It’s almost an holy-grail rule in writing that first drafts are always terrible. Beginners are cautioned about not thinking too highly of their work at the outset, which can often lead to tirades about “How could you say my work is bad? I think it’s amazing!”
Some complain that telling beginners their work is bad is trying to discourage them from keeping their nose to the grindstone, or that it’s gatekeeping.
I don’t know why everyone is always saying statements are gatekeeping. The million-word rule gets this same treatment, and it makes no sense.
Regardless of that separate tangent, there’s a little issue with the whole “you’re a total jerk to say my first draft is terrible” arguments. Which is that saying your first draft is terrible isn’t really about the quality of the work; it’s about tempering expectations so that you don’t get in over your head.
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There is a mismatch between who is giving this advice and who is receiving it.
I know that younger individuals really don’t like to hear about the brain development thing anymore, but it is a scientific fact that the prefrontal cortex does not fully finish developing until about age 25.
Your mileage may vary. I’ve met thirty-somethings who definitely need some more brain growth.
Anyway, with those whose prefrontal cortex hasn’t fully developed, their thinking processes are routed through the amygdala instead. I touched on this previously, in my post about finding your audience through developmental psychology.
The prefrontal cortext handles emotional regulation, impulse control, and decision-making. In other words, it’s the brakes between feeling something and acting on it. The amygdala processes emotions and reward-seeking behavior, so amygdala-heavy cognition has outsized reactions to emotional stimuli.
This is why teenagers and young adults are often impulsive; they act on instinct, without the prefrontal cortex to slow down their actions or think about long-term consequences. They care about what feels good in the moment, not what will serve them ten years down the road. No wonder the US military is desperate to yoink amygdala-driven teens and send them off to war.
Teenagers and young adults genuinely feel everything more intensely than older adults do. Strong emotion words like “terrible,” “bad,” “awful,” etc feel worse to a young adult.
An older adult being told that their first draft is terrible is not going to be as upet by it. So they tell younger adults that their first draft is terrible and then dismiss the highly negative reaction as being overdramatic, oversensitive, on and on.
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Insecure writers, regardless of their age, will respond badly to being told that their draft is terrible.
The other facet here is ego threat, which often comes from over-identifying with the project in question.
An insecure writer is still basing their writing identity upon the completion of each individual project. Their self-worth as a writer lives and dies upon being told that every word they type is wonderful; otherwise, they won’t be able to continue.
This is not a very good way to stay motivated as a writer. Sometimes stuff you write will suck, and there’s no getting around that. Losing your mind over being told your work isn’t up to par is going to end up burning you out. But I do understand that when your self-esteem is fragile about something, it’s hard not to have a knee-jerk reaction to anything that suggests you’re not doing well.
So let’s dampen the negative reaction by clarifying what “terrible first draft” actually means.
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“Terrible First Draft” = A first draft needs time to rest before further revisions.
That’s really all that the “terrible first draft” stereotype is saying. It’s said in a shocking and aggressive way so that you listen, but unfortunately, it’s being passed on to people who have strong reactions to shocking and aggressive language; ie, younger writers and those with poor writing self-esteem.
Think of it like letting one layer of paint dry before you start adding the next. You’re giving it time to fully develop so that you can see what needs to be changed, removed, or embellished. If you start messing with it immediately, the paint will smear, and you’ll be left with an ugly mess.
Rest periods also reset your objectivity, which is crucial for amygdala-driven writers. When you’re riding the reward high of finishing the draft, everything feels amazing! You want to move onto the next step as soon as possible; the need for validation and accomplishment can override any misgivings about the work’s quality.
You’re too close to the canvas right now. You need to take a few steps back and see the full picture before you put on the final sealant.
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The “Terrible First Draft” adage is meant to prevent you from publishing too soon.
It’s really a form of positive negging. Wow, you really can combine any words you want in any conceivable order.
What I mean here is that more experienced writers are throwing cold water in your face so that you don’t make the big mistake of immediately publishing or posting your first draft, assuming that it’s perfect.
Because no first draft is perfect. That’s why I write books a year in advance so that I have plenty of time to review them. Poesy, the sixth book in the Eirenic Verses, was written a full three years before its upcoming release date on November 7, 2026.
Unfortunately, younger adults are driven by the amygdala thinking, so delayed gratification feels excruciating. They want the instant dopamine hit; their brains crave that more than almost anything else in the world.
Such impulsivity may, indeed, be why we use the term “terrible first draft,” because it’s like whapping a puppy over the head until it cowers in the corner. Using such strong emotional language puts an immediate stop to the reward cycle and brute-forces reflection. Of course you wouldn’t want to publish something that people told you is terrible without even looking at it.
Alas, it might be too strong, because telling a vulnerable young writer that their work is terrible also discourages them from wanting to try again. It’s not meant to do that, but it’s an unfortunate side effect of the more positive attempt to curb their enthusiasm.
That’s why I want you to understand that the “terrible first draft” isn’t really about the quality of your work. It’s a caution against impulsive publishing, querying, posting, etc.
Your work needs time to rest before you do anything else with it. That’s what you really need to focus on.
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Time away from your work helps you be more objective and can reveal new facets of the book.
Some of my best work in all of my books happened after I finished the first draft but before I sent it to my beta reader. For example, the entire Goldnin meronym Rainbreak sequence in Funeral of Hopes was not in the original draft; I included it because I realized I needed at least one more High Poetry/ceremonial scene.
The part where Orrinir smashes the votive box is heartbreaking because we really see what a wounded child he was. He reverts to this childlike voice and follows Uileac like a toddler, despite having smashed a heavy wooden box to pieces mere moments before. That dichotomy in him is fascinating, revealing so much more of his character that was never there before.
I couldn’t have written that if I didn’t think first drafts are never final drafts. It would have been easy to call it a day after drafting, because I have pretty clean drafts. However, I need time away to ponder where things feel incomplete, especially as I tend to write in a very condensed style that doesn’t offer readers much breathing room. I also tend to prioritize emotional scenes rather than big, flashy sequences, so a bit more excitement is important.
Time away is crucial. The draft ticks away in your head; you play around with it, turning it over until you see new opportunities. You’re also more willing to kill your darlings if they don’t serve the overall plot, as you have a bigger picture for what needs to be done.
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Once you’re more experienced, you can systematize your work to take advantage of the “terrible first draft.”
I let my drafts sit for a minimum of a month, but it’s usually more like two or three months. In most cases, I move on to the next part of the Eirenic Verses; then, when I return to the draft, I have further context and can weave in a bit more foreshadowing so that there are stronger causal links between each book.
I typically have three books at some stage of development:
- One book in the marketing phase (already complete, no further work to do, just not released)
- One book in the second draft/final revisions phase (needs time to rest so that I can give it a final once-over before moving to marketing)
- One book in the active writing phase (will need a second draft, beta read, final pass, and so on)
You can think of it almost like a rolling reserve. As soon as the first book is published, it drops off my radar. The second book in rotation then turns to its marketing phase, and the third book goes to final polishes. I add a new book to the active draft pile.
This is not the same as having a bunch of WIPs at once, where you’re halfway done with a mystery novel while also just starting a fantasy novel and making an outline for a scifi book and also editing a romantasy book and and and. The Eirenic Verses is one continuous product with ten moving parts that happen to be in different stages of development. I’m not context switching overall because the context is always the same.
I’m also not actively drafting or editing two books at once. I do one book, then return to the previous one to do the next stage of development. That way, each of them gets time to rest and breathe before I do anything else with it, but I am still hitting all my deadlines. They move incrementally through stages like an assembly line.
And once I’m done with the Eirenic Verses ebooks, I’ll do the same thing with the paperbacks, the audiobooks, and all that. Then I’ll start work on a new series and the cycle will continue.
Another benefit of this system is that it naturally builds in downtime and cushion. I give myself breaks between working on the second book and the third, and from the third back to the second, so that I can handle other things: blog posts, marketing the first book, being a normal human being. I don’t get burned out because there’s always something else to do and I feel secure about my projects.
Plus, life is unpredictable; I might get hit by a bus tomorrow. Since I give myself a good year of lead time, I have time to heal from my bus-related injuries without disappointing readers by having to push back the release day.
You can do this too – once you’ve built up your writing muscles and have a clear vision in mind. You should not be doing this when you’re just starting out, because you will go insane.
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Terrible First Draft syndrome winnows out the writers who don’t have staying power.
Being told you have a terrible first draft is going to reveal who you really are as a writer. Ego-driven perfectionists cannot handle being told they’re not perfect, so they go a few ways:
- They publish anyway and get roasted, which causes an ego crisis;
- They immediately try to edit the work a million times, often making it worse in the process;
- They spend more time complaining about Terrible First Drafts than writing anything because they’re defensive;
- They obsess over every word and try to figure out why it’s not perfect;
- They beg other writers for reassurance, thus keeping themselves stuck;
- They give up and never try again.
These are all sure-fire ways to not get anything done. You’re spinning your wheels, panicking and raging about something that, in reality, is not that big of a deal.
There are thousands of identical posts on subreddits of beginner writers complaining about being told their first draft is bad or their first book is going to be terrible in its original form. I suspect these writers are not busy drafting their next book and leaving their draft alone; if they were, they wouldn’t be obsessed with the terrible first draft thing. It wouldn’t matter anymore because they would have already moved on to the next.
In fact, I cannot remember a single person who whined about the terrible first draft and went on to publish anything. They just don’t.
The vast majority of people who set out to write a book will not finish it. Of those who finish, the majority will never publish it. And of those, the majority will never write another book. They’re tapped out. This is likely because they didn’t get the reception they wanted from that debut novel, then crashed out because they assumed they’d become a superstar with their very first book.
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Just because advice hurts your feelings does not mean it is bad advice.
Lastly, I run into this all the time, in pretty much every nuance of human life. Someone equates “this makes me feel bad” with “this is bad.”
For example, I am on a perpetual weight loss journey. I have been on it for many years now because I have PCOS (now called PMOS) and my body straight-up hates losing fat. Insulin resistance means my body doesn’t break down sugar like it should, and this can lead to diabetes later in life if I don’t keep it under control. I lose weight, think I’m set – then gain all the weight back plus interest.
Which sucks. Managing my PCOS/PMOS often feels like a second (or third?) job. I take semaglutide and magnesium; I slurp down myo-inositol and prebiotic fiber; I work out three to four times a week (sometimes five); I cut out sugary drinks and watch my carb intake. Most of these things, save working out, absolutely suck, and they haven’t gotten easier.
But I do have one thing in my favor, which is that I never fell for the whole “healthy at every size” thing. There will be people who are 250+ pounds insisting that they are just as healthy as someone with a standard BMI because they maybe go for a walk a few times a week.
It’s not true. There are decades of research showing it’s not true. I am not going to delude myself into thinking I’m healthy, even though I have healthier habits than some normal-sized people.
Regardless, a lot of other plus-size women twist themselves into knots about their weight and spend their whole lives defending their figure for one simple reason: it feels bad to be told you need to lose weight when losing weight is hard.
Something making you feel bad doesn’t mean it’s not true. It means you’re defensive and cognitive-dissonancing yourself into refusing reality. This is the same thing new writers are doing when they claim that their first draft is perfect.
I’ve found that I am a much happier person when I take a step back, let my defensive reactions pass, and then reconsider the point. This has been a game-changer in many aspects of life, including writing. I suspect you will find the same thing if you stop fusing feeling bad with something actually being bad.
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If you’re upset about the first draft thing, I have some prime advice for you: write another book. Set that one aside and do something else. Books do not expire; you can always come back later and edit to your heart’s content. By that point, you will have more experience under your belt and be more objective about every facet.
