Speaking of my own experience, I am always embarrassed to have anyone see a first draft. It is usually wooden and awkward. But don't let this sort of thing bother you. Remember, . . . the last draft [is the only draft that] people are going to read.
—Reed Dickerson, “How to Write a Law” (1955)
I recently received an email from a former student (now a public interest lawyer) who had just finished a major writing project. She wanted to thank me for introducing her to the psychologically liberating concept of “shitty first drafts.” Without it, she said, she probably would have never hit her deadline.
The term “shitty first drafts” is not my own. It was coined by Anne Lamott in a book called Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. “For me and most of the other writers I know,” Lamott explains, “writing is not rapturous. In fact, the only way I can get anything written at all is to write really, really shitty first drafts.”
Lamott doesn’t judge or question herself during these drafts. She doesn’t fret over clunky phrases, abrupt transitions, or random digressions. The goal isn’t precision. The goal is production. Permitting herself to “romp all over the place,” almost like a child, helps her build valuable momentum.
Lamott’s carefree approach to first drafts shares a lot with the concept of “freewriting” championed by acclaimed English professor Peter Elbow in Writing Without Teachers, a book motivated by Elbow’s struggles with (and gradual triumphant over) something that plagues many lawyers as well: writer’s block. In Elbow’s view, “Trying to get the beginning just right is a formula for failure—and probably a secret tactic to make yourself give up writing.” In graduate school, for example, Elbow put a lot of pressure on himself. He meticulously planned everything he had to write and didn’t give himself a lot of room for false starts, missteps, or unproductive tangents. As a result, he explains, “writing became more and more impossible”—so much so that, at one point, he dropped out.
Elbow eventually discovered a better approach: “Make some words, whatever they are, and then grab hold of that line and reel in as hard as you can. Afterwards you can throw away lousy beginnings and make new ones. This is the quickest way to get into good writing.”
Elbow uses the analogy of flowing water to cement his point: “Producing writing, then, is not so much like filling a basin or pool once, but rather getting water to keep flowing through till finally it runs clear.”
I often mention Lamott and Elbow in the courses I teach. I think their insights can help students (like the one who emailed me) avoid a problem I see many young lawyers struggle with getting paralyzed by perfectionism.
Not wanting to write anything bad, young lawyers sometimes don’t write anything at all. For days. Even weeks. That’s not a great way to consistently produce quality work.
It also fails to understand something that more experienced lawyers, at least the good ones, eventually learn and plan for: Writing is often a messy process. You can’t expect a direct line from idea to execution. Instead, you must build in plenty of time for detours, doubts, and discoveries.
One strategy is to make an explicit spot on your writing schedule for the shitty first drafts Lamott endorses. Don’t put “Due on Monday: First Draft.” Don’t put “Due on Monday: Initial Draft.” Put “Due on Monday: Shitty First Draft.” The playful label is a reminder to relax and experiment. It lowers the mental stakes.
That doesn’t mean you are allowed to blow off the deadline. A shitty first draft isn’t a thoughtless first draft. It’s not a time to coast or slack off. Instead, it’s a great opportunity to try out some preliminary ideas, fully understanding that you’ll get a chance to come back to what you’ve written and make a bunch of improvements.
I like to share a specific passage of Anne Lamott’s with students toward the end of our discussion of shitty first drafts. Here is a slightly edited version of it:
People tend to look at successful writers—writers who are getting their books published and maybe even doing well financially—and think that they sit down at their desks every morning feeling like a million dollars, feeling great about who they are and how much talent they have and what a great story they have to tell; that they take in a few deep breaths, push back their sleeves, roll their necks a few times to get all the cricks out, and dive in, typing fully formed passages as fast as a court reporter. But this is just the fantasy of the uninitiated.
I particularly love that last phrase: “the fantasy of the uninitiated.” It captures the foolishness of believing that producing good, clear writing is a quick and effortless enterprise. Lawyers who are new to the profession (“the uninitiated”) may buy into that delusion. But veteran attorneys—especially the ones that take pride in consistently crafting compelling sentences and paragraphs—know better.
For that reason, after I show students Lamott’s original passage, I close the class by showing a version I specifically modified with the legal world in mind:
People tend to look at successful lawyers—lawyers who are winning cases and closing deals—and think that they sit down at their desks every morning feeling like a million dollars, feeling great about who they are and how much talent they have and what a great story they have to tell; that they take in a few deep breaths, push back their sleeves, roll their necks a few times to get all the cricks out, and dive in, typing fully formed motions, briefs, and contracts as fast as a court reporter. But this is just the fantasy of the uninitiated.
