First drafts

I have always favored first drafts. Most of the time, this is due in part to the fact that I rarely ever edited past my first draft whenever I wrote in school, which, in retrospect, was hideously stupid of me and almost sacrilegious for someone who claims to be a writer. Ever since I discovered my love for writing, my first drafts have always held a uniquely special place in my heart. I do understand the satisfaction of a final draft, every sentence and word polished to oblivion, the process of finding the perfect word that somehow manages to bring a whole section into harmony, the finality of it all, the exhalation of your ultimate breath. There is no argument that the feeling of completion is like that of no other. But in the same vein, there exists nothing else like a first draft, the last intake of a breath, knowing the next time you breathe out, a story will color the blank pages, the beginning of something new. There is something fascinating about your initial decisions, the first choices in adverbs and adjectives, spewing out nouns and verbs until they converge into a coherent sentence, and everything is a little bit rough at the edges but that’s okay because you’re finally memorializing an idea, a desire, a concept that has been brewing in your mind for days, months years. 

Funnily enough, most, if not everything, of what I’ve published online, on my site, is what I would consider a first draft. Would you believe that? The narratives, the reflections, the thinkpieces, the poetry, all first drafts, untouched since publication, a messy pile of words, a skeleton essentially, bared for the whole world to see. And it’s not that I don’t have the opportunity to edit, to revise, and produce a second, third, final draft. I have all the time in the world to work and rework and reread and rewrite and review everything in my oeuvre, but I guess my point with only having first drafts is the rejection of perfection, not being in pursuit of something clean, something whole, and something final. Everything I have written so far is a discovery of some sort, the beginning of a thought, a chapter, an unfinished story, a raw depiction of my craft, unfiltered and honest. I am free from the rigidity of passive versus active voice, bending the rules of grammar, mixing traditional language and sentence syntax with poetic flourish. I’m mapping out the emotional foundation for something I can build upon in the future. It is not important whether or not I eventually return to its final construction. 

In my typical writing process, I will first jot down ideas and speaking points I want to touch upon. Essentially, this is the only form of structure I employ in my writing. My writing goes one of two ways. First: once I am able to assemble my first paragraph, the rest of the piece comes to me like water, fluidity from the depths of my mind to the tips of my fingers, furiously slamming on keys in a rush to pour all my thoughts out onto the document, afraid that if I don’t get everything out in time, I will lose my thoughts, lose my cadence, lose my creativity. My mind will sometimes jump from one subject to another, a beautiful metaphor appearing from the abyss of my consciousness, and I will take a brief pause to ensure I have scribbled down the random sentence that cropped up. Sometimes it never makes it into the piece; other times, it is the holy grail of my article. 

Second: some paragraphs will come easily to me, falling into a rhythm where all my phrases and sentences flow into each other as if they were made to be in conjunction with one another, puzzle pieces falling into place. But other paragraphs are stubborn, and though I have an idea of what I want to say, the words refuse to come together, and I am chopping at fragments, clumsily gluing them together in hopes that some of them will fit. Most of the time when this happens, I am not sure whether it is due to my lack of focus, creative energy diminishing by the second, and I’m forcing myself to write something, anything, that will get my point across, regardless of attractive prose, or whether it’s because there is no subject matter there, and I am willing a narrative out of nothing. Either way, there is always a final product, a first draft ready to be read. 

For the sake of being honest and vulnerable, I favor a first draft because I am a coward. I am too nervous to reread things I have written, apprehensive about my skills, always doubting my abilities as a writer, and a first draft offers me the ignorant bliss I desperately cling to. A second draft, a third draft, and an official publication would mean having to face the reality that I may not be as great a writer as I believe myself to be. I know I have many imperfections when it comes to my writing, but I think what endears me to different writing styles is imperfections, the distinction between voices, seeing errors that unmistakably label you as human. A first draft is a safe space for creativity to take place without judgment. Once I open the door to revisions and review, I open the door to perception, and once my art is in someone else’s hands, they have all the power to rethink it, to analyze it, to come up with their own interpretations, and suddenly, it’s not mine anymore. 

My fear of going beyond a first draft is both unfounded in insecurity and also holds a grain of validity. My writing is something I hold incredibly close to my sense of self; my passion for writing makes up a great part of me, influencing me in my psyche, my creativity, my way of thinking, and my way of life. It is a passion very personal to me, but also something I enjoy sharing with those I trust. That’s just it; when I share my writing, it is at arm’s length. I allow friends and family to graze it, letting their eyes roam only over the surface, petting the first draft with gentle fingers. They are not allowed to go any further. I don’t even let myself dig deeper, peeling back layers for the pit of a final draft, so why should I let them? It is a foolproof way for communal reciprocity, being vulnerable but with a safety net. 

I do realize that if I ever want to progress further with my writing, I will eventually have to overcome my aversion to revision and critiques. But the thought of someone taking an idea, a feeling, a thought that I have, and poking holes into it, molding it into something a little different, leaves me with a sinking feeling. In my mind, my writing is no one else’s to play with, and I do recognize how juvenile this sounds, but unfortunately, my ego still stands in the way of my learning. I know of its existence, this pompous, ugly obstacle, but for the time being, I am content in the comforts of my first draft, the spelling errors and incomplete sentences that remind me who I am, messiness and imperfections that remind me that my art is still mine, my writing is still mine, my voice is still mine, and that I am still human, in pursuit of a passion, in pursuit of honesty.