Feelings about second-book syndrome

Cue manic laughter

The truth is, I always wanted to be a writer, but I never intentionally sat down to write a novel.

In 2013, I enrolled in a creative writing PhD and in 2015 I submitted that thesis, the creative part of which was a grunge-inspired, experimental novella called Halfway to Nowhere. Then, through years of editing and re-writing and expanding and contracting and sweating and crying, that novella became a novel, which was published in 2023 as Mistakes and Other Lovers. The process was slow and sort of unplanned.

When I signed a two-book deal with my publisher, I realised I had to actually *sit down and write a fucking book from scratch*. Ha! Hahaha! Didn’t really think of that when I scrawled on the dotted line, did I?! Cue more manic laughter.

Over Vietnamese noodle soup, friend and author Hayley Scrivenor told me that writing a second book is ‘like throwing yourself at the ground, again and again’. This was late in 2023, when we were both working on our second novels – hers became Girl Falling, published in 2024, and mine is due for release in June 2025.

During the past couple of years, I’ve had moments of wondering if signing a two-book deal was really a good idea. At the time, I felt like I’d won the fucking lottery. All I ever wanted was to have my book on shelves, and this was an opportunity to double the dream. Plus, what I learned along the way while ‘throwing myself at the ground’ was that it helped to have a deadline, a guarantee, someone waiting at the finish line. Without those things, I might have wandered into the procrastination abyss, taking another ten years to write the second book.

Then again… would I feel less panicked, more creatively free, if no one was waiting for the final product? Is there anything wrong with taking a decade to write a book? (No, especially if you’re Donna Tartt.) It was an odd feeling, to have spent a decade with El and Mace and Kik and Lux – the motley cast of characters from Mistakes – and to know them so well, so intimately, every crevice of that story… and then to spend only two years, less, with those you’ll soon meet in Book 2.

There was also the background thought of what expectations would be on my shoulders for Book 2. If the first one went well, could I match that hype? If it didn’t go well, would anyone even read the second?! It felt like a losing game.

My debut, Mistakes and Other Lovers, enjoyed modest success for a few weeks upon release, which is wildly normal for a first novel. Hayley’s debut novel, Dirt Town, was award-winning, internationally bestselling and critically acclaimed, far more successful than she ever imagined. The burning question on many people’s lips, and certainly on mine over noodle soup that day in Wollongong, is ‘how do you beat second-book syndrome?’

In an article last year, Hayley wrote about this exact phenomenon: ‘You must distract yourself from the impossibility of the thing you’re trying to do. For novelists, we have to find a way to forget about how much it’s going to hurt if we miss.’ She’s referring to the physicality of ‘throwing yourself at the ground’, but also more broadly to the emotional impact of writing a second book.

How do you follow such astounding success? Are you scared nothing will ever be as good or as successful as your first? What if you don’t earn out your advance and get dropped by your publisher? Are you worried about disappointing readers, not to mention those hoping to make money from your continued excellence?

Like many aspiring writers, I used to want to be ‘discovered’. Imagine the life-changing moment of having your book auctioned and bought for six figures, nay, seven! But the more I learn of the industry, and the more I speak to fellow authors at opposite ends of the ‘success’ spectrum, the more I sink deeper into gratitude for my experience. I’m so glad for my modest advance, for the lack of pressure, for the opportunity to be slow and measured with my career, rather than catapulted into something I’m not ready for.

When my wife Laura read snippets of my upcoming novel in its draft stages, she said, ‘I hope this isn’t offensive, but it’s so much better than Mistakes.’

‘Thank fuck for that,’ I responded.

Who doesn’t aspire to be better, to learn more? And that’s not to say I don’t like my first book – I’m proud of it, still. It’s a product of a time and a moment and the best I could do with what I had.

All I can hope for in my career as an author is that each book is better than the last.

I just asked Hayley how she feels about second-book syndrome now that she’s working on her third novel, and she says, ‘Mostly I’m glad that second novel is done, that it exists. Now, I tend to think that the process of writing a second book is something that just needs to be pushed through. Which is not to say that it’s bad (please buy my second book, lol) but it’s also just one part of a career that’s hopefully going to go on (and on!). It’s good to care about something so much that the thought of doing it badly scares you, as long as that fear doesn’t stop you from turning towards the thing that only you can write. Because that’s the goal. That’s what everything we write should be, and I’m grateful to my second novel for reminding me of that.’

I’m also grateful for the experience of writing a second book. For the opportunity to see if I could do it — the challenge of sitting down to achieve what often felt impossible.

I remember being in Scotland when I first started, tracking my 21-days of writing progress on Instagram. A chaotic and incredibly raw suite of videos to rewatch. I remember being in Bellingen at an Airbnb, staring up at a mountain with tears pouring down my face, wondering what it would feel like to just… give up. I remember being unable to pull myself out of bed when my dog died, staring at the word count and the blinking cursor. There were so many moments I could have decided not to do the hard thing.

But I continued showing up, I experimented with the planetary days of the week and got my nails done so they’d look nice tapping at the keys and I wrote love notes to myself and every day I said, “I hate this but I’m doing it” and honestly, truly, it helped. I wrote in cafes and libraries and aeroplanes and from bed.

I’m going to write more in a future essay about how the fuck I actually wrote the book, I promise. But for now, please enjoy this page of mantras I scribbled for myself on a particularly harrowing solo writing retreat last year.

Hayley has the perfect attitude to writing beyond expectation or pressure. In the article, she writes, ‘The question that became something of a mantra while writing my second novel was, What would a happy idiot do? Somehow, that was soothing. Yes, yes, we know you don’t know what you’re doing, it seemed to say. But what would someone who didn’t care about that do next? The answer was – almost always – write the next paragraph. And it turns out that really is how you write a novel – not trying too hard to protect yourself from the pain but turning towards it.’

And that’s what I did, with Book 2. I turned towards the pain. I leaned into fear of the unknown. I showed up at the desk (almost) every day for two years and kept putting one foot in front of the other, one word and then another, bird by bird.

Eventually, I had a story, which became something resembling a novel, which became a book.

One that you and I will soon hold in our hands.

Amy x

P.S. In case it’s not clear, Hayley’s book(s) is amazing and deserves every success!

P.P.S. Also she’s my friend so approved of this newsletter before publication lol.

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I’m hosting a panel at Newcastle Writers Festival called ‘First Time Lucky? Overcoming Second Book Syndrome’, during which I will grill Courtney Collins, Hayley Scrivenor and Jessie Tu about their experiences with writing and publishing their second book. Oh, you think I programmed that session to be self-serving? You’d be bang on. I can’t wait – you should come along!