Why I Stopped Editing My First Drafts

For years, I thought I was a better writer when I edited as I went. I believed that cleaning up my words mid-sentence was a sign of discipline—professionalism, even. But what I didn’t realize was that I was silencing the most honest part of my voice.

I was interrupting myself.

Every time I paused to critique a line or restructure a stanza, I stepped into the role of an editor before I had fully shown up as a writer. It was like trying to rebuild a bridge while still walking across it. And inevitably, I fell through.

So I stopped.

Now, I let the first draft be messy. I let it be repetitive, too emotional, too soft, too loud, too unfinished. I don’t try to make it presentable. I try to make it real.

Because the first draft is sacred, it’s where grief leaks through, where doubt scratches the surface, where I let God in without needing to sound poetic about it.

That’s where the heartbeat of your writing lives.

This is the moment I was just dumping thoughts onto the page, knowing I’d later return:

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First Draft (Excerpt)

start with silence.
not like, death silence, more like…
that kind where everything’s loud inside but no one else can hear it.
the kind that stays hidden away in your head.

then maybe something about her hands
how they’re soft but turn into something strong?

And here’s how those same thoughts became something structured:


Polished Version (Excerpt from "Instructions for Building a Mother")

Start with silence.
Not absence. The kind of silence
that holds storms behind the teeth.

Add two soft hands
that learn to harden into shields.

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You see the difference? But one didn’t exist without the other.

That’s why I stopped editing too early. Because the raw form carries the intention. The first draft shows you what’s really going on in your head before you clean it up for clarity.

If you're stuck right now, write down the bones. Forget structure, punctuation, or sounding like a writer. Just get the idea out of your brain and onto the page.

Start with the storm. The image. The ache.

It doesn’t need to be good. It just needs to be real. Let it be messy. Let it contradict itself. Let it ramble.

You can always return later. You can always shape it, but if you never let it out, you have nothing to work with. It's the rhythm of writing I trust now.

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Author’s Note:

If you're staring at a blank page, let this be your permission to write something—anything—down. Not for the algorithm. Not for a reader. Just for you.

The words don’t have to be right. They just have to be yours.

This piece wasn’t written to prove a point—it was written to remind myself (and maybe you) that clarity comes after courage. Just start. The structure will wait.

If you found this helpful or needed this kind of reminder today, you can find more thoughts like these on Instagram: @carolina.b.writing. I’d love to connect.