“Good writing is rewriting” is a common adage that reflects the belief that writing, regardless of its level of completion, is always either good or bad.
Furthermore, blocked and perfectionistic writers are often advised to write “badly” on purpose in order to lose their fears enough to let themselves write at all. The act of “letting go,” it is hoped, will ultimately lead to good writing.
Hearing this advice has always made me feel liberated and reassured. If bad writing is encouraged, then I can relax. And if a writer as renowned as Ernest Hemingway can compare all his rough drafts to unsavory bovine byproducts, then my ego is safe if I write badly.
At the same time, to say that a rough draft is the stage of “bad” writing creates an expectation of failure and consequently some dread.
The question is worth asking: Why do we insist on calling a rough draft “bad?” A rough draft by definition is incomplete, similar to a sketch drawn on canvas prior to painting. Putting down the first words is an essential step. A rough draft is never “wrong,” any more than pre-baked cake batter is wrong. Both are just raw.
Neither deserve to be pelted with insults or tossed out the way something truly bad might. Incomplete writing, just like unfinished cakes, can be salvaged. But calling a first draft “bad” slaps a judgment on its quality at an early stage, which is exactly what writers need to avoid.
In fact, it is hard to think of any other field where an early stage of the process is considered the “bad” stage. I have never seen a chef on a cooking show say, “Now for the bad stage of making a cake. You mix eggs, flour, oil, and sugar together to get this big gloopy mess. Gross! It hasn’t got any frosting and it’s too soupy to slice and. It isn’t fluffy and it sticks to the spoon. Bad cake! Bad!”
In the same way, builders of houses don’t look at the framework of a structure before the bricks are laid and say, “This house is awful.”
What is it about writing in particular that makes us evaluate and label it every step of the way? Why does a first draft have to be either good or bad?
A rough draft is actually more process that product, more about discovering than writing. The problem is that it still takes the formof writing. The words are there, the text is divided into paragraphs, and sentences march along, yet when you read it aloud, it all sounds wrong.
Thoughts jump around, trite expressions pop up, and undeveloped ideas strut around the page acting finished. Bad, bad, bad!
But what if we could change the way we think of rough drafts or writing generally? What if we could stop calling writing bad, whether it’s ours or someone else’s, but instead view all flawed writing as incomplete?
Especially since this is true. “Bad” is an umbrella term, a subjective label that has no useful meaning. Plus, it puts all of the emphasis on what is wrong, when there may be a number of promising things about the draft that end up getting ignored.
Writers need to remember that writing is ultimately about building, not shooting down flaws, yet we are wired to see the “bad,” both in our own writing and that of others.
But even calling someone else’s book “bad” can hurt my own writing experience. Whenever I’m too harshly critical of a book I’m reading, I become twice as critical of myself. I’m more impatient with my rambling rough drafts, which are no better than the work I\’ve just criticized. This is because no matter how much I learn about writing or how skilled I become, I will never lose the ability to write like a beginner.
But if you stop to think about it, all writing which we call “bad” is incomplete. Whether a draft is filled with run-on sentences or a character is too undeveloped to seem real, there is always a way to lift the writing toward the full expression of its original purpose.
Of course, how beginners and experienced writers define \”complete\” are usually quite different. For a beginner, “complete” could just mean filling up an entire page with text. A more experienced writer has a longer checklist and asks questions such as, “Do I have a logical thought progression? Are my transitions smooth? Is my writing succinct? Are my characters convincing?”
That’s why the more I learn about writing, the better I get but the harder it is. My definition of completeness keeps changing. My stories now need more than a beginning, middle, and end. I want character consistency, a convincing resolution, and authentic dialogue. But I never thought about those things when I was twelve.
A master writer is someone who has an exceptionally high standard for completeness and the skill to pull it off.
But in a practical sense, what difference does it make if I think of my rough drafts as incomplete rather than bad?
It changes everything. It shifts the emphasis back to building rather than correcting. It reminds me of my original purpose. It turns writing into a creative puzzle to be solved rather than an exercise in self-flagellation.
To offer an analogy, I used to sometimes watch the show “What not to Wear” – not my usual type of show, but there were some interesting things about it. The makeup artist stressed identifying the most attractive features of her subject, such as stunning green eyes or clear porcelain skin. Then she worked to emphasize those features rather than to correct “flaws.”
The same philosophy works with writing. When I find myself being too critical of my writing I do something that I call a “rebuild.” I go through my text, identify the parts I love, and set them apart with bold lettering. Then I start a new file, paste my favorite parts onto it, and fill in the gaps with new writing, which I strive to bring to the same level as the parts I like.
Again, this shifts the emphasis away from what is wrong and refocuses attention on what is good and how I can make it better.
The tendency to call things “bad” or “good” is deeply ingrained. In fact, they’re some of the first words we learn as toddlers. Therefore, it is unlikely that I will ever be able to entirely stop thinking of my incomplete writing as “bad.”
But the effort is worth making, because it turns my focus away from merely tabulating flaws and redirects it to where it really belongs: the thorough expression of a creative vision.