Welcome to The Waves’ first ever Tip Article! Writing can be hard, but we have advice on how to make it a little bit easier. Each of our Tip Articles will cover different aspects of writing, with helpful advice that can be applied to all genres and all writings, whether that be sci-fi novels or romantic poetry. 

This article is about banning perfectionism. Oftentimes, we want our writing to be perfect on the first go. This can lead to abandoned stories, self-doubt, and the constant pressure that you’re not a good enough writer. Here are some tips and tricks to abandon your perfectionism. 

Tip 1: Write First, Edit Later

Writing and editing are two different mindsets, and both require you to be fully present. You’ll never move on to the next paragraph, the next page, the next draft, if you’re constantly stuck “perfecting” what you’ve already got. To put it another way, you’ll never get to real writing if you’re stuck rewriting. If you feel the need to constantly go back and revise your writing, change your font color to white, that way you can’t read it, and continue this way until you’re done. When it’s time to go back and edit, change your font to black. This exercise helps break the pressures of perfection, and can be a fun challenge!

Tip 2: Set a Daily Word Count – And Don’t Judge!

Setting a daily word count can serve as a lifeline. Keep it reasonable – set yourself up for success by setting small goals and gradually increasing them. This means first focusing on quantity, and then, after you have something to work with, you can focus on quality. After all, you can’t edit something if there’s nothing written. Focus every day on meeting your word count – without judging what you’ve written. Even deliberately not reading what you’ve written for a few days can be beneficial.

Tip 3: Find a Second Opinion

Getting a second opinion on your writing can be a refreshing break from how you perceive your own writing. Ideally, ask someone outside your family. It’s important that they are just as eager to help you improve as well as eager to speak the truth. Getting fresh eyes on your beloved writing can be scary, but it can help you see outside of your own criticisms and mannerisms. Ask for specific feedback (e.g. sentence lengths, plot, places you need help on) to get the best results! Look for support on any shortcomings you think you have as a writer, and ask your ‘fresh eyes’ to help you keep track of these. 

We hope you enjoyed these tips, and perhaps found some useful! Remember, writing is unique to each individual, so some of these may work for you and others not, and that’s just fine! Try to experiment and find what works for you; if you have more tips, feel free to let us know through our contact form. Please stay tuned for our next tip article, and thank you for checking out The Waves: Literary Magazine. 

Sometimes I lay in bed to hide from any interaction

Unable to quiet my mind

I like to be overcome by distractions

From time to time

I listen to the household action

Faking illness is my favorite crime

Footsteps vary in style and mood

Each person has a pattern I’ve assigned

I can tell who will enter before they intrude

The pace of their steps show whether they’ll be kind

There’s advantage in knowing who’s there before they’ve been viewed

In this moment I wonder if anyone would recognize mine

I’ve been watching your footprints in the sand for so long.

I’ve seen you walk alone while I’m desperate to walk beside you.

I’ve seen your footsteps falter,

I’ve seen them stand still.

And though all that,

I’ve been 2 steps behind you.

You don’t walk alone anymore.

There’s another set of footprints entwined with yours.

A pair that keeps moving.

Falters with you.

Stands with you.

Helps you when you fall.

They’re not my footprints.

They’re the footprints of someone else.

I remain 2 steps behind you.

Following every step.

Afraid to run,

To catch up with you.

So, I fell behind.

My lone footprints as my only company.

Don’t look back,

You only ever look beside you anyway.

I’m falling behind.

It doesn’t matter.

Keep walking.

Walk with Them,

Until the sun burns out.

Until the tide washes away

Both sets of footprints.

I’ll walk away.

I see footprints in the particles that collect into sand, 

recollections of remembrances, like postcards in hand 

and other shapes as well, ghosts of sea shells 

So I wonder if you’re wandering inland 

followed by the steady smell 

of salt all-surrounding, the sand is steadily gaining

Pixelated like the Polaroids I put up in frames, 

evidence of us, from both now and before. 

Sand grains still track along the floor, and it’s icy walking across the cabin at midnight 

Checking to see if my soaked clothes are any warmer in the dryer 

Because I was silly and wore socks to the seaside. 

Then switching to an app on my phone to track the paths of starlight 

As the cloth goes through a final five minute fight to undrench itself,

I shuffle things around on the shelf absentmindedly, 

Like I won’t be leaving in three days. 

Putting the binoculars back in my backpack because I saw the spouts of whales, the ocean in an encounter with their lungs 

I’m not used to covering my tracks, tiptoeing across floorboards trying not to wake you and take you from an oblivion of sleep into a salty, roaring nothing 

Yeah, I’m not used to company. 

Fast forward through time, 

The clothes are warm, but they contain a kind of coarseness, stiff with salt, no matter how much I wash them 

And painful pangs of memories, they’re just as persistent 

So I race up the stairs at two times the pace 

Sand in the shape of the space I occupied 

I stare off into outer space, there’s a meteor shower tonight.

You can see it above the bay, 

And you’re coming in as waves, shaping into your fine hair, like the blades in seagrass 

And echoes of blue-gray eyes in sea glass 

I still pass by that road and think-

It’s funny seeing the shape of my foot tracking salt water on cement 

My footfall looks so soft, and yet

I walk like there’s an earthquake coming from my feet

It’s a special sort of release 

Not feeling like you have to contain or cage the sound of your movement, muddling the page 

of clear white cement that melts into a burning black, charcoal paper, 

the closer home you get then it seems ever-later. 

Standing under the sun, 

The path that you paved for another person is gleaming in the heat, but maybe it’s an illusion, maybe it’s from the summer sheen, maybe it will soon be gone. 

Follow me and find me if you can, 

Tracking my footsteps in the sand 

The evidence that I exist 

That is just as fluid as my running is. 

Follow the footprints, see where they lead

They lead you to a forest home

Beloved family

Treasured friends

A sweet, stupid dog

And a cup of hot chocolate

Follow the footprints, see where they lead

They lead to pink tennis shoes and 

Mismatched outfits

Soft pink shawl

An old, good book

A worn out plush toy

Follow the footprints, see where they lead

They lead to emotion

They lead to memory

They lead to long, confused trains of thought

Follow the footprints, and now you see…

These footprints, my friend….

They lead to me

“It’s Bigfoot!”

“It’s not Bigfoot.” 

I gripped my fists tighter, as if that could silence the squeaky voices that came from my cousins. They’re over for the weekend, and in an effort to get some fresh air and a little peace, I tried to avoid the six and five year olds by going on a walk in the woods. Apparently, that didn’t work. 

Just keep walking, I say, forcefully putting on foot in front of the other, trying to continue on my peaceful hike that is turning less and less peaceful by the moment. They’ll catch up.

This isn’t the first time they’ve stopped, either. They’ve stopped for spiders, bugs, leaves and sticks—they’ve already had a make-shift lightsaber fight. This walk was supposed to be ten minutes, we’re only halfway through and they’ve stretched it out to forty-seven and a half. 

But really, who’s counting? Psh, not me. 

Ximena, my five year old cousin who licked my baked potato last night, stomps her foot, and it jerks me into the present. Crying, she stubbornly says, “Is, too!” 

Annisa, my sister who mimicked her cousin and licked my pork chop last night, throws her arms in the air, exclaiming, “Is not!”

“Is, too!”

“Is not!” 

“Is—” 

“Is this an important discussion, because it’s not sounding like one,” I say, my fists so tight I can feel my nails leaving crescent moon scratches into my palms. 

“Sorry,” Ximena says, but Annisa doesn’t have the same courtesy. 

She points her finger at her cousin and immediately tattles, saying, “XiXi thinks that Bigfoot left those tracks, and I said it’s not possible because he’s not real.” She lifts her chin up in dignity, continuing, “I said she was stupid to think so.” 

“And I said—”

“I don’t need a play-by-play of your argument, and—” 

“It’s not an argument,” Annisa says. 

“It’s a discussion,” Ximena finishes. They both sound so much like my mom and aunt that I have to hold in a chuckle. 

Tilting my head up, I stare at the canopy of trees and leaves, wondering how I’m going to approach this. The ashy brown trunks with their soft star-shaped leaves bring a certain peace to my soul. But the wind brushes through, trees stretching and shaking, a bird cawing their displeasure at the biting wind that comes with a fresh spring, and an idea pops into my head. I could be mean, stern, and true, or…

As if summoned, a cloud settles above us, turning the golden sunlight that dappers through the trees into a harsh gray, the forest suddenly looking a little more menacing than it did a second ago. 

I crouch above the footprint, my voice tinged with story and firmness as I ask, “You better hope it’s not a Bigfoot.” 

Ximena, like any curious five year old, takes the bait. “Why?”

“Why?” I ask, pulling my eyes up to meet hers, putting a little shock into mine. The wind shakes her brown bangs, and I tsk. “Don’t you know that Bigfoot is a scary monster who prays on children who get lost in his woods?” 

“You’re lying!” Annisa calls, but I shake my head, forcing myself to be stoic. 

I start inching off the path, mischievousness tugging at my lips. “I saw Bigfoot, once. When I was younger. Our Uncle…Rick used to take me through these woods, and one day, I wandered away. I left this path, you see, and walked deep into the woods. That’s when I saw the beast. He was hairy, and tall—so tall! And his feet were massive, giant wavering chunks of logs. He roared at me, and tried to eat me, but Uncle Rick saved me.” 

Annisa tilted her head at me. She was getting nervous now, but she didn’t want to believe me. “We don’t have an Uncle Rick.” 

“Well, not anymore.” Pouting, I took another step backwards, checking out the tree beside me. If I’m right… 

Ximena starts crying, but Annisa tries to stay serious. “Bigfoot isn’t real.” 

“Really? Who told you that?” I say. The wind rushes through, and I make myself shudder, stepping until I’m right at some brambles. It’s a big blackberry bush, the stalks and twists tall and thick, and it’s perfect for my plan. “I swear, on days like this, I can still feel him. Big and unwavering.” 

Annisa isn’t buying it. “I think you’re lying—”

“AHH!” I scream, and pretend that my foot is being pulled through the brambles. I claw at the ground, pretending to be pulled back. “HE’S BACK! HE’S GOT ME!” 

Annisa and Ximena scream, and I try to look as scared as possible. My foot slides off the ground, and I press my face against the dirt to stuff my smile, the earthy scent flaring through my nose. I was right—this particular blackberry is over a giant hole, and I can slip inside of it and hide. 

“Run, go on without me!” I cry at them, and with one last pull, I scream, landing in the hole, completely out of their sight. 

I have to swallow my laughter when I hear their screams of terror, and I peek through the brambles to watch them run away. For the icing on the cake, and I let loose a dinosaur roar, loud and threatening, and they scream even louder as they run back home. 

“I’m going to be in so much trouble for this,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut and pulling myself back out of the small hole and through the prickles. The thorns stab at my arms and face, closing around my throat, but I simply bat them away and pull myself back up. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this to annoying kids—I may be eighteen, but even adults need to have fun every now and then. 

Dusting myself off, I check out the footprint they were so curious about, wondering what it was. My vicious grin falls off my face when I realize—

“That’s my footprint!”