When you work on the first draft of a story, write like nobody’s watching. Sure, some writers will tell you it should always be this way, that if you’re writing for an audience then you’re not being true to yourself. But let’s face it: even though a writer may write for himself, most are aware that they will most likely show what they have written to other people.
But let’s not talk about other people just yet. The first time you put a story down on paper or on your word-processing program, you’re doing it because something exploded in your head and started a fire. The first draft is a fast burn; it’s the hundred-meter dash. You push yourself to the limit not because you want to be the fastest but because you want to make it to the end. Subsequent drafts are like leisurely strolls through the woods. You can take your time and listen to the wind in the trees, have lunch by the water, you can even stop to smell the flowers, if that’s your fancy.
Writing a story is not a race (though bear in mind that the longer you take, the less likely you are to finish). When you write your first draft what you’re really doing is asking your muse: Do I have a story here? Am I digging in the right spot? The first draft is not about details. Details shmetails! The first draft is pure, unrefined story – the ore of imagination. It’s rough, it’s dirty, and nobody but you would recognize it for its potential. It’s only after you’ve finished that you can sit down and actually look at what you’ve done. But keep in mind this is rarely a pleasant trip. Looking at a first draft is like walking through ground zero after a nuclear blast.
After I finish a short story, I go through a series of preordained tasks. (These tasks are my own, and by no means do I expect anyone to follow in my footsteps.) First, I read the story through while following along with "Ian’s Dictionary," a file I keep to help increase my vocabulary. Whenever I find a word I don’t know, I look it up, write down the definition, along with the example where I found it, and practice using it in sentences of my own creation. Periodically I remove words from this file as they become part of my own vocabulary. These are not words that I’m necessarily feel obliged to use; they’re simply words I would use had they already been part of my personal vocabulary.
After "Ian’s Dictionary," I go through my collection of descriptive dictionaries and find those that are relevant to the short story I’m currently working on. For example, in the short story "Charlotte’s Frequency," I write about (among other things) houses, spiders, and, to a lesser degree, barbecues. To make sure that I use the proper terminology, or just to show that I have done my homework, I go through these files and look for words and descriptions that will season my story. Descriptive dictionaries, of which I have many, are helpful when it comes to those nitpicky details that some writers are too lazy to include but almost every reader seems to notice (especially when you’ve screwed up). This can be as important as the typical cruising altitude of a passenger plane (around 26,000 feet) or as seemingly unimportant as the name of the loopy thing you put a padlock through (a hasp). Don’t sweat these minor details, but don’t forget about them, either. You can bet your reader’s won’t.
Ian
