On Drafting

Hello,

This letter is principally a rundown of the process I use to draft fiction, a process I have now used unaltered for over a decade. For me, this is what works best.

This post ties in with something else I shall be sending soon—I had originally planned just to link to the content below, but then realised it was not on Substack¹, but an old website which is now offline. As such, it made sense to send it out first—I know a lot of you read fiction and no small few of you write it and, personally, I always love to read things about the different writing processes we employ, so I thought you might, too. Think of this as a bonus letter of sorts.

In the Olden Days, I used to have a tumblr acting solely as a sort-of fiction writing diary, principally to record screenshots of my daily wordcounts. The tumblr was entitled Wordcountability, a portmanteau of wordcount and accountability I coined and still enjoy, probably far too much. I would share a screenshot after every 30 minute drafting session (the process I describe below), always one a day minimum, sometimes more. I find keeping a track of these wordcounts very useful.

Note the differences in wordcount here. Both for 30 minute sessions. (And this is the Scrivener project I use to draft The Lesser Evil, despite it having a different title...)

Before I continue, it is essential to mention that we are all different and what works for me might not work for you. The key thing to remember, in all points of life, is that there is no one ‘right’ way, only your own way. Certainly give this a try if you want (and let me know how it goes for you), or steal parts of it and tack them on to your own process, Frankenstein-tinkering. Discard the rest.

Today, if you do want to try my method of drafting, you need worry about nothing but 30 minutes. That’s it. Just 30.

Okay, that’s not entirely true, you need to set everything up beforehand: a cup of tea, a cafetière of coffee, or whatever you enjoy drinking sitting within easy reaching-range—and have a bottle of water on hand, always, always have water.

Open up whatever drafting software you like best or, if you prefer, a notebook and pen (and have a spare pen too—and do also consider a pencil, it writes faster in some circumstances, doesn’t run, and is potentially more likely to last in an archival context).

All these things happen first. Then you set the timer.

30 minutes.

Did I mention it will only be for 30 minutes?

Of course, by the time you sit there (or stand—standing can be much better for your body, or sit on the floor, that can be good too) you already have an idea of what you wish to write, even if it is a very basic one. This is not the time for planning, that comes before and is a whole other subject.

30 minutes on the timer.

Go.

Now you write. Simple, yes? Well, yes, and no.

For a start, this is the hardest bit for those unaccustomed to writing drafts—they panic. Hopefully, in order to help, here is what I do—these little tricks enable me to write swiftly and even, at times, furiously.

I type.

I use Scrivener.

At this stage, always turn off the spelling and grammar check. Otherwise, those wiggly coloured lines will soon begin to irritate or, at best, distract.

On this subject, I switch to distraction-free mode, with the size of the screen and the opacity of the background already dialled in.

I write.

However, I make mistakes. Perhaps I miss a leter, or aspace. Perhaps i don’t capitalise or I spell sometihng incorectly.

Doesn’t matter. Just LEAVE it. Do NOT pause and add the letter, space, capital, or spell it correctly. That’s REDRAFTING and, later, EDITING, not drafting. We’re drafting, remember?

I plough on (or plow—have no fear about your version of English at this stage either, write in the words and spelling you feel most comfortable with, don’t worry about using dialect or local language habits—sometimes these things add a joy and colour to text, but that is something you ultimately decide later in the writing game).

I write.

There will come a point where I will realise I’ve missed something crucial out earlier, or I change a name, or I create a name in the first place.

(Side note—names, whether people, places, things. They will change. Start with a TK, for example, tkname for the main character if they are nameless, or tkbestfriend for her best friend, or tkenemy for her evil twin. You get the idea. At this stage you are drawing out the story. Later, things-magical occur and you invariably reach a point in your draft or, sometimes, redraft, where these tks mystically resolve themselves, as your subconscious continues to work on the problem of nomenclature. Needless to say, it probably won’t surprise you to know that I was delighted when Substack introduced a TK check to their composition pages, although there you need to leave a space between tk and eg name.)

Back to the missed-out bit, or the mistake.

Don’t fix it! Don’t you dare move cursor or pencil!

Leave the mistake where it is.

Do not worry.

Hit the caps lock (real or metaphorical), add in TKIDEA, then record that thought.

TKIDEA (for example): TKENEMY IS NOT ONLY AN EVIL-TWIN, BUT IS ACTUALLY THE MORE-EVIL OF TWO OUT OF THREE EVIL-TRIPLETS. TKNAME HAS TO BATTLE ON TWO FRONTS BEFORE SUCCESSFULLY LAUNCHING. ALSO, HER DOG? CAT IS POTENTIALLY EVIL TOO.

Get back to the draft.

It’s a mess.

Good.

Have you ever dug clay to make pottery in the wilderness? Or have you ever needed a new spoon carved in order to eat your dinner? No, just me then? Sorry, personal example, but still. The clay is a mess. It has roots in it. Soil. Leaves. Small rocks. You need to know how to edit it. The branch of the tree has bark, maybe moss, the spoon wrapped within wooden fibres, hidden from view. Neither stops you collecting these raw materials.

Same with writing.

This is a draft.

Not a polished edit, or even a redraft or rewrite.

A draft.

Write.

30 minutes.

See how many words you can do. If you already have a good idea of how many—on the worst of days, not the best—use that as a guided minimum.

On days where words are like hen’s teeth and unicorn horns, I can write as few as 500. So that is my minimum target.

BUT it’s a target. When you are learning to fire an arrow or hit something with a sling, you DO NOT always hit the target. That’s life. That’s where practice comes in.

Keep practising.

30 minutes at a time.

Invariably, the timer goes off. Unless you forgot to hit ‘start/go’. Which happens (side note, again, I also time all my working day with other software, so I have that as a back-up).

You stop writing NOW.

No, really, you STOP. NOW. You DO NOT finish the word, let alone the sentence or paragraph, no, no, thrice no.

This way, you see, you are left with a loose thread to weave into the tapestry the next time. You won’t waste any of the next set of oh-so-precious 30 minutes, because you know exactly where you are going, what comes next.

Sometimes, and this is rare, your timer will go off just as you finish a paragraph or, even rarer, a scene, or a chapter.

In this case, I would suggest you switch your timer to either 2 or 3 minutes and keep going. Much better to have that thread the next day. If you think that’s too short a time, I disagree; you are wrong. 3 minutes is 10% of your 30—you should be able to write the next bit in that time, surely?

That’s it. You’re done. You can reach for that rapidly cooling tea or coffee you forgot.

And then you count.

Obviously, this is easier in Scrivener or another word processor than it is by hand.

Then you record this number somewhere (as I mention above I use a screenshot of the Project Target wordcount, originally posted on tumblr and backed up in Scrivener and Onedrive, but I’ve also used spreadsheets and hand-written the results too).

This record is important; you need to look at factors that curtail your drafts, and also have somewhere you can see the development of a story, day-by-day, session-by-session. (When I used to share these on my tumblr, I would sometimes tack on a note, to explain how, for example, I started later in the day, or I record a bout of illness. This gives you and me a much better idea of what we are capable of—even under less-than-ideal circumstances.)

Done.

At this point you can stop for the day, or plan another 30-minute session. If the latter, you get up NOW and do something else for at least five minutes, maybe ten. Never, ever, ever do I jam two 30 minute drafting sessions back-to-back without something different in between. That rarely works and when it does (yeah, I was once young, foolish, and hopeful), it is a statistical abnormality—not the norm, IN MY EXPERIENCE. This is why you keep a record and those notes, so you can tell future-you not to make mistakes like that. (Your record will also show whether you CAN ignore this, and just keep drafting…)

Done. Done.

Congratulations, you’ve drafted words. Messy, beautiful words.

Somewhere in that coal is a diamond. Somewhere, amidst the mass you’ve just collected from a riverbank is the clay you will use to make a cup. Your branch is whispering to you, showing you where to lay axe and knife. That is the next thing. For now, keep collecting the raw materials and, make no mistake, when you draft, those raw materials are simply a volume of words you manipulate later.

Easy, yes?

Go try.

This is what works for me. It might not for you, but it is advice/a description culled from a long period of practice (and reading about and experimenting with the processes of others, something it seems many writers and artists love to do).

Good luck—but do please remember, in writing as in anything, you make your own luck through discipline, hard work, and practice.

30 minutes.

Draft.

Here’s an example from some recent work. I need to think up some applicable names…

What About You?

What is your process for drafting? Do you prefer to polish as you craft, or let forth a giant messy morass to later whittle into shape? Are you also a fan of Scrivener, or is it paper and pen all the way? Have you found your own sweet spot for the time spent on a drafting session? Do let us know in the comments!

Finally

There’ll be more soon, including a letter with some things you might have missed.

For example, I’ll sneak this one in here too: if you missed it, I am once again sharing a version of my A Fall In Time adventure on Substack Notes, with a weekly collation of these, with extras, sent by letter. However, this is only sent to either new subscribers (who joined me in the past five weeks) or those who elected to receive it, by going to the Account page, here, and selecting the opt-in box for A Fall In Time to do so. At the time of writing, I have 2389 subscribers and 5157 followers, but this email/letter only goes to 31 people.

This year, as well as a few minor changes and several forthcoming bonus pieces, each and every letter also includes a voiceover by me (there is also a podcast version of this voiceover, available widely, or by selecting Voices From The Crow’s Nest at the Account page mentioned above).

If you are a paid subscriber you will receive the bonus pieces regardless of whether you select to opt in to this year’s A Fall In Time.

Finally, if you find value in reading or listening to my words and wish to support me financially, but do not want to take out a subscription to my letter, you can also send a one-off tip via this button (and a huge thank you to those of you who have done so, I greatly appreciate that):

More soon!

1. or, if it IS on Substack, I can’t find it…