We've all been there. You sit down to write, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and suddenly that voice pipes up: "This sentence is terrible. You call yourself a writer? Delete it." Before you've even finished a paragraph, you're editing, second-guessing, and feeling like a fraud. The worst part? You're not even giving yourself a chance to actually write anything.

Here's what most writing advice gets wrong: it tells you to "silence your inner critic" or "just write without judging yourself." But how exactly do you do that? It's like telling someone to "just relax"—technically sound advice, completely unhelpful in practice.

That's where The Shitty First Draft Permission Slip comes in. This isn't just about accepting imperfection—it's a specific, concrete system that physically separates your drafting brain from your editing brain, making it literally impossible to self-sabotage while you write.

What Makes This Different From "Just Write Badly"

You've probably heard Anne Lamott's famous advice about shitty first drafts. The problem? Knowing you're allowed to write badly doesn't actually stop you from criticizing yourself while you do it. Your inner editor doesn't care about permission—it shows up anyway.

The Shitty First Draft Permission Slip solves this by creating a physical artifact that changes your entire writing session. You're not just mentally giving yourself permission; you're creating a documented contract with yourself that has real consequences.

The Five-Step Permission Slip System

Here's how it works:

Step 1: Write Your Permission Slip

Before you write a single word of your draft, take out a piece of paper (yes, physical paper—this matters). Write at the top: "Permission Slip for [today's date]." Then write exactly this sentence:

"I, [your name], have permission to write complete garbage for the next [time period]. I will not read what I write. I will not judge what I write. I will not fix anything. This draft's only job is to exist."

Sign it. Put today's date on it. Place it next to your keyboard where you can see it.

Step 2: The Black Box Rule

Here's the game-changer: Turn your text black-on-black. If you're writing in Word, Google Docs, or Scrivener, change your font color to match your background color. Can't see your words? Perfect. That's the point.

Can't do that? Use a software like Write or Die, or even better—cover your screen with a Post-it note. Whatever you write goes into a black box. It exists, but you can't see it to judge it.

Step 3: Set Your Escape Clause

Write on your Permission Slip: "I can only read this draft after [specific condition]." This isn't a time limit—it's a completion clause. Examples:

- "After I've written 1,000 words"
- "After I've filled in this entire scene"
- "After I've reached the end of this chapter"
- "After 24 hours have passed"

The key: you must reach a predetermined stopping point before you're allowed to look back.

Step 4: Write Into the Void

Now write. Can't see what you wrote three sentences ago? Good. Made a typo? Don't know, can't see it. Used the wrong character name? Probably, but you're not allowed to check.

This is where the magic happens. Without the ability to reread and criticize, your brain stops trying to edit. It has no choice but to generate new words. The paralysis breaks.

Step 5: The Quarantine Period

When you hit your escape clause, STOP. Don't look at what you wrote. Save the document, change the font back if you want, but close it. The quarantine period is crucial—it lets you detach emotionally from the draft.

Only after your predetermined waiting period (ideally at least a few hours, preferably the next day) do you get to read what you wrote.

What This Looks Like in Practice

Let me show you how writer Marcus used this for his stuck novel:

Marcus had been rewriting his opening chapter for three weeks. Every session, he'd read what he'd written the day before, hate it, and start over. His Permission Slip looked like this:

"I, Marcus Chen, have permission to write complete garbage for the next 45 minutes. I will not read what I write. I will not judge what I write. I will not fix anything. This draft's only job is to exist. I can only read this draft after I've written until my timer goes off AND 24 hours have passed."

He set his text to white-on-white, started his timer, and began typing his chapter again from memory—but this time, he couldn't see the previous sentence to judge it. He couldn't check if he'd already mentioned a detail. He just kept typing forward.

When he read it the next day, was it perfect? Hell no. He'd repeated himself twice, changed his character's eye color mid-scene, and written "teh" at least forty times. But he'd also written 2,000 words—more than he'd produced in three weeks combined. And buried in that mess was a new opening line that became the final version: "My mother always said guilt was the family business, but she never mentioned going rate."

Why This Actually Works

This system works because it removes the possibility of self-sabotage during the drafting process. You're not fighting your inner critic—you're simply making it impossible for it to operate.

The physical Permission Slip matters because it externalizes your commitment. When you're tempted to "just peek" at what you wrote, that piece of paper is a physical reminder of your agreement with yourself.

The black-on-black text matters because you can't critique what you can't see. Your brain gives up trying to be an editor when there's literally nothing to edit.

The escape clause matters because it gives you a finish line. You're not writing blind forever—just until you reach your goal.

Your First Permission Slip

Try this system for just one writing session. Not a whole book—one session.

Get your paper right now. Write your Permission Slip for your next writing session. Be specific about your escape clause. Make it achievable—better to complete 500 words successfully than abandon 2,000 words halfway through.

Then change your font color to match your background and write into that void.

The words you write won't be beautiful. They won't be profound. They might not even be particularly coherent.

But they'll exist. And existing words, no matter how shitty, can be revised. Perfect words that stay stuck in your head can't be.

You don't need better words. You need permission to write worse ones.

So give it to yourself. In writing. Right now.