First Drafts

In the last few months—actually years—I have spent most of my creative time revising and re-revising several works in progress. Now I’ve finished all those, and it’s time to write something new.

Help!

I heard Andrea Barrett say that her cat wrote better first drafts than she did. I think that the tick I’m about to detach from my dog could write a better first draft than I could right now, because I am not attached to a dog, or anything. To write well, you need to be attached to at least the glimmer of an idea, otherwise it feels like I’m spewing a lot of empty dribble.

First drafts, for me, are the absolute scariest things, because I don’t outline, or plan. I simply improvise until I find a theme that calls to me. I eventually get to a good place, but it’s a bit like trying to find your way to a small house on a dirt road three hundred miles away without a map, directions, or a GPS.

Needless to say, I do a lot of extra driving.

I had to drive home from Boston yesterday—two hours in the torrential rain. My son has finally talked me into letting him do music at the New England Conservatory Preparatory Program. For years, I’ve said, “Over my dead body.” This year, I finally agreed, provided he was willing to take the bus, if we couldn’t find a large carpool. But yesterday was registration day, so I had to go in person. It certainly reinforced my reluctance about the whole idea, but I plunked down the money, so somehow, we’ve got to figure out a way to get him there every week.

At least we have directions.