I published my debut novel, Full Term, in 2021. And ever since, I have been redrafting the sequel (Life Lessons). I initially wanted to release it in 2022, but it wasn’t ready in time. I kept writing, and writing, and rewriting, but it wasn’t quite working. I couldn’t exactly put my finger on why it wasn’t working—I knew my character and I knew his story. I kept tweaking plot points, but the essence of the story was solid. Yet I couldn’t finish it. Every partial draft I sent to my long-suffering editor came with feedback along the lines of, “This is better than the last version, but still needs work.”
Needless to say, I was feeling very frustrated with myself. But (!), as of a couple of weeks ago, I am actually glad the book never came together before now. Why? The main character of book two is British Nigerian, and I foolishly thought I could write that point of view authentically. After all, they were born and raised in England, and I’ve lived in England. But of course it’s not that simple. If I give a character Nigerian heritage, I want to do that justice, and I simply couldn’t.
I’ve explained previously why I first chose to write outside my own race, in that I heard an interview with my favourite author Malorie Blackman years ago, and she said literature needed more black and brown characters. I agreed, so I wanted to be part of the solution.
That’s fine in theory, but to take on someone else’s perspective comes with responsibility. You’re representing a people group, so you should represent them in a way that doesn’t, in fact, misrepresent them.
I didn’t think I was playing into harmful stereotypes in my drafts of Life Lessons, and I actually still think that’s true. I had gone to the opposite extreme. I’d labelled the character as Black, but not given then any kind of authentic cultural characteristics.
How do I know this? Well, funny story…. Since January, I have been in a relationship with a Black Nigerian man, and I have learned a lot. I’m still by no means an expert—as a white Irish woman, I can never be an expert—but I at least now know what I do not know.
I had taken a long break from writing Life Lessons, and when I opened it two weeks ago, I was shocked. Horrified at my own cluelessness. I kept reading and cringing, thinking to myself, “A Nigerian would never do that. A Nigerian would never say that. A Nigerian would never eat that!”
So, yeah. I’m glad I never forced this book out into the world. I need to rewrite it at least one more time—and get a sensitivity reader to point out anything else I will have undoubtedly missed.
I no longer see the delayed publication of Life Lessons as a failure. It will actually lead to its success, because when it is finally done and on sale, it won’t be something I will have to shamefully unpublish again at a later date.
In conclusion, projects take as long as they take. There’s no point beating yourself up about it, just do the work, trust the process—and at the very least, engage with a community before you try and represent them.
Lesson learned.
My blog has not always existed in the same place or on the same platform, but if it were a human? It’d be old enough to vote; to get married, and drink (in the UK, at least); to get a tattoo, and a credit card; to move out and get an apartment, or go to freaking university, all without parental consent. How wild is that?
Sometimes my brain gets tripped up on an idea, and it takes years to undo the sprawling mess of nonsense thoughts that result from that one, core nonsense idea.
Since it is just seven days until my new book––a short story collection, titled 
I’m told that you don’t stop growing until you’re twenty-five. That at twenty-five, you’ve apparently––finally––reached physical and emotional maturity. Which… looking back at my life… yeah, that tracks.
Some stats for the calendar year that’s just ended:
I released Linchips, a poetry pamphlet, on the 28th of September, and followed it up with my second pamphlet, Flinch, on October 1st.