The new book was out.
A few words off-topic.
I had been writing novels for three years, drifting across several platforms.
Three months after entering the industry, I had already achieved a little success.
And I had begun to gain my first batch of readers. More people had come to know the name Wang Xin. I had truly believed I could barely count as a somewhat gifted writer. The first book I wrote after entering the industry was also the worst-performing book I had ever written, yet its results had almost always risen steadily.
Back then, it only took me two hours to write an opening.
Yes.
Two hours.
I could write four or five openings in a single day. Every one had something worth reading, and I was fairly satisfied with all of them. At most, I had updated three books at once, each with a different plot, and all three had achieved decent results.
For some of my books, I did not even decide their exact genre until more than ten chapters in. I simply put pen to paper and wrote; the genre, cheat ability, plot direction, and everything else were only figured out later.
But.
Recently, in preparation for starting a new book, I had written more than twenty versions. The draft box in my backend was nearly piled full, yet I still could not write an opening that satisfied me enough. Suddenly, the helpless terror of "running out of talent" seemed to shroud me, leaving me especially anxious and powerless.
This situation was actually very simple: "I understood a little too much," and "my output exceeded my input."
Before, I had no idea how to write novels. I simply wrote whatever seemed fun.
Now that I understood more and considered more, writing had gradually become harder