First off it's already almost noon and I'm just getting this posted, so sorry to anyone who visited my page before noon today, looking for the IWSG post.
My most recent insecurity is that I'm starting a new book series, now that I have finished writing my first trilogy. The Stones of Power was the first piece of fiction I have ever written, and I thought it might be the only story I ever wrote. It was challenging and time consuming, and I don't think of myself as being overly creative, so I didn't honestly know if I would have another idea that could be fleshed out into a book, or a series.
Now that I have an idea for a new book, and I've started writing it, I'm feeling the insecurities that come with writing something new. Are the characters believable? Is the setting described enough, too much? Do I feel like I know the characters? Are the ideas I'm picturing in my mind making any sense on the paper? There is also the fact that I have a book out there, so I need to consider how the readers will react to this new story/characters/setting etc.
So this year I'm setting a goal of getting this book completed. It is a modest goal, because again I don't know if I'll have any other ideas beyond this book, and I don't want to force a story. I still don't really consider myself an author, because I have no intentions of dropping my current job, and I don't consider myself overly creative. It blows my mind when I think of people who have more stories and ideas than they have time to write, my problem is quite the opposite. I have one idea, and I get stuck in it and I'm worried I won't get another idea.
So anyway, my current book is without title, and without much of anything more than an outline and about forty pages of my initial draft, here's the beginning: I am insecurely sharing something that is so rough I haven't even read over it since I put it down on the page. (This is a huge step for me)
Tentative Beginning of my WIP Prologue:
It was the first day of summer, the day of the third harvest. It was the only day of the year when the King himself would come down into the valley. Those who lived in the valley were up extra early, if they were able to get any sleep at all, and they waited anxiously for the King’s arrival. Most years the villagers would line up by families standing in front of their cabins or shacks. Boys tried to stand straight and girls clung to their mothers sometimes unable to stifle their tears.
The King would then ride into town on his tall white stallion followed by a small contingent of his soldiers. There was a time when he would address the people, telling them of the great quality of life among the soldiers of his army. He would tell them of wealth and visiting far off places, and a life of adventure and honor. Now he simply dismounted and walked down the lines of people snatching any child he wanted for his army without question.
Many of the families starved their children for weeks to make them look as scrawny as possible in hopes that the King would not take them, but that did little good as all other villagers did the same thing. Although he said each family would only need to give one child, those words were also proven to be empty promises from a tyrannical liar.
In answer to his decades of abuse, this year the workers in the valley gathered and lined up to meet him, but it was not how he expected.