Should You Write Your Book Introduction First or Last?
A middle path for when conflicting writing advice leaves you stuck
Sometimes academic writing advice adopts an almost religious tone. One of my favorite examples is the dogma around writing your introduction to your book first or last. Ask about introductions in any workshop or professional development seminar, and you’ll hear equally passionate arguments for the exact opposite approach.
This sometimes creates confusion for writers because they’ve been told to do it one way but feel pulled to another. Some struggle with paralysis when told to wait until the end, while others feel unmoored when advised to draft it first. And in book projects, that feeling of being lost can last for months, because the middle is long and the stakes are high.
If you’ve been reading PNP for a while, you know I’m skeptical of writing advice that presents itself as doctrine. The introduction first or last debate is a perfect example of why, because both camps are right. And both are wrong when they treat their approach as the only legitimate path forward.
Let me explain what I mean by exploring the logic behind each position, because understanding why these competing pieces of advice exist can help you make better decisions about your own writing process.
The case for writing the introduction last is straightforward and compelling.
Waiting until the end to write the introduction gives you much more concrete material to work with because
Book arguments tend to deepen and clarify as the chapters accumulate.
The examples that seemed central in your early thinking might become peripheral, or vice versa.
The theoretical framework you thought you needed might turn out to be less relevant than you anticipated.
Writing the introduction too early can lock you into commitments that no longer align with where the manuscript actually goes. And with a book, those early commitments can quietly shape every chapter you draft, even after you’ve outgrown them.
From a purely practical standpoint, writing the introduction last can also be more efficient. Why spend hours crafting the perfect framing for an argument that hasn't fully crystallized yet? The introduction you write before you've worked through your analysis is almost guaranteed to need substantial revision or even a complete rewrite by the time you finish.
Waiting allows you to write a draft that is closer to the final version because you have a better grasp on the overall manuscript structure and argument. You also have a clearer sense of how the chapters “move,” which matters in books: pacing, sequence, and the arc of the reader’s understanding.
But the case for writing the introduction first is equally persuasive.
If you can’t articulate what problem you’re addressing and why it matters, that confusion tends to ripple through the entire manuscript in a few ways that writing the intro first can fix: in a book, that ripple effect can show up as chapters that feel individually strong but collectively hard to justify as this book. Writing the introduction first
forces you to reckon with fundamental questions about your project.
creates a north star you can return to when the drafting process feels unwieldy or directionless.
provides structure and momentum for writers who are overwhelmed or unsure how to organize their thoughts,
Additionally, since many of us write non-linearly, even a rough introduction can help focus the writing rather than make it feel like a searcg in a maze for coherence. Many neurodivergent folks need to think in circular and dot-connecting ways before they can organize their ideas into a more linear argument. We move back and forth between sections, revising as we go, following our thinking wherever it leads.
Having a rough but evolving introduction can be a way to keep ourselves oriented in a consistent direction. For bookwriters, this can function like a “project compass”: not a locked-in map, but a way to remember what the reader is supposed to be learning as they move from chapter to chapter.
So what’s a writer to do when faced with such contradictory advice?
What I typically recommend to clients is a middle path: begin with an extended abstract instead of a complete introduction.
I don’t mean the polished, word-count-limited abstract you’ll eventually submit to a journal. I mean a working document, written primarily for yourself, that articulates what you think the paper is doing right now and is somewhere between a couple paragraphs and a couple pages.
This extended abstract should lay out
Your central question or problem the book is organized around
Your provisional argument (that you will develop as the book evolves)
The kind of intervention you’re attempting to make in your field, subfield, or debate
Why a reader might care about this work (and why it needs to be a book, not an article)
But it doesn’t need to be elegant or perfectly cited or ready for anyone else’s eyes. It’s an orientation tool for you as you write, not a finished product.
The beauty of this approach is that it gives you something concrete but still loose enough to work with as you draft the body of your manuscript.
When you find yourself veering into tangential territory or unsure whether a particular section serves your larger purpose, you can return to this extended abstract and ask:
Am I still doing what I set out to do here?
Does this chapter earn its place in the manuscript or is it a fascinating detour that belongs in a different project?
Sometimes the answer is yes, and the chapter just needs tightening. Sometimes the answer is no, which tells you that your thinking has changed and that you need to revise the argument.
In this way, the extended abstract and your draft talk to each other.
You write.
You check in.
You adjust your abstract to reflect new insights.
You draft some more.
The abstract evolves alongside your thinking rather than constraining it or sitting in wait until the very end.
Later in the process you can return to that extended abstract and transform it into a full introduction. At that point, you’re working from a position of clarity about where your argument actually lands and then
You can craft an introduction that doesn’t just announce your intentions but models the kind of thinking you want readers to carry with them through the manuscript.
You can also craft the reader’s pathway: what each chapter contributes, why the sequence matters, and what becomes possible by the end that wasn’t possible at the beginning.
I’m skeptical of any writing advice that comes across as doctrine.
Some projects genuinely need a clear frame at the outset to move forward. Others need room to breathe and develop before they can be responsibly introduced. Some book projects, in particular, often need a sturdy “working promise” early—while saving the polished, reader-facing introduction for much later.
And beyond the demands of individual projects, our brains simply work differently. I’ve coached writers who need the structure of an early introduction to prevent the anxiety of too many open possibilities. I’ve also worked with writers who need exactly the opposite: the freedom to follow their thinking without premature constraints.
Both are legitimate ways of managing how your particular brain engages with complex intellectual work. The questions you can ask yourself to determine your path forward are
What does this particular project need from me right now?
What does my brain need?
What kind of support will help me do my best thinking?
In the end, my dear readers, you write the introduction when it makes the most sense to do so. You don’t have to choose between “first” and “last.” You can give yourself an evolving abstract and save the polished version for later.