Emotional Perfectionism

I didn't even know it was a thing. And, hi, I'm back.

Hello, hello! I’m officially back after a much-needed, very beneficial pause.

I’d planned to take two months off but only needed one-ish—turns out a hard reset works. In between making a lot of focaccia, successfully growing my first sourdough starter, riding shotgun without having an aneurysm (so far) while my daughter learns to drive, and getting ready to launch a new business with my brother¹, I did what I set out to do: make real headway on my third book.

Rosemary garlic focaccia. I am a baker now!!!!

First sourdough. Dense, but delish.

I started writing the opening scene almost two years ago—prologue, introduction, first chapter, who knows—and I finally got it right last week. It actually became the first three chapters, which now make up about 90% of the first act. I’ve panicked a lot, thinking: I should be further along; just get the messy first draft down! But I knew in my gut it was worth every extra hour to get it right before marching on.

The beginning is the foundation. It sets the tone. It lets the reader know what they’re in for and who’s taking them on the ride. Writing it clarified the whole book for me. I reworked the outline, remembered key people and stories, made new connections, found better language.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I will never not be dumbfounded by how consuming writing a book is. I’m still new to it, but at this point, it feels smart to just accept that it will always be like this. I thought over the weekend that it’s a lot like living through New England winters. This will be my 26th one, and every single March, without fail, I swear I’m moving. I can’t do this anymore, I cry. The darkness is going to kill me. This is not how I want to liiiiive! And then—like clockwork—June arrives, and I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I feel sorry for anyone who does.

Anyway—my muscles are stronger now. I have my training schedule. I’m ready to keep going. So, hello again. I’ll be back here weekly-ish and I’m happy about that.

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Last week, I was sitting with my friend Jim at our local coffee shop, and he asked about the book. I’d just sent the first chapters to my agent and asked Jim if he wanted to read them.

“Like right now?” he asked.

“Yes.”

I texted him the document and sat there, trying to be chill while he read.

“Is this real? This first story?” he asked, maybe thirty seconds in.

“Yes. Obviously,” I said. (No, I made up my memoir.)

He kept reading, then put his phone down.

“Laura. What the fuck. As someone who lived through this with you, I still can’t see this as you.”

“I know,” I said.