I'm an Islander and a City Boy Too

It's always a strange, sometimes frightening, thing. A story that's going exactly as planned suddenly compels you to write an unexpected scene. And part of you wants to resist because this narrative twist will force you to rewrite a number of earlier scenes. You want to keep it simple and proceed according to plan...but should you?

Example:

My two lead characters have been steered to a Seattle security guard who may be able to help them. He's a scarred, broken-down legend who'd once been the terror of thieves. But Elvis has now left the building. The plan: to have my guys show up, present him with a card from a cop he knows and arrange to meet him after his shift. But Boss MacTavin, my hero, is both moved and angered by the sight of the coward the guard has become. My right hand began to move.

And a fierce battle between that hand and my critical side now began. As I wrote, Boss slapped the guard several times to try to awaken his spirit...then DB, Boss' partner, grabs the guard by the shirt front--something no experienced fighter would do--and tells him quietly that he has stolen merchandise under his jacket--the guard should recover it, then throw him out.  So one side of me wanted Boss to play Mike Hammer with the guard, while the other side wanted both men to give the guard a chance to get his old bad feeling back and be seen as a star on the job. I now saw the guard becoming a major player in the book.

Another writer once compared writing to a creative balance between the island and the city:





I like the image and I keep it in mind. At the first draft, I'm an islander and I need to work as one, freely and openly...unburdened by bullying messages from hardheaded city editors: No, no, that'll never work...Boss can't really slap the guy--not that hard, anyway...And won't the guard be fired if he throws the two out?  Etc., etc., etc.

But hey. The city pros can have their day at the second and subsequent drafts. I'm an islander now and I let the words rip without any fear of mistakes.

Second Thoughts On Second Drafts

I'd gotten that part down well enough that I no longer anguished even when I knew something wasn't working in my first 'pass' through a novel.  Let's raise our cups to Hemingway who put it with more pith:



At the same time, let's remember that many pros refer to the first draft as the Vomit Draft:





And Ernie Mears has given what I regard as the best definition:

vomit draft: (n)  1. writing draft in which the author spews words on the page in a chaotic outpouring of ideas, characters, plot, passion, and quite possibly last week’s dinner; 2. the art form of funneling the maelstrom of inspiration in one’s brain into a porcelain throne of paper; 3. in which a writer commits a story to paper for the first time, therein relating it to herself.  synonyms:  first draft, rough draft.  antonyms:  polished piece, final draft, completed manuscript.

That said, at the very least, we've got ourselves a book--right?  Wrong. Whether you see it as vomit or as very raw material, you have something that may become very important...with work. But what you don't have is a book.

Well, okay, okay, okay. But, hey, at least the hard part's done--right? Wrong. The second draft, for me, has always been the hardest. Daily, I have to face the reeking stylistic mess. Daily, I see again that almost every page contains twice the needed word count. The pacing is off. I'm telling and not showing. Characters still aren't developed enough. The fact is, almost everything that could go wrong with a good novel lies before the writer in a reeking puddle of vomit. And this is an excellent time to reflect: with every pass through a novel it grows harder to spot what is wrong--try to spot the Biggies now.

Still, something cool happened in the second draft of Caesar's Ghost, my WIP. I abandoned all thoughts of perfection in this pass. I squeezed every drop of defeatism and shame from my soul. If the second draft still sucked, so what? So what if took me three more drafts...or five? No one would see the book until I ready to show it. So why not enjoy this pass, working with humbler goals:
--Work calmly, daily, without stress--from a hard copy of the text.
--Cut only verbiage that is obviously excessive.
--Focus on pacing, logistics and clarity.
--Don't think about stylistic razzmatazz. But do accomplish in this pass a professional level of prose.
--Make notes for any challenge that can't be resolved at this time.





Well, okay, okay. But then the second draft's done. And, relatively speaking, the third draft should be a cake walk--right? Maybe right...but maybe wrong. Depends on what your values are and how good a writer you hope to become.

Three drafts will be enough for some and one too many for others. Still others may need four or five. But if you do decide on a third, let the third be extra-special. With all that has been cleared away, you may spy new opportunities--for a plot twist or a character or a turn of phrase. Nothing is final until you sign off. So allow yourself at least one more pass...with a world of potential before you.