The Steaming Pile of a First Draft.
Like the Star Wars films, I’m starting my blog—documenting the process to self-publish my first book—about three-quarters of the way into the story.
To catch you up, I completed the entire first draft of my first book, War of the Sparrows, in November of 2018. According to Stephen King’s On Writing, it’s a good idea to try and bash out that first rough draft in a few months—I think he said three. However, as a business owner with young children, I wasn’t willing to sacrifice my job or my family for a hobby. I would only write when I didn’t have deadlines or family commitments. Other than that, every spare moment, I was typing. I wrote probably 15% of the first draft on my phone. On the bus, waiting for a coffee, sitting in the toilet cubicle at work. In other words, I did not follow the other universal recommendation from published authors: maintain a regular writing schedule.
It took me eighteen months to complete my first draft. It was clunky. It was rough, had too many POVs and secondary characters, but it was the bones of the story I’d had on my heart for years.
Anyone who’s ever tried to write anything long-form knows the struggle. I knew I’d lose focus, motivation would wane, I’d forget the names of my characters from time to time, possibly slip into a different tense, or stuff up the math for how old the protagonist should be in 1951, but what I wasn’t prepared for, as I stared at the completed stack of papers that was my first ever manuscript, was the sense of crippling self-doubt.
This book is a pile of shit.
To get to the end of the manuscript and believe that it was garbage was a very strange, conflicted feeling. On one hand, I was relieved—something akin to finishing school exams. On the other, I was frustrated that I’d put more effort, more time, more energy, more of myself into this story than anything I’d done in my life, and I wasn’t proud of it. I didn’t want to show anyone.
But that would have been pointless. I’d spent so much time on it that I had to know for sure. If it was shit, well at least I gave it a go and got the story off my chest. I could go back to playing games on my phone on the toilet instead of trying to write a book. If it was half decent, I’d take the next step and send it to a professional editor.
They say you’ll never get an objective review of your work if you send it to your friends and family. But I believe we all have a mate or two who’d tell you if your life’s work was a steaming turd. Some of them gleefully. My ideal first readers were friends I trusted because they’d be honest, and—more importantly—because they’re readers. They know what a professional book is supposed to be. If you’re going to send it to friends and family, choose ones that have actually picked up a few books since high school. Some liked it, some didn’t finish it—or even start it—and they apologised. And that’s okay, too. If you can get them to tell you where they got to before they lost interest, it’s valuable feedback.
Life gets in the way and it’s way too short to be reading your mate’s poorly-written first drafts. I’ve put down plenty of renowned author’s books because I wasn’t enjoying it. It doesn’t necessarily mean they were bad books, just that I wasn’t isn’t the mood for them. I’ve had three goes at Papillon, which, at the time of writing, has over 1,100 reviews on Amazon and a 4.5 star average. But I don’t like the writing. Your story will almost certainly be the same in that it’s not to everyone’s taste so don’t lose all hope if some of your mates don’t get through it.
As my most trusted reviewer-friend said to me, ‘Even if it’s complete shit, you’ve done more than 99% of people who say they’re going to write a book and never do it. And that alone is something to be celebrated.’
In the end, the feedback from those who stuck with it was sufficiently positive for me to send the manuscript into the next phase of the book: developmental editing—where the steaming pile is moulded into something resembling a book like the pottery scene in Ghost.
