We fear making mistakes, of being less spectacular than we imagine ourselves to be. There is an invisible, undefined standard we pursue. The standard is everything we are not. We lose even before the game begins, even before we enter the arena.
If you look at it objectively, the propensity to load your own dice is beyond dumb. I have no idea why we do it. All I know is that I do it as much as anyone else. #FacePalm
We do the same with writing. We spend years polishing our phrases just so we can avoid writing badly.
Badly compared to whom?
Compared to the old friend, the invisible, undefined standard.
Another interesting question we don’t ask ourselves is this: Is someone going to shoot you if you don’t reach that undefined standard of perfection?
Nobody will, because:
- They do not know which standard you’re measuring yourself against. Hence, they don’t know you’re falling short. To them, your performance is fabulous… and a source of envy.
- They’re too obsessed with not meeting their own standards in their own profession/ life.
Why on earth are you tying yourself into knots?
All writers occasionally write badly—even the best of the best. Writing is one process; sharing is the other. You may not know this, but the first doesn’t spontaneously execute the second.
Write. Revise. Rework. Even after that, if you feel unhappy with it, store it away in a folder called DUMP. No harm done, right?
Good writers are usually people who have survived writing a great deal of bad material.
They’ve written stories that went nowhere. Characters that felt flat. Endings that collapsed under their own weight. Dialogue that sounded as though it had been generated by a committee of emotionally unavailable spoons.
But they kept going.
The Perfectionism Trap
Perfectionism is not about high standards. High standards encourage growth. Perfectionism discourages action.
A writer with high standards writes a story, discovers its flaws, and gets to work improving it.
A perfectionist writes a story, discovers its flaws, and interprets them as evidence that they shouldn’t have written it in the first place.
One response leads to practice.
The other leads to paralysis.
And because paralysis feels uncomfortable, many writers retreat into preparation.
They buy another craft book. Watch another video. Take another course. Research another technique.
These are useful activities in moderation. But none of them can replace the uncomfortable experience of putting words on a page.
Creative Shame
Fear gets plenty of attention in writing circles.
Shame doesn’t. Yet shame is often the stronger force.
Creative shame appears when the story on the page doesn’t resemble the story in your head.
It appears when you compare your first draft to somebody else’s finished work.
It appears when you realise that despite all your reading and studying, you’re still producing work that feels clumsy.
The temptation is to hide, wait until you’re better—or ready.
Readiness is usually the result of practice, not the prerequisite for it.
Why Do Small Challenges Work?
The reason short-form writing challenges are so effective is that they lower the emotional stakes.
A disappointing novel draft can feel devastating.
A disappointing 55-word story is easier to recover from.
You write it. You post it, sink or swim.
Tomorrow, you will write another. The world will not end.
Over time, something important happens.
You stop treating every piece of work as a verdict on your talent.
It is just practice.
That shift changes everything.
Improvement Requires Evidence
Most writers want confidence before they begin. But confidence rarely arrives first.
Confidence grows from evidence. Evidence comes from action.
Each completed story becomes a small piece of proof:
- I can finish things.
- I can survive criticism.
- I can improve.
- I can show up again tomorrow.
The writer who produces fifty imperfect stories will almost always outgrow the writer who spends a year trying to produce one flawless one.
They accumulated evidence of practice. If nothing else, they know what NOT to do. That’s more valuable than perfection.
The Courage Nobody Talks About
When people talk about courage in writing, they often mean the courage to publish. Or the courage to be vulnerable.
Both of them matter.
But there is another kind of courage that arrives much earlier.
The courage to write badly, to disappoint yourself. The courage to create a work that falls short of your ambitions.
And courage to keep showing up anyway because every writer begins there. You didn’t learn to ride a bicycle on the first go. Why should this be any different? It is a skill—like riding a bike was.
Enthusiasm is greater than skill because it fuels the willingness to repeat.
That’s exactly where excellent writers are made.
Mother of three adult humans. An idealistic, outspoken woman of scrupulous integrity, in love with words. A storyteller who enjoys crocheting tales.
And a passionate bibliophile, of course.