Earlier this month, I sat down and began work on my next book. And while I’m pleased with what’s coming out, the whole process is moving far slower than I’d like, mostly due to my own anxiety and procrastination.
The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck has exceeded all of my expectations and hopes for it, and it’s done so a short six months after its release. It’s been on the NYTimes bestseller list pretty much non-stop, it is -- I’m being told -- one of the bestselling audiobooks ever, and it’s being translated into 20+ different languages for release all around the world later this year.
That shit’s just crazy.
It’s the kind of stuff authors dream about in a bathtub full of basil-coconut-scented bubbles surrounded by candles. But while the experience has been fantastic, I’ve noticed some psychological fallout that’s come along with it.
Namely, how the fuck do I top this?
Every time I sit down to work on the new book, it’s impossible for me to not compare everything I write to the writing in Subtle Art, and this constant comparison petrifies me at times. Especially, when as often …