The Most Important Step in Writing Is Often the One We Skip

The practical tip I offer every young writer (and myself) before any writing project

There’s a direction I give young writers before they embark on an assignment:

“Don’t write anything. Just tell me the story.”

These days, my niche as a coach is in helping young people who struggle to translate their ideas into writing. Many of these kids are navigating the cognitive maze of dyslexia, ADHD, or other learning disabilities. My job is to help them build a bridge between their brains and the blank page — to organize their brilliant ideas into written language.

But this isn’t a challenge exclusive to young writers, or even neurodiverse ones.

Every writer I know — including myself — needs support in constructing that bridge.

The problem with stream-of-consciousness writing

Question: How often do you sit down to draft something new (a Substack newsletter, for example), and find that 1,000 words later, you actually haven’t said anything of value at all?

Me!

I can’t count the number of times I’ve dove headfirst into a writing project only to realize thousands of words and countless hours later that I’ve only just figured out what I’m trying to say.

Then comes the painful delete, delete, delete.

As tempting as it is to let it rip, writing becomes time-consuming and frustrating when we skip the essential step of pre-writing. Writers who dive right in without a proper rehearsal often end up chasing tangents, straying from their meatiest ideas, and needing a road map to understand their own work.

And yet we all do it!

It’s not just the young writer trying to get that required Romeo & Juliet essay done and turned in, so they never have to think about it again. Even the most experienced writers sometimes bolt into projects like untamed stallions, wrestling ourselves from the reins we know will improve our craft.

But we rarely skip the rehearsal process because we’re lazy; we skip it because there’s vulnerability involved:

When we rehearse our writing, we discover that we must improve it.

Rehearsals expose a story’s weaknesses. They also lead to breakthroughs.

I’ve taught many third graders who insisted their writing was perfect as-is and kindly invited me to take my constructive feedback and shove it. We expect this sort of protectionism from kids, but I know plenty of adults who fall into this category, too.

Whether they truly believe their writing is perfection as-is, or they’re daunted by the work of revision, they know that rehearsing their writing will reveal cracks in the foundations. Which is exactly why they avoid it.

So, what exactly is a “rehearsal”?

I consider a rehearsal any type of oral conversation about the work. Whether solo or with a partner, it’s remarkable how much becomes illuminated simply by speaking our ideas aloud.

Rehearsals can sound like:

• Responding to a specific prompt. No freestyle writing, just freestyle conversation! If a writer can’t fill a 5-minute conversation on a topic, it’s probably not a topic they should choose.

• The “tell me a story” test. Narrating my story sequentially ensures many things, including that the twists and turns are mapped out and that the tension grows from one plot event to the next.

What’s revealed during the rehearsal phase often shifts the direction of the piece. It’s here that we come up against our first brick walls, falling silent with the realization that,

We need to do more research,

We don’t have evidence to back up our claim,

We haven’t yet established the stakes,

We can’t explain why a character is acting as they are,

Or any number of diagnoses that weaken our writing.

Only then do we have the opportunity to reach for our notebook and pen and start devising a solution.

The most important work of a writer is invisible.

When I taught public school, I loathed being observed during my writing block. That’s because too few administrators understood or valued the invisible process happening in kids’ heads as they write. Instead, they were looking for pencil-to-paper, word count, and physical evidence of their thinking.

How to explain that every writer from Shakespeare to Austen spent plenty of hours staring at walls or taking long walks — that this too is writing?

Sometimes I rehearse in the shower. Sometimes I take “plot walks” and talk to myself along the way.

If you’ve ever seen me driving to work on Monday morning, you’ve probably witnessed me recording voice memos in my phone, long-winded solo conversations to help me identify the gaps.

All of this is writing, even if it doesn’t look like it.

Professional writers understand this. Parents and educators, less so. Which is why we must start emphasizing the pre-writing process as much as drafting and revision.

Great writing doesn’t fly on vibes alone. Rehearsing is how we give it legs.