Betts,
Would you be comfortable in showing us what your messy first drafts look like? Not for a whole story but maybe an excerpt and noting how it changed in revisions. I’ve been looking for first drafts by writers and either found they look almost identical to finish printed version or I can’t find them at all.
i can show you what a messy first draft looks like but i don't think it'll be very illuminating. for me, the down draft is mostly about developmental work. i'll write ten scenes and the final draft will be chunks from six of them. so on a small scale it looks like i don't do much editing, but big picture i write over twice as much as i end up keeping, and what i keep has usually been completely rewritten. so if i do a side by side comparison of a scene, what you're not seeing is the stuff that didn't make the cut, or all the ways i wrote in the wrong direction for a long time, or the hours of research i had to do for a single detail (an example of which you'll see below).
i wrote an issue of my newsletter about my drafting process, so that might be more helpful. i also answered an ask recently about ways to develop a scene if you're stuck.
unfortunately i don't have the brainwidth to do all the research here, but the new yorker published an early draft of raymond carver's "what we talk about when we talk about love" which as originally called "beginners," and somewhere there's a detailed comparison of the two and the changes his editor, gordon lish, made.
but! you asked to see a draft comparison. so here's a draft comparison.
so this got a little crazy and i ended up making a gdoc for scene 2 so you could see them together. see link at the bottom. conclusion: comparing drafts is very hard and i don't think this probably helps at all but i tried.
"final" draft
these are the first two scenes of a short story i wrote called The Group W Bench. we begin in 1970 and then move into present day-ish. i've bolded the small things that were actually big things, and i'll explain why they were big things at the end.
"final" is in quotes because there is a different final draft of this story that goes in a completely different book.
scene 1: past
They didn’t hand out 4-Fs in St. Louis. Supposedly it was the worst draft office in the country. I didn’t know anyone who’d gotten out of it, but in my hometown they didn’t seem to want to. Most everyone was proud and eager to get shipped off.
My number was 66 and it’d been pulled just after I turned nineteen. On the bus to the induction center, I tried to come up with a plan. My only options seemed to be mutilating myself or flat-out running. I was too much of a coward for the former and I couldn’t wrap my head around the latter. There were only a dozen of us on the bus and I had my whole seat to myself. Out the window, cornfields blurred past; it was August and the stalks were head-high. I tried to imagine myself out in the jungle holding an M16, but I couldn’t. I’d graduated high school with a C-average, only kissed one girl one time, was raised by parents who’d had no parents of their own. My mother grew up in an orphanage. My father rode the rails. They fucked up my brother Tommy, did a little better with Wyatt, but by the time I came along, they’d given up. Sometimes I felt feral, raised by wolves.
Across the aisle, a guy was playing the harmonica. He had shaggy black hair and stubble around his jaw, big nose bent at the bridge. He caught me staring at him and I looked away quickly. He crossed the aisle and sat beside me.
“You look like you don’t want to be here,” he said.
He didn’t sound like he was from Missouri. He sounded like an actor on TV, all hard Rs and round vowels. I didn’t respond to him. For all I knew he was a plant, some kind of spy trained to sniff out potential defectors.
He ran his thumb over the shiny surface of the harmonica. The movement reflected the sun into my eyes. “Buddy of mine got his arm blown off.”
“My brother died,” I told him. I’d been the one to answer the door that day. I was only sixteen and the boy who delivered the telegram couldn’t have been much older. He handed it over, touched the brim of his hat, and said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
There were no remains. Nothing to bury. Just a bit of yellow cardstock telling me Tommy was dead.
“Sorry to hear that, man.” He held out his hand. “Jack Ward.”
I shook it. “Birdie Mills.”
Jack smiled, a deep dimple carved into each cheek. “Hell of a name, Birdie Mills. Where you from?”
“Here. Couple hours north.”
“California. Riverside.”
“What’re you doing here?”
“Just got out of film school. Can’t get student deferment anymore. So I started bouncing around, you know, changing my address. They finally pinned me down.”
I hadn’t thought of that, transferring draft centers, delaying as long as possible hoping the war would finally end. It was a relief to meet someone as reluctant to go as I was. I felt crazy sometimes, surrounded by men who wanted nothing more than to die for their country. I couldn’t imagine loving anything so much I’d be willing to give my life for it.
“You have a plan?” I asked.
“Nope.” We turned into the induction center lot. “I’m gonna wing it.”
early draft
according to my document, i wrote this on november 8, 2022, so almost exactly a year ago. at that time, this was one chapter of a novel that had alternating POVs in third person. i had about 90k of this novel written. which turned into a short story. which turned into a different novel.
scene 1
Birdie’s number was 257 and it was pulled shortly after he turned nineteen. His draft office was in St. Louis, notoriously one of the worst in the country. There were no 4-Fs in St. Louis. He didn’t know a single man who’d gotten out of it, but then again, they didn’t want to. Most everyone in his town was eager and proud to get shipped off.
On the bus to the induction center, he tried to come up with a plan, but nothing came to him. Out the window, cornfields blurred past; it was August and the stalks were head-high. He tried to imagine himself out in the jungle holding an M16, but he was just a coward from Missouri who graduated high school with a C-average, who had only kissed one girl one time, who was raised by parents who’d had no parents of their own. His mother grew up in an orphanage. His father rode the rails. They fucked up Tommy, did a little better with Wyatt, but by the time Birdie came along, they’d given up. Sometimes he felt feral, raised by wolves.
Across the aisle, a guy was playing the harmonica. Birdie couldn’t pull his eyes away from him. He had shaggy black hair and stubble around his jaw, big nose bent at the bridge. He caught Birdie staring at him and kept his gaze, some recognition in his eyes, and a moment later he was slotting the harmonica into his jacket pocket and coming to sit next to Birdie.
“You look like you don’t want to be here,” the guy said.
Birdie didn’t say anything. For all he knew, the man could be some kind of spy trying to sniff out defectors.
“Buddy of mine got his arm shot off.”
“My brother died,” Birdie admitted.
“Sorry to hear that, man.” He held out his hand. “Jack Ward.”
Birdie shook it. “Birdie Mills.”
Jack smiled, a deep dimple carved into each cheek. “Quite a name, Birdie Mills. Where you from?”
“Here,” Birdie said. “Couple hours north.”
“California. Riverside,” Jack offered.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just got out of film school. Can’t get student deferment anymore. So I started bouncing around, you know, changing my address. They finally pinned me down.”
Birdie hadn’t thought of that, transferring draft centers, delaying as long as possible hoping the war would finally end. It was a relief to meet someone as reluctant to go as he was. He felt crazy sometimes, surrounded by men who wanted nothing more than to die for their country.
“You have a plan?” Birdie asked.
“Nope,” Jack said, pulling his harmonica back out. They were turning into the induction center lot. “I’m gonna wing it.”
changes and why i made them
lotto number 257 was pulled in 1970 but only numbers under 125 were drafted. it took an entire afternoon to figure out how the selective service lotto even worked.
turning this into a short story, the sentence "They didn’t hand out 4-Fs in St. Louis" was a stronger opening.
as a chapter in a book, at this point the reader is familiar with birdie and knows him only as a scoundrel-type character seen from the perspective of his son who despises him, and his daughter who reveres him. so in the old version, it was satisfying (or intended to be) to get to his POV and see him from his own perspective. as a short story, i tried to organize the opening in such a way that you get grounded pretty quickly and see birdie as a scared kid before you get to the scoundrel days (see below).
the brief "my brother died" flashback was the first part i wrote in his POV, and that was back when the structure of the narrative was a series of short, titled vignettes. so on one hand i was glad i got to keep it but sad i had to shoehorn it into a different scene instead of allowing it to open the piece.
the novel was written in third person but when i tackled it as a short story i decided to change it to first person because i like first person better, and birdie is a very fun narrator.
the "I couldn't imagine..." sentence was added in the short story version because in the present timeline, birdie's about to get shot to save his daughter while they're robbing a bank together. so in one sentence, i managed to condense an arc that before took a VERY long time to establish.
this got kind of out of hand. i tried to do the same thing with scene 2 but it was hard in the text window so i did it side by side in a google document. if you want, you can add comments asking why i did certain things and i'll answer you there. i'm sure i missed stuff.
sorry if this isn't helpful!
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ADHD Tip: Rabbit Thoughts
This is a term I coined myself back when I was tutoring this little kid. He seemed to have the same problem I had in regards to not being able to focus. We both had random thoughts "jump around" when working, so I tried to devise a way to help with this.
I read somewhere that writing things down helps you to get them out of your head. There is also a phrase that my family and I tend to use dealing with rogue thoughts: "Take every thought captive", meaning to take it and reason with it, not let it get the better of you (also helpful for intrusive thoughts). But this made me think of the concept of catching rabbits and putting them in a pen. It's a kid-friendly explanation and just a fun one too!
TL;DR: write down rogue thoughts as they come. Can categorize for later: random things, to-do tasks, urgent must-do right now
Let's say you're in an intensive work session, either studying, writing, working on a project, etc. You want to grind without losing that motivation or hyperfixation energy.
Quick and easy solution: Thought Dump. Just dump everything onto one sheet of paper. This is typically what I will do. It makes things a bit harder to look back through, in case you wrote down things you need to do later. But this is just meant to be a solution to get everything out of your head so you can focus on the task at hand. (This is also good for emptying your head before bed)
Categories:
Rabbits - A really quick to-do list. These can be things you can do during breaks or things you need to do in general that day or week. It may help to add a check box next to these so you remember to actually do these things.
Bunnies - Your average random thought. They can be anything from ideas to save for later, things you want to look up, or random repeating phrases or words. Anything that doesn't have to be dealt with right away or even later that day.
Hares - Things that must be dealt with right away or else you can't focus. These don't necessarily have to be written down at all. These can be things like getting food or water, going to the bathroom, or something urgent you forgot about that needs to be taken care of.
Now go forth and get some work done!
Note: some things may not be as urgent as you think. Your anxiety may make it seem super important when it can wait even a minute more, like calling someone back, starting to make food for dinner, etc. Remember, don't panic. Again, take every thought captive. Sit with it for a minute, breathe, and try to process it with logic and a level head. You got this!
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