I used to write professionally. I always planned to return to it after retiring from my cowardly, corporate “support my family” career. Then last year, my wife challenged me: stop waiting, start writing, and—for god’s sake—follow my dreams.
With some trepidation, I sat down to follow through on Julie’s wise advice. But I worried. What if I was blocked for ideas? What if my words were banal, unreadable? What if no plot appeared? Worse—what if I plotted ahead and never stopped, chasing perfection until the joy of discovery was gone?
Eventually, I persuaded myself that my goal wasn’t to write a magnum opus. My goal was to build a new habit—a writer’s habit. (I was sure that was the title of a book on my office shelf, but I must have misplaced it.) I would write every day, a set amount. Over time, I hoped I could unabashedly call myself a writer again.
But how many words does it take to form a habit?
I did some research. The internet suggested the average word count for several known fiction writers—about 1000 to 2000 words per day. Deep sigh as my ribs unclamped. I could manage that. I remembered that back in my freelance days, I could churn out 4,000 words of crap each day, or 1,000 less embarrassing ones. So I settled on 1,000 words—any quality, any order, mostly English—as my daily target. Enough to build momentum, not enough to spike my blood-pressure.
From October to December 2024, I mostly hit that mark. Some days I managed 1,600 words, others only 700. A few times I knocked out over 3,000. Before I knew it, I had 30,000 words of steaming novel, and not all of it stank. Six months later, I had a 160,000-word finished first draft. After heavy editing and a dozen revisions, I now have a 108,000-word historical fiction novel in search of an agent. I’m currently editing the 117,000-word sequel.
How did I manage that?
I gave myself permission to write.
Two things helped. First, I remembered an anecdote by Stephen King: writing is like a rarely used pipe. At first, the water is muddy. But if you keep using it, the pipe clears, and the water runs clean. Second, I recalled Joe Abercrombie’s candid remarks about his first drafts—how the story only comes together in later revisions. I’ve loved his novels. If he admits his early drafts are crap, that gives me hope.
I have since learned that this "first draft is crap” philosophy is common. Isabella Allende says in her BBC Maestro course: “Tell your students to write a bad book.” Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird famously champions ”Shitty First Drafts.” A literary agent recently recommended Seven Drafts by Allison K Williams, which urges writers to begin with “The Vomit Draft.”
The point is: write something. Get 90,000 words on paper—if you’re a hard-boiled crime writer—or on hard drive. You might be surprised: the stories that flow, even in such unfiltered form, might entertain more than you imagine.
So long as you realize—that’s when the real work begins.
And that’s cool. I was always a better editor than a writer.
