A Quiet Pressure

Can we talk about the quiet pressure of writing something meaningful again?

It’s a feeling unlike the first book, where so many emotions rise to the surface: excitement, imposter syndrome, total highs, absolute dread, complete second-guessing, elation, stone-cold fear, and burnout. It’s here where many writers abandon their work, leaving it unfinished or in a constant state of revision. The first book isn’t pressure, it’s a reckoning. 

The second book is a breath of fresh air. It’s riding on the coattails of the title “published author.” It flows, it grows, it knows. The second book isn’t pressure, it’s confidence.

Then comes the third. If you’re locked in, it could very well feel exactly like the second, seamless, and eager to be revealed. I wasn’t locked in. I battled serious writer's block while grappling with the thick, unwavering feeling of failure. I questioned whether what I was writing was worth anyone’s time, including my own. This was the quiet pressure, and I was thankful it showed up during my third book. It realigned my priorities, reminding me that writing has and always will be part of my life and my healing. This quiet pressure slowly compartmentalized my focus, allowing me to lock in when I could, even if it was for 5 minutes.

But here's the irony of this quiet pressure: I doubt I would have finished my third book without it, and I doubt I would have finished my first book with it. It showed when it was meant to, to show me how far I have come and how strong I truly am.

I'm curious what the fourth book will feel like, if the pressure will remain, or if it will alchemize into something else? I guess there's only one way to find out. Once the third is published, that is