I used to think I was a really good writer.

I wrote and “published” my first book in early elementary school. It was a story about a princess. I wrote it on that terrible paper we had to use in the 80s that felt like recycled cardboard and left your hands dry just from touching it. The cover was bright orange poster board. It was held together by one of those giant plastic rings.

Yes, my parents still have it.

I don’t want to say my ego was inflated from that point forward…

But my ego was inflated from that point forward.

Middle school and high school did nothing to squelch it. I could formulate a complete sentence. I used big words. I sounded intelligent. (Did I actually read every book for those book reports? Let’s not dwell on that.)

It wasn’t until college—when I was an English major, no less—that the illusion shattered.

And it wasn’t because of my grades.

It was because my mom decided to clean out the drawers that held all my “accomplishments” and left a box of them on my bed.

When I was home from college, I opened it.

I found a paper I had written on Pygmalion my senior year of high school. I remembered that paper. I remembered how brilliant it was.

I was prepared to be impressed.

I was not impressed.

It was… bad.

Like, if I had been grading it in college, I would have failed myself bad.

Some people have come-to-Jesus moments when they face life-or-death situations.

I had a come-to-Jesus moment when I reread my old writing.

The Day My Perspective Changed

At first, I assumed I had grabbed a rough draft.

Surely I hadn’t turned this in.

Surely my final version had been tighter, deeper, more developed.

It turns out… no.

That was it.

And to make matters worse, when I pulled out some of my early college papers, they weren’t much better.

That was the day my perspective shifted.

While it was true that I could form a complete sentence, it was also painfully obvious that I did not know how to develop an idea fully on my first attempt.

And here’s the humbling part:

I had spent years believing editing was for people who “weren’t naturally gifted.”

Turns out, not editing was for dummies.

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What I Started Doing Differently

That afternoon, sitting on my childhood bed surrounded by ego debris, I made a decision:

I was done turning in first drafts and calling them finished.

I started:

• Prewriting and brainstorming

• Writing actual thesis statements

• Finding multiple examples

• Explaining my analysis instead of hinting at it

• Reading my work out loud

• Revising for depth, not just word count

I never turned in a first draft again.

And everything changed.

If You Struggle With Editing, Try This

Editing doesn’t have to be dramatic or complicated. It just has to be intentional.

Here are a few tools that will make you a stronger writer immediately.

1. Read It Out Loud

Your eyes will skim.
Your ears will not.

Reading out loud exposes awkward phrasing, missing transitions, and sentences that run out of oxygen halfway through.

If you run out of breath mid-sentence, congratulations.

You found something to fix.

2. Highlight the Main Point of Each Paragraph

After drafting, go back and highlight one sentence in each paragraph that represents the core idea.

• If you can’t find one? The paragraph is wandering.

• If you find three? You’re trying to say too much at once.

Strong writing makes one clear point at a time.

3. Ask: “Did I Explain This… or Just Imply It?”

This was my biggest issue.

I thought I had explained my argument.
In reality, I hinted at brilliance and expected the reader to connect the dots.

If something feels obvious to you, it likely needs one more sentence of clarity for your reader.

Not a novel.

Just one more layer.

4. Cut the First Paragraph (Sometimes)

This one hurts.

Often, your first paragraph is you clearing your throat. The real writing begins in paragraph two or three.

Try deleting the opening and see what happens.

If nothing collapses, you just tightened your piece.

5. Let It Sit

Time is an editor.

Even 24 hours creates enough distance to see your writing more objectively.

You cannot edit well when you’re emotionally attached to every word.

And you definitely cannot edit well at 11:57 p.m.

(Ask college-aged me how I know.)

6. Look for Underdeveloped Ideas — Not Just Typos

Editing is not spellcheck.

Ask:

• Did I support this claim?

• Did I give an example?

• Did I explain why this matters?

• Did I connect it back to the reader?

If the answer is no, you’re not a bad writer.

You just stopped too soon.

The Real Point

That humiliating afternoon didn’t make me quit writing.

It made me respect writing.

There’s a difference.

Editing isn’t an admission that you’re untalented.

It’s proof that you care enough to go deeper.

I didn’t become a better writer because I suddenly gained more ability.

I became a better writer because I stopped assuming my first draft was gold.

Spoiler: It wasn’t.

Yours probably isn’t either.

And that’s not an insult.

That’s freedom.

Reflection Questions

• When was the last time you revisited something you wrote years ago?

• Do you rush to publish, or do you give your ideas time to deepen?

• Where are you implying brilliance instead of explaining it?

• What would change if you treated editing as growth instead of criticism?

Writing well isn’t about ego.

It’s about humility.

And humility is a far better teacher than inflated confidence ever was.

I write in two spaces. A Seat at the Table is where I explore faith, healing, and making room for honesty after it’s been made complicated. Ink & Intention is for writers who want to show up with clarity, discernment, and integrity—especially online.

I’m also the author of Breathing Again and several guided journals, and I work with writers who want thoughtful, grounded support as they find their voice and shape what comes next.

If something here resonated, you’re welcome to explore more at your own pace. You can find everything in one place here.