What's the plan?

You sit down.

Ninety minutes on the clock.

A question in front of you.

Your mouth’s gone dry, your pen feels like a weapon you’re not trained to use, and the question is staring at you like a cat judging your life choices.

This is not the time to freestyle.

And yet, most of us do.

We leap into paragraph one like it’s a burning building, flinging ideas at the page in the hope that something — anything — sticks. A bold opening line. A quote we think is from Shakespeare, but might actually be something your friend said after two coffees and a crisis.

Something vaguely academic. Something definitely desperate.

We’ve all been there.

But here’s a thought: maybe, just maybe, don’t start writing.

Start planning.

I know.

Planning feels like a waste of time.

We’ve been sold this idea that writing, especially in exams, should be a sprint. That the clever kids get in, get words down, get out. Fast thinkers. First finishers. Applause all round.

But spontaneous writing is like diving into a pool without checking the depth — thrilling for a second, then suddenly very, very regrettable.

Fun? Sure.

Reliable? Only if you like bruises.

I’ve seen enough crossed-out intros and abandoned conclusions to know better.

Planning, by contrast, brings highlighters to the party. Planning alphabetises the playlist. Planning wears boring beige.

But that steady, uncool, detail-obsessed planning is why you tick every box on the mark scheme. Why your third paragraph doesn’t take a detour straight into nowhere-ville. (We’ve all been there.)

It's your quiet confidence. The kind that whispers, when your brain blanks — which it will, inevitably, around the 47-minute mark — “Relax. I’ve got this. Next point is scribbled right here.”

Planning isn’t the enemy of creativity.

Panic is.

No, your plan doesn’t need to be beautiful. No bullet points, no Roman numerals, no title like “Battle Strategy: Essay Edition.”

It just needs to exist. Scrappy. Ugly. Honest.

Some plans are lists. Others look like conspiracy theories. Mine usually include arrows, question marks, and the word “UGH” in all caps.

The point isn’t perfection; it’s direction. Like Waze for your essay. You might still get stuck in traffic, but at least you won’t drive straight into a one way system away from your destination.

Something that says:

Here’s where I’m starting.

Here’s where I’m going.

Here’s how I’ll make it look like I know what I’m talking about.

Because the truth is, no one writes a good essay while figuring out what they think. That’s how you end up with five paragraphs and no actual argument. That’s how you confidently kick off and then fumble to a conclusion that sounds like, “Well, that happened.”

A plan is the academic equivalent of laying out your clothes the night before. It stops you showing up in a metaphorical dressing gown halfway through paragraph three, randomly wedging in a quote from Frankenstein because it sounds clever and you forgot what the question was asking.

And yeah — a plan won’t win you any style points (or any marks).

But you’ll get something else: flow. Structure. A chance to actually make a point, rather than circling it like a confused moth.

If you’ve just sat your Year 10 exams and realised planning might need to be your new best friend, or you’re in Year 7 still getting to grips with essays — this is your window to practice.

Plan every long answer.

Scribble in the margin.

Make it a habit.

So when the clock starts in that exam that matters, and the silence gets loud, and your brain tries to bolt — pause.

Don’t dive.

Don’t ramble.

Don’t let adrenaline drive the bus.

Plan.

Because your future self — sweaty-palmed and two paragraphs in — will be whispering thank yous under their breath.

Nici

P.S.

If you’re not sure whether your plan covers all the key areas to hit the mark scheme, just drop me a message.

In the meantime, have a very happy half term break!