The Potter's Unfinished Rim: On the Danger of Polishing Too Soon

There is a piece of received wisdom so common in writing circles it has become almost a mantra: "Don't get it right, get it written." We nod sagely, repeating it to ourselves and our peers as a bulwark against the dreaded paralysis of perfectionism. It is, in its place, sound advice. A blank page cannot be edited. But I fear we have begun to wield this maxim not as a tool to begin, but as a cudgel to finish. We have mistaken the starting pistol for the finish line.

The danger lies in the subtle shift of emphasis. The original spirit of the phrase is one of liberation—permission to make a messy, ugly, incoherent first draft. Its purpose is to get the raw, shapeless clay onto the wheel. But increasingly, I see it used to justify releasing that raw, shapeless clay directly into the kiln, then to the gallery. We are so terrified of over-working, of becoming that fussy artist who never shares, that we have sprinted to the opposite extreme: the artist who shares everything, always, immediately.

This is where the potter’s wisdom offers a necessary correction. A potter would never take a lump of freshly thrown, still-wet clay and declare it finished. They know it lacks structure. It lacks form. It would collapse under its own weight. The initial act of getting the clay on the wheel is only the first, most raw step. Then comes the patient work of centering, of pulling up the walls, of shaping. And then, crucially, the piece must be left alone. It must become "leather-hard."

This intermediate state is everything. It is the state where the piece has enough firmness to hold its shape, but enough give to still be worked on. It is the perfect state for adding the final details: trimming the base, carving a pattern, fluting the rim. To attempt this when the clay is too wet is to ruin it. To attempt it when the clay is bone-dry is impossible.

Our writing needs this leather-hard stage. We have become so focused on the "get it written" (wet clay) and the final polish (glazed finish) that we skip the vital, patient craft that happens in between. This is the stage for structural editing, for asking the hard questions about pacing and argument and voice. It is not about polishing a single sentence until it shines; it is about ensuring the entire vessel can hold water.

By championing the "get it written" ethos without its essential counterpart—the will to craft—we risk building an audience on a foundation of half-formed ideas and under-baked arguments. We trade the deep trust earned through careful work for the shallow engagement of constant output. The true craft, the editorial soul of the work, exists in that patient, leather-hard period. It is in the careful trimming of the base so the piece stands solid. It is in the deliberate shaping of the rim, the last part a reader’s eye will travel, the final impression they are left with. Don’t just get it written. Let it set. Then have the courage to pick up your tools again.

Notes & further reading

A few pages I came back to while writing this: