Hi Reader,

I am eight drafts into something new.

When I started the first draft two months ago, I was pumped. I had a vision. I had direction. I had a clear map of what I was writing.

. . . actually, depending on how you count “drafts,” I actually created the first draft three or four months ago, in a different format. And by that math, I’m actually on draft . . . fifteen? Eighteen? I’m losing count.

Here’s how the doc looks so far:

And as you can probably imagine (and guess from my titling conventions) . . .

. . . by draft four or five or so, all that pumped-up energy had drained away.

I’d write a draft. I’d share it with my colleagues and expert mentors for feedback.

I’d bring big “Is this good enough? Did I do it right this time?” energy.

I wanted it to be good. I wanted it to be done. I wanted a gold star. I wanted to know I’d made the thing that fit what they were guiding me to create.

I had a vision in my mind. But I wasn’t totally sure whether the piece I’d written was conveying my vision. And so I wanted the experts I trusted to tell me whether it was or not.

(Really, I wanted them to tell me that it was good enough, that it was fantastic, that it was ready to publish, that I could move on. By draft five, I was very very over the whole project. I was ready for it to be excellent, and I was also ready for it to be done.)

Last week, after yet another round of feedback that tore my draft to shreds, I hit a breaking point. I threw in the towel. I told my colleague Kim, “I’m not looking at this document again unless you get on Zoom to look at it with me. I have nothing left to say that I haven’t already tried to say six times.”

So we got on Zoom. We spent two hours yelling impassioned unhinged rants at each other while furiously typing together. We wrote lines like “PUT THE MANUSCRIPT DOWN. PLEASE BACK AWAY FROM THE MANUSCRIPT” and “MAX PERKINS WOULD HAVE F’ING LOVED ZOOM.”

We cracked open our true message—the thing that fundamentally, actually, at its core, we were actually trying to say. The idea that mattered most. The concept we will stand behind, the hill we’ll die on.

From there, I wrote two more drafts, cleaning our rants up into something a little more publicly presentable.

And today, when I was fully satisfied with what we’d created, I brought it back to my mentor.

He read it out loud, live, on Zoom, in a group coaching call with five other people watching. He paused several times to prod and press and challenge.

But this time, all my “is it good enough yet?” energy was gone. I didn’t mind the audience. I didn’t feel threatened by the challenges.

I felt just one thing:

“Fight me.”

I’ve written the draft I set out to write all those months ago. I no longer need someone else to tell me whether I’ve created something good enough. I know why I’ve chosen every single word, and I can confidently defend each and every one.

I am freaking proud of what I’ve created. I know the words on the page are aligned with my vision. I know it’s the clearest, strongest, most compelling version I’ve ever written. I know it does what I’ve set it to do.

My mentor did still give me feedback. It was great feedback, and I’m going to integrate it.

And because my vision is finally on the page, and I see so clearly how to apply the feedback, I am once again pumped to go revise the next draft.

But even now, before I’ve made any changes, I am absolutely, totally confident in what I’ve written.

If I had to publish it today, I’d be thrilled to share it with the world. And in fact, I’m itching to do so. My vision is finally on the page, and I cannot wait for you to see it too!

THIS IS WHAT I WANT FOR YOU.

I want you to feel:

“Fight me.”

I want the need for anyone else’s approval to drop away. They can share their thoughts, sure, and you can decide what you want to do with them.

But I want YOU to be so rooted in your vision, so clear and confident about every word you’ve written, that you do not need anyone else to tell you whether what you’ve created is good enough.

I want you to be over-the-moon proud of what you’ve created.

I want you to feel the fire in your belly that you must share it, now. You cannot sit on it any longer, because it is amazing, and the world needs it, and it is ready to go out.

If you don’t feel that incandescent pride yet, and you desperately want to . . .

. . . then come hop on Zoom with Kim and me.

I could not crack my draft on my own, no matter how many times I returned to beat my head against the page. I had to rant it out with Kim in order to finally reach what I wanted and needed to say.

And we spend our days helping other writers do this, too.

We’d love to help you crack your story wide open so you can finally revise your way to that unshakeable pride.

If that’s something you’d like, hit reply with the words “Let’s fight” and I’ll send you over all the details on how we can work together.

Happy editing,

Alice