I've lost the plot.

Getting weighed down by the mundane and letting self-doubt stop me from finishing my book.

The Story by Brandi Carlile

I’ve lost the plot over the last few weeks.

I have this incredible, fun, unpredictable life in Spain with seemingly endless possibilities, and yet, I’ve spent the last few weeks worrying about work. My exercise routine. Spring f*cking cleaning.

It’s not that those things aren’t worth worrying about – but they shouldn’t become the whole story of my life.

One of my clients hired me a couple of weeks ago to work for them part-time, which is a good deal for both of us. They get consistent work hours at a cheaper price, and I get steady money without the hassle of hunting for new business. Since it’s part-time only, I can still work with my existing clients and, ideally, have time to finish my book and get it published.

If you’re new here, I’m writing a book on my move to Spain – what made me want to leave the U.S., how the moving process went, and what the first year as an immigrant looked like. It’s 98% done, and that last 2% is kicking my ass. It’s not hard for me to sit down and write, or edit my own work, or come up with new topics to write about. I do those things daily. The hard part is the ending.

Putting those final touches on it – finally sitting down and writing that last chapter – has been more of a mental hurdle than I expected. I thought I’d be ecstatic to finally say, “It’s done.” Instead, I’m terrified.

Because once it’s done, people have to read it. But I’ve lost the plot again here, since people reading the book is the grand finale. I’m keeping myself in Act 2, when the protagonist seems to have no hope for success. I procrastinate and blame my new job for draining my creative juices. I say I need at least 100 subscribers here before I can realistically pitch to more literary agents. I work on spring cleaning chores instead of working on the book.

My subconscious is onto me, though. I had a dream the other night where I was writing some new chapters, but my laptop was gone and I didn’t have any paper. So I started writing it down on the walls. Then, my pen slipped and cut my hand, and my blood became the ink.

I’m literally dreaming about writing my book in my own blood. My innie and my outie are fighting harder than Mark S. with a camcorder.

So after taking a few months off from working on the book, I’m officially back to it. I opened a new deck of playing cards a while back, and without thinking, I threw the jokers and one blank card into my desk drawer. I recently took out that blank card and a Sharpie and wrote: Done is better than perfect.

It’s my attempt not to lose the plot again. I have a fabulous, non-traditional life here, and I shouldn’t get weighed down by the mundane. I’m writing a book about my fabulous, non-traditional life and shouldn’t get weighed down by self-doubt or fear or perfectionism. This book is my blood, and it’s not perfect. It’s not pretty. It’s messy and it’s bold. It’s mine. It’s me.

I hope you’ll read it one day soon.

- Mere