The Power of the First Draft

In my many years behind the keys, I have learned much, some epiphanies I've posted on Facebook, tweeted about on Twitter, and LinkedIn to the vast network of social media. However, in that time I have also learned by doing, losing, failing, and pushing through. One of those things has been the power of the first draft.

Oh yes, that dreaded first draft. The one where you ride an emotional roller coaster from start to finish. Every meme known in the universe can confirm this visualization, however never fully contextualize what it truly feels like to put those words together, stream the perfect sentence knowing that one day someone will eventually read it. Even if it is just your favorite aunt Cindy, or little cousin Marky.

All this stress and I haven't even mentioned the true test of faith; in creating your characters, naming them, plopping them in a scenic spot, and throwing in some juicy narrative with this killer story you 'squee' over just thinking about.

It's gold, dammit, pure bestseller gold.

Oh wait, back peddle a bit...did I mention you still have to make it all work together, and not bore even you as the author? No? Okay, that's for another day.

As for the first draft, this is where you spew your story. One you've planned, notes scribbled on post it notes, the outside of envelopes, even used napkins from the local bakery. You feel the glory of those first few words, revel when your screen moves onto a new empty page. It signifies a stepping stone surpassed, a new one only inches away. And as the keys click, pages pass, and word count rises, the story changes, morphs into something you did not jot down in a sleep induced haze. Instead it has become its own entity. Something you've pulled from a OUIJA board, hoping to summon everything otherworldly in the hopes of success.

And you go with the flow. Hell, why not. You can still make use of those now coffee stained notes, right? Definitely. But be prepared, because your baby will grow, will learn to talk and walk, then run, and what you once had will become something so much better. Because it is with this first draft, this foundation laid, that the true power is released. Chunks may be pulled, others rewritten. Your characters voices tweaked, their personalities fine tuned to make your story everything you believed it to be in the beginning...pure gold.

With that being said, I give you an excerpt of Dead Nor Alive, in it's first draft. I show you this now because by the time I have finished this story, this piece may no longer exist. Maybe it will be tweaked, sentences rewritten. Or it will be just what it was meant to be...a single stepping stone.

Dead Nor Alive Excerpt...

Everyone wishes, whether it be on a falling star, pennies tossed into a mall fountain, through prayers, or over a turkey’s wish bone. All the same—wealth, fame, and love. In that order.

But not Macey Lindrow. She wished for something much more precious than any of that; time. To her, wealth was only temporary, fame the same. But love, family, that was the stuff true dreams were made of. As for love, she didn’t need to wish upon a star for that, she had had it in the handsome Danny Lindrow. Just the thought of his smile first thing in the morning when he rolled over and looked at her as if she was the most beautiful thing in the world, sent a pang of grief through her.

With a heavy sigh, Macey stepped up the final rung into the attic, one hand flailing above her head searching blindly for the pull cord, disrupting cobwebs in its wake. With a tug, the light that blasted above illuminated floor to ceiling boxes, stacked haphazardly as if whoever left them cared little about ever coming back up.

The thought sent goosebumps to her flesh, had her scour the deepened shadows brought on by the boxes. Who, was the question that fluttered through her mind.

Around her, whispered voices caught her attention, had her round in place, inspecting the shadows given by the stacks of boxes. But there was no one, just soft whispers that echoed around her. Her heart skipped, fear had her push through the maze to her destination; her and Danny’s Hope Chest. When she closed in on it, in the same corner it always sat, she rounded, her widened gaze on the shadows.

Her ears perked to the muffled conversation going on around her. Her heart pounded against her chest, breathing shallowed, palms dampened.

Macey exhaled her breath in a whoosh, wrung her fingers out before her.

“You’re losing it, Mace,” she berated herself, using Danny’s nickname.

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Muah.

Roxy