Building a Book

On shitty first drafts

In March 2023 I submitted what I thought would be my last application for a writing grant from the Quebec Council for the Arts (after five crushing rejections) in which I committed to writing a first draft of a book in twelve months. Given the fact that a year earlier I had accidentally written a book in two months and I had already some poems and essays written for the proposed book project, the twelve-month plan didn’t seem all that outrageous to me. As I am someone who likes to keep her promises, I was confident that I could deliver on this doable promise. When (to my greatest shock and joy!) my grant was approved in June and the funds were deposited in my bank account in August, I felt like the luckiest girl alive. Finally, I could focus on what I loved doing the most: writing. No more stealing writing time between other part-time jobs, but honouring my writing time as a respectable, full-time job.

To meet my writing goal, I devised a writing schedule. This (ideal) writing schedule was built on the premise that while my concentration level was at its peak (early in the morning) I blocked any distraction that would potentially sabotage this precious time. Notifications on my phone were off and no matter how tempting it was to say yes to a walk with a friend, I respected my writing time as if it were any other job. My schedule also included daily exercise, yoga and meditation, but also more pleasurable, social activities like walks with friends and cultural outings in the evenings. I continued to fill my creative well by reading voraciously, especially poetry. While this plan was easier to stick to in the first month while I was alone in Budapest, it became a lot more challenging when I returned to the reality of single-mothering back in Montreal. The (inner and outer) resistance became all the more forceful.

I wasn’t successful every day, but I was successful on most days, and I ended up writing a lot more than I had originally committed to. The topic of my book was emotionally draining, but surprisingly, I have managed to find much joy in the writing process. As I wrote in my essay An Ode to Literature, facing the blank page even with a clear outline took me by surprise on most days. This is the magic of first drafts. And the words that I ended up typing on this blank page had many uncomfortable truths to teach me, but just as many things to be grateful for. With each scene, poem and chapter I wrote, I seemed to be getting emotionally lighter, and physically stronger.

As I was getting closer to the finish line, I kept fantasizing about the feeling of relief and ecstasy I would feel once the first draft was completed. I imagined breaking into a dance and throwing a party.

But this Wednesday when I wrote the last sentence of the book and submitted my report to the Quebec Council for the Arts, I was too exhausted to even get out of my pyjamas. True, I was recovering from a cold, but I don’t think it was just that. A day before I had made the mistake of rereading my first pages, and suddenly felt a violent impulse to press ‘delete’ on the entire project.

I remember my astonishment when learning that Franz Kafka asked his best friend Max Brod to destroy all his work after his death. Why would you want to cancel all your hard work? I thought. But suddenly I understood. Suddenly, I hated the work that I had so much joy writing only days before.

It wasn’t just because I didn’t think it, the book, was good enough, or that I wasn’t good enough to write it. First drafts are usually “shitty,” warned us many prolific writers like Hemingway and Anne Lamott. What distinguishes great writers from amateurs is their willingness to follow that first shitty draft with many subsequent drafts, until they are able to produce something that reads effortlessly “genius,” or like “a masterpiece.”

To quote Becca Rothfeld from New Yorker:

Literature usually reaches us in its finished form, when it has already ossified into irrevocability. By the time a book is bound and printed, it is easy to forget that the words were once in motion.

When those of us writers, who have not yet reached the high ranks of those demigods who write so ‘perfectly’ read these finished works we so admire, we can sometimes forget that ‘genius’ is not just talent, but also a lot of hard work and persistence.

But I suspect my that my sudden wish to destroy my book was less to do with first-draft-insecurity, but more to do with what I was uncomfortable facing: the person I was at the beginning of writing this draft, and the person I have become through writing this (shitty, or not) draft.

I think it was Elizabeth Gilbert who said that while she cannot guarantee a publishing deal after the writing of a book, she can guarantee a changed person by the end of the writing process. I have found this to be very true. And since I have already shed that old skin, I didn’t wish to go back and re-examine it. I wanted to destroy all record of it and simply move on.

But luckily, I couldn’t, because I had a report to submit to the Quebec Council for the Arts. And after some sleep, I ended up sending my shitty first draft to my editor, and taking my first (real) day off in a year and twenty days. I had an extended coffee session with two dear friends that were supposed to be about planning my trip to Colombia, but ended up being much deeper conversations about the stuff of life. I was quickly reminded of what energizes me most in life: it’s these simple human connections. Whether we choose to connect to one another through an honest conversation, or by sharing our stories through writing, it’s always about this bond for me. And when it happens, it’s magical.

So, for now I’m giving my first draft a rest, brushing up on my Spanish and learning about the magic of Colombia. The second draft can wait a little.