I woke up today, and I started writing. I was happy, my fingers flying over the keys, the words pouring forth from my head. I didn’t pay attention to it, just letting my mind flow with a purpose of keeping it contextualized in the story. It seemed to run like a waterfall from my brain, and before I knew it, I had almost 1500 words written. I was happy, glowing with exuberation as I looked upon a successful day of writing.
Then I started to read it. I realized that I had forgotten the most rudimentary basics of english, and lost myself in the story. I had told instead of showing, and I needed to go back and fix it. A little bit of a rework, a twist of the context and perspective, and it seems to be working much better.
It’s okay to write an unintelligible pile of drivel that no one else understands, you are after all pouring your heart onto the page. As long as you can go back and edit, it doesn’t matter.
I normally write in what my wife affectionately calls Rilenese. It’s my own language, that I understand perfectly. She has problems with it though. When she’s editing one of my works, she’s constantly asking, “What did you mean here? Did you know this word means this also? Oh my god, awesome league of awesome, too repetitive.”
It doesn’t matter if you write crap, because crap can be cleaned up. First you have to write it.