The Quiet Middle:

Crossing an invisible divide.

By Thio Isobel Moss

Without ever making a conscious decision, I’ve let The Indie Expedition blog series quietly evaporate. Part of that is overlap—it became easier not to worry whether something belonged in the series or was just a general post. If you were following along, nothing has really changed: I’ll still be talking about my progress, what I’m learning, and my frequent mishaps.

What The Indie Expedition gave me, though, was structure during a strange, slightly unnerving phase I didn’t yet have language for. I’m calling it The Quiet Middle.

The Quiet Middle is the space after launch but before momentum feels real—before you’re fully gearing up for book two, and while you’re deciding whether what you’re receiving is enough encouragement to keep going. It’s where you learn that instant success isn’t the only acceptable outcome, even if it sometimes feels like it is.

This stage has ramifications for content creation, too. Once I’d wrapped up art, excerpts, and promotional posts for Blind Spot, I found myself staring at a blank calendar. I’m not exactly an expert. I am the only expert on my own experience, sure—but I don’t always want to write about me, me, me.

Looking back, that hesitation feels faintly ridiculous. This was only a month ago. When I shared those concerns, friends and family pointed out the obvious: you’re already talking about this—why not write about it? Out of those conversations came fifty-one content prompts and a lot of good-natured ribbing. Apparently, a few of my nearest and dearest are excited by the prospect of reading my ideas rather than being smothered by them out loud. Mixes things up a bit.

Despite that, I’m not a social creature by nature. I’m a long-established introvert. But even the shyest, quietest, and most conflict-averse among us need to communicate. A major part of getting Blind Spot written and published was deciding that I didn’t want to move through life without ever making myself heard—even if that occasionally upset a few people.

The Quiet Middle is also an ideal adjustment period. When I Google my name now, things come up that are actually about me or my books. That’s strange, and it takes some sitting with. For someone who experienced selective mutism as a child, it’s not a small thing.

And then, of course, there’s the looming second book.

There’s a lot of folklore around second books—how hard they are to write, how often they disappoint. When I taught pottery, we warned students that the second pot you throw is often the most frustrating and frequently looks terrible. I’ve heard the same said of second novels. Fortunately, I was well into writing Bump before I heard it. I’m prone to self-fulfilling prophecies.

By the time Blind Spot was released, Bump was already more than halfway drafted. Only now, with the rewrite complete and the last four rough chapters underway, have I hit resistance. I don’t think it’s a second-book curse so much as a clarity issue: one character’s role needs more development. The problem section is written. I’m not happy with it, but I’m leaving it for the second draft, when the ending is firmer and the stakes clearer.

Looking ahead, I expect this in-between space to fill with marketing plans, content creation, and writing—much as it already has, but with habits and rhythm that haven’t yet formed. This is the test-and-correct phase. It’s where kindness toward yourself matters most.

Every aspiring author, artist, or creator trips up. The Quiet Middle is the safest place to do it.

You’ve done the hard part. You’ve made something and put it into the world. Now, while there’s a little attention—but not too much—experiment. If you stumble, it matters very little, and it gives you the rare chance to recover in front of an audience that’s still small enough to be forgiving.

For me, something unexpected happened: my misstep lost its power the moment I named it. I saw it for what it was—part of the learning process, not the worst mistake I’ll ever make. And next time, I’ll have both knowledge and experience to absorb the blow.

Failure and embarrassment aren’t permanent states. They are largely moods, and moods change.