Taming the Wild Draft

Cue the spaghetti western music: The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Choose a block of your writing—past or present—and walk us through its revision journey. What worked? What didn't? What did you learn in the process?

By Dietrich

A lone writer squints into the horizon, ready to duel with his own words. The tumbleweeds of doubt roll by, and so, the revision process begins …

I looked at an early chapter from Nobody from Somewhere and walked myself back through its conception. The story started from a single scene and grew from there, and by the time I had the first draft I was happy with the core conflict and main character dynamics. I had a good foundation to build on, even if the execution needed work. The overall story lacked some structure, sensory details were missing, and the subplots hadn’t all arrived yet. Also, some secondary characters felt sketchy, and the tone was somewhat inconsistent in a couple of parts. Nothing unusual at this stage.

By the time I finished the second draft, I’d fixed a plot hole, cut some cliché, along with a tangent that didn’t tie back to the main story, and I evened out some clunky prose. I liked the way all the characters sounded when they spoke. Their dialogue felt on-point, added some depth and had a snappy rhythm, which is critical for keeping the pace tight in a genre where tension drives the narrative. The depth and the overall pacing also felt even. Tension built gradually through subtext and stakes, and sensory details helped ground the scenes.

The third pass was for checking, sharpening and polishing. I reviewed it all to be sure I’d covered all the bases: character dynamics, themes and aesthetics. I asked myself if I dove enough into each character. Was there the right amount of insight? Was any of the prose repetitive?

By the end of it, I felt confident that the manuscript was ready to send out. Here’s a short chapter from the final draft. It’s the second chapter and the intro to Wren, one of the main characters:

The Snows set Wren up on the Murphy bed in the main-floor den. Donna Snow wanted her feeling less like a foster kid, more like a family member. Kevin Snow making it plain he just wanted to feel her. 

Pulled down, the Murphy bed left a foot and a half between the desk and a shelf of books, mostly self-help books: the power of this, the art of that. Growing rich and awakening giants. Titles like Unfu*k Yourself, and The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, with lots of asterisks. A grocery-store print above the pull-out, a still life with fruit and purplish shadows.

Next to the kitchen, Wren could hear the hum and rattle of the old Frigidaire, keeping her company those first nights when sleep dodged her. Propped against the pillow in the dark, she was thinking about her mom, praying for her. Wary of Kevin Snow from the start, something not right in the way he looked at her.

The third night, she opened her door, listened for sounds from the upstairs bedrooms, decided everyone was asleep and tiptoed in the dark past the noisy fridge, crossing the cold tiles, heading to the powder room in her undies, needing to pee. Kevin was sitting in the dark at the kitchen nook, a short drink in front of him. She froze.

Clicking on the light, he smiled, eyes sweeping up her bare legs. Wren covering up and hurrying to the bathroom, saying, “Sorry.”

“You got nothing to be sorry about, shortcake.” Kevin leaving the light on, waiting until she hurried back to her room, the hand towel held in front. Wren shutting the door hard enough, hoping to get Donna’s attention. Could hear Kevin chuckling in the kitchen.

Pulling the chair from the desk, trying to prop it under the doorknob, the way it was done in some movie she’d seen with her mother. The chair-back too short to reach the knob. Glancing around the dark room for something like a weapon, she grabbed one of the self-help books.

Finishing his drink, Kevin came to her door and tapped his knuckles, whispering from the other side, “Nighty night, now.”

Sitting on the bed, thinking if he came through that door, she’d hit him, hard as she could, with the corner of Unfu*k Yourself.

Hearing the stairs creaking as he went back to his room. Wren seeing under the door, waiting until he switched off the hall light. Knowing he’d be back.