You're 30,000 words into your novel when it happens. The scene you're working on feels wooden. The dialogue sounds like robots reciting a script. Your protagonist's decision to confront their ex makes no sense given what happened three chapters ago. And suddenly, you can't write another word because you're convinced it's all garbage.

Here's the truth bomb: It probably is garbage. And that's exactly what it needs to be right now.

Welcome to the liberation of the "Shitty First Draft" permission slip—a concept popularized by Anne Lamott in her writing bible Bird by Bird. But this isn't just about accepting imperfection. It's about weaponizing mediocrity as your secret tool to blast through the paralysis that strikes in the middle of your story when the honeymoon phase is over and the finish line is still nowhere in sight.

Why the Middle Is Where Writers Die

The beginning of a story comes with adrenaline. You've got a premise, characters you're excited about, and that opening scene has been playing in your head like a movie trailer. The ending? You probably have some vision of that too—the final confrontation, the emotional resolution, the last line that'll make readers cry.

But the middle? The middle is where you actually have to connect point A to point Z through points B, C, D, and all the messy letters in between. It's where you realize your protagonist needs to learn something but you're not sure what scenes will teach them. It's where plot threads start tangling. It's where you suddenly notice you've written the word "just" forty-seven times in five pages.

This is precisely when writers start editing. And editing in the middle of a first draft is like stopping mid-marathon to criticize your running form. You lose momentum, you lose heat, and pretty soon you're not moving at all.

The Shitty First Draft Permission Slip: Your New License to Suck

The core principle is deceptively simple: Give yourself explicit, written permission to write badly. Not just "accepting imperfection" in a vague, inspirational-poster way, but actively embracing terrible writing as your strategy for forward motion.

Here's how to activate this permission:

Step 1: Write it down physically. On a notecard, post-it, or document you keep open while writing, write: "This draft is allowed to be shitty. Its only job is to exist." Place it where you'll see it constantly. This is your contract with yourself.

Step 2: Identify your "perfection triggers." These are the specific things that make you stop and edit. Common ones include:
- Realizing you don't know the perfect word for something
- Noticing a plot inconsistency with earlier scenes
- Writing dialogue that sounds unnatural
- Describing a setting when you haven't researched the details
- Introducing a character whose backstory you haven't figured out yet

Step 3: Create bypass brackets. When you hit a perfection trigger, don't stop. Instead, insert brackets with a placeholder and keep going:

[FIND BETTER WORD THAN "SAD" HERE]

[FIX THIS LATER - SHE CAN'T HAVE A DOG IF SHE WAS JUST ALLERGIC IN CHAPTER 2]

[INSERT DESCRIPTION OF WHAT A POLICE STATION HOLDING CELL ACTUALLY LOOKS LIKE]

[THIS DIALOGUE SUCKS BUT GET THEM TO THE PARK SOMEHOW]

The brackets are your pressure-release valve. They acknowledge the problem, promise you'll return to it, and most importantly, keep your fingers moving forward.

Step 4: Embrace scaffolding sentences. These are sentences that are purely functional—no artistry, no elegance, just plot delivery. Examples:

"Then she went to the store."

"He felt angry because of the thing that happened."

"They talked about the problem for a while."

These sentences feel embarrassing to write. Write them anyway. They're scaffolding—temporary structures that hold up your story until you can come back and build the real walls. You'll replace them in revision, but right now, they're getting you to the next scene.

The Technique in Action: A Real Example

Let me show you this in practice. Here's a writer stuck in their middle:

Before (Writer Stops Here):

Sarah walked into the coffee shop and—

[Writer stops. Thinks: "Wait, what does she order? Is she a coffee person or tea? That reveals character. Also, I need to describe the coffee shop. Is it corporate or independent? What's the vibe? And why is she meeting him here instead of somewhere more dramatic? Maybe this scene shouldn't even be in a coffee shop. Should I change it to a park? Let me reread the last chapter..."]

After (Using Shitty First Draft Permission):

Sarah walked into the coffee shop [DESCRIBE IT LATER - SOMETHING COZY]. She ordered [WHATEVER, FIX IN REVISION] and spotted Marcus in the corner. Here's the thing about Marcus that she'd forgotten until this moment: he never apologized. Not once in three years. She sat down across from him.

"Thanks for meeting me," Marcus said.

[THIS DIALOGUE IS GOING TO BE TERRIBLE BUT BASICALLY HE NEEDS TO TELL HER ABOUT THE INHERITANCE AND SHE NEEDS TO REALIZE HER MOTHER LIED]

"I can't believe she never told me," Sarah said finally.

Marcus did the shrug thing he always did. [DESCRIBE THE SHRUG BETTER - IT'S IMPORTANT]

"Yeah, well. Now you know." He pushed an envelope across the table. [WHAT KIND OF ENVELOPE? MANILA? WHO CARES RIGHT NOW]

Notice what happened: The writer got through the entire scene. It's rough. Some of it is laughably bad. But the plot advanced. Sarah discovered information. The relationship with Marcus got complicated. The envelope introduced a new element. The draft exists.

Why This Works When You're Stuck

The Shitty First Draft permission slip works because it addresses the real enemy: the gap between your taste and your current ability. You know what good writing looks like (that's why you can identify your draft as shitty), but creating good writing in real-time is a different skill—one that's nearly impossible to deploy while simultaneously inventing plot, character, and world.

By separating "generating story" from "generating prose," you're splitting an overwhelming task into two manageable ones. First, you get the story down. Then, you make it beautiful. Trying to do both at once in the middle of a complex narrative is like trying to juggle while learning to juggle.

Implementing Your Permission Slip This Week

Ready to try this? Here's your action plan:

1. Open your stuck manuscript. Find the exact spot where you stopped.

2. Write your permission slip and position it prominently.

3. Set a timer for 25 minutes. Your only goal is forward motion, not quality.

4. Use brackets liberally. Every time you feel the urge to stop and perfect something, bracket it and keep going.

5. After 25 minutes, stop and count. How many words did you add? How far did your plot advance? You're measuring progress by distance traveled, not elegance of the journey.

The beautiful secret? When you return for revision, you'll often find that your "shitty" first draft isn't nearly as terrible as you thought. The bones are there. The story moved. Some passages might even be good.

But even if it is genuinely shitty, you now have something to revise. And something shitty that exists will always beat something perfect that doesn't.

Your middle awaits. Go write it badly.