But end results can’t be reformed or recast. The last version, polished and neat, provides gratification through closure and relief. When early drafts become later drafts, possibility gives way to completion. Its uncertainty provides a different satisfaction than a concluding draft. This, I think, is the vertex when you’re alone with an outcome that’s still up for grabs, one that can still change fiercely, improve. And no one else knows or (besides me) has anything to say about it. Its imprecise shape is unresolved but shows enough of it’s anatomy to be encouraging. The story’s incipient frame isn’t fully clear or defined. It’s when I’m most engaged and interested. I seem to feel most confident and connected during the first draft, usually near the end of the first draft. ![]() With the final draft I feel less attached to it, in a good, reasonable way. It’s a very different emotion, much less intense, than when a book is first being written. Work has been completed and there’s a sense of closure. ![]() When writing a final draft, the feeling is generally positive. There’s still the chance to make it better and right. But when stumped early, when the target is unrevealed, a brief shift in focus and thought can rescue and revive. Going outside, talking about it, wouldn’t help. ![]() If I already knew too much, if I already knew exactly where I was headed, the break would easily become a full stop. The first draft, more so than when a book’s done, is the best and easiest time to talk about it. This type of quandary is unique to a first draft. The apple-delivery break worked every time.Įach time I went outside I was stuck or feeling wayward or both and wanted to chat. I’d go back inside, to my desk, to my (cold) coffee, and continue writing where I’d left off. Trust me, Marshall’s an excellent listener. Article content Iain Reid/HandoutĬarrying on a fully one-sided and earnest conversation with a solitary, elderly ram with crumbling horns is more embarrassing in hindsight than it felt at the time. This advertisement has not loaded yet, but your article continues below. I’d sermonize and yak and rant, Marshall would chew his cud. I didn’t want to upset his digestion by giving him too many apples, so other times I’d just talk to him for a bit, rub his ears. While the rest of the flock were out grazing, Marshall was always there after lunch, waiting, lying alone, looking out toward the front field. I started feeding him an apple a day from one of the trees, in the afternoon or early evening, as a treat. The farm’s old/retired ram, Marshall, had taken to lying out on the hill under a large tree. It was on my second afternoon at the farm that I found my own version of a coffee milkshake. I feared that a stretch of trouble or lack of production might extend through my entire stay. My concern was that, while staying alone at the farm, I would miss all my usual break activities, the ones honed in my apartment. I’d also miss much of the enjoyment of surprise and experimentation. It would probably be more efficient, but much less interesting. If I followed an outline, or much of any pre-determined projection at all, I feel like I’d miss opportunities for improvement. The outline is being written into the first draft. So the first draft is almost a combination of draft and outline. The breaks are most important initially, in the first draft, because the hardest draft, for me, is the first. I could never do this with any accuracy during a first draft. While editing a later draft I usually plan the time(s) when I’ll need to rest in advance. Breaks are fewer and much more predictable. It’s a stricter, more disciplined approach. ![]() Once a draft or two are complete and a story takes shape and editing starts, the pace changes. It’s at the start, during the very first draft, that I find I need to take the most breaks. Baker talks about certain things he does when his writing isn’t going well, how he enjoys “making coffee milkshakes without a blender - all you have to do is squash the coffee and the ice cream together in the glass using a tablespoon.” I’ve surmised it’s probably early on in a project when Baker most often makes his blenderless coffee milkshakes. There’s a Nicholson Baker interview in The Paris Review from a couple years ago that I particularly like. It’s often during these breaks that I decide to try change something in the story, try something new or scrap what’s already there. Even though the instance of these breaks means I’m struggling, I enjoy them. Some only last 30 seconds (scratching my back with my extendable bear-claw back-scratcher), others maybe 10 or 15 minutes (making a grilled cheese sandwich).
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