I am more than qualified to speak about today’s topic.
In 2022, I published my first full-length novel called Oblivion Black. Members of the Write Catalyst Mastermind witnessed me slave over this manuscript in our co-writing Zooms since the group’s inception during COVID. They also knew that I had been “working on” this story since NaNoWriMo 2012.
Yes. It was TEN years from first draft to publication.
It seems like an impossible amount of time to be sitting on a book. I say “sitting” on a book, because most of the time was not spent actively writing. The years were wasted on changing things, changing them back, overthinking and overworking everything.
In the end, the final book was not much different than its original form. Instead of moving forward in my life’s dream of seeing Oblivion Black out in the world, it was a decade of second guessing, self-doubt, and procrastination.
FROM THE ARTIST’S WAY by Julia Cameron
Perfectionism has nothing to do with getting it right. It has nothing to do with fixing things. It has nothing to do with standards. Perfectionism is a refusal to let yourself move ahead.
It is a loop—an obsessive, debilitating closed system that causes you to get stuck in the details of what you are writing or painting or making and to lose sight of the whole.
Perfectionism and Its Equally Bad Counterpart
Equally harmful is when we don’t take the time and energy to learn what we need to do and how to do it. The artistic wave is so exhilarating, we don’t think about whether or not our boat has any holes in it. We sink before we reach the shore (forgive the cliche).
This is where impatience and hubris prevent us from putting the time and effort to develop the manuscript into its best form. We rush to market, thinking our idea is so amazing that we have to get it out NOW. And end up with bad reviews that make us believe we lack talent when all we might have needed was the right editor or a well-prepared launch strategy.
The dilemma
Some of that reckless creative energy is the secret zing of compelling work that gets lost in rewriting it to death.
We can’t be blindly confident nor overly cautious. We must find balance.
So how do we know if we’re over-editing our manuscript?
As a writer who’s spent more time rewriting than writing, here are a few signs you may have a problem.
7 Signs You Are Over-Editing Your Story
You revisit the same material more than a reasonable amount of times.
You change things, and then revert them to their original state—sometimes more than once (second-guessing).
You ask for feedback over and over again, shaping your story to everyone else’s opinions
You don’t believe anyone when they say it’s good or great.
The narrative has lost its natural propulsion, its voice and rawness, because of over-editing.
It has taken you more than a few years to finish polishing (I’ll give you one to three years for a novel, excluding those who have a demanding job or personal lives. Not ten years … unless you’re Proust).
You have fallen out of love with your story
Yes, you have to do your best to make the story sing the way you want it to. But at some point, you must have faith, be decisive, and move on.
We are excited to present the longlist for the 2026 Write Catalyst Annual Short Story Contest.
The submissions we received this year were impressive. We thank all of you talented writers who allowed us to read your work. It was a great pleasure, and we hope you will submit your stories to us next year.
Please note: Only the story titles are listed. Author names will not be disclosed until after final judging closes.
Here is our longlist (in alphabetical order).
Bunyip
Cheer
Coffee Before the Silence
Document Theft
Does a Handsome Net Catch More Fish?
Dolls Are People Too
Download Complete
Final Exam
Life’s Last Second
Memoir of a Matriarch
None of Us Are Strangers
Not Who She Seems
One Extra Tin of Corned Beef
Over the Hill
Seat 32
Seeking Inspiration
Sing the Bloodlust Blues
Sorghum for the Soul
Summer Shower Hearts
The Gods We Create
The Half Marathon
The Innocent and The Guilty
The Painting
The Summer of Fires
The Tinker and His River
Congratulations to those whose stories made it to this round.
The shortlist will be announced on November 11, 2026.
I wrote with strict adherence to the five-act structure and classical ideals of storytelling. I always pushed myself towards greater and greater depths of emotional weight. I agonised over sentences, spent entire weekends devoted to single plot-points, refining and refining them so that they could land with maximum impact.
I know I am not alone in this. By definition, creativity is obsessive. To devote oneself to a single pursuit so completely is inherently compulsive. Sometimes, my obsessions even led to breakthroughs. But more often than not, they ended in burnout.
I have now come to realise that this was not a state of balance. A wise person once said, “Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.” And that is precisely the trap into which I fell.
I wanted my work to be perfect. And while that never manifested as procrastination or avoidance of actually releasing my books, it certainly hampered my writing of them. What at first was one of the greatest pleasures of my life eventually became a torture-rack into which I would willingly insert myself, wringing every last ounce of craftsmanship out of my brain, until I was left nothing but a broken, hobbled husk.
What at first was one of the greatest pleasures of my life eventually became a torture-rack into which I would willingly insert myself.
This is the path so many authors take, but in the words of Tolkien, “Are you sure you do not suffer needlessly?” There is another path we might take.
Letting the goblin drive.
The irony of all this is that perfectionism does not just kill the joy of the creative act—it actually dampens your creativity.
If we look at some of the greatest works of literature—truly great works that have stood the test of time, and that are beloved of the people, not just the academics—we see a pattern. A pattern not of perfectionism but of imperfection.
J. R. R. Tolkien famously wrote, in a letter to W. H. Auden dated 1955:
“I met a lot of things on the way that astonished me. Tom Bombadil I knew already but I had never been to Bree. Strider sitting in the corner at the inn was a shock, and I had no more idea who he was than had Frodo. The Mines of Moria had been a mere name; and of Lothlorien no word had reached my mortal ears till I came there. Far away I knew there were the Horselords on the confines of an ancient kingdom of Men, but Fangorn Forest was an unforeseen adventure. I had never heard of the House of Eorl nor the Stewarts of Gondor. Most disquieting of all, Saruman had never been revealed to me, and I was as mystified as Frodo at Gandalf’s failure to appear on September 22.”
In other words, he was a “pantser”. The Lord of the Rings was not meticulously worked out—albeit, the languages and ancient lore of the setting might have been—but he was discovering it as a he went along.
You can tell from the wording of the letter that this process of discovery made the work exciting to write. And this excitement of course inevitably translates to the reader. Even after seventy years, reading The Lord of the Rings evokes this feeling of discovery, of newness, that around any corner there might be some new wonder to behold.
We see the same thing in a contemporary example.
In a 2024 interview with GrimDark magazine, Matt Dinniman—author of the smash blockbuster LitRPG series Dungeon Crawler Carl—was asked about how he created some of his zanier characters, including Samantha, a sex-doll head possessed by the spirit of a demon-god. His response was laconic and hilarious:
“I am what some people call a ‘pantser.’ That basically translates to ‘he makes it up as he goes along.’ I never planned on having a reanimated sex doll head a major, important character. But here we are.”
As if that is not enough, in an interview with Maude Garrett, he was asked about whether he knew how the whole DCC series ended. “Not a clue,” he responded, to laughter from the audience.
It would be easy to dismiss pantsing or discovery writing as mere laziness on the part of the writer, but I’ve come to believe it is a crucial part of the creative process. In allowing things to organically emerge, rather than pre-planning them, the creator delegates the work to their unconscious mind, rather than their conscious mind.
Our unconscious mind is scientifically proven to know more, perceive more, and understand more than our conscious minds by quite some margin. It is a pattern recognition machine that may even have access to a human-collective or at the very least DNA-derived intelligence. What our unconscious mind spontaneously produces from its chasmal depths will almost always be more interesting, more mythically charged, more idiosyncratic than anything we can rationally think up staring at a blank page.
On a personal level, I often find my unconscious mind is ahead of me in terms of plotting, meaning the more I trust my spontaneous decisions midway through writing a chapter, the more I see, ten chapters later, how I was actually planting a seed for something much bigger. At the time, I am “mystified,” to quote Tolkien, but in the long-run, it seems that my unconscious brain already grasped the whole tapestry.
The phrase “discovery writing” is very apt indeed, for it hints not that the writer is really creating the work, but that they are uncovering something that already existed, whole and complete. The process of uncovering always necessitates some loss of the original vision, just as archaeological digs cannot succeed in excavating tombs without some material damage. But in essence, to tell a story is not to really make something new, but to dig up a sculpture out of the sands of time.
Letting go of control is one of the hardest things to do in any situation, whether we’re talking about relationships, coping with loss or setbacks, or indeed the creative process. But without abdication to the higher power of the Muse, or our own unconscious intelligence, or however we want to say it, we are doing both our work and ourselves a disservice.
Last year, I made a conscious decision not to plan so meticulously. This was in part due to the fact I was taking on a 15-book series. You can plan a trilogy. You can plan a 5-book series. But you cannot plan 15 books. There has to be room for surprise, subversion, diversion, and general madness. Yes, there is an overarching theme, and a vague idea of the end-point, but the road to get there is by no means already paved. I am laying each stone as I go. And I have to say, I am not sure I can ever go back to planning; this process has revolutionised my writing.
I now sit down to write (three times a week) with an unprecedented sense of excitement. The joy of discovering something new. The thrill of what surprises might lie in store. It is like I am tuning into my favourite TV show of all time. I don’t know how it’s going to turn out—that is the joy.
And yes, of course, there is work to be done in the editing stage to smooth things out. Not every spontaneous decision works out for the best. Neither have I completely abandoned the five-act structure, which is an invaluable tool for noticing where your emotional beats might not be paying off. But the initial act has changed drastically. Where before it was measured, now it is bold and unmapped.
Another way to view this shift is play.
Tolkien was a playful man despite his immense erudition and learning and his position as an Oxford professor. Matt Dinniman, likewise, embodies that childlike energy. His books feel so energetic precisely because they are raw, and chaotic, and bristling with almost too many ideas.
There is a famous quote attributed to Ursula Le Guin, although she subsequently amended the wording: “The creative adult is the child who survived”. I personally think she was bang on the first time. Children continuously create, continuously play. It is their natural state. Ideas are fecund and spontaneous. Nothing bores them more than some meticulously worked out game with lots of rules. The best games and stories emerge in the moment, co-created, sometimes dazzlingly stupid, but always entertaining and memorable. If we want to write works that speak to the heart, and if we want to fall in love again with our own creativity, then we must learn to play again.
If we want to write works that speak to the heart, and if we want to fall in love again with our own creativity, then we must learn to play again.
So next time you sit down, say to hell with structure, and to hell with genre. Take your hands off the wheel for a moment and let the wild goblin of your inner child drive. You might be surprised, not only by how much fun you have, but also by how good the end result is.
Joseph Sale
Joseph is the author of more than 30 books, including The Book of Thrice Dead, Virtue’s End, Dark Hilarity, and The Claw of Craving. He is drawn to the baroque, the spiritual, and the mythic like a moth to flame.
He lives in the south of England with his wonderful family, where he obsesses over table-top RPGs, trading card games, book bindery, esoteric Christianity, and anime.
The Write Catalyst Short Story Contest is back and open for submissions until July 22, 2026. We’re looking for breakthrough voices and experienced authors alike.
Our previous contests astounded us. The quality of the writing, the range of voices, the heart in these stories was a reminder of how many genuinely talented writers are out there not getting the recognition they deserve.
So today, we’re showcasing the winners from our last contest.
Winners of the Write Catalyst Short Story Contest receive cash, memberships, and are published and promoted through our platform. The contest is also listed by Kindlepreneur and Reedsy among the best writing contests to enter.
Thanks to the winning authors and all who participated. We invite all writers to submit your short fiction to the current contest.
… most of us well into our eighties, gather every morning to claim our familiar positions at a table under an umbrella on the veranda, at The Bowers, an upscale assisted-living facility, our lives lived in slow motion, killing time, in similar, desperate ways.
All at once my whole being seemed to shrink, as though something had reached inside my chest and grabbed my very soul, and with bony fingers was attempting to wrestle it out of existence.
When does life begin? Does it start in the air as the breeze carries a lover’s call? Does it start in earth as warm bodies roll around in the soft grass? Does it start with fire as a look ignites new possibilities? Does it start in water as the amniotic sac explodes and pushes us out into the world?
…I wrote an anticipatory piece about a little video-game called No Man’s Sky. Back then—ten years ago, eek!—No Man’s Sky seemed more of a vision of the future of video-games than something concrete. We were all enraptured by the idea of infinite exploration, a living universe populated by the unbridled creativity of algorithmic chance. And then came the fall—the disastrous release of No Man’s Sky that garnered it such negative reviews and perception.
It would be pointless for me to write about this, or indeed No Man’s Sky’s epic recovery and transformation into potentially the most beloved sci-fi exploration game of all time. Many other writers and journalists have covered this topic in extensive and sometimes hands-on detail with the developers, so there is very little I can add.
What I do want to share is how, ten years later, No Man’s Sky still manages to feel fresh. Slipping back into the game feels like walking back into a bright dream. There is an energy about it. A ferocious clarity of vision. And I think the core of this is something that we writers, artists, and creatives can learn from.
There are two intertwined elements that make No Man’s Sky such an immersive and, frankly, addictive experience.
The Glorious Vicissitudes of Chance
The first I have alluded to already: chance. The randomness of the worlds creates a feeling of personal discovery that is intoxicating. This is something we writers, in particular, often forget. The visual artist intuitively understands that the accident of a brushstroke, or a combination of colour, can create revelation. Glass-makers literally do not know how their final composition will appear, for in the firing process colours change, structures shift, and the whole warp and weft of the thing transforms. There is an element of randomness, of chaos, inherent in the art-form, and a part of its joy.
Rolling the Die
We writers, by contrast, tend to believe in working everything out logically. Yes, we receive surprises when our characters misbehave, but rarely do we leave anything to chance.
But sometimes, chance is what a story needs. Sometimes, rolling a die to see whether a character lives or dies, or where a party of explorers end up next, is exactly what a story needs to take some unprecedented leap into the unknown. I have used this technique, particularly with my GameLit / LitRPG series Levi’s Game, where certain locations and creations were procedurally generated.
We receive surprises when our characters misbehave, but rarely do we leave anything to chance.
Joseph Sale
I did this because the locations actually are procedural in the story, so it felt fitting to reflect this in the creative process and challenge myself—and my characters—with an unexpected outcome. Incidentally, if you’re curious about how this turned out, the first book in the series has recently been released on audiobook. Check it out here.
But procedural generation can be applied in any number of ways. Once you start thinking more like a Dungeon Master and less like a writer, you begin to realise that storytelling is pure play, and randomness becomes not your enemy, but a way of accessing previously inaccessible powers of surprise.
The Depth of Mystery
The great David Lynch once said, “The more unknowable the mystery, the more beautiful it is.” And he is absolutely right. Human beings are called by the siren-song of mystery. We yearn to know the unknowable. Nothing intrigues us more than a riddle that seemingly has no answer. It is why Mystery fiction will remain evergreen.
Mystery is the second—and far less talked about—element that No Man’s Sky gets right. We awaken on a strange world with no memory of who we once were, only the stark reality of a destroyed ship, limited supplies, and the will to survive. However, it seems there is some kind of benevolent force in the universe, for we are given clues in the form of cryptic messages, guiding us back to the true path and towards some ultimate destiny.
We know so little, at the start of our journey. And the more we find out, the less it seems we know. There is a species called the Gek who leave ancient standing stones, imparting knowledge of their language to explorers. Why? There are robotic sentinels patrolling some planets and protecting their bio-diversity. Why? Were they left behind by some colossal civilisation now undone? Every answer prompts a new question. But most mysterious of all is the question of our own nature of why we are called to strive, survive, and reach the stars. It is an unanswerable mystery. The heart of the human condition itself. And somehow, impossibly, No Man’s Sky captures this.
Stepping Into the Unknown
As writers, we tend to want to explain our reasoning, to provide motivations for our characters, to ensure our plots hang together logically. I am not advocating we abandon this entirely. But what No Man’s Sky—and indeed the great masters of literature—teach us is that mystery must prevail. Without mystery, there is nothing to compel the human imagination. The unknown is not to be feared; it is our natural habitat. If we are to inspire and ensoul the world, we must go forth into that vast dark without fear, without caution, and fully embrace the divine mystery of the universe, for it is only in embracing the mystery that we can finally embrace ourselves.
Joseph Sale
Joseph is the author of more than 30 books, including The Book of Thrice Dead, Virtue’s End, Dark Hilarity, and The Claw of Craving. He is drawn to the baroque, the spiritual, and the mythic like a moth to flame.
He lives in the south of England with his wonderful family, where he obsesses over table-top RPGs, trading card games, book bindery, esoteric Christianity, and anime.
