I would hazard an uneducated guess that most writers have known the curious pain of shelving a project.
For the uninitiated—shelving a project simply means putting it to the side. Maybe it will one day feel its maker’s touch again, maybe it won’t.
I had expected that if I had to do this at some point, as I more than likely would, that I would be devastated. Depressed. Unconsolable. Curiously, I have found that shelving A VENOMOUS WOMAN has felt strangely liberating.
A VENOMOUS WOMAN, the book I intended to be my debut, is a standalone epic fantasy following a succubus’ revenge against the society that warped her identity. Writing it was cathartic, explosive, and empowering. It was instructive and demonstrative of my potential as a writer. It was also riddled with fundamental flaws as a result of my inexperience with long-form content. Many of these I corrected with editing, but others are so baked into the manuscript, correcting them would constitute the crafting of a new skeleton, organs, and skin for the piece.
I did query A VENOMOUS WOMAN, but it soon became apparent to me as I began work on my next project, a sapphic vampire romantasy, that A VENOMOUS WOMAN is not the best foot forward I want it to be. I braced for a damning feeling of pointlessness and futility to grip me. I’d spent two years working on this book, certain it would be my debut. I’d commissioned lovely character art work, worked with an editor, and had it beta read by peers, friends, and family. I’d slogged through edits and revisions while working full-time, attending grad school, and welcoming a new puppy into my home.