The Mid-Draft Spiral (And How to Get Out of It)

You were writing. It was going fine. Now it’s chaos.

Let’s talk about that moment in the middle of a draft—you know the one.

At first, you had momentum. A clear(ish) idea. Maybe even a good opening. But now you’re a few hundred (or thousand) words in and everything feels… tangled. You’re unsure what you’re trying to say. You’re questioning your angle. The structure is mushy. Your voice sounds weird. And for reasons you can’t explain, you suddenly hate every sentence.

Welcome to the mid-draft spiral—a deeply uncomfortable, completely normal part of the writing process.

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What’s Actually Happening Here
The spiral isn’t a sign you’re a bad writer. It’s not a sign the piece is doomed. What’s really happening is this: you’ve outpaced your outline—or your idea is evolving—and your brain is trying to recalibrate in real time.

The draft is pulling you deeper than you expected. The topic is more complicated than your original take. You’re being invited to go further, think harder, or take a different shape.

It’s uncomfortable. But it’s also generative—if you can stay with it.

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3 Ways to Re-ground Yourself Mid-Draft

1. Zoom Out and Rewrite Your "Why"
When the middle gets messy, return to the core question: Why am I writing this? Not the big, abstract why—just the one for this piece. Who is it for? What do I want them to leave with? One clear sentence is enough. Tape it to the top of your doc.

2. Write a Fake Ending
If you’re lost in the middle, try skipping ahead. Draft a rough ending—even if it’s clumsy or vague. Writing toward something (anything!) gives the rest of your piece somewhere to go. You can refine it later.

3. Separate Structure from Sentences
Stop fiddling with lines. Grab a notebook or open a new doc and sketch out the structure—what are the main moves or sections? No need to be fancy. Arrows, bullet points, stick figures, anything that helps you see the piece again.

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The Midpoint Isn’t the End
You might need a break. You might need a nap. You might need to start a second document titled “What Am I Even Trying to Say.” That’s fine.

Just know: the middle of the draft is allowed to be messy. It doesn’t mean the piece isn’t working. It just means it’s becoming something more real, more specific, and more yours.

Let it get a little chaotic. Then find your way back to center—one sentence at a time.

Have a Drink

by Liz Dubelman

Day five of Shiva. Ellis could practically taste freedom—two more days of sitting around picking lint off cushions, and she'd be sprung. Three days max and she'd be back in her own apartment, away from the relentless parade of brisket and condolences.

Phoebe was in the dining room playing archaeological dig with wilted parsley that had escaped from yet another smoked fish platter.

"Mom," Ellis said, "have a drink with me."

This was uncharted territory. Ellis had never actually drunk with her mother. Sure, there was the ceremonial Passover wine sip, and Phoebe would accept drinks at parties, then spend the evening clutching the same glass like a prop, pretending to drink while the ice melted into oblivion. The whole charade drove Ellis nuts. Why take it if you're not going to drink it? What was she so afraid of—spontaneous honesty?

"Okay," Phoebe said, which nearly knocked Ellis over.

The house felt like a mausoleum. Ben had escaped to get stoned with his prep school cronies, and Jenny had fled back to Connecticut the second she could. Ellis grabbed the half-empty Dewar's—the only drinkable liquor in a house that otherwise housed decorative bottles of sticky liqueurs and wine that had probably turned to vinegar sometime during the Clinton administration. The scotch was only there for the rabbi anyway.

Phoebe produced two cut crystal glasses that looked like they'd been waiting their whole lives for this moment. Ellis had never seen them used—her parents weren't exactly party animals. This shiva was probably the most entertaining Phoebe had done since their wedding.

Ellis poured a decent slug into each glass. Phoebe studied the amber liquid like it might contain the secrets of the universe. "Don't people usually put ice in this?"

"If you want." Ellis dutifully added ice and water to her mother's glass, turning perfectly good scotch into weak medicine. She considered a garnish—maybe a twist—then remembered this was Phoebe. Ellis kept hers neat.

They sat. Phoebe took a bird-sip. Ellis took a proper gulp.

"How are you doing, Mom?"

Brilliant question, Ellis. Your husband just died, but hey, how's it going?

"I'm alright." Another micro-sip from Phoebe, another gulp from Ellis.

"I'm thinking of heading back in a few days. If you need me to do anything..."

"Like what?"

Fair point. They both knew Phoebe wanted them gone. She preferred to grieve alone, the way she preferred to do everything—without witnesses to the mess.

"I could help clean out Dad's things." They both knew this was nonsense. Ellis's asthma made her useless for actual cleaning, and the kind of sorting Phoebe needed to do, no one could help with anyway.

Ellis finished her drink and poured another. Lately, alcohol had been playing hard to get—she'd skip right past the pleasant buzz and wake up hungover, like getting motion sickness without the fun of the ride. But she kept trying. One day, she'd find her sweet spot again.

She looked over at Phoebe, who was crying. Not the usual dramatic production Ellis was used to, but quiet tears sliding down her cheeks. Ellis froze. Physical comfort wasn't exactly the family specialty.

"Mom." Ellis took a healthy swig and silently begged the scotch to kick in.

"I loved him, you know," Phoebe said. "He was loving and creative and completely bizarre, and I loved him."

Ellis wished she could remember her father like that, but she could only remember the sound of a crazy person.