I’m an American.

My country is only a few hundred years old.

My countrymen can be insular; even with jet planes the rest of the world seems very far away. And so, when we hear that a tank was captured by rebel forces in Homs it may not register as part of our collective experience. In that, I’m different because I spend all my days writing about the world of Cleopatra’s daughter.

Modern day Homs is the ancient kingdom of Emesa–an integral part of Selene’s parents’ plans for world domination and the place, ultimately, where Cleopatra’s legacy may have been preserved.

The Emesans were extremely religious, their city sacred to a sun god. The royal family of Emesa were priests of that cult. Emesa was a wealthy port city with rich soil perfect for the cultivation of important crops like wheat and olives. It was loyal to Rome and a strategic ally, unfortunately caught up as a pawn in the Roman civil wars.

Two royal brothers split their loyalties between Octavian and Antony. After the Battle of Actium, Prince Alexander (Alexio I) of Emesa was taken captive and marched beside Cleopatra Selene and her brothers in Octavian’s triumph, after which he was executed. In my novel, Lily of the Nile, this is a dramatic moment that affected Selene deeply and would help create a lifelong connection between her and the Emesan royals.

I chose to write it this way because if the line of Cleopatra lasted beyond the death of her grandchildren, it was here, in the kingdom of Emesa where Drusilla of Mauretania (Cleopatra Selene’s granddaughter) is thought to have married into the royal line. Later, another famously powerful queen, Zenobia of Palmyra, would claim to be descended from Cleopatra and if her claim is to be given any credence, it would be through this connection to the Kingdom of Emesa.

Homs is a special city for more reasons than I could list here and so my heart aches to see it as the center of violence in the news today; but if it becomes the place where a successful rebellion is staged in which the lives of women are ultimately improved, I cannot help but think Cleopatra and her daughter might smile just a little bit.

Most authors are nervous about their debut novels. It’s your first offering to the world and you have no idea if the world will embrace it or spit on it. But what most people don’t know is that it’s the second book that can make or break your career. If your first novel received a collective yawn, your second effort has to make up for it. If your first novel received critical acclaim, readers expectations are set high and critics are easier to disappoint the second time around. Also, if sales were strong for your first book but drop off sharply for the second–as all your friends and family feel beleaguered after plunking down hard cash and by god, when will it ever stop?!–your fate may be sealed.

So, in short, there’s a lot riding on that sophomore novel.

To add to the toxic stew of anxiety is the fact that while most authors get to tinker and toil for years over their first novel, the second one is likely to have been contracted right away, sometimes with a brutal deadline. A debut author may be talented, but does she have the skill to shine under pressure? While she’s writing the second book, she’s also entered the wild and wooly world of promotion. Maybe she’s a great writer, but can she manage her time like a pro?

These and other stressors contribute to many bad second books. It’s a phenomenon so prevalent that it’s even got its own moniker. The Sophomore Slump.

Every time I hear that phrase, I twitch. Because I don’t want it to happen to me, and yet, a lot of it is beyond my control.

The second novel in my series about Cleopatra’s Daughter has a darker and more adult tone because my heroine is growing older. I made some controversial choices in the novel that I knew would grab my core readership by the throat. But those choices, I knew, would also alienate some people who loved the more innocent vibe of my first novel. And I hate to alienate readers; I hate it. Still, I needed to stay true to the story I was trying to tell.

I suffered from an intense crisis of confidence while writing Song of the Nile not because of the controversial material, but because I was run down and convinced that I no longer knew how to write a metaphor. (Thankfully, beta readers helped talk me down off the ledge, and praised my prose as pretty. I’ve been very gratified by early reviews of Song of the Nile that say my writing is stronger and more polished than the first book–which just goes to show you that an author can’t judge her own work.) In the end, however, my own book made me cry, so I thought it was strong stuff. Off to the publisher it went.

As the release day drew nearer, I was better prepared for what to expect. Lots of hurry-up-and-wait. There were bookmarks to get printed up, blog tours to arrange in order to get word of mouth going, advertising to design and buy. Whereas, for Lily of the Nile, I flailed around blindly, this time I had a very focused battle plan. And one of my weapons against the creeping anxiety of “Oh My God, What If Everyone Hates My Book?” was a lunch date with bestselling historical fiction author Kate Quinn.

I’d read Kate Quinn’s excellent books, but I’d never met her before. I was super nervous to meet her for three reasons. The first reason is that I adored her gladiator-for-girls novel, Mistress of Rome. The second reason is that I’d asked her for an endorsement for Lily of the Nile and through a comedy of errors, that fell through. The third reason is that she eventually provided me with a fantastic endorsement for Song of the Nile, which I hug and treasure at night when nobody is looking.

You never know how it’s going to go when you meet an author whose work you admire. I’ve met authors whose books I love, but whose personality is enough to make me swear off ever buying another thing they write. I’ve met authors whose books I hate, but who are so friendly and wonderful that I question my judgment. I knew Kate was witty and brilliant, whereas I am a mess on a good day, so this was a meeting fraught with danger.

So why in the world would I make a lunch date with this woman on the day my book released? That’s easy. I needed to be more stressed about meeting Kate than I was about the Sophomore Slump.

Unfortunately, Kate wasn’t at all helpful in this endeavor. She was so warm and down-to-earth that I was immediately put at ease. We had a chatty lunch in an Indian restaurant at which we frequently burst into giggles at the man sitting at the table across the room, literally shouting into his cell phone. Then we decided to visit the local B&N to sign the stock. (It’s always good to let your local book sellers know you in person so that they’re more likely to recommend your work. They don’t have time to read everything in the store, so it’s helpful to tell them about your book, leave some bookmarks for them to give to customers, and make sure to autograph your books because signed books sell better. This is also an opportunity for you to surreptitiously turn your books facing out so that customers can see your covers.)

Anyway, we decided to go to B&N in one car. Kate offered to drive, so I climbed into her little red sports car. It wasn’t until she revved the engine that I remembered her heroine, Diana the charioteer, who had a mad love of racing. Now, I realize that authors don’t always resemble their characters. But when Kate Quinn punched the gas pedal to the floor, I started to remember just how many of her characters were wild berserkers. Like her fearless gladiator hero, Kate had the battle-lust in her as she drag-raced through the streets of suburban Baltimore. And like her dark and twisty heroine, Thea, I think she enjoyed making me squirm.

She’d just squealed around a turn, leaving a trail of burning rubber in her wake when I saw the whirring red lights of a police car behind us and …

Ok, so we didn’t get arrested. And I might be exaggerating a little about Kate’s driving. But she certainly took my mind off my fears and reminded me that life goes by in a flash. The only thing worse than making a mistake is not trying at all. Song of the Nile is now on bookshelves and, knock on wood, nobody has accused me of a Sophomore Slump.

At least not yet.

THE WEDDING

They were all waiting for me. At the edges of the vast peristyle garden, guests found their seats beneath the columned porticos. In the torchlight, the emperor’s family gathered—the Julii and all their numerous friends and clients. Sitting apart was the emperor’s wife and her family; as a Claudian, Livia descended from a nearly unbroken line of power-hungry maniacs and criminals, but in Rome, their pedigree made them untouchable. The smell of their old aristocracy wafted on the air, just over the scent of burning torches.

I watched from beneath an archway as senators fiddled impatiently with their purple-bordered togas and ladies delighted in the confections served by passing slaves. The emperor’s daughter arrived late, accompanied by her new husband. Julia’s recent wedding had been a hurried affair, as if to prevent Livia’s jealous interference. In fact, Julia’s wedding had been nothing like this one. Her father hadn’t even been present, but Augustus was here now, waiting for me.

My family was also waiting. The Ptolemies. Julius Caesar. My mother. My father. My butchered brothers and the only brother that still remained with me, my little Philadelphus, my mother’s youngest son. The only one missing was the one I needed most. My twin wasn’t here except insofar as he lingered in the prophesy of our shared birth. The Isis worshippers and others believed we’d bring about a Golden Age. All those hopes and dreams and expectations hovered in that courtyard. I had only to appear on the stage that the emperor had given me.

The moon that was my namesake hung in the sky like a pale ghost, its face only half-revealed, like mine. I stepped out and everyone turned to see. I stretched my hands to the sides, like the paintings of my winged goddess on Egyptian tombs. They’d all expected that I’d go meekly to this wedding, shy as a slave on the block. They expected a bride in white muslin and orange veil. Some of the guests may have even supposed I’d marry in a Greek chiton with a royal purple cloak over my shoulders. None of them expected me to cast aside the respectable garments of a Roman bride in favor of a scandalous gown, a painted face and hair flowing over my shoulders in dark ringlets.

The guests tittered. Some stood. Others sat down abruptly on couches. Two servants knelt in homage to me while a lute player missed his note. Then the musicians went quiet altogether. I knew the memories I conjured with my mother’s coiled serpent upon my bare arm, the malachite on my eyelids glittering like a Pharaoh’s mask, my ruby red lips and firm breasts swaying beneath the gathered green folds my thin gown. If my display wasn’t so deadly earnest, I might’ve laughed at the way women clutched at their modest garments, all scandalized by Cleopatra’s daughter. My groom was scandalized too. The newly-made King of Mauretania waited for me beneath the grape arbor, an angry expression upon his handsome face.

But my eyes were for Augustus who was bedecked for this occasion in the corona civica, his oak-leaf crown. He’d been sipping at wine and chatting with his advisor, Maecenas, but stopped mid-conversation when the crowd opened a path between us. The emperor saw me and his eyes narrowed. Then he stilled.

In all the years since my mother’s death, I’d been raised never to address a crowd of my own accord. Never to speak unless spoken to. Never to shout or lift my immodest eyes. To remember always that I was the daughter of the whore who’d plunged Rome into civil war, and that it was only by the grace of Augustus that I lived. But I knew the emperor loved a good show and I intended to give him one. With my arms still upraised, I proclaimed, “I am the eighth Cleopatra of the royal house of Ptolemy!”

The emperor handed his wine to Maecenas so abruptly that some of it sloshed out of the goblet. This brought an uncomfortable sputter from the wedding guests. Only Lady Octavia dared to speak. “Selene!” She thought I mocked her with this display. That I meant to spit upon all the modest virtues she’d taught me. She started towards me but the emperor lifted two fingers to stop her. This and the evening wind at my back emboldened me. “I am Cleopatra Selene, Queen of Cyrenaica,” I continued. It was a title without power, for Cyrenaica was governed by Romans, but at the sufferance of the emperor, it was the only royal title I retained as my own. “I am Cleopatra Selene, daughter of Isis and therefore, Thea Notera, the Younger Goddess, the Maiden Goddess.”

The emperor’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like that title, Thea Notera; he didn’t like my mention of Isis, his least favorite goddess. My mother’s goddess. His praetorians tensed as if readying for battle and the lictors who accompanied him on formal occasions, stiffened. Their axes were ceremonial, but I knew their blades could cut. Somehow, I found the courage to press on. “I am Cleopatra Selene, Thea Philadelphoi, the Goddess Who Loves Her Brothers.”

The emperor’s nose lifted as if to scent treachery in the air. I could see the way his mind was turning, trying to divine whether or not I would declare myself the rightful Queen of Egypt and my twin Egypt’s rightful King. Augustus could have me killed with a mere signal to his henchmen. With a simple flick of his wrist. Still, he let me come. I drew closer, my eyes never leaving his. “I am Cleopatra Selene, Thea Philopatris, the Goddess Who Loves Her People.”

It had been one of my mother’s appellations and a few of the guests jeered, which shook me. This same citizenry that had come to celebrate my wedding had bayed for my blood when I’d been dragged through the city as a child, so my fears raced alongside my heartbeat. Some faces in the crowd were awed. Others were hostile and whispered of my arrogance. I passed my brother Philadelphus, on my right. After my marriage, he would remain here in Rome to secure my good behavior. Already pale from a recent illness, he went paler at my bold display. The emperor’s daughter glanced up at me and twitched, like a frightened fawn ready to bolt for the woods. My Roman half-sisters, the Antonias, cloistered around her, both of them agape. And the emperor’s wife looked as if she saw in me an apparition.

At last, I found myself standing before Augustus. He knew not what I meant to do, but seemed mesmerized by the possibilities. I confess I enjoyed his discomfort. If I named myself the Queen of Egypt, everyone would know it for the truth, but it would also mean my end. I was so close to him, as close to him as I’d been the day of his triumph, when he held my chin between his thumb and forefinger and decided to spare my life. I lifted that same chin and said, “As I come to this marriage to the King of Mauretania, I remain a Friend and Ally of the Roman people, loving and loyal ward of Augustus, Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus, Divi Filius, Son of his Father, Julius Caesar, the God.”

Then I lowered my head, bowing as a suppliant before him. The crowd roared its approval. They cheered, stomped their feet, and whistled. They sounded like the mobs in the stadium instead of an assemblage of wedding guests. I’d done all this to stroke the emperor’s vanity, to honor my mother’s legacy, and to speak the name of my goddess even where it was forbidden. But in so doing, I gave the emperor a gift he could have received from no one but me. I’d taken unto myself all the prestige of my lineage and laid it at his feet, giving him more power than he possessed before, letting him glimpse the glory that only I could bestow upon him.

One of the reasons I chose the title of Lily of the Nile for my debut novel about Cleopatra’s Daughter is because the Egyptian Lotus is actually a water lily. There are many myths about it, such as that it blossoms only at night–much like Selene, who is named after the moon and only allowed to show her true colors in darkness.

However, a true Lily of the Nile is the agapanthus, a bluish purple flower with yellow-tipped stamens. Though it isn’t a lily, it is native to South Africa. They grow on the banks of rivers and streams; they require plenty of water. They’re also summer flowers.

I’m thinking about planting some in my back yard!