Writing your book is a fantastic adventure that that starts with big ideas that often get slowed down by perfectionist thinking.
We romanticize beginnings—the first word, the first page, the first spark of an idea that becomes something real. But if you’ve ever tried to start writing a book, you know the truth: beginnings are messy. They’re full of hesitation, overthinking, and the kind of perfectionism that convinces you it’s safer to never begin at all.
When I first started Bad Omens and Good Intentions, my supernatural romance/suspense project, I had a half-scene written and about twelve competing thoughts on how the story could go. I had outlines and beats waiting in a document. I had mood boards. I had ambition. What I didn’t have was momentum.
Every time I sat down to write, distraction came first. Then the inner critic showed up with their clipboard of notes: This idea’s been done before. You’re not ready. It’s not good enough. What if people actually read it and hate it? Sometimes, that last question twisted itself into something worse—What if people read it and love it? What if it works, and now you have to live up to that?
That’s the part people don’t talk about enough: fear of success is just as paralyzing as fear of failure. Because starting means committing—and committing means risking that the thing you love might disappoint you.
Writing Your Book for Perfectionists
Step 1: Lower the Stakes (for Now)
When you start writing a book, it doesn’t have to be the book. It just has to be a book. Or more accurately, a draft of one. The biggest trick perfectionism plays is making you believe the first version must be beautiful. It won’t be. It’s not supposed to be.
Your only job at the start is to generate material. That’s it. Half an idea? Great. Write the half. You’ll figure out the rest later. Some of my favorite writing sessions began with sentences I didn’t even like. But a page of bad sentences is still a hell of a lot closer to a finished book than a blank document.
If it helps, try reframing: instead of saying “I’m writing a book,” tell yourself, “I’m exploring a story.” You can’t fail exploration. You can only learn from it.
Step 2: Find Your Momentum
Momentum isn’t motivation. Motivation is a spark—it comes and goes. Momentum is friction meeting motion; it’s what happens when you write a little, even when you don’t feel like it.
For me, the switch flips when I start typing anything, even nonsense. Sometimes that’s just dialogue between two characters who might not even exist in the final draft. Sometimes it’s a scrap of setting. Sometimes it’s “fuck, this guy is fast.” (Yes, that’s the actual opening of one of my stories.)
Momentum doesn’t wait for the perfect conditions—it creates them. My best writing happens later at night, when the world is quiet and my brain’s too tired to second-guess itself. I set a small, non-negotiable goal: 1,000 words. It doesn’t have to be good, it just has to exist.
If you want to build momentum:
- Set micro-goals. 300 words. 15 minutes. One paragraph.
- Track effort, not output. Write down every day you tried, not just the days you nailed it.
- End mid-sentence. Leave something half-finished so you have a place to start tomorrow.
Step 3: Expect the Inner Critic (and Write Anyway)
That voice in your head saying you’re not good enough? It’s not going anywhere. The only difference between writers who finish books and writers who don’t is that one group writes through the noise.
When my inner critic gets loud, I remind myself: they only exist because I care. They’re the anxious part of me that wants to protect something sacred. But fear doesn’t get to hold the pen.
Try this: when you hear the critic, don’t argue. Just say, “Noted.” Then keep writing. You can let that voice have power in revision, but not in creation.
If you can make peace with writing something imperfect, you’ll start to build trust with yourself. And trust is the one thing the critic can’t dismantle once it’s earned.
Step 4: Build the Book You’d Want to Read
Every story starts with curiosity. There’s something about your idea that only you can see clearly. That’s what makes it worth writing—even if ten other writers could tell a similar story, none of them would do it your way.
When you feel yourself getting tangled up in perfectionism, return to curiosity. Ask: What do I want to explore right now? Not what will impress readers, not what will sell, not even what makes sense—just, what fascinates me?
For Bad Omens and Good Intentions, that means leaning into the tension I love most: how far someone will go for redemption, and whether love can survive the supernatural consequences. It’s not clean, and it’s not simple. But it’s mine.
Step 5: Redefine What a “Good Start” Means
A good start isn’t a polished first chapter. It’s a commitment. It’s sitting down even when it feels pointless, writing 500 words that might get deleted later, and slowly proving to yourself that you can do it.
By the time you finish your first few writing sessions, you’ll have something to work with—and once you have something, you’re no longer starting. You’re building.
Starting a book is less about inspiration and more about permission. Permission to be bad, messy, uncertain. Permission to explore. Permission to try.
If you’ve been waiting for a sign that it’s time to start writing your book, this is it. Don’t wait for the perfect idea or the perfect mood. Start with half an idea and a little momentum.
You can’t finish what you never start—and every word you write, even the bad ones, pulls the story closer to existing in the world.