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or paragraphs. When you get stalled (and you will), put down a string of X's and keep going. What you're writing now will be rewritten. If it's messy and full of holes, so what? It's only the first draft, and no one but you has to see it.
    Accepting that your first draft is your worst draft can be extremely liberating. It's all right to sound like a jerk at this stage in the proceedings. Cut loose. Nobody's looking.
You wouldn't believe some of the rubbish that was in the first draft of this book—and I'll never tell.
    But let's talk about you. Say you work in the marketing department of a fast-food chain with a big problem. There's a perception among the public that the company's products are radioactive. Your assignment is to come up with a campaign to convince people not only that the food is safe, but that it can add years to their lives and grow hair on bald heads. "Piece of cake," you tell the boss, rolling up your sleeves. Meanwhile, you're wondering where your next job will come from.
    Stay calm. Approach the project as you would any other, even if this one seems impossible. Gather and organize your material—research by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, testimonials from consumers, demographic studies, and soon. Then plunge into your first draft. If you like, dump in everything but the kitchen sink. This isn't a finished marketing proposal; you're only thinking aloud. Toss in your wildest inspirations. How about radiation sensitive food wrappings that change color when emissions are present? Sure, include that. How about TV ads featuring a ninety-seven-year-old man with a full head of hair, wolfing down burgers as doctors check him over with Geiger counters? Get it on paper, on tape, or into the computer. Don't stop to examine ideas from every angle—just keep going.
    Later, when you revise, you can agonize over the details and cut out the embarrassments. (Revision, the art of tinkering with what you've written, is worth a chapter in itself. In fact, it gets one: chapter 30.) In the meantime, nothing is too ridiculous for a first draft.
The Flexible Flyer
    While you're writing you'll come up with ideas, or make discoveries, that can take you in new directions. "Jeepers, what a swell idea!" you'll say to yourself. Or maybe, "Duh! What took me so long?"
    Sometimes, though, a sudden inspiration or some eye-popping information won't fit neatly into your grand design, the organization plan we talked about in chapter 3. What to do?
    Even the best-laid plan can't anticipate every brain wave. When a glowing lightbulb appears over your head, don't turn it off. A good idea is a gift, not an inconvenience. If your writing plan doesn't let in any light or leave room for a fresh idea, then change it. It's supposed to make writing easier, not harder.
    Imagine that you're writing a laudatory essay about your great-uncle Klaus, who died before you were born. He emigrated from Berlin to Brazil toward the end of World War II, and you've organized your material around his many philanthropies on behalf of the Amazon Indians. Halfway through the project, you come across old documents that explain why he left Berlin in such a hurry, and how he acquired that old SS uniform in the trunk. I'd say it's time to revise your writing plan.
    Flexibility is a skill every writer should develop. If the human mind weren't flexible, we'd still be living in caves.
Faith, Hope, and Clarity
    I'll always take a plain sentence that's clear over a pretty one that's unintelligible. When your writing is hard to understand, it's just so much slush, no matter how many beautiful images and nice rhythms it has. Readers won't like what they can't understand. They may understand it and still not like it, certainly. But that's a chance you have to take.
    The best writing is the clearest; we sense its meaning immediately. The subject—particle physics, perhaps—may be over our heads, but the writing should never be. Albert Einstein was able to