You’ve probably all heard the phrase the ‘first shitty draft.’ Anne Lamott coins it in her fabulous book on writing, Bird by Bird (which if you haven’t already read, needs to go on your Urgent Books to Read list).

First drafts are shitty. It’s in their nature to be bad. Our problem lies in our expectation that first drafts should be good.

Think of the first time you tried anything – a kiss (how sloppy, how ‘where-the-hell-should-the-tongue-go?); a recipe (overcooked, raw, unflavoured, soggy in the middle); a musical instrument (how the hell can it be so hard to strum?). Why do we expect that our first writing attempts will just sing on the page? We will be clumsy. We will be verbose. We will tell too much and not show at all and we won’t even know the difference. We will sink into cliché and think it’s marvellously profound and we’ll write in the passive voice believing it sounds fancy and professional.

Our first drafts will suck. They are meant to.

The problem is that we think it means we suck. The shittiness joins forces with our inner critic and very soon we’re in the shame zone, feeling like we’ll never write again.

But I’ve got a different way of thinking about shitty and sucky first writing attempts. I call them ‘wabi-sabi’ drafts. ‘Wabi-sabi’ is a Japanese term (derived from art) which denotes the beauty of that which is imperfect, impermanent and incomplete. We can learn so much from our broken attempts, from our ineptness, from our misshapen inelegance. We can grow in acceptance and compassion, and find the joy in effort and grace.

Alice Walker’s poem “I Will Keep Broken Things” offers some insights here:

I will keep broken
things:
the big clay pot
with raised iguanas
chasing their
tails; two
of their wise
heads sheared off;

I will keep broken things: the old slave market basket brought to
my door by Mississippi a jagged
hole gouged
in its sturdy dark
oak side.

I will keep broken things:
The memory of
those long delicious night swims with you;

I will keep broken things:

In my house
there remains an honored shelf
on which I will keep broken things.

Their beauty is
they need not ever be “fixed.”

I will keep your wild
free laughter though it is now missing its
reassuring and
graceful hinge.
I will keep broken things:

Thank you
So much!

I will keep broken things.
I will keep you:
pilgrim of sorrow.
I will keep myself.

The questions I ask writers about their first drafts are:
What is imperfect about this draft?
What is incomplete about it?
Where are the cracks?
Where is the wisdom and beauty in this draft?
And most importantly:

What do you love about this draft?

Find what you love in what is broken, and brokenness will become part of the story you are telling.

‘Words have helped me understand who I am – all of me, not just the loveable parts I present to the world in a curated Facebook profile.’
– Joanne Fedler, Internationally bestselling author and writing mentor

I didn’t start writing to become a better person. Back then, I thought I was perfectly fine as I was, thanks very much. I started writing because I needed to understand my life. As a child, I had no-one to talk to, so I spoke into the quiet I found on the page.

I got lucky. I became a published author, ten times over. On the path, I’ve done book signings, received fanmail and royalties, been flown here and there to talk about my books which have all been fabulous in the way that a new cocktail dress and stilettos are fabulous. But they’ve not been the lasting or true gifts my writing has given me. As I’ve stayed with writing, through sunny and shadowy times, we’ve grown together like partners in any relationship of intimacy.

Not only has writing given my life meaning and tracked my journey, but it’s bestowed these unexpected gifts along the way:

1. Embodiment: people imagine writing is an idea that begins in our heads, but it doesn’t. It starts in our bodies. I learned this early from Tom Robbins, who suggested writers need to do half an hour of exercise and then get sexually aroused before a day of writing (I’ve not quite managed this). It’s about sweat. Senses. Blood. Guts. For a heady gal, this commitment to bone and muscle has helped me to really see, hear, feel, smell, taste and touch the world. It’s made me a better mother, lover, friend and all-round human.

2. Depth and Intensity of Emotion: it’s impossible to escape the truth of how we feel when we write. Writing has helped me to express, instead of suppress my deepest feelings. I don’t have to worry about being ‘too intense.’ The page doesn’t judge or flinch. It just receives whatever you’re bringing – passion, grief, anger. This has given me permission to feel everything I feel, fully and without censorship. I’m not scared of my own feelings or others.

3. Lightness through Forgiveness: in writing, I’ve made making meaning of my experiences including some really dark and ugly stuff – and in doing that, I’ve been able to let go of pain and trauma. Writing has helped me to offload old wounds and move on in my life. I’ve forgiven myself and others for mistakes and hurts inflicted.

4. Self-Compassion and Acceptance: words have helped me understand who I am – all of me, not just the loveable parts I present to the world in a curated Facebook profile. I’m able to be a full person, imperfect, flawed, vulnerable, rude, impatient, selfish as well as successful, smart, generous and whatever else I want others to think of me. When we can meet ourselves with self-compassion (and a sense of humour), we grow in empathy towards others.

5. Unshakeable Self-Worth: to write, we must believe we have something worth saying. Even though we may battle the incessant question, ‘who’m I to write?’ we soon develop a curiosity about ourselves, and this question shifts into ‘Who am I?’ which is one of the power questions each soul must answer. Honestly, I always hope people will find value in what I write. But if they don’t, at least I have.

6. The Compass of Intuition: writing has shown me how to trust myself and to stop second-guessing my gut. Over the years my intuition has become my compass. Our intuition is our inner guidance we often ignore, which reignites when we listen to the silence within our hearts. I once made my husband get off a plane before take-off because ‘it didn’t feel right.’ He wasn’t happy with me. I think he thought I was losing it, and for a moment, I thought maybe I was – I mean who gets off a plane before takeoff when the doors are already closed? But after we’d disembarked and the captain ordered all the other passengers off soon after, he gulped and apologized. (I’ve got to say, it was a relief to me too…)

Writing has helped me stay sane. It’s expanded my sense of what’s possible to know, feel and discover.

I have just one regret.

I’m sorry about the trees, I truly am.