Started rereading that book I published a few months ago, finally through the lens of someone who’s never read it before.
The writing is really really good.
The plot is really really bad.
It’s a mess. No matter how much exposition I threw in there (and there was a LOT), it took effort to suspend my own disbelief. I’m the AUTHOR.
In summary: it’s a story about secret agents with powers chasing down a queen on the run. She’s running because she got impregnated in one of hubby’s experiments and isn’t sure how to react. But there’s a time traveler among the agents, and he’s lost his wife, and he’s doing this to find his kid, and the queen is jealous that he has a kid, and the other agents lost their memories, and the islands they’re in are trapped in purgatory… Like I said, a mess. Perhaps not a complete one, because I did tie a lot of interesting themes together. The climax of the book in particular frames some pretty heavy questions about the act of fighting for a child. Interestingly, that climax was written almost in post-production, which means between the time I started the book and the time I finished it, I became a much more insightful writer. Good thing, because I started writing the book 8 years ago.
It’s saddening because I invested a lot of time and energy into this story, only to now have it in this irreparable state. I could rewrite it, but the core concept would remain a convoluted mess. I could continue it, but who’d read the sequel? I could abandon it, but then these characters would haunt me, making their way into my other stories.
I’m at a complete full stop.
It’s not over yet. I still feel like there’s a way to salvage this thing, somehow, some way. There’s something. I don’t know what to call it, or where it is, but it’s there, in the back of my mind, waiting to surface like a good dream. Something.
Or nothing. Nothing and a bag of chips. And if that’s the case, then this might just be the moment where I divorce that family of characters.