The Biggest Writing Mistakes New Authors Make

Every new writer makes mistakes, it is part of learning.

The real issue is not making mistakes. It is not recognising them early enough to grow past them. A lot of new authors think they are struggling because they are not talented enough, when often they are simply dealing with the same early habits almost everyone has. These habits can make a manuscript feel weaker than it really is, but they are fixable once you know what you are looking for.

One of the biggest mistakes new authors make is trying to sound like a writer instead of trying to tell the story clearly.

This usually comes from a good place. They care about the work, they want it to sound strong, and they assume strong writing must look or sound a certain way. So they layer on extra description, overwork the sentences, reach for dramatic phrasing, or use language that feels slightly too aware of itself. The result is often prose that sounds strained rather than confident.

New writers are often at their strongest when they stop performing and start communicating. Clear, specific writing has far more power than writing that is trying too hard to impress. Style matters, of course, but real style tends to grow out of precision and control, not decoration for its own sake.

Another common mistake is beginning the story too early.

A lot of first drafts spend too much time warming up. The writer is trying to settle into the world, introduce the character, explain the background, or make sure the reader understands everything before the story really begins. The problem is that readers do not need all of that upfront. In fact, too much setup often drains the opening of momentum. New authors frequently think they are building context when they are actually delaying the part of the story that creates interest.

Most novels improve when the writer starts later than their first instinct tells them to. The story usually begins where something changes, not where everything is still being explained.

Then there is the habit of explaining too much.

This is a big one. New writers often do not trust the reader enough, so they over-clarify emotions, intentions, subtext, and meaning. A character does something, then the narration explains why they did it. A tense exchange happens, then the prose tells us exactly how to interpret it. A painful moment lands, then the writer adds another line to make sure we understand that it was painful. In most cases, this extra explanation weakens the scene rather than strengthening it.

Readers like being allowed to participate. They do not need every emotional beat translated for them. Often the strongest writing leaves just enough space for the reader to feel the moment rather than be instructed how to feel about it.

Dialogue is another place where new authors often stumble. One mistake is making everyone sound the same. Another is making dialogue too tidy. Real people do not usually speak in neat paragraphs full of perfectly balanced explanation, and fictional dialogue should not feel like that either. New writers often use dialogue to deliver information because it feels more natural than exposition, but if the characters are saying things they both already know just for the reader’s benefit, the scene begins to sound false.

Good dialogue usually has pressure in it. People want things from each other. They avoid things. They conceal things. They push, joke, deflect, provoke, hint, soften, and misread. When new writers start to understand that dialogue is not only about what is said, but about what is happening underneath what is said, their work often improves quickly.

Pacing is another area where early mistakes show up. Many new authors rush the scenes that matter and linger too long on the ones that do not. They skim over emotionally important moments because they are eager to get to the next plot point, but then spend pages on setup, travel, explanation, or repetitive internal thought. This creates an uneven reading experience. The scenes that should carry the book feel thin, while the connective tissue begins to feel heavy.

Often this happens because the writer knows the emotional significance of a moment in their head, so they do not realise it has not fully made it onto the page. Meanwhile, the explanatory parts feel safer because they are easier to control. Learning to slow down where it counts and cut harder where it does not is one of the major shifts that helps a newer writer begin to feel more assured.

Another mistake is falling in love with the idea of the book more than the reality of the draft.

This sounds harsher than it is. Most writers do it. They become so attached to what the book could be, or what they meant it to be, that they struggle to see what is actually on the page. That gap between intention and execution can be painful, especially for newer authors. It can lead to defensiveness, denial, or endless tinkering that never addresses the real problems.

Growth begins when a writer becomes willing to see the manuscript honestly. Not cruelly, but clearly. The draft on the page is what you can work with. The imagined perfect version in your head is not.

A related problem is resisting revision because rewriting feels like failure. New authors often hope the first draft will come out far closer to finished than it really does. When they realise how much work revision involves, they can feel disheartened. But revision is not evidence that you got it wrong. Revision is where much of the real writing happens. Strong books are rarely born in one clean draft. They are built through rethinking, cutting, reshaping, and refining.

There is also the issue of inconsistency. Many new writers are capable of writing very strong passages, but they cannot sustain that strength yet. A chapter may open brilliantly, then drift. A character may feel vivid in one scene and generic in the next. The tone may shift without meaning to. This inconsistency is not unusual. It usually reflects an author still learning how to control the whole manuscript rather than only individual moments. That control comes with practice, but it also comes with finishing things. You start seeing your patterns more clearly once you have a full draft in front of you.

Feedback can be another stumbling point. Some new authors avoid it completely because they are afraid. Others ask for it too early from too many people and end up overwhelmed by conflicting opinions. Both approaches can make growth harder. Useful feedback usually comes at the right stage from people who can be honest without being destructive. It helps when the writer is ready not only to receive comments, but to interpret them thoughtfully.

Perhaps the biggest mistake of all, though, is giving up too early because the process feels harder than expected.

A lot of new authors assume struggle means they are not cut out for writing. But struggle is normal. Difficulty is normal. Writing something real, sustained, and emotionally convincing is difficult work, especially when you are still learning how to do it. The presence of difficulty does not tell you that you should stop. Most of the time, it tells you that you are in the part where the learning is happening.

That is worth remembering, because many early mistakes are not signs of failure. They are signs of apprenticeship. You overwrite because you have not yet learned what to leave out. You explain too much because you are still learning to trust the reader. Your pacing wobbles because you are learning where story energy actually lives. Your dialogue strains because you are still figuring out how to write what people mean instead of only what they say.

These are craft issues. Craft issues can be improved.

The good news is that once you start recognising these patterns, your writing often strengthens quite quickly. You begin cutting the lines that over-explain. You start the story closer to the real beginning. You notice where scenes are stalling. You write cleaner dialogue. You revise with more intention. You stop trying to sound impressive and start trying to sound true.

That is where a lot of new authors take a real leap forward. Not when they suddenly stop making mistakes, but when they begin making better decisions because they finally know what their common mistakes are.

So yes, new authors make plenty of errors. Everybody does. But those errors are not proof that you cannot write. They are proof that you are learning a difficult craft in real time. The writers who improve are usually not the ones who somehow avoid all mistakes from the start. They are the ones who keep writing long enough to recognise them, understand them, and move beyond them.