with published authors and analysis of successful second novels, this paper identifies four essential components that facilitate the initiation and progress of the second project.
3.1 Re-establishing Creative Autonomy
The first essential is the reclamation of creative agency. This requires deliberate separation from external pressures and a return to the writer’s intrinsic motivation. Several authors achieve this by adopting a “draft zero” mentality—a private, exploratory draft exempt from review or evaluation.
Haruki Murakami, known for his disciplined writing routine, describes writing his second novel in a similar way to the first: alone, in silence, with no public announcements or deadlines imposed. This isolation allows the writer to experiment freely, without concern for reception. Establishing a private writing space—physical or mental—recreates the conditions that allowed the debut to flourish.
Additionally, writers may benefit from shifting their relationship with time. Rather than setting outcome-driven goals (“finish the novel by X date”), process-oriented goals (“write 500 words daily, without judgment”) support autonomy and mitigate pressure. In this way, the act of writing itself becomes the reward, not the publication.
3.2 Managing External Expectations
Expectations—both explicit and implied—are inevitable. The second essential, therefore, is not the elimination of expectations but their strategic management.
Writers must cultivate what Brené Brown (2010) calls “boundaries of belonging” in creative work. This includes clear communication with agents and publishers about creative intent, as well as emotional detachment from early reviews or sales figures. Several authors, such as Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, have spoken candidly about refusing to read reviews during the writing of their second books to preserve mental space.
Moreover, authors should acknowledge that audience expectations are mutable. Literary markets evolve, and readers often welcome growth and experimentation. The second novel need not be a retread of the first. Toni Morrison’s second novel, Sula, diverged significantly from the domestic realism of The Bluest Eye, embracing a more mythic, nonlinear structure. Its success demonstrates that risk, when grounded in artistic integrity, can be rewarded.
3.3 Leveraging Narrative Momentum
The third essential is the strategic use of narrative momentum—using insights from the first novel to inform, but not dictate, the second.
Many writers experience a disconnect between their debut and subsequent work, fearing that the magic of the first was unrepeatable. However, the process of completing a novel provides invaluable narrative intelligence: knowledge of structure, voice, pacing, and revision. This “tacit knowledge” (Polanyi, 1966) forms a foundation upon which the second work can be built.
Authors may harness this momentum by identifying the core thematic or emotional engine of their first novel and exploring its inverse or expansion. For instance, if the debut centred on loss, the second might explore forgiveness. If it was rooted in realism, the second could embrace fabulism. This continuity of inquiry—what novelist Rachel Cusk calls “the pursuit of a single question across books”—provides coherence without constriction.
Additionally, repurposing unused material from the debut’s drafts or notebooks can ignite the second project. Many authors discover that secondary characters or peripheral settings from the first novel contain underdeveloped potential. These fragments can serve as seeds for new narratives, easing the anxiety of beginning from nothing.
3.4 Redefining Success
The fourth essential is a recalibration of the writer’s definition of success. The debut is often judged by external metrics: acquisition, reviews, awards, sales. However, these benchmarks are insufficient for sustaining the writing process, particularly when embarking on the second novel.
Redefining success in terms of process—the consistency of practice, the honesty of expression, the courage to experiment—builds resilience. As poet Mary Oliver writes, “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” This ethos redirects focus from outcome to observation and expression.
Furthermore, embracing the possibility of failure is critical. Samuel Beckett’s famous dictum—“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”—encapsulates the mindset required. The second novel may not achieve the same reception as the first, but it may possess greater artistic maturity. Writers who view their careers as an evolving body of work, rather than a series of isolated products, are more likely to persevere.
4. Case Studies: Lessons from Established Authors
4.1 Zadie Smith Smith’s debut, White Teeth (2000), was a cultural phenomenon. Her second novel, The Autograph Man (2002), received more polarised reviews. In interviews, Smith admitted to feeling “crippled by expectation” and attempting to write something deliberately different, which led to mixed results. However, her subsequent novels (On Beauty, NW) reflect a more confident, personal voice. Smith’s trajectory illustrates that the second novel—however imperfect—is a necessary step in the maturation of voice.
4.2 Celeste Ng Ng’s debut, Everything I Never Told You, was critically acclaimed. For her second novel, Little Fires Everywhere, she consciously returned to themes of family and identity but expanded her narrative scope. Ng credits a structured writing schedule and sustained research as key to initiating the second book. She also limited her engagement with social media and reviews during the writing process, preserving mental space.
4.3 Ocean Vuong After the success of On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, Vuong described entering a period of creative silence. He did not begin his second novel immediately, instead allowing himself time to “unlearn” the habits of the first. His approach emphasises patience and the acceptance of nonlinear productivity—redefining starting not as a singular event but as a gradual re-immersion.
5. Practical Recommendations for Writers
To initiate the second novel, writers should consider the following steps:
Create a “pre-draft” ritual: Freewrite, journal, or sketch characters without aiming for a formal narrative.
Establish a writing sanctuary: Designate a time and space free from digital distractions and external input.
Set process goals: Focus on consistent output (e.g., 30 minutes/day) rather than word count or chapter completion.
Engage in parallel reading: Study novels that challenge or inspire—especially those unlike the debut.
Seek peer support: Join a writing group composed of other mid-career authors who understand the transition.
Delay external sharing: Resist the urge to share early drafts with agents or editors until a full draft is complete.
Embrace imperfection: Grant permission for the second novel to be messy, exploratory, or even “bad” in early stages.
6. Conclusion
The initiation of the second novel is less about technical preparation and more about psychological reorientation. The euphoria of the first publication must give way to a more mature, deliberate creative practice—one grounded in resilience, self-awareness, and artistic integrity. While external pressures and internal doubts are inevitable, the essentials for beginning again lie in reclaiming autonomy, managing expectations, channelling narrative momentum, and redefining success on one’s own terms.
The second novel is not a repetition but a recommitment—to the craft, to the voice, and to the self as a writer. It is in this commitment that the writer transcends the anxiety of the aftermath and re-enters the fertile silence from which stories are born. As Virginia Woolf reminds us in A Room of One’s Own, “Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.” The writer of the second novel must, above all, learn to mind their own inner compass. In doing so, they do not merely survive the aftermath of success—they evolve beyond it.
References
Amabile, T. M. (1996). Creativity in Context. Westview Press.
Authors Guild. (2020). Survey of Published Authors. New York: Authors Guild.
Bakhtin, M. M. (1981). The Dialogic Imagination. University of Texas Press.
Brown, B. (2010). The Gifts of Imperfection. Hazelden.
Csikszentmihalyi, M. (1996). Creativity: Flow and the Psychology of Discovery and Invention. HarperCollins.
Deci, E. L., & Ryan, R. M. (1985). Intrinsic Motivation and Self-Determination in Human Behavior. Springer.
Oliver, M. (2004). Long Life: Essays and Other Writings. Da Capo Press.
Polanyi, M. (1966). The Tacit Dimension. University of Chicago Press.
Smith, Z. (2012). “Fail Better.” The New York Review of Books, 59(15).
Woolf, V. (1929). A Room of One’s Own. Hogarth Press.
(Note: Additional primary and secondary sources include interviews from The Paris Review, The Guardian, and literary podcasts such as “Otherppl with Brad Listi.”)
Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 