The Year I Wrote Nine First Drafts (Please Don’t Ask How I’m Alive)

A TED Talk Presented Live From Inside a Pillow Fort

Growing up, I thought writers lived in cabins with typewriters. You know the ones. Woodsmoke. Snow falling gently outside. A single mug of coffee that somehow stayed hot for hours.

Turns out writers mostly live in Google Docs and Notion, with bad posture, three half-finished drinks, and a browser tab open just in case we need to google something unhinged like “how long can a person survive on an alien moon without oxygen.”

Still counts as romantic, I think.

This year—2025—I treated writing like a part-time job. Not in a soul-sucking way. In a clock in, show up, keep promises to myself way. And because I’m a spreadsheet gremlin at heart, I tracked my time. Not to chase numbers. Not to brag. Just to understand my own rhythm.

Which is how I learned that apparently my rhythm is: chaos, followed by discipline, followed by more chaos wearing a little name tag.

Somehow, that resulted in:

• Writing 193 days this year

• Drafting 892,004 words (creative writing only)

• Working across five series

• Completing nine (9) first drafts

Please don’t ask how I’m alive. I’m running purely on vibes and narrative momentum.

To explain the year properly, I think it deserves a holiday treatment.

The 12 Days of Writingmas

Because nothing says “creative process” like festive nonsense.

On the 1st day of Writingmas my brain gave to me… One plot bunny that multiplied like tribbles.

On the 2nd day of Writingmas my Notion showed to me… Two timelines fighting, and one plot bunny multiplying like tribbles.

On the 3rd day of Writingmas my coffee gave to me… Three existential crises.

On the 4th day of Writingmas my characters gave to me… Four side quests I did not approve.

On the 5th day of Writingmas my outline gave to me…FIVE. GOLDEN. PLOT HOLES.

On the 6th day of Writingmas my keyboard gave to me… Six tabs unclosing.

On the 7th day of Writingmas my inner critic gave to me… Seven drafts a-drowning.

On the 8th day of Writingmas my future self gave to me… Eight “why did I write this?” moments.

On the 9th day of Writingmas my hyperfixation gave to me… Nine first drafts drafting.

On the 10th day of Writingmas my characters gave to me… Ten scenes of angsting.

On the 11th day of Writingmas my schedule gave to me… Eleven nights of “I’ll sleep eventually.”

On the 12th day of Writingmas my keyboard gave to me… Twelve plot holes plotting.

Festive. Traditional. Deeply concerning.

Discipline & Chaos: Coworkers, Not Enemies

Pro tip: discipline doesn’t kill creativity. It just asks chaos to wear shoes.

This year, discipline showed up like a responsible coworker. Packed lunch. Calendar reminders. A gentle but firm, “Hey. We said we’d write today.”

Chaos, meanwhile, burst through the door carrying seventeen ideas, three emotional arcs, and exactly zero regard for linear storytelling.

I learned to let them work together.

Discipline got me to the page 193 days this year. Chaos made sure the page was never boring.

And the days I didn’t write? They weren’t failures. They were rest days. Thinking days. Wandering days. The kind that quietly refill the well without announcing themselves.

Tracking my time wasn’t about proving I was “productive enough.” It was about honoring the fact that I showed up—imperfectly, inconsistently, honestly.

The Worlds I Traveled (Without Leaving My Chair)

Some people take vacations. I apparently take interdimensional field trips.

This year alone, I wandered through:

• A storm-lit alien cliffside where the Kadis siblings yelled at each other over crashing waves and questionable life choices.

• A moonlit glade in Nythealedell, where two idiots finally confessed their feelings beneath the Hanging Blossoms after dancing around it for far too long.

• A grand reading hall, echoing with whispers, where interdimensional scholars searched for rare celestial manuscripts and maybe answers they weren’t ready for.

• A sleepy mountain town in the Blue Ridge, where every pie is homemade and at least one person is lying to your face.

Some of these worlds are loud. Some are tender. Some feel like home. All of them exist because I kept coming back to the page.

What 892,004 Words Taught Me

After almost nine hundred thousand words, here’s what stuck:

• You don’t have to feel inspired to write. You just have to feel willing.

• Hyperfixation is a menace, but occasionally a very useful one.

• First drafts don’t need to be good. They need to exist.

• Showing up matters more than showing off.

• Consistency doesn’t mean rigidity—it means care.

This wasn’t the year I chased a number. It was the year I kept my promise to myself.

I didn’t live in a cabin with a typewriter. But I did build worlds. I did learn my own creative weather. And I did prove—quietly, gently—that this is a life I can sustain.

If I can survive nine first drafts, then honestly?

2026 should be very afraid.

Your Next Steps (Because Your 2026 Deserves This Energy)

If you're reading this and thinking, "I want a writing year that feels alive, not just productive," here's how to build your own rhythm—one that honors both the discipline that gets you to the page and the chaos that makes the page worth visiting:

Do this in the next 24 hours:

• Pick your tracking method. Notion, a spreadsheet, a bullet journal, a notes app—whatever won't make you feel like you're doing homework. Track one thing: days you showed up. Not word count. Not hours. Just presence. (You can add metrics later if you want. Start with the simplest truth: did you write today?)

• Set a stupidly small daily goal. I'm talking 15 minutes. 200 words. One scene. Something so achievable that "I don't have time" stops being an excuse. The goal isn't output—it's showing up.

• Identify your creative coworkers. Are you Team Discipline (shows up on schedule, keeps promises) or Team Chaos (bursts in with seventeen ideas at midnight)? Neither is wrong. Knowing which one drives your process helps you work with yourself instead of against yourself.

Do this this week:

• Write for three days this week—any three days. Don't stress about consistency yet. Just prove to yourself that you can show up multiple times without it being a crisis. Mark each day with a satisfying checkmark, sticker, or emoji. Make it feel like a small celebration, not a chore.

• Give one of your active projects a "chaos day." No rules. No outline. Just write whatever scene is haunting you, even if it's wildly out of order. Let your brain play.

• Start a running list of "worlds I'm building" or "places I've been this week." It doesn't have to be deep—just a line or two about where your writing took you. (Example: "A crumbling library where the books whisper." "A diner at 3 a.m. where someone's about to make a terrible choice.") This helps you see your work as exploration, not just production.

Do this in the next 30 days:

• Commit to writing 20 days this month. Not every day—just 20. That's roughly two-thirds of the month, which gives you rest days, chaos days, and life days without guilt. Track it visually (calendar, chart, whatever) so you can see your showing-up pattern.

• Finish one first draft of something—a short story, a novella, the next chapter, anything with a beginning, middle, and end. It doesn't have to be good. It just has to be done. Practice completion, not perfection.

• Review your month at the end and ask yourself three questions: (1) What surprised me about my writing rhythm? (2) What felt sustainable? (3) What do I want to change or keep for next month? Write it down. This is how you learn your own creative weather.

The Truth About Showing Up

Here's the thing nobody mentions when they share their big impressive numbers: those numbers didn't happen because of one heroic burst of inspiration. They happened because of 193 individual decisions to sit down and write—even when it felt boring, even when the words were bad, even when discipline showed up wearing sweatpants and chaos forgot to bring snacks.

You don't need a cabin with a typewriter. You don't need the perfect writing setup or the perfect schedule or the perfect mindset.

You just need to keep coming back to the page.

Imperfectly. Inconsistently. Honestly.

That's the only magic trick that matters.

Let's Talk About Your Writing Year

So here's what I want to know: How did your 2025 go? Did you write more than you expected? Less than you hoped? Did you discover your rhythm, or are you still figuring it out?

And more importantly—what do you want 2026 to feel like? Not in terms of numbers or goals, but in terms of experience. Do you want it to feel sustainable? Adventurous? Playful? Focused?

Drop a comment and tell me about your year. Or tell me about your 2026 dreams. Or tell me what world you're building right now and whether it's cooperating.

Because here's the truth: every writer's journey looks different, but we're all just trying to figure out how to keep showing up for the stories that won't leave us alone.

And if you managed to write anything this year—a chapter, a scene, a sentence that made you feel something—then you're already winning.

Here's to 2026. May it be full of first drafts, comfortable chaos, and worlds that feel like home.

(And maybe a little more sleep. But let's not get unrealistic.)

Until next time,

Indigo