Craft: How rough or polished are your first drafts? Do you dare show us?
What I call “my first draft” is not necessarily what others would call their first draft.
What’s mine?
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Before I even sit down to type a first draft:
I have the plot sorted from start to finish, all my research is done, everyone is named and their backstories sorted. Also I have an outline, and I have notes for every chapter containing about who is where, when, what happens, why it happens, what I want the reader to know, and feel, by the end of the chapter.
My goal for the first draft:
Tell the story from beginning to end.
Approach for first draft:
Put in really long hours typing as fast as I can, working my way through the notes for each chapter, without worrying about if it will all work out (I hope to have ironed out any missteps in plotting during my outlining and chapter planning stages). In the case of my Cait Morgan Mysteries, make sure the voice, tone, and style match Cait’s, and the series so far. For my WISE Enquiries Agency Mysteries, make sure ALL the voices, tones, and interwoven plot lines make sense.
I print out chunks of chapters as I go – often about a quarter of the book at a time, which I read and mark up for as many literals, or poor use of language/expression as I go – I enter those into the digital document then, refreshed, I push ahead again.
I always have a tight deadline, so it’s not unusual for me to not have the chance to even read through the last quarter/fifth of the book before I send it to my editor for the manuscript’s first, structural pass. Also, I will already have made my own notes along the lines of “develop X’s character in chapters y and z”, or “pick up untied end of subplot B” etc. My editor and I seem to always agree on these points…but leaving them until after the first pass (by her) allows me to keep on schedule.
That’s my first draft.
My editor tells me I that I send in “unusually clean” first drafts, with few literals. I’m pleased about that; the difference between the part of the manuscript that’s had one pass by me and the part that hasn’t shows I do tend to pick up a lot of literals/quirks and other problems along the way. But by no means all!
I went back to my second Cait Morgan Mystery “master folder” (The Corpse with the Golden Nose pub 2013) to find something useful to illustrate the input of an editor on an early part of a book, so there is context (it’s how the book opens) and no spoilers (perish the thought!).
You’ll see that the challenge around which the book revolves is introduced without any lead-up in the final version, when compared with what I sent to the publisher as my first draft. Being edited allows one to learn – and then all you have to do is absorb every learning point as you go along…LOL! I try!
How it was in my first draft:
(Note for context: each chapter in this book is titled for
what Cait drinks within it…it’s set in British Columbia’s wine country, so
there’s quite a variety of beverages!)
Champagne and orange juice
Bud and I had happily devoured the delicious brunch of creamy
scrambled eggs draped across golden buttered toast that I’d prepared in my
little kitchen, then we watched indulgently as Marty, Bud’s slightly tubby
black lab, had licked our plates clean—something that saved me at least a dozen
calories, I reckoned. I was just finishing off the glass of Bucks Fizz that Bud
had fixed for us when he handed me the photograph.
“What can
you read in this photo, Cait?” he asked, smiling. He looks great when he
smiles.
“You know I
don’t like to assess photographs, they’re unreliable sources of insight,” I
snapped, possibly too sharply.
“Well, you
might not like to,” Bud spoke slowly, “but you’re good at it. You were good at
it when I hired you to consult for my Integrated Homicide Investigation Team,
and, even though I’m retired now, I reckon you’re still good at it. So treat
this as a challenge if you must, oh dear, sweet, Caitlin,” he was grinning
wickedly, a sight that always makes my heart flutter and stutter, “and tell me
what you can?” He phrased it as a question, but I knew that the gauntlet lay at
my feet.
“Before I
tell you anything, can I ask one question?” I used my most coquettish voice and
mock-batted my lashes at him. I knew that the sarcasm wouldn’t be lost on Bud.
“Sure,” he
chuckled, “ask away.”
“Is just one
of them dead? Or both of them?” I thought I’d get right to it.
Bud smiled.
“You know me too well, Cait.” His voice warmed, and he looked pleased about
something. Then his smile faded. “The taller of the two is dead. About a year ago. The other one’s her older
sister. But that’s all you get.”
“So there’s
no point my asking if it was an accident, a suicide or homicide?” I punted.
Bud paused,
refreshed our glasses and took a sip from the champagne flute that looked
almost too delicate in his large hand. “I can’t tell you that, because I don’t
know, Cait. That’s the truth. I can only be certain it wasn’t an accident. The
whole local community, the cops, and the coroner’s inquest say suicide. The
sister says murder. I have no idea. But there was a note, and the sister says
the cops won’t look into it as there are no grounds to suspect that anyone else
was involved.”
Ah—so that
was it. Bud had found a damsel in distress and he wanted to help her.
Immediately I wondered why he felt he owed this unknown woman anything, then I
mentally kicked myself for allowing a pang of jealousy to clutch at my
satisfyingly full tummy. I swallowed deeply from my glass, and decided to play
nice.
How it was published:
(NOTE: this is taken from the galley pdf, so the layout’s a
bit iffy -sorry!)
Champagne and Orange Juice
Bud
slapped the photograph onto the table in front of me as though it
were a
gauntlet.
“This photo showed up in my email a few
days ago. From someone
I . .
. know. What do you read in it, Cait?” He looked grim.
I held the photo at arm’s length and
squinted at the blurry image.
I
could make out two women, both with dark, curly hair. They were
smiling.
I felt my multi-purpose right eyebrow shoot
up as I asked, “Is just
one of
them dead, or both of them?”
“How’d you guess?” Bud asked, grinning.
“Oh, let me see, now . . . maybe it’s
something to do with me being
a
criminologist who specializes in victim profiling and you being an
ex-homicide
detective. And the hope, on my part, that
you’re unlikely
to
show me a photo of a woman, especially two women, in whom you
have
anything other than a professional
interest.
Those facts, when
taken
together with my amazing powers of deduction, have helped me
reach
the conclusion that I’m looking at either one or two victims, or,
if not
victims, then at least people who are now dead.” I hurled a bright
smile
toward Bud and waited for him to tell me off for my cheekiness.
Bud shrugged. “You know me too well, Cait.”
His voice warmed,
and he
looked pleased about something. Then his smile faded. “The
taller
of the two died about a year ago. The other one’s her older sister.
But
that’s all you get.”
“So there’s no point my asking if it was an
accident, a suicide, or a
homicide?”
I asked.
Bud paused, refreshed our glasses, and took
a sip from the champagne
flute
that looked almost too delicate in his large hand. “I can’t
tell
you that, because I don’t know, Cait, I can only be certain it wasn’t
an
accident. The whole local community, the cops, and the coroner,
all
say suicide. The sister says no way. I have no idea. There was a note,
and
the sister says the cops won’t look into it any further as there are
no
grounds to suspect anyone else was involved.”
Ah—so that was it. Bud had found a damsel in distress
and he
wanted
to help her. Immediately, I wondered why he felt he owed this
unknown
woman anything. I mentally kicked myself for allowing a
pang
of jealousy to clutch at my satisfyingly full tummy. I swallowed
deeply from my glass, and decided to play
nice.
If you want to find out how all the final versions of all my books ended up – you just have to read them! Links at my website: https://www.cathyace.com/
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