I used to spend twenty minutes on the first sentence. I'd write it. Delete it. Write it again. Delete it again. I thought the first sentence had to be perfect. I thought it had to grab the reader, set the tone, announce my genius.
My professor said: “You can't grab the reader if you never write anything.”
I didn't understand. I thought perfection was the goal. Now I think perfection is the enemy.
I write garbage now.
On purpose. Sentences that are too long. Words that are wrong. Arguments that don't connect. I let it be bad. I let it be ugly. I let it be unfinished.
I fix it later.
I move paragraphs. I cut tangents. I rewrite sentences. I add transitions. I make it better. I make it mine.
I submit before I'm ready.
Not before it's done. Before it's perfect. Because perfect doesn't exist. Done does.
A writer I admire said: “The first draft is you telling yourself the story. The second draft is you telling someone else.”
I'm still telling myself the story. I'm still making mistakes. I'm still learning.
My professor wrote on my last paper: “Your voice is finally coming through.” Not because I wrote perfectly. Because I stopped trying to.
I'm not waiting for the perfect sentence anymore. I'm writing the imperfect one. Then the next. Then the next.
My professor said: “You can't grab the reader if you never write anything.”
I didn't understand. I thought perfection was the goal. Now I think perfection is the enemy.
I write garbage now.
On purpose. Sentences that are too long. Words that are wrong. Arguments that don't connect. I let it be bad. I let it be ugly. I let it be unfinished.
I fix it later.
I move paragraphs. I cut tangents. I rewrite sentences. I add transitions. I make it better. I make it mine.
I submit before I'm ready.
Not before it's done. Before it's perfect. Because perfect doesn't exist. Done does.
A writer I admire said: “The first draft is you telling yourself the story. The second draft is you telling someone else.”
I'm still telling myself the story. I'm still making mistakes. I'm still learning.
My professor wrote on my last paper: “Your voice is finally coming through.” Not because I wrote perfectly. Because I stopped trying to.
I'm not waiting for the perfect sentence anymore. I'm writing the imperfect one. Then the next. Then the next.
