The Vision Thing

Posted on December 7, 2013 by Eileen Workman

As the author of Sacred Economics: The Currency of Life, and as one of the three cofounders of Muse Harbor Publishing, it falls upon me to articulate The Vision Thing. This project landed in my inbox because my life’s work focuses on the exploration of new ways for people to be in healthy relationships with one another, and – by extension – with the larger living world that connects us all.

Perhaps it’s a happy accident, but we at Muse Harbor consider ourselves to be equals. We love each other unconditionally, and we treasure our personal friendships. Above all, we each honor the crazy, flawed, wonderful, brilliant, amazing, creative and unfathomable beings we are. We’re learning how to rely with gratitude upon the unique skills and talents that each of us offers without defining whose skills should be worth more. For us, being in a healthy relationship means the love will always matter more than the work; but when it’s time for work we serve each other as well as we possibly can. We do so because we’ve come to realize we need each other if any of us are to thrive.

Being in a healthy relationship also means we’re dedicated to serving you—our authors and readers—so you can get the most out of what we’re co-creating. We want our writers to be able to afford to keep on writing, and we want our readers to be able to access as many books as they care to read. Our low prices and high author payout rates have been designed to serve that purpose. We trust that if our writers succeed and our readers enjoy their books, we’ll do just fine.

When we sign a new author we do so because we love the material. We’re acknowledging that we trust in the author’s vision and ability to refine it, and feel confident we can add value to the project. And whenever you purchase a Muse Harbor book, know that we’re committed to ensuring you’ll be getting a book worth reading.

Our favorite motto remains: “No fun, no do.” We strive to discover if the trust, friendship and openness we’re fostering in our new business model will birth a higher degree of excellence than does the decaying corporate model, which thrives by provoking fear and stress in people to induce greater productivity…but at what price? Perhaps joy, passion and gratitude will prove better fuels for the engine of human creativity over the long run.

We’ve made it our mission to build a safe harbor for authors, yet we’re conscious of the fact that we’ve plunged headlong into the oceanic abyss of a new business model without protective gear, so drowning remains a distinct possibility. We don’t pretend to have all the answers for what makes a successful company, or what compels a reader to select this book over that one. But we do love to tackle new challenges, so testing this kinder, gentler business model makes waking up every day a joy for us all (at least most of the time!)

I hope these words have helped illuminate what we’re attempting to do. Perhaps, if nothing else, they may move you to check out the books we’re currently offering. For some time now we’ve been searching for a pithy way to describe who we are, and what we hope to achieve. How about this: “Buy a book; save an author. Buy two books; support a new paradigm.”

You can find more of Eileen Workman’s posts on Reality Sandwich

First Drafts

Posted on July 4, 2012 by Dave Workman

A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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Don’t expect perfection in a first draft.
Don’t even expect coherence.

One’s first draft isn’t so much a solid entity as it is an amorphous, adaptive, multi-functional and cluttered embryonic mass that will one day give birth to a polished manuscript, ready for publication. This gestation process is part rough outline, part sketchpad, part journal, part cheat sheet, part receptacle and part dream-catcher for ideas both clever and foolish. (The foolish ones will be gradually, eventually replaced by bouts of brilliance, of course.)

Every writer will experience a unique and different approach to writing a first draft. (Spoiler: There ain’t no single way!) For some writers—not many, but a few—each page will emerge pristine and complete as is. Those writers are basically drafting, editing, re-editing and polishing each page in their heads before continuing to the next page. For the rest of us, however, our first draft is (or will be) a hot mess, filled with gaping plot holes and various discrepancies, half-baked thoughts and overtly flowery prose—all waiting for an eventual fix in subsequent drafts.

Writing (and finishing) a novel involves an intricate, two-step process: Part 1. The Idea. And, Part 2. The Implementation. The Idea (your original concept) is largely a Right Brain (creative thinking) process. The Implementation (writing it down) is mostly a Left Brain (critical thinking, problem solving) process. For most writers, creativity isn’t difficult. We’re all daydreamers at heart. Some of us are natural-born storytellers. Both the difficulty and the success of our efforts depend upon upon which of those ideas we choose and refine into relevant prose. Sometimes, the chasm between The Idea and The Implementation may seem impossible.

Part 1. The Idea: Perceiving a potential novel—those weeks or months or years spent contemplating a story—that’s pretty much quantum thinking. Fragmented concepts spin around our heads like graffiti at Marti Gras, thoughts about this-or-that coming and going in no particular order. But then we must gather the resulting chaos…

Part 2. The Implementation: Once a writer begins to put thoughts on paper, word after word after word, that’s linear thinking. Basically we’re taking a bloated, unwieldy (and sometimes incomplete) concept and filtering it through a very small cerebral nozzle—one painstaking sentence at a time.

Not everybody attempting a first novel can make that transition. At least, not easily. Our right-brain (the creative side) is handing the baton to our left-brain (the logical, orderly side). A good many beginning novelists fumble the baton at this point. The successful ones pick it up again and keep running.

A first draft is that fusion of quantum thinking crashing into linear thinking. Some thoughts will transcribe smoothly to the page, but others emerge kicking and screaming and not very sure if or where they belong. But a first draft allows all those free-flowing thoughts a place to safely crash-land—many only temporarily—and then recover. Think of an oil painter who roughly sketches an idea on a canvas with a pencil before beginning to apply paint. A writer’s first draft is very much like that sketch. We’re not really sure what our final results will look like, but at least we have an idea. It’s a start.

The key to success, for most of us, is being aware of a first draft’s purpose. Don’t expect immediate satisfaction in a first draft. Because we’re not looking for any sort of perfection or brilliant prose (although we may see bits and pieces of future brilliance begin to take shape.) But a first draft is simply a tool meant FYEO, and one that often explores various options, opportunities and changes to our story before (or as) we find the best way forward. (Also see Perfection.)

A few of us (with perfect brains!) are able write a pristine page or two a day, and never look back. However, for the vast majority of writers expecting (or attempting) perfection in a first draft most likely won’t complete that novel—they’ll burn out first from mental exhaustion long before they can reach The End. Others might finish those thoughts in a 2nd or 3rd draft, but most of us will redraft a dozen or two times before we’re ultimately happy with the results. But there’s no single way to successfully draft a novel. Every writer will have a different approach. The key is in finding the best avenue suited for our individual needs.

A Comprehensive, Illustrative Guide to the
Intentionality and Complexity of a First Draft

Essential Q & A

Q. What’s the difference between an outline and a first draft?

A. Typically (not always, but often) an outline can be created as a prelude to a first draft. Or, conversely, one might consider a first draft a framework of individualized, itemized plot-points, merged together to form a slightly more coherent overall concept. (Refer to Outlining if necessary.) Some writers’ outlines organically morph into first drafts, while others more resemble Outline v2.0. Some writers will hone and rewrite their outlines as a completely separate entity, until they feel comfortable beginning a first draft that might seem like a nearly finished novel. Doesn’t really matter what your outline looks like—so long as it’s comprehensive enough to fulfill your needs as an effective blueprint for your subsequent fictional work.

Typically (again, not always, but often) one’s outline will be plot-centric. Meaning that a writer is attempting to cobble together a cohesive plot from A-to-Z, but little else at this point. Some writers won’t attempt to define or hone their characters’ personalities and motivations, or locations/realms until starting to draft their story. Only during a first draft will a writer begin to overlay bits of literary muscle and flesh to plump up their outline’s skeletal framework.

Q. Should I outline before beginning a first draft?

A. It’s not mandatory. While both practices can be extremely important to story development, creating an outline isn’t absolutely necessary before beginning to write a first draft. S’up to you!

Q. Must my outline continue chronological from the first page of a story until the last page?

A. No. Some ideas begin mid-story, and an outline can continue forwards or backwards. Other writers will pause to create a partial outline only if they’re bogged down in a scene or chapter. Again, an outline is simply a tool that can help a writer move forward and/or more fully develop incomplete thoughts. If that tool isn’t necessary, there’s no need to utilize it.

Q. What’s the difference between a first draft and a second draft?

A. Depends upon your approach. There’s really no structural guideline between a first and second (or third, or fourth, or fifth…) draft. Typically, any subsequent draft is a continuation of those alterations and additions begun in a previous draft—although in reality, one can transform a first draft into a final polished manuscript, if that’s the way your brain works.

For many writers (myself included), a second draft is really a mishmash of multiple, partial re-edits and rewrites. Personally, I’ll outline any scene or chapter as it occurs to me, sequentially or not. Even if I’m just beginning a novel, should some obscure Act III scene come to mind, I’ll outline that immediately, while my thoughts are still fresh. And should my story’s conclusion gel in my head—very often I begin a story with only a hazy ending in mind—I’ll immediately stop writing and draft as much of my last chapter as I can. Once I know, or even intuit, my conclusion, I find it much easier to move my characters toward that final destination. Far fewer wrong turns or dead ends, once everyone in my story knows where they’re going, and why.

Q. How complete should/must my outline be?

A. Again, totally your call. An outline (or first draft) can be as simple or complex as necessary for your needs. For some, a few random Post-It Notes. For others, an Excel spreadsheet. But once you’re certain of your way forward, those tools have served their purpose. I create an outline for multiple reasons. I’ll include a detailed timeline, should I find myself writing various characters who need to connect in a later scene or chapter. When necessary, I’ll time-stamp hours and/or days (e.g.; TUESDAY 4:30PM) to keep myself aware of the clock ticking. Too often, when writing side-stories or back-stories, it’s very easy to muddle times and dates. One thing about a book’s ending—everybody best show up on time.

I’ll also use my outline as a ‘call sheet’—reminding myself which characters are in any particular scene, when they appear and why—just so I don’t inadvertently sideline someone, or overload a scene with needless characters. However, it’s imperative, when writing a new scene, that every character is ‘accounted for’ right up front. Each character should be ID’ed within a paragraph or two—an essential part of scene-setting—to avoid sudden ‘unexpected appearances’ later in the scene… even if those character do little but sit silently in a dark corner and scowl. They must be presented to readers ASAP.)

My outlines typically begin small—maybe a page or two of hastily jotted ideas, sometimes on Post-It Notes that pepper my bulletin board. As my story progresses, I find myself adding bits and pieces of data and plumping out a scene’s core elements in various ways— even including snippets of dialogue or scene-setting that I might otherwise forget if not notated in the here-and-now. By the time I finish my novel’s final draft (usually 350-400 pages) my outline will have expanded by 40-50 pages. So, yes, an outline can be a multi-faceted tool for those of us who need constant reminders of where, when, where, why and how I’m attempting to tell my story.

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Where to Start (Part 4)

Posted on June 23, 2012 by Dave Workman

A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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Getting Down To It.

So maybe you’ve tried writing a few short stories. Or you’ve started a novel, cranked out a few pages or maybe a few chapters, but you’ve found the process… difficult. A bit daunting. Overwhelming. So let’s boil the process down to the bare bones — and perhaps get a better feel of what writing starting a novel is all about. So, for the moment, let’s forget about developing any sort of writing style, about pushing through writer’s block and other down-the-road potential obstacles, about winning that Pulitzer or interviewing with Oprah. For the moment we’ll stick to the preliminaries.

I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s worth repeating: There’s no single, best, one-size-fits-all approach to beginning a novel. Some first-time novelists simply plop themselves down in front of a notepad, a typewriter (because those still exist!) or a PC and begin to peck out a first line, and then another. And another. You’re starting out cold turkey, ready to bang out 300 or 400 pages without a second thought. You’ve got a story to tell and, by God, you’re going to tell it. Because if that’s your style, your intent, go for it! Writers have been writing first novels by the seat of their pants (some of those efforts destined to become best-sellers) for hundreds of years. You can’t argue with tradition.

Or maybe you’re a perfectionist. You’ve been planning your novel for months or even years — getting yourself mentally prepared, but not quite ready to, y’know, do the deed. You’ve read every How-To writing book ever printed, and you’ve memorized Strunk & White. Maybe you’re on your way to a Ph.D in creative writing. (Is there such a thing?) You’ve crossed your proverbial I’s and dotted your perennial T’s and only now, locked and loaded, are you ready to dare tap out those first few sentences.

Either way, realize that this brazen new millennium offers new and exciting (or new and terrifying, depending upon your POV) approaches to prepping, drafting, writing and selling a novel. The Internet has changed the way we gather and research information, interact with other writers to learn a few trade secrets or swap stories, tips and secrets — Reddit’s r/writing sub for example, or NaNoWriMo, Writer’s Digest, Writers Helping Writers, Inkitt or Wattpad — and how we find agents, editors and publishers. New emerging (or emerged) markets such: Audio, ebooks, flash-fiction and fan-fiction Websites and how-to apps proliferate. Total strangers will tell you what to do, how to do it, and will occasionally rip you and your work to pieces with the joyous dexterity of a seasoned serial killer. Emotionally drained, you’re left to wonder, Am I really a horrible writer? Or is that new best friend and critic of yours just some rando psychopath? Sometimes it can be hard to tell. But refer again — and as often as necessary — to Rule #3. Write to please yourself. I call it my self-inflicted sanity rule.

Not to mention that you’ll come across people like me; well-meaning souls who harken our presence and thrash about with an austere sincerity (or else an utterly false pretense) eager to share our fabulous secrets of fame and fortune like so many boardwalk carnival barkers. (Another rule of thumb: If somebody’s asking you to pay for their unsolicited time and advice, think twice, fact check their credentials and don’t be afraid to run screaming into the night.)

Because, basically, writing a novel can be a lonely, isolating endeavor, and trusting oneself is paramount. Your guess about what makes a best-seller is as good an assumption as anybody else’s best guess. So, yeah, relying on your own intuition and common sense is a safe bet. If you get stuck or lost along the way, sure — it’s okay to seek advice or second opinions. But always remember that you’re captain of your own ship. If you find yourself sinking, it’s okay to swim for shore. But if you can weather the storms and make it to port, there’s no sweeter feeling. The first time you see your very own ISBN and/or Library of Congress PCN — few other thrills can compare. Because publishing a book feels very much like landing on the moon or skiing the Matterhorn. For anyone staring morosely at a blank screen, contemplating tapping out those first few pages, just be aware that the long journey ahead can be well worth the effort.

And if you don’t try, you’ll never know for sure.

So perhaps it’s time to explore that Yellow Brick Road. So let’s cut to the chase, bury that witch and skip forward. (Cue the Munchkins!) Because whether you’re contemplating beginning a novel or you’ve already started (or started over), I’ve listed (below) what I consider to be variations of that essential first step.

But give yourself permission to engage in a bit of introspection. A little self-analysis. Ask yourself a few basic Why? questions. Don’t worry, it’s painless. Ain’t nobody’s keeping score. And there are no wrong answers. But understanding your core motivation for writing is, I suspect, more important than you may realize. For instance:

Why have I chosen to write this particular narrative?

An easy question. Because any consideration short of I really don’t have a clue is acceptable. Writing for the sheer joy of writing is a completely okay. Writing to make a moral or social or philosophical difference is fine. Even writing to quiet that incessant static buzz between your ears is acceptable. What’s static after all but a frequency looking for a receptor? Writing may be that receptor. Many writers find that writing fiction quiets the brain, fills a void, provides meaning to an otherwise vacuous life. All valid reasons to begin writing. But not having a clue will only get you so far. A page or two. A chapter or two, before you realize it’s time to move along. To find another source of fulfillment. Sure, give yourself credit for trying, but perhaps your better suited for a different sort of creative endeavor? A less emotionally demanding adventure?

What’s my story about?

Because if you don’t know, readers probably won’t know (or care) either. (Also refer to What’s Your Intention.) Maybe you love reading fantasy, and you’re enamored with fire-belching dragons. However, sitting down to write about fire-belching dragons, but without any further consideration, won’t get you far. How well do you understand your MCs’ motivations? Their personalities? Your story must be different, unique and—above all—well thought out. Because perceiving a story is no less important than writing a story. (See First Drafts.)

What’s my end game? How to I best conclude my story?

Many writer’s have an idea, a concept, an inciting incident in mind—and that feels sufficient to jump down the rabbit hole. For some writers it’s sufficient, but for many of us, knowing the ending of our story is essential to our progress. When we know (or at least intuit) how our story ends, our characters also know. It’s much easier to choreograph our characters toward their fates, or their final destination—and with far fewer wrong turns or dead ends. Because, otherwise, many writers hit that ‘muddle in the middle’, and lose their way, or give up altogether. So know where you’re going, then figure out how to get there.

What do I risk by writing this (or any) book? Is it worth the price?

I’m no shrink, nor do I play one on TV, and I expect no Freudian answers. But are there risks writing a book? Yup. A risk of disillusionment, disapproval and disappointment, for starters. Losing touch with friends and family. Losing months or perhaps years of your life while staring at a computer screen (and wondering who’s going to pay the G&E bills). Most of us will face a buttload* of rejection, and sometimes repeatedly. Most of us who begin a novel — and brace yourself — won’t finish. Of those who do finish, a majority will not find a publisher. Of those who do, a majority will not make a sustainable living. Not trying to be a total bummer here—but those are the risks we learn to accept.

Maybe you’ve heard of the Aspiration, Inspiration, Perspiration philosophy of novel writing? If not, here’s the gist:

Aspiration is about having a desire and ambition—the eagerness — to write a particular story. Maybe it’s based on family history or a newspaper article or an old movie you once saw, and intend to improve upon. Maybe you’ve read a thousand fantasy novels and thought, I can do that! But having a specific goal in mind can be crucial to boy your joy of writing and your success.

Inspiration is simply another word for your creativity. Every chance you get, consciously or subliminally, your brain is concocting clever scenarios about this and that and some other thing. What if this happens? What if that happens? What would happen if…? Meaning, you’re comfortable concocting clever, witty characters in well-conceived settings (or realms), and then giving them something exciting, profound and memorable to accomplish or survive.

Perspiration is perhaps the most challenging of the three. Perspiration is all about your ability to persevere, page after page after page. Day after day, night after night. It’s about excusing yourself (not always, but often) when you’re friends are knocking back tequila shooters down at the Disco. It’s about potentially isolating yourself from friends and families for months or years, and about accepting criticism (when valid) and about pushing forward despite reservations and self-doubt and either the fear of failure or fear of success whispering furiously in the back of your brain. (Also see Fundamentals for a deeper dive into this philosophy.)

But enough with the negativity already! Back to the fun and frolic of telling a good story.

As previously discussed, most story ideas begin as a snippet of thought or a fragmented concept, perhaps a random daydream or a tasty soundbite thrown your way from mass- or social-media. Maybe you’ve piled on additional, if nebulous, ideas as well. Once you have a basic story in mind — either a partially considered, loosely threaded beginning, middle and ending in mind, or simply that aforementioned inciting incident — it’s up to you to expand upon those concepts into an eventual, fully-formed novel.

Do realize that no set rules exist for proceeding. If my last few posts feel unhelpful or cumbersome, no worries! (And this is as close to a disclaimer as I’ll come.) But since every writer’s brainwaves, intuitions, coping skills and experiences are unique, I’m unlikely to speak with either eloquence or efficacy to every novice writer. So take from me what you will, disregard the rest and Google your way toward any number of variable alternative sources. The great thing about the Internet; There are a million different sources and resources awaiting your arrival. (Then again, the terrible thing about the Internet is: There are a million sources and resources out there.) So choose well, Pilgrim!

As previously mentioned, one can simply sit down—with a note pad, a voice recorder (some of us do!), a typewriter or PC—and begin to lovingly craft a vision; word by word, page by page, and scene by scene. But if blindly charging forward into the fray isn’t your style, no worries! Some writers mull their stories for months or years (it’s a kind of creative procrastination) waiting until they feel the moment is ripe to actually begin a draft. However, f you consider yourself a creative procrastinator, or else suspect your impending story as being only half-baked, I offer a few suggestions that may (or may not) help you with a little forward momentum. For instance:

The Outline. I’ve already mentioned the potential value of outlining in my previous post—but it’s a valuable tool, and well worth exploring. The process may begin as little more than bullet-pointing a potential story line—although some writers use index cards tacked to cork board, or mark major plot points on a chalkboard; others will voice record their thoughts or simply jot random thoughts on a notepad or two. (I’ve tried that, but I tend to misplace notepads with alarming frequency.) If you need a refresher on the benefits of outlining, HERE it is.

The Synopsis.

While your outline allows you to essentially expand various story ideas, a synopsis is, conversely, an encapsulation of ideas. A summary. If you’re able to define your plot in a page or two or three, you’ll begin to better understand the crux of your novel. Maybe your exciting sci-fi alien encounter is really a love story. Or your tale about two army deserters in a terrible war is basically a story of finding courage. A schoolyard tale about bullies and weaklings is ultimately a story about building unlikely friendships. So a synopsis can be a quick-glance guideline or as a daily reminder of where your story’s heading. (I’ve known a writer or two who’ll tape a synopsis above their desk. Every morning, it becomes both a prompt and an an inspiration.

If creating a synopsis seems frivolous or overwhelming (and it may) take a deep breath and try this: What’s your favorite novel? See if you can write an synopsis about that book, without the pressure of summarizing your own words. Synopsize a few novels and abridging your own work may feel less daunting.

For example:

Amidst the rumble of an approaching Civil War, we find Scarlett O’Hara, the spoiled, teen-aged daughter of a wealthy Atlanta plantation owner, caught in her own giddy social bubble. Scarlett is clueless about the meaning of life, or the value of honor—although as the war rages, she discovers newfound courage and an inkling of character. Briefly married, she is quickly widowed by the calamity of war. Shortly thereafter, Scarlett’s beloved plantation, Tara, falls victim to the advancing Union army, and she must decide between her love of the land and her dedication to friends and family. She falls under the spell of a rebel blockade runner named Rhett Butler. The two are unsuited, but soon after the war’s end, she weds Rhett not for love but rather for his brash charisma and wealth—his ability to save Tara from the ravages of a lost war. However, their happiness quickly spirals into bitterness and remorse—and Scarlett ultimately decides that saving her home, Tara, is more important than saving her marriage. Still, she gathers the strength to hope for a brighter future.

Sure, it’s a sketchy synopsis, and incomplete (for instance, no mention of Ashley, of Melanie, or of Scarlett’s children), but it carries forth the deep core of the plot. Now, what about your story ideas? Can you define its heart and soul—even before you write word one? Discovering the essence of your unwritten novel can prove useful—and the sooner the better. Finding the essence of your story is so crucial that it’s now a rule.

Rule #11: Get acquainted with your story. Find your core elements. Because the more you know now, the fewer pages you’ll trash later.

Oh, and don’t delete your synopsis after you finish a draft or two. Agents and editors and publishers will ask for it. (At least I’ll ask.) Your synopsis can serve as your literary calling card, whence you submit your manuscript to agents or publishers.

An expanded synopsis. (Optional.) A synopsis is a synopsis is a synopsis—but like an outline or a draft, you’re constantly creating room for growth and improvement. As your plot coalesces, ain’t nothing wrong with updating your synopsis as well. Add a little padding, either before you begin to write or as you begin your first draft. It’s okay to use your synopsis (or outline) as a fluid primer or blueprint. It’s perfectly okay to update your synopsis—so feel free to add another 5 or 10 or 20 pages, exploring any newfound ideas. Make mistakes. Think fresh thoughts. Re-evaluate. Leave blanks. Every time I finish a synopsis, even a first draft, I find myself with a few dozen gaps where I’ve typed [IDEA TO COME]—and yes, again in bright, bold red—before moving along to those ideas that are freely flowing. Trust that every idea you need will arrive—and in its own damn time. Writing a novel is funny that way.

PS: If you’re one of those people loathe to leave a blank space, who must write every word precisely in chronological order, who must pen every thought with unwavering exactitude, striving for immediate perfection, my advice is this: Get over yourself! There’s no such thing as perfect writing. And certainly while attempt to piece together a synopsis or first draft! Even polished and ready for publication, there’s no single solution—no perfect sentence or perfect page or perfect chapter in a perfect book (that can’t be altered, tweaked, deleted or rethought. Every word we write (or don’t write) is a subjective impulse. Writing Harold hated his dance classes rather than Harold disliked his dance classes won’t bring your novel any closer to literary Nirvana. Do your best… and then move along. Remember, perfection is an illusion—a Siren singing sweetly on the rocks of self-importance and ultimate disillusion. We do the best we can, and we also finish the book.

By the way, it’s now a rule. Rule #100: Get over yourself!

Character Profile (Aria). Some writers choose to visualize their main characters (specifically their protagonist and antagonist) before they begin to draft out a story. They feel that creating this sort of personal bio can better hone the creative process, and can even help with plot structure. I’ve known writers who’ll look for digital images of real folks in the hopes to better establish a more familiar (and hence believable) entity in their own minds. Such intense scrutiny isn’t necessary—but it can’t hurt, either. For certain writers, depicting these people can help establish both a physical and emotional bond, even if most of these characteristics and physical attributes never make it to the page. The purpose of the literary aria is simply to help the writer’s vision.

I believe that some readers appreciate in-depth revelations of a character’s physical description, emotional band-width and various personal qualities. Others prefer to deduce such visual and emotional characteristics for themselves. So creating elaborate physical descriptions are obviously a matter of choice. For instance consider the somewhat pithy:

Marshal Dusty Yates stood at the edge of town, watching the sun rise. Yates had seen more evil in the last few days than most men would see in a lifetime. He absently brushed his fingers against the pistol holstered against his thigh and wondered if he’d live long enough to see sundown.

Or, conversely, the more detailed:

Marshal Dusty Yates, six foot, three inches of pure, mean Texan, stood grizzled and hungover at the edge of town, watching the sun rise. A hard-edged, ruggedly handsome man, Yates had seen more evil in the last few days than most men would ever see in a lifetime. He absently brushed his fingers against the smooth pearl handle of the Colt Peacemaker holstered against this thigh and, with a deep sigh, wondered if he’d live long enough to see sundown.

Both versions paint an adequate description of our hypothetical lawman, so it’s really only a factor of your writing style and the amount of detail you wish to impart.

•

When you’re ready, you’ll begin writing.

First Draft. Like an outline, your first draft is a basic tool. Yes, you’re in actual writing mode (feels good, doesn’t it?) but at this point, most writers are still slowly picking their way forward, working out the kinks, aware that much of your story may be in its embryonic stage—and subject to continual change. For most of us, our first draft will most often look like shit. Don’t sweat it! Subsequent drafts should eventually produce the book you want, and deserve.

See First Drafts for more info.

Second Draft. You’re adding additional depth and nuance to your characters and honing your plot. You’re adding colors and sounds and smells and honing both dialogue (conversations) and internal monologues (deep, inner thoughts). You’re revealing nuanced character traits and subtle innuendo, twists and turns and, if appropriate, cliff-hangers. With your first draft, you’ve already built a creature of muscle and bone, now you’re adding frizzy blonde hair and freckles and one unlaced hi-topped Keds. You’re “putting the red on the apple” as they say.

By the way, don’t think of a second draft as being a strict, chronological procedure. My use of the term ‘Second Draft’ encompasses all further drafts—third, fourth, fifth, 38th, etc. Personally, I’ll rework and edit my first 50-100 pages perhaps a dozen times, my middle second half as much and my ending—which I usually discover somewhere during the middle of my story—a few times. (Although I’ll often fuss over my final chapter quite a bit. Getting it right is essential.) But I’ll often skip jump back and forth over scenes and chapters and work on specific trouble spots—wherever my brain decides to take me at any given moment.

After I finish my first draft, I’ll typically revisit my early scenes because now I better understand my overall story, and my characters’ personalities and motivations—and I’ve gone as far as rearranging scenes or rewriting completely new opening prose to best fit the nature and nuance of my grand finalé. I never assume my opening lines will survive intact…because they rarely do.

Also be aware that while a “shitty first draft” is fairly common among writers, we all have our own systemic approaches to drafting. Because no two are alike, no two first drafts will be alike. Some writers (I believe sci-fi master Arthur C. Clarke was one) crafted one page a day — or so go the rumors — and rarely if ever revisited or redrafted a written page. If that system works for you, great! For the rest of us, however, the redrafting and editorial processes can take months. Even longer.

The Stick-it-in-a-Drawer Phase. Seriously. Put it away for a week or a month. Try to forget that you’ve ever written it. Me? I use that time to begin contemplating a new book. Or read or else OD on old movies…anything to take my mind off that work-in-progress.

Polishing. Time’s up! Read your story again with fresh brain cells. Tweak and polish each page. Cut every uncertain or unnecessary word that doesn’t want to fit, un-garble every phrase that feels plodding or slow. Fill in the gaps…even if that means adding scenes or chapters. Trim threads from the tapestry. Be sure every aspect belongs. Speed up the action or, when it doubt, truncate or eliminate the morass. If you feel something reads slow, don’t assume it isn’t. If you think it is, your readers will think so too. Definitely find ways to truncate or tweak the slow spots. Oh, and kill your darlings.

And there’s your finished novel. Piece of cake, right?

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* Buttload = 126 gallons of wine. Seriously. A butt is a real unit of measurement.

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Where to Start (Part 3)

Posted on June 17, 2012 by MHP

A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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Outlining
(…can solve a lotta problems!)

While I’m aware that some (most?) fiction writers abhor outlining — and admittedly, it’s not the most creative part of writing a novel — I’ve found that outlining can be a crucial element of story telling. Basically, you’re creating a cheat-sheet for yourself; a roughly scribbled road map containing just enough info to remind you of where you’re going, how you’ll get there and why. But while outlining, you’re also free to explore a plethora of newly perceived What if…? concepts along the way — some of which may dramatically improve your story.

Writing a novel is like a marriage. Those first 10-20 pages are the honeymoon period. It’s all fun and games, exploring new options and considering uncharted territories. But then the reality of carrying all that weight (sorry, married people) begins to take its toll. Sometimes uncertainty, self-doubt and even depression can result. And then this cute-little-blonde of a new idea steps in, turns your head and there goes the marriage.

My advice? Dump the blonde (at least put her aside for a while) and persevere. Writing a novel is, and will always be, a major commitment. Stay the course.

Once you have your final chapter outlined, you’ll likely find it much easier to write toward that established end-game — even if you’ve only written a few pages of a first draft. However, once you’ve plotted those last few scenes, your characters will have sufficient motivation getting there and you’ll find yourself taking far fewer uncharted turns into the abyss.

Outlining a story doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind midway through, should a better idea come along. (Because it occasionally does.) But, if so, take the time to update your outline and feel how this new concept plays out before writing another 20-30 pages that may go nowhere. (Although don’t delete your old ideas just yet.)

If you have reservations, consider this: Outlining is the literary equivalent of story-boarding a movie. Outlining can help you reveal who did what, and when, and why. Outlining can keep track of your ‘off-screen’ characters, and can help build a timeline—very effective if you have a huge cast—and will offer you a step-by-step guide from Point-A to Point-Z. Outlining can locate dull areas (low drama levels), flaws in logic and various structural weaknesses. The better you’re able to visualize your potential story, scene by scene or event by event (or character by character), I suspect the more profound and complete your first draft will become. Outlining can essentially give your brain a head start.

Although I consider outlining a bare-bones approach to understanding a story line, it’s certainly okay to focus on bits of minutia — if that minutia is important to your story and ready to be written. For instance, a sufficient bullet point might be as simple as:

• Jackie overhears Eduardo speaking on the telephone in the study. She suspects that he’s orchestrating his wealthy mother’s murder.

• Frightened by the implications, she returns to her bedroom and….

Or as complex/complete as:

• Jackie speaks fluent French, and yet she also knows a smattering of Italian, and when she overhears Eduardo on the telephone in the study, speaking frenetic Italian to Mr. Molano, she catches a few words—not enough to decipher the conversion but aware that ‘uccidere’ means murder. She infers that Eduardo and Mr. Molano are plotting something nefarious against Eduardo’s invalid mother, well aware of the old woman’s significant insurance policy.

• Frightened by the implications, she returns to her bedroom and….

When I outline, I’m usually aware of each scene visually unspooling inside my head, as if I’m watching some sort of abbreviated, cerebral video clip. Sometimes those scenes are quite profound, and often very detailed. Occasionally snippets of dialogue or narration will occur to me out of the blue, the sort of material I typically do not include in an outline. And yet, aware that I may not remember such detail weeks or months from now, I’ll take the time to expand those thoughts or ideas as they occur. I once wrote three-plus pages of a nuanced yet crucial conversation in an outline—dialogue that made my first draft and, almost a year later, made the final draft, almost verbatim.

So don’t fret about giving your outline any definitive guidelines, as in having a word-limit or excluding a little color or texture or subtlety. If you wish to embellish, embellish. Make notes, give yourself options, ask questions: (Does Eduardo know that Jackie’s overheard his conversation? Would that additional dramatic impact? Or maybe Jackie only suspects that he’s overheard, which adds a completely different layer of psychological tension?)

S’up to you. And, yeah, I create notes to myself in red, a quick, visual reminder that certain scenes may be in need of further consideration. Remember, an outline’s solitary purpose is getting you from here to there, first page to last. Think of it as a treasure map.

I also suggest updating your outline as you continue to draft your story and expand your story arc. Characters may change, sub-plots may come and go. Various plot-essential twists and turns may develop, and keeping your outline up-to-date can’t hurt. Like your manuscript, your outline should be a constant work in progress. (Because I can be somewhat anally retentive when I write, I’ll even tag my outline versions to coincide with my manuscript. If I’m working on draft version 3.1, my outline is also tagged V3.1.)

Need a More In-Depth Look at an Outline?
Here’s an Example.

Let’s say we want to write a love story that takes place in early 20th century Boston, at a time when immigrants are flooding the Atlantic seaboard states and seeking safe communities in overcrowded, impoverished, crime-infested cities. Politicians are little more than crime bosses. Young Bobby, who’s second generation Irish, falls in love with Maria, who’s second-generation Italian. Their families live on the edge of a teetering, seething cultural dividing line between the Irish and Italian communities. Such love, in those days, is often fatal.

We want our story’s opening to be pretty standard fare.

Bobby (17) meets Maria (16) at the corner apothecary/soda shoppe down the street. (This introduction is your inciting incident). He flirts, she giggles and despite Bobby’s best intention to dismiss her, he begins fall in love. And despite Maria’s father’s objections (‘No daughter of mine’s gonna be seen with some no-good, thievin’ mick squatter from Windsor!’) Maria’s smitten as well. They begin to sneak away to the apothecary, or else meet at a nearby duck pond and talk away the long, summer afternoons. At one point Maria’s older brother, Vincente, catches sight of them holding hands. Vincente beats up Bobby, but that only reinforces his intention to marry Maria. Bobby’s older brother, Patrick, then beats up Vincente—their mothers bicker at the corner grocery, screaming in both Italian and Gaelic. Maria’s father, Luigi, threatens to lock her in the basement for a month, and repeatedly threatens to whip the poor girl senseless. Bobby’s father, Michael, likewise demands that his son stay away from this greannach girl—and yet Bobby and Maria aren’t dissuaded. They secretly plot to run away together…maybe to California, if they can save enough pennies, nickels and dimes.

Okay, so we’ve maybe written 100 pages of dramatic, intense realism, building the foundation of our story, with fleshed-out characters and brooding relationships. It’s time for Bobby and Maria to make their move. Come midnight, they’ll sneak away to board that long awaited train to California.

But perhaps that’s as far we’ve visualized the story line. All along we’ve assumed that Bobby and Maria would elope and leave their families behind—but we suddenly realize that, once they’ve boarded the train, we’re leaving most of our carefully orchestrated, dramatic roadblocks behind as well. Freeing Bobby and Maria to be themselves, and happy, will suck much of the raw emotion out of the story. Do we create new dangers on their way to California, or keep them in Boston until we can complete a few more story arcs?

Basically….so now what?

It’s the perfect time to outline any number of possible solutions. So after a number of false starts — ideas that, when outlining, are far easier easy to delete or alter than dumping 25 or 50 carefully drafted pages — maybe we find a couple of worthy concepts. So here goes:

Sample Outline. (Option A):

• Bobby’s adamant about eloping with Maria. Because Bobby’s big brother, Paddy, is wary of Bobby’s brash stupidity, he accompanies Bobby into Boston’s Little Italy to keep him safe.

• As they approach Maria’s house, they find her father, Luigi, and her brother, Vinnie, waiting for them in the shadows, holding baseball bats. ‘

• Brashly, Bobby declares his love for Maria and vowed that he won’t be deterred.

• In a rage, Vinnie takes a swing at Bobby, who ducks the blow.

• Paddy pulls a small revolver from his waste band and shoots Vinnie dead.

• Panicked, Bobby grabs Maria’s hand and pulls the sobbing girl away from the fray.

• Running from the madness, neither Bobby or Maria see Luigi kill Paddy with a blow to the head.

• ~~An Irish cop, by happenstance, sees Paddy go down, and shoots Maria’s father.~~ No! Luigi will provide far more drama as a foil if he’s still alive!

• Meanwhile, Bobby and Maria find refuge in an unoccupied, dilapidated tenement home a block away. Bobby’s tries to comfort Maria — but the girl’s distraught about her brother’s death.

• ~~An indigent wino attacks Bobby, but Bobby knocks the old guy out with a punch.~~ No! Keep the plot taut here. No need for non-specific violence. The scene is dramatic enough without the distraction.

• Maria tells Bobby she must return home in shame to comfort her parents and, sobbing hysterically, she tells Bobby she still loves him, but that her brother’s death means they can never find happiness together. She kisses him goodbye.

…and now we’ve given ourselves a new set of hurdles before the two lovers can board that train and flee to happily ever after.

But what if we’re not fully convinced that this is our best option? Perhaps we’re still looking for other drama-rich possibilities. The great thing about outlining: It’s quick and easy and, at this point, hardly definitive. Maybe we’re still thrilled about that train ride to California, and whatever obstacles that trek may provide. Nothing says we can’t also provide ourselves with Outline 2.0. So what if…?

Sample Outline. (Option B):

• Bobby’s adamant about eloping with Maria. Because Bobby’s big brother, Paddy, is wary of his little brother’s brash stupidity, he accompanies Bobby into Boston’s Little Italy to keep him safe.

• As they approach Maria’s house, they find ~~Maria’s father and~~ her brother, Vinnie, waiting for them in the shadows, holding a baseball bat. ‘

• Brashly, Bobby declares his love for Maria and vowed that he won’t be deterred by Vinnie’s threats of violence.

• In a rage, Vinnie takes a swing at Bobby, who ducks the blow.

• Paddy knocks Vinnie unconscious with an uppercut to the chin. Bobby grabs Maria’s hand and the three of them hustle off to the train station.

• A moment later, Vinnie comes to. And aware of Bobby’s plan to flee to California, he follows them to the station.

• Paddy gives Bobby a wad of cash and they hug. Bobby and Maria board the train and wave goodbye.

• A moment later, Vinnie shows up. Seeing Paddy watching the train depart, he pulls a small pistol from his waist band and shoots Paddy dead. In the ensuing panic, Vincente makes his getaway.

• Vinnie returns home, explains that he saw Bobby and Maria board the train to California, but was a moment too late to stop them. (Does Vinnie tell his father he killed Bobby’s brother? Does he keep that a secret? Not sure yet!! Pros and cons of revealing the murder now???)

• Enraged, Luigi tells Vinnie that they’re going to California on the next train and bring Maria back home. (Will two train tickets cost Luigi his last cent? Will they have to revert to robbery to fund their journey westward?) Since Vinnie’s a murderer, do we want to make Luigi a full-blown antagonist, or ultimately more sympathetic to Bobby’s plight? Meaning, might Luigi be redeemable? If so, probably not yet, but for the moment we’re keeping that open.

And thus, with relatively little effort, we now have two potential paths of forward momentum to choose from. Even with three or four variations outlined, eventually one will emerge as our best approach, and once we decide the most dramatic, exciting choice—we’re back on track and ready to draft another few scenes or chapters.

Oh, and one last option: If the spirit moves us, we can complete our outline — finish our story — before we begin drafting again. If we can discover a direct route from the train station to that final page, and outline the remainder of our book, we have a distinct advantage of having a complete roadmap between here and there. With a complete outline, we’re pretty much assured of how to proceed to the end of our tale. We’ll make far fewer wrong turns and blunders, and follow our map and that final destination: THE END.

Remember, an outline is simply a brief, short-hand list of what goes where. One need not add color or dialogue or innuendo. (We can if we like, but it’s not essential at this point.) We’re simply jotting down enough of our bared-bones, essential story-line to remind us of where we’re going and how we’re going to get there. And, if we’ve begun our story somewhere in the middle, we can outline backwards to our first chapters and eventually connect the dots as well. And then, when satisfied, continue outlining chronologically to the book’s ending.

Do note that I don’t consider outlining a Rule-worthy necessity. While I consider it a crucial writer’s tool, I still believe it’s a writer’s choice whether to outline or not. For many writers, it’s an ‘only as needed’ obligation, and many writers don’t outline at all. S’up to you. (But keep it in mind, the next time you find yourself stuck in the middle.)

CONTINUE to Part 4: Discovering your story’s core elements.
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Where to Start (Part 2)

Posted on May 2, 2012 by MHP

A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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Writing that first line.

One’s first line(s) need not be plot specific, nor allude to any sort of inciting incident. However, the opening of any story should be, must be, profound. Poignant. Riveting. Either in-your-face riveting or very subtly so. Teasing. Provocative. Your opening’s sole intent is to immediately immerse readers in whatever impending story you’re about to present. Personally, I often fool around with my opening, tweaking, nudging or even re-writing that damn sentence over and over, even after I’ve finished several drafts. And yet, somehow, I eventually find the perfect (for me) expression.

How important is your first line? Important enough to be Rule #2: Make your story’s first line enticing enough to immediately hook readers. (The only line as important is your story’s last line. So the same rule apply.)

While many novice writers believe — or in their exuberance to immediately dive into the heart of their story, insist — that their first lines abjectly define a plot, just know that a writer does have sufficient wiggle room to begin defining a character or to world/realm build first. And while: The giant meteor hurled toward the distant blue-green speck known as planet Earth. might indeed be an appropriate opener, one has the potential to muse alternatives, providing options (introducing an interesting character, or an innovative new realm, for instance) that convey excitement — a reason for readers to want to turn the page.

I’ve gathered 25 fictional first lines (and corresponding 2nd lines, if appropriate) from previously published authors. I believe these openers grab readers exceptionally well. Most of these books were or are hugely successful, but widely vary in substance, tonality and mood. These intros provide the necessary allure (whether wit, pathos, humor, suspense or a teasing overview) to read on. Some will hint of an impending inciting incident. Others are far more opaque or elusive. So, in chronological order:

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” — Pride and Prejudice. Jane Austen. (1813)

“It was a feature peculiar to the colonial wars of North America, that the toils and dangers of the wilderness were to be encountered, before the adverse hosts could meet.” — The Last of the Mohicans. James Fenimore Cooper. (1826)

Charles Dickens’ 1859 classic, A Tale of Two Cities, is already (in)famous for its breathless prose, and the book’s familiar first line would be torn apart by today’s editors (or at least separated into several distinct sentences). And yet, Dickens’ emotional perception of Victorian-era London helped launch the book into Wikipedia’s Top 5 Best-Selling Novels of All Time list:
. . . . It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

In War of the Worlds, H. G. Wells’ opener is rather amazing, given the book’s pub date. Orwell’s first line foreshadows his entire plot, and even hints at the book’s brilliant conclusion.
. . . .No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. — War of the Worlds. H. G. Wells. (1898)

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. — The Great Gatsby. F. Scott Fitzgerald. (1925)

Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm, as the Tarletin twins were. — Gone With The Wind. Margaret Mitchell. (1936)

In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. — The Hobbit. J.R.R. Tolkien. (1937)

In the corner of a first class smoking carriage, Mr. Justice Wargrave, lately retired from the bench, puffed at a cigar and ran an interested eye through the political news in The Times. — And Then There Were None. Agatha Christie. (1939)
. . . . An interesting aside, the British version of Christie’s book was first titled Ten Little N – – – – – – . (Yup, the infamous N-word; and the title of a familiar children’s nursery rhyme at the time. The rhyme’s plot factored prominently into Christie’s story.) In America, the title was changed to Ten Little Indians and ultimately became known as And Then There Were None. The book remains one of the best-sellers of all time.

It was a bright, cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. 1984. George Orwell. (1948).

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. — The Catcher in the Rye, J. D. Salinger (1951)

It was a pleasure to burn. — Fahrenheit 451. Ray Bradbury. (1953)

In those days cheap apartments were almost impossible to find in Manhattan, so I had to move to Brooklyn. This was in 1947, and one of the pleasant features of that summer which I so vividly remember was the weather, which was sunny and mild, flower-fragrant, almost as if the days had been arrested in a seemingly perpetual springtime. — Sophie’s Choice. William Styron. (1960)

The Island of Gont, a single mountain that lifts its peak a mile above the storm-racked Northeast Sea, is a land famous for wizards. — The Wizard of Earthsea. Ursula K. Le Guin. (1968)

All this happened, more or less. The war parts, anyway, are pretty much true. — Slaughterhouse-Five. Kurt Vonnegut. (1969)

When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon. — The Last Good Kiss. James Crumley. (1978)

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel. — Neuromancer. William Gibson. (1984) This is the novel, btw, that coined the term Cyberspace.

The night Vincent was shot he saw it coming. — Glitz. Elmore Leonard. (1985)

Maybe I shouldn’t have given the guy who pumped my stomach my phone number, but who cares? My life is over anyway. — Postcards from the Edge. Carrie Fischer. (1987)

I have been afraid of putting air in a tire ever since I saw a tractor tire blow up and throw Newt Hardbine’s father over the top of the Standard Oil sign. — The Bean Trees. Barbara Kingsolver. (1988)

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. — Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. J.K. Rowling. (1997)

At the first gesture of morning, flies began stirring. Inman’s eyes and the long wound at his neck drew them, and the sound of their wings and the touch of their feet were soon more potent than a yardful of roosters in rousing a man to wake. — Cold Mountain. Charles Frazier. (1997)

They shoot the white girl first. With the others, they take their time. — Paradise. Toni Morrison. (1998)

The creature watched and waited. — The Past is Never. Tiffany Quay Tyson (2006)

Micky and the naked blonde are giggling in the Jacuzzi. — On The Rocks. Me! Me! This one’s mine! (2012) …because I’m not above a little self-promotion (and I really like the line!).

I was born a colored man and don’t you forget it. But I lived as a colored woman for seventeen years. — The Good Lord Bird. James McBride. (2017)

We should have known the end was near. How could we not have known? — How Beautiful We Were. Imbolo Mbue. (2021)

Where to Start:
What Not to Worry About (Yet)

So begin… but do so with forethought and with a profound sense of purpose, of teasing or mystifying or exciting the reader. I’m aware that staring at a blank page, and glancing toward that distant finish line some 300 or 400 pages in the future, can produce a wee bit of anxiety. Of uncertainty. The common, cliché-ish and yet ultimately sage advice is to begin at the beginning. Although I admit the adage isn’t entirely helpful. Where to begin is often a writer’s state of mind at any particular moment. And where exactly to begin may not even occur to you until you’ve finished a draft or two, and know far better about who your characters are, and where they’re going. (Because it’s okay to return to Page 1 and tweak or change your premise at any time.)

My best advice is, for the moment, don’t sweat it. Don’t sit for hours, or days, petrified into inertia by worrying about precision or fretting about perfection. Just begin writing where you think your story might begin. My own first few pages will rarely remain intact, and I’ll often rewrite my opening several times before I’m satisfied. I’ve actually shuffled around entire scenes and even a few chapters to better fit my now-completed story arc.

Because that’s what first drafts are for. A writer’s constantly honing pages, re-evaluating, reconsidering. Remember that your first few drafts will be sloppy, incomplete, and often inarticulate works in progress. A first draft (or outline) is like an artist’s sketch pad, full of literary doodles and unanswered questions. If you find yourself looking intently for typos or inconsistencies in your first draft, purple prose or incomplete thoughts, you’re doing it wrong. A typical first draft is a hot mess. It’s the nature of the beast. (Also see First Drafts.)

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