When you start your first draft, fling the doors open wide.
Let your thoughts tumble out. Don’t fence them inside.
No tiptoeing, no whispering, no careful disguise,
Just write from the heart with uncensored eyes.
Be bold and be messy and so terribly true.
Let feelings run wild and spill back onto you.
That first scribbled splash—oh, it’s meant to be free,
Because healing begins when you can finally see.
But once it’s all written—each word, each refrain—
It’s time to slow down and think with your brain.
Put on gentle glasses. Step back just a bit.
Ask, “How will this land?” before calling it fit.
For people mean well but can stumble and bruise,
With actions they’d never intentionally choose.
So rewrite with compassion, not fire or flame,
Not judging or shaming or pointing with blame.
And if someone appears in your story or tale,
In sunshine or shadow, in triumph or fail,
Invite them to read it. Let grace take the lead.
Their blessing matters more than your need.
If they say, “Not yet,” or “Please don’t let this fly,”
Then snip that small section and let it pass by.
You’ve gained what you need. The truth has been said.
But not every thought must be widely spread.
So write brave and honest the first time around.
That’s where your own healing is quietly found.
Be cautious later—but first, just be free.
The first life you help will be you, don’t you see?
