Some of my best scenes were written with a cold coffee nearby, the dog barking at the neighbour’s cat, and my phone buzzing with three unanswered messages. No mood lighting. No perfect desk setup. No quiet weekend away.
Some days, the writing rules glare at you like a grumpy librarian.
Write every day.
Never use adverbs.
Show, don’t tell.
Your protagonist must have a flaw, an arc, and a marketable backstory.
The first chapter has to “hook” your reader in the first three lines.
It’s enough to make you want to close the laptop, fold the washing, and alphabetise the pantry instead.
Rules aren’t bad in themselves — they can be incredibly helpful. But when they start weighing more than the words you’re trying to write, they stop being helpful and start being handcuffs.
The Myth of the Perfect Draft
Perfectionism is sneaky. It pretends it’s your friend — the one who only wants “the best for you.” But in practice, it’s like that guest who rearranges your lounge room while you’re making tea. It interferes.
It tells you you’re “just trying to make it better,” but really, it’s keeping you from finishing. It whispers things like:
“If I can’t write this scene perfectly the first time, I shouldn’t write it at all.”
“If I don’t know the exact word I want, I’ll just stop until I find it.”
“If I can’t make this character arc flawless, it’s probably not worth writing.”
That’s a bit like refusing to cook dinner because you might burn the onions. Every great book you’ve ever read started as something messier than you think — pages of filler dialogue, chapters that went nowhere, characters whose names changed three times because the writer forgot what they were called.
Why Rules Feel So Heavy
Rules give the illusion of control. Follow them all, and you think you’ll end up with a “proper” book. But writing isn’t cake mix. You can’t just follow the instructions on the box and pull out the same perfect sponge every time.
Even the experts disagree on which rules matter. One teacher swears by the three-act structure. Another says to throw it out and “let the story find itself.” The Queensland Writers Centre runs workshops on both — and both approaches can work.
The truth is, rules aren’t universal laws. They’re tools other writers have found useful, and you can decide if they fit your project, your brain, and your life.
Loosening the Grip
Here’s how I wrestle perfectionism to the ground:
1. Give yourself a permission slip:Before I start writing, I literally type “This is allowed to be terrible” at the top of my page. It’s amazing how much freer you feel when you know you’re not aiming for publishable — just possible.
2. Use ugly placeholders:If I can’t find the right word, I write “???” and keep going. If a scene feels tricky, I jot down dot points of what’s meant to happen and move on. The polish can come later.
3. Ignore structure — at first:I’m a big believer in getting the bones down before worrying about whether your midpoint twist lands on page 150 or 180. The architecture can be built later; first, you need the raw material.
4. Break one rule on purpose:Pick a “writing rule” you’ve been clinging to and ditch it for a week. If you’re a “show, don’t tell” purist, try telling a scene in two blunt sentences. If you’ve sworn off adverbs, sprinkle them like confetti and see what happens. Sometimes breaking a rule shows you it was never serving you in the first place.
When Rules Can Actually Help
I’m not saying you should live in creative anarchy forever. Some rules are guardrails that stop your story from driving into a ditch. If you’re lost in your draft, a rule like “end every chapter with a question or hook” can give you momentum. If you’re editing and want tighter prose, the “cut unnecessary adverbs” guideline can sharpen your writing.
But rules are tools — not chains. If a rule stops you from getting words on the page, it’s time to put it down and pick it up later, when you actually need it.
Real-Life Imperfection
Some of my best scenes were written with a cold coffee nearby, the dog barking at the neighbour’s cat, and my phone buzzing with three unanswered messages. No mood lighting. No perfect desk setup. No quiet weekend away.
If I’d waited for the perfect conditions or the perfect sentence, those scenes wouldn’t exist. Perfectionism wants you to believe that good writing only happens in ideal circumstances. The truth? Good writing happens when you show up. Rules or no rules.
Your Homework: The Imperfection Drill
- Write for 20 minutes without deleting anything. Not even typos.
- Break one writing rule you’ve been afraid to break.
- Stop mid-scene and walk away — just to prove you can come back and finish it.
You might be surprised at how much easier it is to keep writing once the pressure’s off.
Final Thought
Rules have their place. Perfectionism can even be useful — if it pushes you to improve rather than paralysing you. But if you’ve been waiting to “get it right” before you start, here’s your permission slip: you’re allowed to get it wrong. You’re allowed to make a mess. You’re allowed to write something ugly that you’ll fix later.
Because you can’t edit a blank page. And no one ever got published on the strength of an idea they never wrote down.
☕ If this blog gave you permission to ditch a few rules and just write, you can shout me a coffee at buymeacoffee.com/scribblyteam. It keeps my cold coffees topped up and my messy notebooks full.