One question I fielded at every tour stop was "What's next?" My answer is ... [insert nervous, mildly panicky laughter here].
So, here's the deal: the past year, beginning last July, has not been conducive to writing. At all. Like, AT ALL. Life has been Life-ing hard. Not all of it has been terrible. My eldest graduated from high school and has just headed off to college, for example, and The Undertaking of Rosie and Adam tour was a blast, plus I hit the USA Today bestsellers list. But most of the past year has been ... well, terrible.
I'm not complaining, mind you. I'm simply dealing with the uppercase-L Life stuff that we all deal with if we are lucky to live long enough, and I do consider myself very, very lucky. But the thing is, Life affects Art (if you call what I do Art) (which I do) and, considering the fact that I am purported to have written three cozy romantic fantasies in recent years, I have felt neither cozy nor romantic lately, either as a writer or a reader. Given the state of the world in general, I suspect that I am not alone on that.
This is all to say that while I am noodling with several ideas, I'm not entirely sure what my next project will be, and it may be a minute (or many minutes) before another Megan Bannen book sees the light of day. Thank you for your patience with me on this. I will keep you posted.
In the meantime, here is what I wrote to myself on the little dry erase board above my desk, the same words I told myself fourteen years ago when I started to write my first book:
