Once Upon A Time...

Every story has to start somewhere. But what if the beginning doesn’t have to be perfect?

In this episode of Book Doula Diaries, we’re talking about the art of beginning, the fear, perfectionism & overthinking that can keep a story trapped in your head instead of making its way onto the page.

Whether you’re writing your first sentence, starting again, or simply wondering where the hell to begin, consider this your permission slip to make it messy.

Because every story has a beginning. You just have to give yourself permission to find yours.

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If you’re ready for a little more nurturing for you & your writing, contact Megs via her website - www.megswrites.com

Until next time, keep your notebook close.

Music is Float Easy by Hemlock

Book Doula Diaries is written, recorded & quasi-edited by Megs Thompson, of megswrites llc

Transcript

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SPEAKER_00 0:07

Hey there, my brave storytellers. Welcome back to Bookdoula Diaries, the cozy little corner of the internet where we nurture writers and their stories from the inside out. I'm Megs, your resident Bookdoula, intuitive writing coach, editor, publisher, cheer mom, occasional literary midwife, and still very much the woman who can sit down with a cup of coffee and forget about it completely because she's gotten distracted thinking about someone's story. If you listen to our first episode, you know that this podcast is for the writers who are somewhere in the middle of becoming. Maybe you've been writing for years. Maybe you've got a book sitting half finished on your laptop. Maybe you've got 12 notebooks full of ideas hidden under your bed or in a dusty box at the back of the garage. Maybe you've got exactly zero words, but one very persistent little voice that keeps saying, you should write this down. If that's you, then I'm glad you're here. Because today we're talking about something that sounds incredibly simple, but as most writers know, is anything but. We're talking about beginning, the art of beginning. How to start your story, and maybe even more importantly, why starting can feel so damn hard. Here's the thing: beginnings are weird. They're exciting, they're terrifying, they're awkward, they're full of possibility and zero guarantees. Kind of like the first five minutes of a blind date. You know, you're overthinking what to say, trying not to spill something on yourself, wondering if the other person is silently judging your choice of hairstyle, and you're desperately trying to figure out whether you should be charming, funny, interesting, mysterious, or just make a run for the bathroom and never come back. Honestly, starting a book isn't all that different. You're sitting there staring at the blank page, thinking, okay, what do I say now? Suddenly every sentence feels like it needs to be profound, important, beautiful, meaningful, maybe even pullets are worthy. No pressure, just your entire creative soul sitting there next to a blinking cursor. And that's what I want to talk about today. Because I think somewhere along the way, a lot of us were taught that the beginning has to be good. Not just a beginning, but a good beginning. The kind that grabs the reader by the throat, makes somebody gasp. The kind that makes a literary agent immediately throw everything off their desk and scream, This is it! And sure, sometimes beginnings do that. But you know what? Most beginnings don't. And they don't have to. In fact, one of the quickest ways to stop yourself from actually writing is to decide that the first words out of your head need to be the perfect final words of your book. Spoiler, they don't. Here's my little truth bomb for today. Perfectionism is just procrastination wearing lipstick. I said it, and I stand by it. We're incredibly creative when it comes to finding reasons why we aren't ready to begin. I need to do a little more research first. I should probably figure out the structure. I should read more books in the genre. You know, I really need to find the right notebook and pen. I should probably clean my office first, and maybe I'll start Monday. I'll actually have more time after the holidays. And listen, sometimes we really do need those things. But sometimes, you're just standing at the edge of the pool in your bathing suit, dipping one toe into the water and telling yourself that you're getting ready to swim. Meanwhile, you've been standing there for six months, and sweetheart, at some point you have to jump in and get wet. Because beginnings are uncertain. They're vulnerable. They're messy. And our brains, our nervous systems, they don't particularly love messy. They love knowing. They love certainty. They love a plan. They love a nice little checklist with boxes that can be ticked off in order. And writing is basically one giant invitation to step into the unknown. You don't always know what's going to happen. You don't always know what the character is going to do, what the story means, where things are going. And sometimes you don't even know what the story is until you've written it. That's the part that can feel absolutely terrifying, but it's also magic. Because you can't discover something that you've already decided. Sometimes the story has to surprise you. And in order for it to surprise you, you have to give it somewhere to show up. So let's talk about that ugly beginning. Because I want to encourage you right now to write one. Actually, I want to encourage you to write several. I've worked with so many writers who've come to me absolutely convinced that their problem is that they don't know how to write. Then when I look at what they've written, I realize, uh nope, that's not the problem. The problem is that they're trying to edit something that hasn't even been written yet. They're trying to make the clay beautiful before they've even dug it out of the ground. And you can't shape what doesn't exist. You can't edit a blank page. It's impossible. Seriously, I've tried. You have to write something first. Then you can decide what it wants to become. So when you begin, give yourself permission to write what I lovingly call the ugly cry draft. You know what I'm talking about. It's the one that spills out sideways, with half sentences, too many ellipses, and maybe a few all caps moments. It's the draft where you suddenly realize you've repeated the same word 17 times in one paragraph, and where you write, I don't know where this is going, but and you keep going. That's okay. That's not failure, that's not bad writing, that's just raw material. Remember, you're not sculpting marble yet. You're still shoveling clay. And sweetheart, you can't make a beautiful sculpture out of a pile of imaginary clay. So give yourself some. Make a mess. Make a glorious, ridiculous, imperfect mess. We can clean it up later, but first, let it exist. Now here's where things get interesting. Because while I don't want you obsessing over writing the perfect beginning, I do want to acknowledge something big. That beginnings do matter, like a lot, because the beginning is where you say yes. It's where you say yes to the whisper that's been following you, to the story that keeps tapping you on the shoulder, to the idea that won't leave you alone, to the version of yourself who writes instead of just dreams about writing. And that yes doesn't necessarily look like sitting down and writing chapter one from beginning to end. In fact, sometimes I think that's where we get ourselves into trouble. We think beginning means, okay, chapter one, sentence one, let's go. But your beginning might look completely different. Maybe you're standing in the school pickup line and suddenly think of a scene. So you grab your phone and type three sentences into your notes app. That's a beginning. Maybe you're driving and you suddenly remember something that happened 20 years ago. You pull over safely, because as your book doula, I would prefer that you remain among the living. And record a voice memo. That's a beginning. Maybe you're folding laundry and suddenly hear a character say something in your head. Write it down. Beginning. Maybe you sit down with your journal and write about something you've been carrying around for years. It might never make it into the book, but something shifts inside of you, and that's a beginning too. Because beginning isn't always about producing pages. Sometimes beginnings are just moving the energy. It's about taking something that's been living inside of you and giving it somewhere to go. And I think that's beautiful. Because stories are living things. They move, they breathe, they change. Sometimes they grow quietly for a really long time before they're ready to emerge. And then there comes a moment when something shifts. You feel it. Maybe it's subtle. Maybe it's a sentence that won't leave you alone. Maybe it's an image. Maybe it's a memory. Maybe it's simply that little voice saying, okay, it's time. And your job isn't necessarily to have the whole plan in place. Your job is to listen and take one step, just one. Now, if you've been writing for any amount of time, you already know that the moment you decide to begin, fear shows up. Fear loves beginnings. Fear's like that friend who wasn't invited but somehow got into the car anyway, and suddenly you're hearing things like, Who do you think you are? Somebody's already written this. What if nobody cares? What if you finish writing and it's terrible? What if the people you know read it? What if they recognize themselves and they don't like it? My absolute favorite. Who do you think you are to tell this story? Oh, honey, I've heard that one before. Here's what I want you to know. Fear isn't necessarily evidence that you shouldn't be doing something. Sometimes fear is evidence that you care deeply about what you're doing. You're afraid because this thing matters. You're afraid because you're stepping outside of your comfort zone. Because your writing is asking you to trust yourself. And self-trust can be scary, especially if you've spent a lifetime being very good at doing what everybody else expects of you. So instead of trying to make fear disappear, what if we give it a job? We can say, hey fear, I see you. You can come along, but you do not get to drive. I actually love that image, putting fear in the backseat. It can complain, it can occasionally offer unsolicited commentary, but it does not get to decide where you're going. You do. And sometimes that's what beginning really is. It's not the absence of fear. It's the decision to move anyway. Now, let's make this a little easier because I don't want to spend an entire episode telling you to just begin and then send you off into the wilderness with a blank page and a prayer. So let me give you a few little doorways, not rules, not formulas, just possible entry points. Door number one. Start with the moment that changed everything. What's the heartbeat of your story? What's something that happened that cracked things open? Maybe it was beautiful, maybe it was devastating, maybe it was funny. Maybe looking back it was one of those completely ordinary moments that you didn't realize would become important until much later. Start there, write that scene. And if you eventually discover that it belongs in chapter 14, fantastic. You haven't failed. You found chapter 14. We can move it later. Remember, you don't have to write your story in the order that the reader will experience it. You just have to find your way into it. Alright, door number two. Start with the emotion. Forget structure for a minute. Forget chapter numbers, forget whether this is technically the right place to begin. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath, and ask. Maybe it's grief. Maybe it's hope. Maybe it's rage. Maybe it's longing or joy. Maybe it's rage wrapped in grace with a side of hilarity. You know, the usual human experience. Whatever it is though, let the feeling lead the way. Write what that emotion feels like in your body. Write the memory it brings up. The image. The sentence. You might be surprised where this takes you. Then there's door number three. This is one of my favorites. Write a letter. Imagine the person who needs this story the most. Not your entire target demographic, not your ideal reader avatar with 17 carefully researched personality traits. Just one person. One human. And write them a letter. Tell them why you're writing this story. Tell them what you hope they find in it. What you wish someone had told you. What you want them to know. The letter might become part of your book. It might become your dedication. It might never see the light of day, but it can become your North Star. And sometimes that's all you need. Not the whole map, just a little light. Which brings me to one of my favorite pieces of book doula wisdom. You don't need the whole map to take the first step. You just need to trust that the path will appear beneath your feet. Seriously, write that down. Put it somewhere you'll see it, or tattoo it somewhere spiritual. I'm not here to judge. Because the truth is, we often think that we need clarity before we can begin. But sometimes clarity is what comes because we begin. You don't know what the story is? Right. You don't know what the character wants. Right. You don't know how it ends? Right. You don't know whether it's going to be any good. Right. A blank page can't answer those questions. Only the words can. And again, that's why I tell writers time and time again, you cannot edit a blank page. You can shape raw words, you can move them around, cut them, rewrite them, make them prettier, make them stronger. You can discover something you didn't know was there, but first you need something to work with. That's where beginning becomes an act of trust. Not trust that you're going to write something brilliant. Trust that you're willing to find out what's going to happen. Let me tell you about a client. I'll call her Sarah. Sarah had been carrying a pretty big story around for ten years. That's a long time to carry a story. And this this wasn't a little story. It was personal, it was complicated. It was the kind of story that lived in her body. She'd tried writing it before. She would stop, then start, then wait, then tell herself that she wasn't ready. She didn't remember enough. She wasn't a real writer. Maybe someday, when life calmed down, when she had more time, when she knew exactly how to tell the story. Does any of this sound familiar? When we started working together, I didn't ask Sarah to write chapter one. I didn't ask her to outline her book or figure out the structure. Instead, I asked her to tell me the story out loud. We hopped on a Zoom call, both of us, with a steaming mug of coffee. I muted myself, and within about five minutes, Sarah was crying. Not because something terrible had happened in that moment, but because she suddenly realized that the story was already there. It had been there the whole time. She wasn't looking for the story. She was looking for permission to trust herself enough to tell it. And once she realized that, something huge shifted. That night after our call, she wrote three pages. Now, were they perfect? No, not even close. But they were real. They were hers. They existed. And those three pages were Sarah's beginning. Nine months later, she was holding a completed manuscript. I think about Sarah a lot because her story is a reminder that sometimes the thing standing between us and the beginning isn't a lack of ability. It's the belief that we need to know more before we're allowed to start. And sometimes we don't. Sometimes we just need someone to sit beside us and say, tell me. And that's enough to crack open the door. So if you're listening right now and something inside of you is saying, Okay, maybe I'm ready. I want to give you a few questions to play with. Not homework. Again, I'm not giving you homework. It's an invitation. So grab your journal, open your notes app, record a voice memo, write it on the back of a receipt if that's what you've got. And if you want, you can pause the episode. I'll still be here when you come back. Ask yourself, what story has been tapping me on the shoulder waiting to be told? What am I afraid might happen if I actually start? And it's important with these that you not judge the answer. Just listen. What would beginning look like if I didn't need to do it perfectly? And finally, if my story could speak to me right now, what would it say? Now don't rush these, let them simmer. Because sometimes the beginning happens on the page, and sometimes it happens in our hearts first. Now before we wrap up today, I want to give you another little permission slip, because I think these are fun. You are allowed to begin before you're ready. You're allowed to write badly and beautifully at the same time. You're allowed to write your scenes out of order, to change your mind, and to start with a voice note. You're allowed to start with a sentence. You're allowed to start in the middle, you are allowed to start over. You're allowed to be afraid. You are allowed to have no idea what you're doing, and you're allowed to begin anyways. Because the art of beginning isn't about mastery. It's about movement. It's about taking the thing that's been living inside of you and giving it somewhere to go. Because once you start, something changes. You're no longer just dreaming about a book, you're writing one. Even if it's one sentence at a time, even if it's terrible, even if you don't know where it's going, and if no one else ever sees it. You've crossed the threshold and that matters. So if you've been standing at the edge of your story, maybe today you don't make a leap, but maybe you put one foot in and get your toes wet and see what happens. And if fear starts yelling from the backseat, you can look over your shoulder and say, Thank you for your concerns. Now buckle up, we're leaving anyways. Your story isn't waiting for perfect. It's waiting for you. And I think that's where we'll leave our little diary entry today. Not with a ten-step writing plan, not with the demand that you produce 500 words before breakfast tomorrow, not with the things that you need to accomplish before the next episode. Just an invitation. To start somewhere, anywhere, with a memory, with a feeling, with a scene you can't stop thinking about, with the sentence that's been living in your head. Maybe start with, I don't know what I'm doing, but I think there's something here. Because there might be. And if you've already started, that's beautiful. Maybe your beginning isn't about writing something new. Maybe your beginning is about going back to the pages you've already written and looking at them with curiosity instead of criticism. Instead of asking, what's wrong with this? Try saying, what's still alive here? So if you've been waiting for a sign, maybe this is it. If you've been waiting for permission, here it is. If you've been waiting to feel ready, sorry, babe, that particular memo may never arrive. But begin anyway. Thank you for hanging out with me today in this sacred little writing nook of the internet. Thank you for letting me sit beside you for a little while. And if something in today's episode stirred a feeling in you, don't push it away, pay attention. Maybe that's your story saying hello. And if you know another writer who's been standing at the edge of their story, send this episode their way. Maybe they don't need another writing tip. Maybe they just need someone to say, come on, let's begin. Next time on Bookdula Diaries, we're going into the part of the journey that everybody dreads. Or as I like to call it, creative constipation. Until then, keep writing, keep breathing, keep listening. And remember, your story isn't waiting for perfect. It's waiting for you. I'm Megs, and I'll see you next time on Book Deal Diaries.