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The First Draft

by N A Sulway
 

Something of ValueWorking on a big project, like a novel, is a daunting prospect. It's easy to put off, because it's so big. Too often we think today is too small a day to begin, or too full. We can't possibly achieve enough in a single day. Perhaps we convince ourselves that we're not ready to begin. The novel hovers, a few small inches from our fingertips, untouchable.

I suspect, too, that sometimes we feel daunted by the perfection of what we imagine we will write. By how great that novel in our imagination is, and how feeble and ordinary today's words seem when compared to that dazzling achievement. It's easy to put today's words off until tomorrow. It's easy to think of writing as the a hobby, something that's not as important as washing the dishes, or spending time with children/friends/partner. The least important thing, because to everyone other than you it's practically invisible. A file on a computer; a notebook tucked into your drawer.

Nobody will give you permission to write except you. Nobody will make you write, except you. In the end, even if you have a writing buddy, or enrol in a course, you will have to be your own task-master. Nobody else, at this stage, cares as much as you do if you don't write. For them, your novel, your career as a writer, is even more of an imaginary, potential thing than it is for you. It's hard for other people, especially non-writers, to understand how enormous the novel you have inside you is. You'll have to learn to forgive them for not being able to see it yet.

You'll have to have faith in yourself, and your work. You'll have to be your own True Believer.

For me, this is more than empty words. The primary way you show your faith in yourself as a writer is to write. To take the time, every day, or almost every day, to be a writer. To write. To leave the dishes in the sink, if that's what it takes: if it's an either/or proposition. To not watch television, or not go to the movies. Or sacrifice some of the time you might otherwise have spent in the garden, or with your partner or children. Someone once said to me, that the first serious thing you must do as a writer is decide what it is you are willing to give up in order to do that. To weigh your desire against whatever else it is that that art will cost you.

After that, it's easy. You've made your deal with the devil.

After that, all you have to do is show up for work, every day, or as near to every day as you can manage. You have to sit down and write, and write. No matter how bad it is. You have to forgive yourself for those dreadful sentences, the ugly scenes, the mixed metaphors and dangling modifiers. You have to write anyway, because if you're not writing, you're not being true to your self. Because if you're not writing, today, then the novel isn't going to magically appear at the end of a year, or two years, or five years. Because if you're not writing, today, you're one step further away from ever achieving your writing goals.

Writing Regime

So, this is what I'm recommmending: a daily, regular regime of writing. First, decide how much time you can commit to your writing, every day, or at the least every week day, for the next year. Be realistic. Recognise that if you promise an hour a day seven days a week after years of writing maybe once a month, when the mood hit, you may be setting yourself up to fail. That's akin to saying you're going to exercise every day and live on celery and non-fat crackers after forty years of chocolate cake. Find a modest, but doable starting point. You can always increase it later. And, you can always do more, on any single day, if you want to.

So, starting today, set aside that time in your diary or schedule, if you have one. And start writing.

It's fairly simple, though surprisingly difficult to stick to. The rules are very, very basic. Go and sit at your desk or table, or wherever it is you sit to write. Open your computer, or notebook, and write. If nothing comes, do nothing else. Do not check your email, or your facebook page, or your Twitter feeds. Do not read the paper, or play solitaire. Do not read, or do 'research'. No editing. This is not editing time; this is writing time.

If you can't write, do nothing. Just sit, and stare at the blank page. Try some kind of writing exercise that's focused on your novel's characters, style, voice or story.

At the beginning of a writing project, when I've set myself the massive task of getting a first draft down, I go back to some pretty basic time management with my writing. I go back to basics. Write, rewrite, move on.

This method is simply a way to describe a very simple approach to getting a draft down, without getting bogged down in rewrites. The method is simple. So simple that it's almost embarrassing to call it a method at all: day one, write for one brick of time (say, one hour). Day two, edit yesterday's writing, and write for one brick of time. Day three, edit the writing from day one and day two, and write for one brick of time. Day four, edit writing from day two and three, and write for one brick of time. From here, like Lot's wife should have done, we don't look back. Only ever editing the writing done over the last two days - never anything older. If you decide to change tense on day ten, change tense in the last two days and keep going forward. If you decide to change your character's names, or ages, do it from here forward.

If you diagrammed this first-draft method, it might look like this:

Day One
Day Two
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Write brick one
Edit brick one
Edit brick one
Print brick one




Write brick two
Edit brick two
Edit brick two
Print brick two




Write brick three
Edit brick three
Edit brick three
Print brick three




Write brick four
Edit brick four
Edit brick four
Print brick four




Write brick five
Edit brick five
Edit brick five





Write brick six
Edit brick six






Write brick seven

Everything you write gets read over and edited twice - enough to tidy up, enough to remind you what you were working on yesterday, but not so much you beat all the life out of it. I usually print off the pages once they've been edited for the last time - the first thing I do each session - and put them in a folder; this is the growing manuscript in hardcopy. In order to keep track of where each day's writing starts and stops, I put the day's number in: Day One. If I miss a day, I just don't count it. Monday may be day one, Tuesday day two, Friday day three.

If I start to notice that I'm doing a lot of editing - spending more time on editing than on writing - then I start setting myself time limits on the editing stuff and, rather than edit the whole prior two sections, pick a particular bit, or make notes about what kind of editing I think it needs, using the 'comment' function in word, or a text-box with notes in it.

I never delete whole scenes at this stage, though I might draw a big slash through them on the hardcopy if I really hate them. While the whole scene might not be working, at a later date I might regret throwing it away. I might decide I do want a scene in a bar after all, and didn't I have one somewhere? Maybe I could use some bits from it... Also, a print-out is a satisfying thing to see growing day by day, even if I'm not pleased with every sentence. Having a growing pile of paper filled with words gives me a strong sense of achievement. As it grows it becomes a good resource to dip into, when I'm not writing, in order to see how things are going in there, to recall plotlines or images or characters I've dropped or forgotten about, things I liked that I might work on a bit more tomorrow. Don't look too closely, however, while you're dipping, and don't edit on the computer file, no matter how much you scribble on the hardcopy.

Don't get too hung up about how under-cooked some passages are just yet, or your spelling or grammar or formatting. It's a first draft - a zero draft - it's not meant to read or look like a finished, polished manuscript. If reading it inspires new ideas, new scenes, new turns, then bring them to the next day's writing, not back into the already-written sections.

A zero draft, by the way, is the draft before the first draft. The draft you promise yourself you won't show ANYONE. Not the postman, not the cat. It's supposed to be dreadful, disorganised, insensible. This draft really is just for you. When it's done, you can move on to the more public first draft. Or perhaps, as you go, if you're that kind of writer, you'll elevate your daily writing to first draft status. Some of it, anyway, and keep the other stuff in a separate file, drawer, or pile.

You don't have to write your scenes or chapters in order; if they come to you that way, or if writing them in order works better for you, then by all means do it that way, but if your process is more random than that, just embrace it for what it is. If a new opening scene occurs to you on day 54, write it then, fresh, but don't go back and cut the old opening. Not yet. Cutting is for later, when you've got something sizable to work with and you have to reduce, re-use and recycle!

Ok, so that's my first-draft method. I recommend you give it a go, in its pure form at first, and then adjusting it to suit your needs. Oh, and when I say adjust it to suit your needs, I don't mean softening it up because it's too hard, even though you know you should do it the hard way. I don't mean telling yourself you can only write when inspiration strikes, when you know that deep down that's maybe an excuse you're using to justify how slowly you write. Don't use "adjust to suit your needs" as an excuse not to write. Try, for example, not to convince yourself that you really do need to edit it all into perfection before you move forward. I do understand that impulse: I have it myself. The thing is, I know how dangerous a trap endless, perfectionist editing can be during the early stages of writing. First, you can convince yourself the writing's just not good enough; second, you can kill the energy of the writing and of the writing urge - the thrill of making it up, of writing beyond what you knoow; third, you can just get bogged down in all the editing and never get past the first few pages, and; fourth, you can finetune the first chapter up the yin-yang, for months, only to find when you finish the first draft that that whole section has to go. Letting go of something you've worked that hard for can be devastating, and can lead to quite a few tears before bedtime. Having lots of material to work with, however, even having a small collection of possible opening scenes, can be a real boon when you're editing. So many favourites to choose from!

Writing a zero draft is hard, but it's also fun. It's the time when you can be the most liberal with the truths of your novel, most disrespectful of all the writing rules. The most unconcerned about editors, buyers, readers and housemates. A zero draft is all about the pleasure of making things up, it's about making a mess of things and then realising that the mess has taught you everything you need to know about your characters and their story. It's about letting go, and letting it all hang out. Writing sentences you're ashamed of, sentences you're not sure about, sentences that only you can love. You can have plotlines that don't make sense. intertextual references that nobody else will understand. For now. You can explore every subplot, every nuance of character, every backstory. You can describe all the buildings, draw floorplans, design maps. This draft is for you, and you alone. It is the world complete out of which your novel will take flight.

There'll be time enough for editing later, but this time? This time is your time.

About the Author

N A Sulway is an author, editor, and one of the mentors at Olvar Wood Writers Retreat.

 

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