“Nobody tells people who are beginners — and I really wish somebody had told this to me — is that […] all of us who do creative work […] we get into it because we have good taste. […] But it’s like there’s a gap, that for the first couple years that you’re making stuff, what you’re making isn’t so good, OK? It’s not that great. It’s really not that great. It’s trying to be good, it has ambition to be good, but it’s not quite that good. But your taste — the thing that got you into the game — your taste is still killer, and your taste is good enough that you can tell that what you’re making is kind of a disappointment to you, you know what I mean?

[…] And the thing I would say to you is everybody goes through that. And for you to go through it, if you’re going through it right now, if you’re just getting out of that phase — you gotta know it’s totally normal.” (Ira Glass, 2009)

I’ve been thinking about it because my first draft is painful. I sit down to write with a beautiful finished novel in my mind that I’m aiming at, and of course I miss. It falls short, painfully short. It’s a first draft. It’s not even a first draft yet, it’s a first swing at a first draft. And it’s disappointing.

But there’s usually something in the bones, enough that I can tell that’s where the story is, and I can excavate for it and compost the rest. (See, this is what I mean. Bones and excavation and composting… What kind of hellish metaphor is this?) Then magically—i.e. with a ton of deliberate effort and editing—the bad writing becomes huh that’s pretty good actually.

This is, of course, normal. Creative crafts are crafts. They take skill. They take deliberate practice to develop that skill. And at the beginning most of us are bad or mediocre because we are learning. We simply haven’t put in the practice yet, but we’re starting to.

Ira’s advice to close the gap between taste and skill is to just do the damn thing:

“And the most important possible thing you can do is do a lot of work — do a huge volume of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week, or every month, you know you’re going to finish one story. […] Because it’s only by actually going through a volume of work that you are actually going to catch up and close that gap. And the work you’re making will be as good as your ambitions. […] It takes a while, it’s gonna take you a while — it’s normal to take a while. And you just have to fight your way through that, okay?” (Ira Glass, 2009)

Great! Do it! But how, exactly, do you get yourself to do it? For some people this is not a problem. There are writers who can just crank out high word counts daily, the kind of people that don’t have a problem with the first draft. I imagine they can put the editor in their brain in a small dark cave, deep underground, and just stroll happily ahead. If you are this kind of writer, my friend, congratulations. I hate you.

I am not this kind of writer.

For me the first draft is a pretty painful process. The gap, that damn gap, is obvious. The editor in my head is loud and judgy and she just won’t shut up about how that sentence is not quite right. It’s very, very rare that I find a state of flow and the story magically unfolds before me. Most of the time it’s a slug.

There are advantages with being such a ruthless editor of my own work. It makes the writing better. It makes the story good. I usually don’t have a problem admitting that something needs cut, a darling killed, a plot line abandoned. The editor cuts away with gleeful satisfaction.

Of course this is only helpful after the first draft is done. I still need to get myself to do the damn thing. Out of necessity I’ve developed some tools. Reframing, if you will.

Here are some of them:

1. Before I start, I remind myself it’s okay to make bad art. It’s a necessary part of the process. I say it out loud. I write it in ALL CAPS at the top of the section. Is this cringe? Yes. Does it work? Sometimes. I’m cringe but I’m free.

   IT PROBABLY WON’T BE GOOD AND THAT’S OKAY. IT’S A STEPPING STONE. YOU CAN’T STEP ON A STONE THAT DOESN’T EXIST.

2. I talk directly to the editor in my brain. She wears thick, rectangular glasses, and has an immaculate bob (imaginary people don’t have to pay for haircuts). I tell her I appreciate her. I ask her (read: beg) to please chill the fuck out until it’s time to edit.

1. After I edit I reinforce the positive experience. I remember that the bad writing was necessary to get to the good parts.

   YOUR UNBRIDLED CREATIVITY HAS A ROLE TO PLAY, TOO. CELEBRATE BOTH.

I do these things because I’m not good at fighting my way through. I used to be. I don’t know what happened. Shame and guilt just don’t work as well anymore. Life is long, if we are lucky, and I am tired. I no longer want to fight through things that can be gently held, instead.

My guess is that even after I become better at my craft, some of the I-have-no-clue-what-I’m-doing feelings will remain. Every story is different after all. There is some discomfort, inevitable ups and downs of any creative project. Enduring the discomfort is a skill. Learning to recognize it, and sit with it like one does a neighbor, a friend, an honorable guest, is a skill.

And I’m practicing.

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