I am a firm believer that there is always room for improvement.
In my daily life that often manifests itself as perfectionism, sometimes to a crippling degree. At work, I can spend what seems like a million years writing the same email over and over and over again, or performing the same test four times in a row because I’ve convinced myself I’ve somehow done it incorrectly the first three times. I will practice a phone call in my head for a full day before actually placing it, making sure my tone is correct, that my internal script is perfected, and that the person on the other end of the line has the best possible experience speaking with me.
But somehow, when it comes to writing, I’ve finally gotten to a point where a shitty first draft doesn’t bother me in the slightest.
Among other things, I credit years of writing classes through Minneapolis Community Education, where my writing teachers have stressed time and time again that it doesn’t matter what you write, so long as you write it. When someone is about to read something they’ve written to the group, and begins with the typical prelude of “This is silly,” or “I don’t know if this is any good, but…” my writing instructor will butt in and say: “Listen to this, it’s fantastic.”
It’s a refreshing motto to live by.
A few years ago, when the idea of shutting down my internal editor was initially being honed into me, I decided to give my internal editor a name. My thinking was similar to the idea that the only way to get over your fears is to confront them; the only way to kill my internal editor was to think of her as a little person in my head who I could destroy.
I decided to name her Cindy. Honestly, I don’t remember how I settled on that particular name. No Cindy’s have hurt me in the past and I have no particular dislike of the name itself, so please, if you’re reading this and your name is Cindy, don’t feel offended. When I say my mission became to kill Cindy, know my murderous intentions are directed at the condescending, posh yoga lady who lives in my brain and not you, who I am sure are lovely.
Cindy and I go way back. She’s the reason I have a flash drive of almost fifty story beginnings from middle and high school on my desk right now, some of which are actually quite good, but which Cindy said were pretty fucking terrible and convinced me not to finish. She’s the reason I didn’t write for most of college even though it’s the only thing I’ve ever actually seen myself doing professionally. She’s the reason I would often preface my writing in classes when I shared with, “This is silly,” or “I don’t know if this is any good, but…”
Unfortunately, the only way to quash the little voice in your head that is constantly telling you you may as well stop doing what it is you’re doing because you suck at it and will only be wasting everyone’s time is, well, to do exactly what it is they’re telling you not to do.
So Cindy squawked and screeched and cursed at me to no end as I wrote notebook after notebook of illegible chicken scratch that vaguely resembled human English and always contained a certain level of self-deprecation (which, ironically, she complained about excessively). I started by setting ten minute timers and forcing myself to ignore her berating. It didn’t matter if anything made sense – my only rule was that I couldn’t cross anything out and (okay, two rules) that I couldn’t pick up my pen from the paper.
Eventually ten minutes became easy, so it became twenty minutes. Thirty minutes eventually became an hour. Cindy’s ranting became mere background music, at which point I could put on actual background music and drown her out entirely.
I wasn’t writing any sort of narrative at that point, primarily introspective journaling or short prompts from writing classes. Something about writing a book – what I really wanted to do – still felt far too intimidating. Nothing brought Cindy back to the forefront faster than sitting at my laptop with my fingers on the keys, trying to write the opening line to something as grand as a novel.
Then something interesting happened (Cindy wants me to tell you that she disapproves of “then something interesting happened” as a way of ushering forward a narrative – fuck you, Cindy): I was sent to Bangalore, India, for work. A couple weeks before I left, my friend recommended I read Sarah J Maas’ bestseller A Court of Thorns and Roses. I brought it with me, along with the next two books in the series.
I was hooked immediately – and luckily I had a bajillion-hour long business class flight to read them. I think I finished ACOTAR during that flight and was halfway done with the second book by the time I landed (Kelsey if you’re reading this and have the read receipts proving me wrong, don’t factcheck me, okay?).
Is it basic of me to fangirl over the books millions and millions of other people fangirl over? Perhaps. Cindy wishes I had more refined tastes, but I don’t really care what Cindy thinks. And honestly – SJM fans, please don’t come for me – when I look back at the books I don’t actually think they’re the best books in the world by a longshot (also, my grandfather was named Azriel, which, well, I guess I don’t know how I feel about that…).
But what really struck me as I read them was how you could tell that SJM had a fantastic time writing. For all the trauma she puts her characters through, in between the tension and violence-filled lines you get a real sense that SJM loves what she does.
It reminded me that I, too, really loved writing as a kid. Even those stories I never finished, I had a hell of a good time starting them. Why shouldn’t I truly love writing again?
So, in my hotel room in Bangalore, when I woke up at 3pm and ordered room service coffee because we were working the night shift, I would write. Not journal or introspect like I usually did (and which is a valid form of writing), but finally put into words the book I’d been working on in my head since I was eleven. When my work trip was over, I wrote on the plane. When I got home, I wrote some more. Every morning after that, when I’d drink my coffee, I kept writing.
Eventually I finished the first draft of Story of Byrd, my first book as an adult. It spanned five notebooks and perhaps twenty pens (some died, others I lost). And don’t get me wrong, it was terrible. I don’t say that from Cindy’s perspective, but because it’s a fact.
But you know what? I had a damn great time writing it.
I didn’t care about continuity. If I didn’t like a plot point I’d written, I wouldn’t go back and cross it out but retcon it and keep going as if something else had happened instead. Half the words are probably spelled wrong. “Is that even English?” Who freaking knows!
The rush and exhilaration of not just writing it, but finishing it tied Cindy to a rocket and shot her to the moon without a spacesuit. When I sat down at my computer to rewrite my book, I found that the joy I’d felt writing by hand had finally translated to my keyboard. I no longer had a judgmental hag in my head constantly trying to convince me to backspace the shit out of my writing – I could be content, happy, even with my shitty first (or second) draft (let’s call it “first point two” in the case of Story of Byrd – draft 2 still has a long ways to go).
Now writing brings me joy. Sure, it’ll be a while before I can be considered a “great” writer, but that’s a-okay with me. The more I write, the better I get. There’s always room for improvement and now I actually enjoy the process of improving.
As I close out this long and winding post (definitely some room for improvement here), I will leave you with a few parting words:
Thank you, Sarah J Maas.
Listen to this, it’s fantastic.
Find your Cindy and destroy her.
E. R. Presma 