A lawyer by training and the holder of a black belt in jujitsu, Sam Hawke lives in Canberra. Her first novel was the acclaimed and multi-award-winning City of Lies. The Poison War duology will conclude with Hollow Empire.
Today, Sam Hawke is on the blog to tell us a little bit about how she went about writing Hollow Empire and all of the pressure that goes along with writing a worthy sequel. Read on …
Sam Hawke (Photo by Kris Arnold Photography)
When my son was in kindergarten, his teacher approached me one day after class. Apparently in ‘sharing circle’ they had talked about favourite colours. My son had announced that his was pink and another boy tried to make fun of him for liking a ‘girl colour’. My kiddo, the teacher reported with delight, just looked at him flatly like a stone-cold little badass and said, “Colours aren’t boys or girls and I can like anything I want.”
I remember admiring that even back then, and years later I continue to be in awe of his casual confidence in who he is. He’s never given one monkey’s backside about the opinions of strangers; it simply never occurs to him that he should.
Unfortunately I haven’t managed my (now) nine-year-old’s effortless level of self-assurance. I do care what people think, as it turns out, and I did even way back in kindergarten. So when it came time to write the follow-up to my debut novel, City of Lies, I discovered what so many authors before me have always known: far out, man, sequels are hard.
They’re hard for so many reasons. You have all the time in the world to write your first book and tinker with it, which really suits those of us writers who are Olympic-standard procrastinators. For sequels, you don’t have that luxury, unless your book sold a squillion copies and then I guess you can do what you want? Sequels can also be tough structurally, especially in SFF where readers like longer series but publishers are increasingly cautious about multi-book contracts. Hollow Empire had to be Schrödinger’s sequel: simultaneously the end of the series and the middle book in a trilogy, just in case. That means raising the stakes and further developing your characters, while leaving room for more plot and character arcs that feel organically connected but the absence of which won’t cause readers to send you the virtual equivalent of angry turds in the mail.
Which leads me to the main problem: that first book is out in the world, people have opinions—feelings, even—about it. And unless you’re like my son, it’s very hard not to obsess over what people are going to think about number two.
With your first book, you don’t have anyone to disappoint, except in the most abstract sense. But with your second, there are all these expectations. You aren’t just writing for you anymore. Your agent and publishers invested money and effort in you, you don’t want to make them regret it. Your family is proud of you, you don’t want to let them down. And of course you have readers who spent money on you, spent valuable hours of their time in your sandbox, took the time to write a review or tell a friend or request the book at their library. Some who even wrote to you about what your book meant to them. What if you don’t get it right the second time?
City generated some wonderful reviews, gained me some loyal readers, and picked up a bunch of awards, which only meant more potential ways to screw it up. I never expected to win anything so that was never on my mind when I was writing. (Indeed I was so thoroughly not expecting to win the Aurealis that I neither went to Melbourne for the ceremony nor wrote an acceptance speech. I am still apologising for my friend and fellow finalist, Devin Madson, having to accept the award for me and make up her own speech!). On the plus side, I’d justified a trophy shelf for the first time in my life (take that, year 3 tee-ball participation trophies!), but on the negative side, I now had to write a follow-up to a book that won awards? That was a whole new level of pressure.
I kind of went through the stages of grief before starting the sequel. Denial: I have plenty of time, I can start it later. Anger: I already wrote a book once. You can’t make me write another one. I’d like to talk to the manager. Bargaining: I will write a book only if everyone promises to love it, even people who didn’t love the first one. Depression: The second can’t possibly live up to the first (stupid trophy shelf!), what is the point even trying? And, finally, acceptance: I got my butt back in the chair and got it done.
I guess all writers have to make our peace with writing something to satisfy ourselves, but accepting that once it’s out, the story belongs to other people and that’s not something we can or should try to control. Ultimately, we tell stories because we want to connect. Maybe some people are able to view that in a completely one-sided way; maybe I’ll get there one day. But for now, I’ll just be over here in the corner, pretending I don’t care, but caring desperately.
—Hollow Empire by Sam Hawke (Penguin Books Australia) is out now.
Hollow Empire
A Poison War novel
You never get used to poisoning a child . . .
Two years after a devastating siege tore the country apart, Silasta has recovered. But to the frustration of poison-taster siblings Jovan and Kalina, sworn to protect the Chancellor, the city has grown complacent in its new-found peace and prosperity.
And now, amid the celebrations of the largest carnival the continent has ever seen, it seems a mysterious enemy has returned...
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