I rarely get things right on the first try.
I used to wish I did. I wanted to present a polished version of myself to the world. A version that was innately smart and talented, who could stow away in her little writing cave and emerge with shiny, polished works of brilliance.
I’m cringing at this description now, because who the heck likes that kind of person?! But the allure of perfection is still ever-present. It was certainly present back when I was working on my first book. Despite snippets of advice from authors I admired encouraging writers to leap into the next project, I stubbornly clung to the idea that my FIRST book needed be the one to make it. That I wouldn’t have to go back all the way to the drawing board and try again with a new story.
Sia Martinez and the Moonlit Beginning of Everything isn’t the first novel I’ve written. Nor the second. I suppose you could say it was my third full and finished novel, but that doesn’t feel like anywhere near the whole of it. It feels like it erases all those words I’d written before and between—the two novellas, the hundreds, maybe thousands of poems, the short stories and flash pieces, journal and diary entries, letters and notes, fanfiction, prayers. Millions of words, I’d reckon.