Your Inner Editor Is a Liar

How perfectionism sabotages first drafts—and how to finally start writing your novel

In school, my notes were infamous—swooping across the page in arcs and spirals, margins filled with constellations of half-sentences and arrows and stars. Wild, messy, and entirely mine. They weren’t pretty, but they were complete. I didn’t need them to be readable to anyone else; the only one who needed to understand the depth and nuance was me. If I could make sense of the material, I’d pass the test.

Messy. Self-focused. Utilitarian.

Then I started journaling. Suddenly, I was writing on the lines and between the lines. Conforming. As if something inside me whispered, What if this is worth keeping? My thoughts still floated freely, but the page looked…normal. Linear. Like something a human being might actually read. But still, it was mine and it was for me.

But when I sat down to write fiction?

I froze.

Novels aren’t just ideas; they’re architecture. You don’t get to scrawl diagonally across the page. You’re supposed to build something—on purpose. And typing into a blank Word document felt like trying to force a storm into a spreadsheet.

My ideas didn’t flow. They swirled.

That sudden flash of brilliance I saw in my mind? It evaporated when I tried to pin it down in double-spaced, 12-point Times New Roman.

My sentences were flat. My energy drained. I rewrote the first paragraph fifteen times, convinced that if I just got the opening right, the rest would follow.

I devoured craft books. Hunted shortcuts. Switched software. Changed fonts. Nothing worked.

Eventually, I gave up.

I thought, Maybe I’m just not cut out for this.

But the truth?

I wasn’t bad at writing.

I was just listening to a liar.

And, I wasn’t writing for the right person: the reader.

That Voice in Your Head? It’s Not Your Editor. It’s Your Saboteur.

The inner editor is clever.

It doesn’t scream. It whispers:

• “You’re smarter than this. You can do better.”

• “You’re skipping steps. You should go back and fix it.”

• “This story’s been told before. What’s your angle?”

• “You’re wasting time.”
  
  

It sounds like logic. It sounds like responsibility. But what it’s really doing is keeping you safe—from risk, from vulnerability, from failure.

The inner editor, especially for high-performing professionals, isn’t just a habit. It’s armor. And the moment you try to write something creative, that armor tightens around you.

It’s not that you don’t know what you want to say.
It’s that the voice inside keeps telling you not to say it until it’s perfect. Or worse, don’t reveal too much of yourself.

Which means you never say it at all.

Why Smart People Struggle to Draft

Over the years, I’ve coached many writers who come from STEM, healthcare, law, and other technical professions. They’re used to being the most prepared person in the room. They’ve succeeded by solving complex problems, by being precise and correct.

But fiction laughs at precision.

In fiction, you don’t know where the scene is going. This is true whether you’re a discovery writer or an outliner. You write your way into the knowing. You take wrong turns. You surprise yourself. You follow emotion and instinct and sensory memory—and all of that looks inefficient, even childish, compared to how you’re used to working.

So, what happens?

You write a few scenes. You revise them endlessly. You doubt. You retreat.

The very skills that made you exceptional in one domain are the ones slowing you down in this one.

It’s not your intelligence that’s the problem. It’s your relationship with mess.

Drafting Is Discovery, Not Performance

Here’s the shift that changed everything for me and for the writers I coach:

The first draft isn’t about being good. It’s about getting curious.

Your goal isn’t to impress. It’s to explore.

You’re not here to explain everything you know. You’re here to uncover what your characters want and fear, and risk. You’re here to chase the tension in a moment, even if you don’t fully understand it yet.

The inner editor wants cohesion. But what a first draft needs is momentum.

That means writing scenes that won’t make the final cut. Characters who morph halfway through. Dialogue that feels wooden. Prose that feels plain.

Drafting is the rough sketch. The clay lump. The unshaped stone. Revision is when you carve the statue. But you can’t sculpt what doesn’t exist.

How to Quiet the Inner Editor and Start Writing

You don’t need to banish your inner editor forever. You just need to keep them in their place—for now.

Here’s how.

1. Set a short, focused timer

Start with 10–15 minutes. Tell yourself: “I can write badly for 15 minutes.” This lowers the stakes. You’re not committing to brilliance—just presence.

2. Write forward only

No rereading. No tweaking. No fixing typos. If a sentence goes sideways, keep going. Let your momentum carry you. Editing as you write is like trying to vacuum while laying carpet.

3. Use placeholders

Stuck on a detail or name? Use [brackets like this] or the letters “TK” (for To Come in editor-es

e) to fill it in later. The point is to keep going.

Examples:

• [some tech jargon here]

• [TK: alley description]

• [insert name of ex-boyfriend]

4. Schedule separate “editing” sessions

Keep writing and editing in different time blocks—or even different days. Drafting is about expansion; editing is about contraction. Don’t let them fight each other.

5. Build a ritual

Whether it’s coffee in a specific mug, jazz piano in your headphones, or writing in a separate document labeled “Trash Draft,” anchor your writing time with something that signals: this is a safe, messy space.

You’re Not Broken. You’re Just In a New World.

Learning to write fiction is like moving into a new neighborhood.

You know how to navigate your old one—its shortcuts and rules, the way the light leads up to your favorite intersection. You know which coffee shop makes your drink just right and how long it takes to get home when traffic is bad.

But now? You’ve landed in a strange place. The streets are unfamiliar. The rhythms are different. There are no signs pointing to the grocery store, and the sidewalks might as well be in a different language.

At first, everything feels awkward. Your instincts don’t work here yet. You second-guess every turn. You feel like an outsider.

That’s not failure. That’s orientation.

You’re not lost—you’re just new.

And that’s why writing fiction feels so uncomfortable at the beginning. You haven’t built your creative landmarks yet. You haven’t discovered the writing routines, feedback loops, or voice rhythms that make the space feel like yours.

But here’s the good news: new neighborhoods become home.

You find your way around. You meet fellow travelers. You stop checking the map so much. Eventually, this strange place becomes your place—and you begin to move through it with confidence, joy, even flair.

So give yourself time. Grace. A little curiosity.

You don’t need to write like someone who’s lived here for years.
You just need to start walking the block.

Write the Story Only You Can Write

Once you recognize the voice of your inner editor for what it is—a well-meaning saboteur—you can thank it for trying to keep you safe … and write anyway.

You can draft with curiosity instead of judgment.

You can get to the end of a story you weren’t sure you had in you.

And when you do?

That’s when your inner editor will actually be useful.
Not as a liar. But as an architect. A chisel. A sharpener of truth.

But not yet.

Now is the time for messy, glorious, first-draft honesty.

Now is the time to write.

Because once you see the lie for what it is, you’re one step closer to finishing your book.