My first version of this newsletter was awful.

It was called Seven Day Snippets and barely cracked 500 words. I covered five different topics in one issue, and it read more like the ramblings of a sick madman than the cohesive publication you’re reading today.

When I look back at it, I cringe.

The second edition wasn’t much better. By the third, I renamed it Chief Rabbit and it wasn’t terrible… but it wasn’t great either. Some weeks I sent two. Other weeks I sent none. The consistency wasn’t there yet.

But I kept going.

A few months in, I wrote something, sent it out, and paused. I remember sitting there thinking, Hey… I like this. For the first time, I felt proud of what I made. And even stranger: people were reading it. Like actual, real people. Strangers. My subscriber list was filled with names I didn’t recognize.

Which raised the obvious question: What on earth were these people doing reading the strange little thoughts coming out of my head?

And now here we are. I’m approaching two years of publishing this thing and 35k+ subscribers. It’s bonkers.

So this week, let’s talk about first drafts, why they’re supposed to be terrible, and how giving yourself permission to be bad might finally help you get started.

Your first draft is bad because you literally don't know what you're making yet. That’s your brain in action. It’s biology. You can’t argue with science folks.

Your brain is figuring out the thing as you build it. It's solving the problem in real time, on the page. The early version of anything is messy because you're discovering the shape as you go. The clay has to be formless before it can be a bowl. The sketch has to be rough before it becomes a painting. First drafts work the same way.

I remember when I was first learning to play guitar. The first time I tried to play a chord, my fingers would fight me. They didn’t know where to go. I’d press down on the strings and nothing happened. Or worse, something awful came out. This sad, sickly, buzzing, dead sound that made me wonder what I was even doing.

But I kept trying. And by the hundredth time (give or take), my fingers would move without thinking. They’d just land in the right place. That's muscle memory. And the act of creation works exactly the same way.

The first time you try to explain an idea, it comes out clunky. The sentences don't flow. The logic doesn't connect. You're not bad at writing. Your brain just doesn't know the idea yet. It's still figuring out what it's trying to say.

And ya know what…that's okay. The first drafts aren’t failure. It's just part of the process. It's your brain thinking out loud. And the messiness isn't a sign you're doing it wrong. It's proof you're in motion.

The biggest barrier to starting isn't skill. It's the emotional weight of believing your work needs to be good immediately.

When you tell yourself "my first draft is supposed to be terrible," you remove that weight. You stop trying to create something perfect right out of the gate. You're just showing up. And showing up is the whole game.

Think about how artists actually work. They don't begin with finished paintings. They start with loose shapes and crooked lines. No color. No detail. Just structure. A sketch is meant to be rough. The refinement comes later. First drafts work the same way.

This permission acts as a protective layer. It keeps you from judging your work before it exists. It says, "Write the words now. Fix them later." And that simple shift changes everything.

Because the alternative is paralysis. You sit in front of a blank page, trying not to make a mistake. You delete sentences before they're finished. You second-guess every word. And the blank page just sits there. Smug. Waiting. Because blank pages are stubborn. They never blink first.

So you have to trick yourself into starting. And the easiest trick is permission. Permission to be bad. Permission to make a mess. Permission to write something you'll delete tomorrow.

Most people think the hard part of writing is putting words on the page. But that's not true. The hard part is letting yourself put anything on a page. Your brain wants to edit while you create. It wants to fix the sentence before you finish it. It wants to delete the paragraph before you write the next one.

Don't let it.

Creation and editing are two separate jobs. And your brain can't do both at the same time. So just write. Get the something out. Let them be clunky and rough and ever so wrong. You can fix them later. But you can't fix what doesn't exist. Bad words can be edited. Blank pages can't.

If you've been around here for a while, you might remember when I encouraged you to "ship your worst work." And yeah, I know. Today's topic sounds like the same advice.

But they're different houses on the same street.

Shipping your worst work is what you do when the thing is done and your perfectionism is holding it hostage. Terrible first drafts are what you make when the thing is still a blurry blob and you're just trying to figure out which end is up. One is about overcoming the fear of judgment. The other is about giving yourself space to discover what you're making. Different battles. Same war.

So how do you actually use this permission? How do you write a terrible first draft without just staring at the screen?

Here's what works:

The key is momentum. Once you're moving, it's easier to keep going. Motion is the lotion here folks. But you have to give yourself permission to move badly first.

So yeah, my first newsletter was objectively terrible. And I published it anyway.

Same with my second one but I published that too. By the third one, I'd at least figured out a name. Chief Rabbit. Yea progress!

But here's what I think I have learned. The people who never start aren't protecting their work from being bad. They're protecting their pride from taking a hit. And that's the trap. Because you can't get better at something you won't let yourself be bad at first.

Every good thing you've ever seen started as something worse. The difference between the people who make things and the people who don't isn't talent. It's willingness to suck for a while.

So write the terrible first draft. Make the messy sketch. Shape the ugly clay. Whatever you're working on, it doesn't have to be good yet. It just has to exist.

The world doesn't need your perfect version. It needs your first one.

As always, thanks for reading,
Derek (aka Chief Rabbit)
Oh and have something interesting you think I should write about? You can reply to this email (or any other Chief Rabbit email) to suggest it.