'Practical Delusion' and why it matters

The career-based kick in the hole you might need

Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

Greetings from Dingle, which I now think of as home.

I’m not from here, nor are my parents, but they retired down nine years ago, selling our house in Dublin. Ever since, coming to their cosy abode — where tea is in constant supply and the smell of roast chicken fills the air — it has earned all the hallmarks of what home should feel like.

I came alone by plane for what has now become my annual 48-hour mental health break. With how things have been in the parenting department, it was either here or a trip to St John of God’s, and I reckon I’d much prefer my parents’ cooking.

Yes, I feel guilty about leaving my husband and son while I’m here, just short of being spoon-fed by my dad and snuggled to death by my mother (or perhaps it’s me snuggling her to death). But no, I’m not dwelling too much on the guilt. I need this break. I appreciate the hell out of it and I’m making the most of it (by doing as little as possible). It’s overstated these days but it’s true: you can’t pour from an empty cup. And there’s nothing more important to a child — especially one who tips into dysregulation so easily — than a regulated parent. So when my dad brings me a glass of Prosecco at 5pm later today, I’m really doing it for the benefit of my son, okay?

While here, I’ve had the luxury of headspace to think about things other than our challenges at home (or the fact that our second run at an autism assessment is literally next week, yikes). With the space to let my mind roam, I’ve been happily indulging in daydreams about what could become of my next book.

I finished it. I’m reading through it here and I’m already proud of it. I feel that fire in my belly to share it. It makes me squirm to admit it (because people who think they’re good at something is for some reason socially unpalatable) but I know this book has the power to be transformative. I know that because it’s exactly the book I once needed myself, when anxiety dictated my every thought, feeling, and behaviour. And the writing is good.

Strolling the beach with my mam, we’ve chatted about how it could be an international bestseller, up there amongst the best of them — the kind of book that makes its way onto every must-read list for mental health or self-care. It felt like the kind of chat you have about what you’d do with the money if you won the lottery. Lofty. Unlikely. But enjoyable to consider.

Of course, I know the realities of publishing. It’s an honour to be published and see your book on a shop shelf. But it’s rare for a book to take off financially, even if you’re a bestseller. The statistics around authors who get to see a royalty statement with anything on it, after its initial release, is grim. So much depends on timing, connections, the cultural moment, your own following — and yes, luck. I usually temper expectations when writing a book, reminding myself it’s enough just to have had the chance to write it, regardless of what happens after. We do this to protect ourselves from disappointment.

But this time, fuck it — I want success. I don’t want to merely have written it. I don’t want it to make a difference for a handful of people but for many, many people across the world.

And if that feels tacky, so be it. For too long I’ve played the humble, self-deprecating author, tossing my books into the world with a shrug: “I wrote a thing, it’s probably total shit but it’s in the shops if you feel like buying it, but you don’t have to and you probably shouldn’t bother because it is shit.’ I’ve spoken this way whilst secretly wishing I had the confidence to say what I actually felt. That it was something worth buying and reading and sharing.

I might appear less up my own ass but in terms of success, this approach gets you nowhere.

And while luck may be out of my hands, tenacity isn’t. I just have to work a little harder to shake off any shame around the necessary self-promotion.

Typically, you’d do a few social media posts about the book being out and share a handful of kind reviews. Your publisher would line up some media, you’d have a launch party with warm white wine and pray people show up, and then you’d quietly retreat, hoping maybe Oprah stumbles across your book — but knowing she probably won’t.

That’s been me up until now.

But not this time. Maybe it’s everything going on at home, maybe it’s sheer stubbornness, but I’m determined not to let this book dissolve into the ether. I can’t guarantee an outcome, but I can go all in. I can allow myself — for once — to be a little delusional. Or delulu as the kids are saying these days.

And maybe you should too.

If there’s something in your work or life that you believe has the power to cut through the noise, you owe it to yourself to be delulu as well. What’s key, though, is not lying on the sofa passively manifesting success while the universe supposedly delivers. That kind of magic only seems to work for the privileged few.

It has to be practical.

Here’s the formula for what I am now referring to as Practical Delusion as I see it:
– A little delulu belief that you deserve a shot.
– Practical steps to give yourself one.
– And neutrality about the outcome — because it might not land, but at least you’ll know you tried.

With this mindset — so uncharacteristic of me — I can see clearly that my previous books never stood a chance, not because of the writing, but because of my reluctance to back them. Being given the opportunity is only step one. It’s what you do with it, how far you’re willing to push despite the likelihood of failure, that makes the difference.

This time, I won’t just hope for success — I’ll give it every chance.

For me, that means everything from mapping out a detailed marketing plan, to pitching podcasts, to signing stacks of books in every shop that’ll have me, to saving money over the coming months so that I can run ads and make the smartest use out of every corner of my platforms. It means being willing to risk looking pushy, cringe, or too much — because the alternative is doing too little and always wondering.

For you, practical delusion might look entirely different. Maybe it’s finally sending that pitch, applying for that grant, reaching out to someone you admire, or investing in your own project in a way you’ve never let yourself before. It doesn’t guarantee the outcome you dream of — but it guarantees you’ll know you gave it everything and derisk yourself of personal disappointment.

That’s the kind of delulu I can get behind.