Drafting & Revision
One of the more challenging tasks for writers is the leap from writing for pleasure to writing for publication. Writing for pleasure is just that, a pleasure. There is no need to craft sentences that code subtext or compress ideas, themes, and imagery into hard-working sentences. No drive is needed to create a beginning, middle, and end, a distinction all stories win. Missing from pleasure writing is the responsibility to and consideration of the reader. But, and this is a big but that does not lie; consideration of the reader is an essential requirement for publication. This necessity can feel intrusive to a new writer. Many writers spill precious creative juice over minor matters of ego that have nothing to do with writing good work and have everything to do with what is necessary to create a good experience for readers.
Over the past fifteen years in classrooms, from undergraduate to post-bac to graduate, and in my editing practice, I have witnessed many a budding writer, full of passion and driven by a compulsion to write, find consideration of the reader to be a rather dutiful task—especially when one has spent many an hour taking up pages without realizing that what fiction writers do is craft each sentence as puzzle piece placed in the mind of another. Creative writing is the act of service that makes a map for a reader’s imagination and allows writers the privilege of directing a movie in their minds. Good writing demands deep respect for the reader. Respect encourages the magic of belief suspension.
It is essential to separate the drafting process from the revision process for any writing practice. Writers draft to find the WHAT of a story. It is the discovery of the plot. It’s helpful to use the drafting process to get every idea about the story out of one’s head and onto the page. Drafting is a time to let go. There is no need to worry about viability or exact word choice, causation, or specifics; get as much down about the story and its characters as possible. Drafting is not the time to make decisions about structure or research but a time to give yourself as much material to choose from as possible.
A central problem with drafts is that they tend to be unintentionally vague and imprecise, and often, scenes or swaths of exposition show up without causation. Drafts tend to be too general to satisfy the needs of a story. The first few drafts read as if the writer doesn’t know the story yet because, most times, they don’t. They are still in the discovery phase of the process. Reframing drafts as a generalized map of where a story can go helps writers know where they are in the creation process. A story in the drafting stage can lack the specificity to make it compelling, believable, intimate, inevitable, and a must-read, but drafts are the necessary start of the process.
Drafting is a time to listen to the deep part of the self that writes and uses imagination, can dip into the unconscious, pulls out the universal, and attaches itself to the specific. New drafts generally read exposition-heavy (the tell of show & tell), like an explanation of a story because it is not a story yet. Drafting allows a writer to learn a story's plot and emotional arc. Drafting is a time of play and discovery—to discover if there is a there. Drafting is creating the ingredients needed to develop a story.
George Saunders’ take on first drafts in Swim in a Pond in the Rain, “Who cares if the first draft is good? It doesn’t need to be good; it just needs to be so you can revise it.” Saunders also shares Stuart Dybek’s take, “A story is always talking to you; you just have to listen.”
It is crucial to recognize how precious the drafting process is and why a writer needs time with a draft before submitting it to others for feedback. Many writers’ relationship with a draft can be interrupted by well-meaning but inaccurate feedback. Suppose a writer can allow their drafts the grace of time to give themselves creative space in the privacy and intimacy of revision. In that case, the writer-self can decipher what is essential to a story’s plot and emotional development and discover some of the crucial hows and whys of causation.
To work against the inertia of drafting, writers need to ask questions about the story throughout the revision process. A writer must break down vagueness to find the specific elements of the story and character that connect to the universal. Rounds and rounds of questioning from many perspectives help to hone the story into finely-grained truths.
In the beginning, most writers don’t know what a story means; they are writing to discover the story’s driving force (its moral, in antiquated terms.) There are vague ideas and plot points, but the specifics come in revision as the writer keeps asking, of the story and of the characters, why? Why are you like this? Why do you behave this way? What does this action show, prove, or imply? Why this, why now, and why is it necessary to this specific story? How does it advance the plot, make connections that create meaning, and engage a reader’s imagination so they can complete their part of the creation process?
All these efforts are the craft expected of writers—to create a clear, precise, compressed story that makes connections, offers a salve, satiates wonder, or otherwise gives meaning to our shared humanity.
As a writer moves into revision, they invite the discovery of the WHY of a story, or what is known as causation. During revision, writers discover the elements of craft that will give a story meaning, character motivation, weave theme, solidify causation, prove internal logic, make unique connections, etc.—the craft stuff readers, editors, and publishers crave. Craft is all the ingredients needed to form an inevitable whole—a story.
The challenge of moving between and into revision from a draft is to remain unattached to what has shown up on the page in the drafting process. Allow your writer-self to be curious, to be in a mode of discovery as to why any element showed up in a draft. A firm grasp of one’s writing ticks is vital, so no time is wasted distracted by poor grammar or confusing syntax; that bit of editing comes later in the process. At this point, a writer must ask themselves tough questions about the value of what is on the page. Writers must seek the heat, the places in the draft with the most energy. They must find the story’s driving force—without one, you may have beautiful sentiments and ideas, but stories require forward motion. And any sentence, idea, concept, or connection must earn its right to inclusion; every element must earn its spot on the page. And each piece must fit precisely into the whole. There is no room for ego and no tolerance for hooptedoodle (see Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules of Writing for an in-depth understanding of hooptedoodle); there are mediums for look-what-I-can-do self-indulgence– relevant literature expects much more of writers, and so do readers.
Revision requires the writer to become ego-deaf, at least temporarily, to put away the wants of the self and take on the responsibility of listening to develop a story towards its individuation, to become an entity unto itself, and to find its footing in the world. Developed stories stand alone. Writing becomes a story when the sentences meet a reader’s mind, and their imagination can suspend disbelief long enough to enjoy the ride through a beginning, middle, and end—the only uniting feature of all stories.
Refining the story for specificity and intimacy makes for good story writing. However, to understand our drafts, we must discover what lies underneath. (Themes, subtext, implications, politics, etc.)
The difference between drafts (vagueness) and story (focus) is what separates great art from mediocre art.”
A talented artist is, first and foremost, someone who takes us into the specifics of a valuable experience. They don’t merely tell us that spring is ‘nice’; they zero into the particular contributing factors to this niceness: leaves that have the softness of a newborn’s hands, the contrast between a warm sun and a sharp breeze, the palliative cry of baby blackbirds. The more the artist moves from generalities to specific, the more the scene comes alive in our minds.”
The goal of a writer is to move from woolly first impressions to authentic details: to go from vagueness to focus.” (pg.62 How to Think Effectively, parentheticals added by me.)
The leap between drafting and revision gives writers the best chance at reaching what is sought—good writing. A frustrating part of learning to write creatively is that it is left up to the artist to figure out how to leap from drafting to revision and change the game from writing for pleasure to writing for publication (for others.) In-between is often wrought with lots of feedback from peers and loved ones or other budding writers who are well-intentioned, but let’s be honest with ourselves: they don’t know the first thing about craft, and those voices can make it difficult for a writer to listen to their work.
All these efforts are the craft expected of professional writers—to create a clear, precise, compressed story that makes connections, offers a salve, satiates wonder, or otherwise gives meaning to our shared humanity.
Once you have a draft and are ready to move on to the revision stage, here are some questions to ask of your draft.
1. Consider where in the story you feel the heat. What piques your interest? What makes you wonder why that, whatever that is, shows up in my story? What begs questions that need answering? Explore.
2. Are your answers large and general, not wrong, just vague, pointing to a broad area without touching meaning?
3. In areas of vagueness, more questioning.
· What is the driving force (or moral) of the story?
· What elements on the page are necessary to make the story whole, the characters round, and the action inevitable?
· Does this story have the visceral emotional knowledge to be believable? Is it carnal (as Karr would ask), embodied, or three-dimensional?
· Does this story feel natural, authentic, and compelling?
· What feeling(s) are you trying to produce in the reader?
Remember, a good story is a precise rendering of action and behavior that layers connections between craft elements to create meaning and find inevitable causation.
I advocate for writers to create a relationship with their work before sharing it in classrooms or writing groups. It’s crucial to have a sense of your process and how you move from draft to revision before you invite anyone except a conceptual/developmental editor or experienced writer into your creative influx space. Writers must demand more of themselves and create time for multiple drafts and many ideas before zeroing in and becoming focused. Learn how to take your work apart line-by-line after time away from it. It will be well worth the effort. Learn your writing ticks, notice the repetition of favorite words or expressions, strike clichés, a sure sign of a sophomoric attempt, and adverbs; adverbs are a beacon of wrong verb choice—learn to be a good judge of your efforts. Understanding your weaknesses will turn them into opportunities for development. Remember, a draft is what a writer needs to do the actual work of a writer, which is rewriting, rewriting, rewriting, and rewriting until a piece is fully developed and can stand alone on the page and in the world.
Craft Must-Reads: Steering the Craft by Ursula K. Le Guin, Writing Fiction by Janet Burroway, A Swim in the Pond in the Rain by George Saunders and What About the Baby by Alice McDermott, Dryers English by Benjamin Dryer and How to Think Effectively by The School of Life and Self Editing for Fiction Writers by Browne & King.