Permission to Begin: Writing What You Need Before What You ‘Should’
There’s a folder on my desktop labeled “MFA Submissions.” Inside are drafts of poems I should be polishing—ones I’m trying to shape into something impressive enough to catch the eye of the program I’ve dreamed about for years. They’re tidy on the surface, carefully edited, and built with intention.
And then there’s the writing I’ve actually been doing: poem fragments that fall apart halfway through, a long unsent letter to someone I’m trying to forgive, and a strange, dreamy monologue that doesn’t seem to belong to anyone—least of all me. Work that feels raw, slightly embarrassing, and inconvenient.
It’s not what I should be writing, but it’s what I need to write.
And I’m learning that matters just as much, if not more.
The “Should” Pile Is Loud
Most writers I know are intimate with guilt. We carry it like a second spine—silent, stiff, always in the background. It whispers that we’re behind, that we’re wasting time, that we should be writing our novel, finishing that draft, submitting that story.
Sometimes, those whispers are helpful. Deadlines can provide shape. Structure can be grounding. But when the guilt gets louder than the voice that led us to writing in the first place—the one that said this matters to you, follow it—we lose something vital. We stop listening inward. We stop trusting ourselves.
What If the Unplanned Work Is the Real Work?
There’s often something deeper underneath the thing you can’t stop writing. Even if it doesn’t look polished. Even if it doesn’t match your goals. That weird poem? It’s trying to say something. That half-story? It’s leading you somewhere. That essay you’re avoiding because it feels too personal? It probably needs to be written.
Following those threads isn’t lazy or indulgent—it’s how we locate our voice. It’s how we process what the rest of the world hasn’t helped us name. And more often than not, when we honor the writing that feels alive, it teaches us something the “should” list never could.
You Can Come Back to the Plan Later
Writing what you need doesn’t mean abandoning your goals. It means allowing for detours. Pausing when something unplanned knocks on the door.
There will be time for structure. For polish. For pitching, submitting, revising. But all of that comes later. You can’t edit a blank page. You can’t revise a voice you’ve silenced.
Start where you are. With what’s bubbling up. With what’s been pressing against your ribs, waiting for air.
This Is the Work
The work is not only about discipline—it’s about honesty. What do you need to say right now? What won’t leave you alone? What’s asking to be written, even if it’s messy, awkward, unformed?
Give yourself permission to start there.
Not because it’s marketable. Not because it’s part of the plan.
But because it’s true. And that, more than anything, is what makes you a writer.
Guest Poetry by Trinity Richardson
Pieces of My Heritage
Endless trees tower, best friend stares
through fogged stained glass, unreachable
I stroke my velvet couch, and blast music
‘til my ears bleed
A goldfish wears a string of pearls,
though it weighs him down
Horses and rivers run my dreams,
a casualty of popcorn lung and a death wish
Scalding coffee is nothing but a lawsuit
waiting to happen, and what could be worse than that?
Jagged fingers caress out-of-tune ivory,
my grandmother’s piano, the one I don’t know how to play
Her captain husband lost to sea,
chasing the unattainable
A dog howls for his owner,
blackberries rotting in the fridge
Knee smears on asphalt,
wrinkled kite flies, a death certificate