One of the most exciting times in my life (or stressful, depending on how you look at it) was between 2016 and 2019.
In just a few years, I had two children and wrote three books. Fast forward to today and just reading that sentence makes me feel exhausted.
Babies aside, producing a book a year for a publisher is a huge amount of work for any writer.
Was it the outcome I desired? Absolutely - seeing my three novels in bookshops still gives me a thrill.
Was the writing process exhilarating? Yes. Enjoyable? Debatable.
My ambitious, go-getting 37-year-old self in 2016 had the energy, motivation, and drive to achieve and produce those manuscripts, even after being up all night with a newborn (definitely not fun). My novels are fast-paced thrillers and matched my lifestyle, which was frantic, as I worked day and night to look after my kids and my business and fulfill my publishing deal.
Everything else got pushed to the side. I was high off the adrenaline, feeling like superwoman and like so many of us, saw busyness as a badge of honor.
But what happens when the books are published, the kids are in school, and the business is sold? Throw in the isolation and uncertainty of a global pandemic and that euphoric high starts to dwindle.