Failing Forward

First Drafts and Embracing the Mess

Last month, I celebrated a milestone: I finished the first draft of my book. Or, more accurately, probably the second or third draft, because it's not just a stream of consciousness; the manuscript had already been edited a few times. I felt triumphant. I went to the beach with my little family, cracked open a beer, and shared the news on social media. It was Valentine’s Day. I did it! For years, I’ve been talking about writing a book one day—at least for the past 25 years. And now, I had come so close to finishing it.

I wrote it over the course of a year, next to my napping daughter, sometimes knocking out just a paragraph at a time. Rarely did I get a solid three-hour writing block, but I stayed consistent. I worked with someone who gave me feedback throughout the year. Finally, I had finished it. Now, the fun part could begin—shaping it into a real book that readers could also enjoy.

I took a week off and then read through the whole thing. Since I’d been writing it over a year, there were parts I had almost forgotten about. Did I write this? Wow, this is pretty good. Hemingway’s got nothing on you.

Another chapter. Wait, what is this? It sounds like a different author wrote it. The tone is so off—it’s like I’m trying too hard to be funny and cool. It doesn’t sound authentic. That’s what happens when you write the first draft over such a long period. But okay, no dramas. Voice and tone can be easily fixed. I kept reading.

The first half of the book felt like an introduction. Long-winded and boring. All the good stuff was in the middle. Gosh, does this mean I have to throw away half of the book? Half a year’s worth of work?!

I finished reading, slammed my laptop shut, steaming from my ears. I felt depressed. It wasn’t just bad, it was terrible. I was terrible.

I needed to get the structure right. It wasn’t working, and I couldn’t move forward without fixing it. The plot was drowning the whole book. For two days, I watched every YouTube video I could find about narrative non-fiction. I woke up in the middle of the night with a voice in my head screaming, "Structure, plot, bad writer!" I’d wake up, drenched in sweat, thinking it was a bad dream. But no, it was summer in Australia, no air-conditioning, and the structure was still bad.

It felt like an obsession. A fever. A dark force. A cyclone. I knew this feeling, my mind wouldn’t stop until I had answers, and there was no time to waste. The next morning, I texted my book coach—for lack of a better term. Can I call you?

She answered with a hoarse voice, sick as a dog.

“Flu, I’ve got the flu”, she said.

“Okay, sorry, hope you’ll get better soon, but listen, listen. The book structure. It’s not working.”

I told her six other things that were not working. Fundamental things. Plot. Voice. Tone. Conflict.

“Nothing works. What should I do? Tell me.”

“Have you had enough distance from the book?” She asked.

“Yes, I didn’t touch it for a week.”

“Well, is that enough time? Sometimes, what you need is six weeks.”

Six weeks. She must be out of her mind. Feverish. Right, she is sick. Time. I’m running out of time.

“Okay, I’ll think about it,” I ended the call, almost in tears.

And then comes my partner, seeing me biting my nails, pacing in circles. He doesn’t sugarcoat it for me, ever. If anything, he wraps the truth in Tabasco and sprinkles it with chilli pepper.

“Where’s the rush? Calm the f down or you are going to blow the whole thing. You’ve written a book in a year. You can’t fix it in two days.”

“Wow, ok. That’s a good point. Really good point.”

I breathed in. Exactly what I needed. Some space, oxygen.

What happened was familiar. The pattern of frustration, losing momentum, the rollercoaster ride in my own mind. I could easily call it impatience, passion, caring so much about something and wanting it to be perfect. But it’s all just the tip of the iceberg. What lies beneath is a form of self-sabotage. When something matters so much, I find ways to mess it up. Get frustrated, procrastinate, distract myself with unessential problems. It’s like having writer’s block. But I don’t really believe in it. Sure, some days writing is not working, creative juices aren’t flowing, but if it becomes a constant companion, I believe we could call it fear. Fear of producing something bad, fear of making mistakes, fear of criticism.

If I’d kept believing everything my mind told me, I would’ve thrown away the whole book. I tried, it didn’t work. Perhaps I write something else. And then, the same thing would repeat itself. A pattern. It’s true though, sometimes you try so hard to make something work, but in the end, it wasn’t meant for the public eye, just a training piece to become a better writer. But I didn’t try hard to fix it. I wrote the first draft and then started to stomp my feet. The real work always starts after finishing the first draft.

This whole experience wrapped me in frustration. I didn’t want to do anything. Not even write here, because why would I? Nobody wants to read my crap. But after I took some deep breaths, calmed down, took more time off from my book, I realised that the problems weren’t that bad. They still existed, but no longer a catastrophe that couldn’t be fixed. And all of this happened within a couple of weeks—the high, the downfall and the rise. The mind can sometimes be a pretty messed-up place, don’t you think? Here’s a joke for you: I was convinced I had failed. The big theme of my book? Failure—and how it’s actually a crucial part of success.

Every time I’m close to something that matters, fear convinces me that I’m failing. But maybe the real failure is believing that.