On my daily stroll, I could feel the tension in the air — in libraries, cafés, carrels. Tabs open, cursor blinking, pressure mounting. The quiet weight of something coming due.
Final papers have a way of sneaking up on us — not just in time, but emotionally. Even when we’ve had weeks to prepare, the actual moment of sitting down to write can feel like staring into a mirror we didn’t ask for. I recall the voices in my own head: You don’t sound smart (or worse, academic) enough. You don’t know what you’re saying. And somehow, before we’ve even typed the first sentence, we’re already exhausted.
But what if the problem isn’t you? What if the problem is how we’ve been taught to think about writing? That’s the insight Peter Elbow — one of the most illuminating voices on writing — offered. He proposed something radical in its simplicity: You don’t have to write well. You just have to write. Elbow’s philosophy begins here: Writing and thinking are not separate. You don’t need a clear idea before you begin; you need to start in order to find the idea.
This runs counter to so much of what school teaches us. We’re rewarded for polish, not for showing the mess of how we got there. But anyone who’s written anything knows the truth: Clarity usually comes later. One of the first things I learned as a scholar is that first drafts are always private. Writing comes through false starts and rough drafts, through circling what we’re trying to say until it finally lets itself be said.
And yes — we professors struggle too. Every journal article, every book chapter — none of them begin clean. We, too, sit down with the pressure to say something coherent. The start is always the hardest part. The only difference is that we’ve had more practice. Sometimes the only way through is to let the imperfect draft happen. To write not because we’re ready, but because we need to begin. (This column is a good example.)
And what if you’re not sure what to write about? I often tell my students: the best writing starts with questions you can’t stop thinking about. Things that make you mad, or confused, or curious. Things that tug at you. Write from the middle of the uncertainty. Let yourself stay with it — don't rush to clarity.
Because here’s the thing: Writing is thinking. It’s not only showing what you know — writing means discovering what you didn’t realize you knew. That’s why it can feel so hard. That’s also why it matters.
Of course, we’re all here to accomplish things. But there’s also something deeply human about writing under pressure — the desire to say something real in a (very) limited window of time. That’s why, as professors, we care about your voice, not just the outcome. We read with more compassion than you probably imagine.
So if you’re staring down your final paper and feeling overwhelmed, I want to offer a simple exercise based on what Elbow called “freewriting.” Ten minutes. No stopping (no break for Instagram). No judging. You’re not trying to sound smart. You’re trying to find your way through the fog. The words don’t have to make sense. They just have to come — even if they start with “I don’t know what to say.” That writing won’t be your final paper. But it might contain a sentence you didn’t expect. A question you didn’t realize you were asking. A voice that sounds like your own.
Finals season is full of performance. But writing, at its core, is not a performance. It’s a slow, uncertain, often maddening process that holds space for discovery. In a world that rewards speed, clarity and now increasingly machine-generated precision, choosing to write slowly, messily and honestly is a quiet act of courage.
Of course, I know the temptation to outsource that first moment of dread. ChatGPT and other AI tools offer an alluring shortcut. As someone teaching a self-reflective course on AI this semester, I’m the last to deny its benefits — but I am also aware of its many limits. These tools can help brainstorm, organize thoughts, even simulate academic tone. But they cannot help you discover what you think. Writing is not just transcription — it’s attention, voice, judgment. It’s choosing one word over another, returning to a sentence until it sounds like something only you could have written. In short, writing is being human. It’s how we think — and how we figure out who we are.
For this last sprint, I want to leave you with someone who knows a thing or two about the matter at hand. Stephen King puts it like this: “Writing is refined thinking. If your master’s thesis is no more organized than a high school essay titled ‘Why Shania Twain Turns Me On,’ you’re in big trouble.” Joke aside, the real work is about being honest and revising. “2nd Draft = 1st Draft – 10%” is the mantra King swears by. The goal isn’t just clarity — it’s discovery.
And if you’re looking for a place to test those first ideas, to talk through a paragraph or a topic, you don’t have to do it alone. The Knight Institute’s Writing Centers offer one-on-one support — no red pens and no judgment, just conversation. I strongly encourage you to meet their wonderful tutors.
So, take a deep breath. Let the first draft be flawed. And if it helps, start with this: “What I really want to say is…”
Fun fact: Cornell’s own William Strunk Jr. — yes, that Strunk — first crafted The Elements of Style for his students here in 1918, with the first edition published two years later. It remains the most assigned writing book in American syllabi. Even Strunk, for all his rules, believed in pleasure, not perfection. To write well, he advised, is to try to have a good time. So give yourself that chance. Let the words come first.
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Jan Burzlaff is a Postdoctoral Associate in the Program for Jewish Studies. Office Hours (Open Door Edition) is his weekly dispatch to the Cornell community — a professor’s reflections on teaching, learning, and the small moments that make a campus feel human. Readers can submit thoughts and questions anonymously through the Tip Sheet here. He can also be reached at profjburzlaff@cornellsun.com.
