In the writing process, experimenting and failing does not mean anything is wrong. In fact, failing means I am doing something right. I am learning what does not work. Nothing I write, no matter how “awful” it appears,is a waste of time.

How I wish I had always known this.

I used to always get stuck in the rough draft stage. My scatter-brained, and sometimes sterile, rough drafts would discourage me into quitting. I could not see my scrawling for what it really was: a necessary step of the process that would move me forward if I only gave it a chance.

However, I sometimes forget that, even now. It is only because I have been through the process so many times that I know the flotsam of half-completed thoughts will metamorphose into art if I keep going. I remind myself that anything in writing can be changed; I can think of the rough draft as raw material like clay to be shaped later.

Writing is a process of moving from incompleteness to completeness – any way you can. Though not everything you try will work, is not exactly true to say that writing is about trial and error. The word “error” suggests I should regret it. But since in writing I do not regret my “errors,” which are often informative and useful, maybe there should be another name for them. They are not so much errors as attempts to learn.

Attempting to learn is the main characteristic of my writing process. I try one thing, then another. I write a vague metaphor, then replace it with a more vivid one. I write robotic dialogue, then replace it with more natural speech. I use weak verbs, then change them to active ones. But I am not just learning from my “mistakes.” I also have a goal: the finished product.

The need for a finished product can create a lot of anxiety if I let it. In writing fiction, I often find myself pushing forward to the next scene without giving adequate thought to the scene I am writing. When I make a mad dash toward the finish line, I forget about the meandering, scenic journey – or process.

Eager to fill out the plot pattern that is in my head, I sometimes give inadequate attention to transitions – or so a Beta reader has told me. I focus on what the end result will be at the expense of giving myself over to the moment because I am so afraid of not finishing.

I have a reason for being afraid of not finishing. In high school and college, I had a drawer full of promising story beginnings, but no finished stories. I later had the epiphany that bad finished stories were more useful to me than good unfinished ones. I began finishing my stories consistently, and my writing improved.

However, there is a problem with fretting about finishing stories which can affect my ability to concentrate. Worrying makes me want to rush my story to its ultimate incarnation. However, gliding directly from point A to point B generally produces writing that feels incomplete. As in geometry, going directly from one point to another produces a straight line. Creative writing is about celebrating curves and intricate, swirling patterns.

Stories that rush toward the finish line can feel rushed and bloodless when you read them. Sally was sad. She ate a slice of cake. She was happy. The end! They fail to mimic the messy, organic nature of real life. For order and completion, writing needs a general direction, but the art of writing lies in the irregular cork-screwing detours, the off-beat surprises, and the thrill of uncertainty.

However, meandering can be uncomfortable in a society that prizes speed and efficiency, which is why sometimes when I wander off-path in my writing, impatience creeps in and I think, Why are you taking so long? This should have been done yesterday. Stop staring at word flowers and go make a character logically progress the story action!

But writing is not paint-by numbers. It is about discovery. When I begin a story, I never know exactly what I will end up with. The story I intend to write may be entirely different from my initial concept. My writing changes as it goes along and in the process, it sometimes changes me. Sometimes it lifts a bias or changes my perspective or suggests a solution to a personal issue. In general, the stories that change me are my best.

For a story to change me, I have to be fully engaged in what I am doing. I have to be curious and willing to learn, which is hard if I am thinking, “Oh no! This is getting off track! I will never finish! My story is doomed!”

If I disengage from my writing exploration in my haste to reach the finish line, readers are likely to remain unengaged as well – not because I am not “good,” but because I am not there.

One way to look at the problem is that sometimes there appears to be a conflict between product and process. The finished product seems more important because that is what readers see, but it is actually the pointiest tip of an iceberg that runs into glacial depths.

The depths are where the process lies. The process is the way a writer has learned over and over, through experimentation, what does not work. It is also the way a writer learns what does. The process may contain reams of jettisoned text, research, mind maps, and nonsensical passages that have given rise to sensible ones.

The product, such as a finished novel, is only a highly polished and simplified record of the process – a reflection of the intricate and fascinating reality that gave rise to it.

My ego prefers finished products to unfinished ones. Look at me! I wrote a novel! With pages and stuff! However, the real fun happens when I become relaxed enough to get immersively lost, when I meander and let myself become surprised by what my characters are doing or the world I am creating. If I wander too far from my main path, I can either pull myself back or change the story.

Writing grows in a space of tension between focusing on the immediate story action – the present moment of writing – and pushing toward the overall vision: the finished product. Both process and product matter. But if I had to choose, I would choose process. Praise for a finished work is nice but fleeting. The process is the drug I cannot live without.

Process is an easy choice for another reason: By focusing on the dynamic act of creating, I am not really sacrificing anything; no matter how many detours or wrong turns I take, I am actively engaging with my story. Wrong turns are just a part of the process, and when I take good care the process, the product will take care of itself.

If you enjoyed this post you might like my other writing. Take a moment and sign up for my free starter library. Click here. Also my new novel “Remembering the Future” is available for purchase on Amazon.