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Transcript
- You know that moment when you stare at the screen and realize the words you just typed are absolute garbage? That’s not failure, darling. That’s the only way in. Let’s turn the page on this one, shall we? Because I need you to hear me say this clearly, even if it hurts a little: your first draft is supposed to be terrible. It is supposed to be messy, chaotic, and frankly, a bit embarrassing. If you are sitting there feeling like a fraud because your opening paragraph doesn’t read like Virginia Woolf, please stop. Breathe. Put down the pen. Or close the laptop. Just stop trying to be perfect right now. I used to think that writing was this noble act of excavation, where I carefully chiseled away the stone to reveal the statue inside. But that’s not how it works at all. Writing is more like digging a hole in the backyard with a spoon. You’re going to get dirt under your fingernails. You’re going to hit rocks. You’re going to make a mess that looks like nothing but a pile of mud until someone finally decides to plant something in it. And let’s be honest, most of us don’t have a shovel handy. We have our fingers, and they are clumsy. I remember when I opened my first bookstore, I had this romanticized notion of what an author’s life looked like. I imagined writers sitting in sun-drenched libraries, sipping tea, producing golden prose with every keystroke. In reality, I spent half my day hiding rejected manuscripts behind the counter so customers wouldn’t see them. I kept them in a shoebox labeled 'Do Not Open.' It was my secret shame. But here’s the thing about that shoebox: it contained the raw material for everything good I ever wrote later. Without those ugly drafts, there would be no books on the shelves. There would just be silence. So, if you hate your first draft, good. That means you’re doing it right. It means you’re brave enough to make something that isn’t beautiful yet. Now, I know exactly what you’re thinking. You’re hearing that voice. The one that sounds suspiciously like your high school English teacher or perhaps a particularly judgmental aunt who loves crossword puzzles but hates joy. That voice is loud. It’s sharp. It tells you that you’re exposing your soul to the world, and since the soul is currently looking a bit wrinkled and unpolished, it’s better to just burn it all down. That inner critic is a liar. And not just any liar—it’s a protective liar. It’s trying to save you from embarrassment. It wants to keep you safe in the realm of ideas, where everything is perfect because nothing exists yet. Ideas are safe. They have no flaws. They are pure potential. But writing? Writing is exposure. Writing is saying, 'Here I am. This is what I see. Do you agree?' And that vulnerability feels dangerous. So the critic steps in to shut the door. But here is the trick, and I’ve learned this through years of hoarding books and crying over plot holes: you have to let the critic speak, but you do not have to listen. Imagine your inner critic as a grumpy old cat. Yes, it sits on your keyboard. Yes, it hisses at the cursor. But it cannot type. It cannot create. It can only comment. So, you gently move the cat off the keyboard. You acknowledge its presence—you thank it for wanting to protect you—but you continue typing. You write the bad sentences. You write the clunky dialogue. You write the descriptions that feel flat as cardboard. Let the cat hiss. Keep typing. Because eventually, the cat gets bored. And while it’s distracted by a shiny object or a nap, you’ll have written three hundred words. Three hundred imperfect, ugly, wonderful words. And that is enough to start a fire. Grab your bookmark, we’re going deep into the concept of the 'vomit draft.' I love that term. It’s visceral. It’s honest. It’s not polite. It’s not refined. It’s just... getting it out. Anne Lamott talks about this beautifully, but I want to take it a step further. I want you to think of your first draft not as a document, but as a conversation with yourself. When you talk to your best friend over late-night wine, do you structure your sentences with perfect grammar? Do you pause to consider the historical context of every word you choose? No. You ramble. You repeat yourself. You use slang. You get emotional. And that is why those conversations are the ones we remember. Those are the ones that matter. Your first draft should feel like that conversation. It should feel alive, even if it’s a bit drunk on emotion. I once wrote a short story that took me six months to finish because I was trying to make every sentence poetic. I deleted more than I kept. The result was a story that felt sterile, like a museum exhibit—beautiful to look at, but cold to the touch. Later, I rewrote it in a weekend, allowing myself to be sloppy. I used fragments. I used clichés. I let the characters say things they didn’t mean. And suddenly, the story breathed. It had pulse. It had heart. The polish had suffocated the life in it. So, give yourself permission to be sloppy. Give yourself permission to be messy. The beauty will come later, in the editing phase, but the soul? The soul comes from the mess. Don’t kill the soul before it’s even born. There is a specific kind of discomfort that comes with creation. It’s the feeling of standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing that jumping might break your legs, but staying on solid ground feels like dying slowly. Writing forces us to confront what we don’t know. It forces us to admit that we are not experts, that we are learners, that we are still figuring it out. And for many of us, especially women who have been socialized to be pleasant and correct, that admission feels like a failure. But I tell you, there is freedom in being wrong. There is liberation in being uncertain. When you accept that your first draft will be wrong, you free yourself from the pressure of being right. You can explore. You can take risks. You can send your character into danger, or fall in love with the wrong person, or make a mistake that changes everything. These risks are only possible if you aren’t afraid of the outcome. And the outcome of a first draft is always chaos. Embrace the chaos. Dance in the storm. Let the rain soak you. I recall a time when I was struggling with a novel that refused to cooperate. The characters were behaving oddly, the plot was sagging, and I was ready to quit. I sat in my kitchen, surrounded by empty coffee cups, feeling utterly defeated. Then, I realized I was trying to control them. I was trying to force them into a shape I thought they should fit. So, I stopped. I let go. I let the characters do whatever they wanted, even if it meant tearing apart my outline. And what happened? The story became richer. More complex. More human. By letting go of the need for perfection, I allowed for authenticity. And authenticity, my dear listener, is always more compelling than perfection. Once the vomit draft is done, once you have spilled your guts onto the page, you must resist the urge to fix it immediately. Walk away. Go for a walk. Watch the clouds. Read a book that has nothing to do with what you’re writing. Let the dust settle. Because revision is not about fixing errors; it’s about reweaving. It’s about taking the tangled yarn of your first draft and pulling it straight, strand by strand. This is where the magic happens. This is where you find the hidden gems buried under the rubble. You’ll read back and see a sentence that shines, bright and clear, amidst the dullness. You’ll spot a character trait that needs more attention. You’ll notice a theme that emerged without you planning it. Revision is detective work. You are the literary detective, searching for clues in your own mind. And unlike the first draft, which is about expression, revision is about precision. It’s about choosing the right word, not the pretty word. It’s about cutting the fat, not the muscle. And yes, it can be painful. Sometimes you have to kill your darlings. You have to cut that beautiful paragraph you loved because it doesn’t serve the story. It’s like pruning a rose bush. You cut away the dead wood so the new growth can thrive. It feels cruel in the moment, but it’s necessary for health. Trust the process. Trust that the mess you made is fertile ground. Trust that you have the tools to shape it into something coherent. You do. You always do. So, here is my promise to you, and I hope you accept it: you are allowed to write badly. You are allowed to produce work that makes you cringe. You are allowed to struggle. In fact, I encourage it. Struggle is the sign that you are growing. If writing feels easy all the time, you’re probably not stretching yourself. You’re staying in your comfort zone, where the air is thin and the views are limited. Step outside. Feel the wind. Get dirty. Remember that last week, we talked about using volcanic ash for stop-motion animation as a metaphor for transforming trauma into creative fuel. Well, your bad drafts are your volcanic ash. They are the residue of your eruption. They are hot, heavy, and potentially destructive if left unchecked. But if you gather them up, if you hold them with care, they can become part of something new. Something sturdy. Something enduring. Don’t sweep them under the rug. Use them. Build with them. Let them be the foundation of your next masterpiece. And if you find yourself stuck again, if the doubt creeps back in, come back to this episode. Listen to my voice. Remember that I’m right there with you, holding a cup of tea, staring at a screen full of nonsense, smiling because I know the secret. The secret is simple: finish the draft. Even if it’s ugly. Especially if it’s ugly. Because only then can you begin the real work. Only then can you truly start. Until next time, keep writing, keep reading, and keep being gloriously imperfect. I’ll be here, waiting for the next chapter. Goodnight, darling.