Many writers talk about “
Shitty First Drafts,” to use the
term coined by Anne Lamott in
Bird by
Bird. These are your horrific first attempts at your story. They’re hairy
with adjectives, and stumble about on improperly placed limbs. I like to call them
“ugly duckling” drafts because, despite their deformity, they are merely good
works in their infancy.
I used to believe I did not write these. In recent times, I
have discovered the extent of my error. Here are five lessons I learned on how
to bring ugly duckling drafts to maturity, which may be of use to you as well:
- Write action, trim description. Action
is the currency of your story. Your readers may forget your paragraphs of prose
poetry on an ancient horn’s carvings. They will
remember what your characters did—because
that is the story. Description works
best riding on the trail of action, so marble your action and description like
meat and fat in a good steak.
- If you must describe at length, make it
sound like action. Writing figuratively allows you to make things incapable of action come alive. We already say that vines coil and patterns flow, so let your imagination play with the possibilities. Start by turning gerunds back into verbs: "His steep forehead sloped into a thick brow," instead of "He had a steeply sloping forehead and a thick brow."
- Give your characters something to do.
Even bit characters should make themselves of use. This goes double for
characters who usher us into the story. The first draft of my novel-in-progress opened with
a beleaguered priest waiting in the rain. He waited for three-quarters of a
page. When I showed the passage to an editor, the opening failed to capture her
attention. She recommended that I give him something to do. I followed her
advice, and his plight became far more interesting. Conflict drives stories,
and conflict dies when characters do nothing.
- “Omit Needless Words.” E.B. White said it best.
- Weed out the cliches. Avoiding trite
phrases and tropes is difficult on your first draft. But second and third
drafts grant you the benefit of hindsight. Now is the time to chuck those old
chestnuts and try something more lively. If you feel your story requires a
scene that would be considered cliche, ask yourself aspects of that approach
are important. Then find another scenario that fulfills those requirements. If
you cannot, then cut everything not essential to the task.
Nothing is novel about these suggestions. I suspect that
ninety percent of what we know about the craft of writing is old news. The remaining
ten percent is unique to every writer, and we must each discover that for
ourselves.