Writing the First Draft

I’m starting to see, it is the most stubborn writers who win

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I’ve held on to this fantasy for far too long that one day one of my pieces will make it big in the literary world, and puff just like that, my name would go from obscurity to dead center surrounded by shiny lights. And I would be forever happy because I’d reached my goal. But yesterday I read “How to (Realistically) Make Six Figures as a Writer,” by Rachael Herron, and it doused me with ice-cold water straight to my face. In this article, she detailed her very realistic journey as she moved from writing part-time to writing full time and realized that neither her nor J.K Rowling — an author I admire — made it by merely clapping their hands.

https://www.writermag.com/writing-inspiration/the-writing-life/six-figures-as-an-author/

The article was so transparent; she detailed the hours she logged at work and writing. She explained how she struggled to be financially dependent before moving to write full time, and even that plan didn’t go as planned. Yet she kept writing.

Every single Harry Potter book, I lay on a shrine. They were the tales I turned to in a very dark time. When my son’s father ghosted me with a six-month-old baby, Harry Potter helped me fly in my mind. Far away, from all the troubles and fears I faced. It helped me see the everyday magic in the real world, and gave me hope that good always triumphs over evil. And God only knows how much I needed hope and those books at that time.

Like Herron, J.K. Rowling struggled too, to write those books and publish them also. I only saw the part where she made it big, and her name shined under big bright lights, and I held the finished version in my hands. I didn’t see the part where they struggled with a particular word or unraveling the plot. I only saw the finished products.

The Road to a Finished Manuscript is a Peculiar One

No one tells you just how lonely the road may become. Or how much you may hate your manuscript one day and love it the next. Or that you will squeeze your head between your hands and wondered how you are going to write twenty thousand more words. When others say writing is a profession of solitude, they don’t usually expand on that. When I hear it, I nod my head and pretend I understand. But even if they explained it, I would still nod my head. I’m stubborn like that and need to land hard to comprehend sometimes.

It is lonely. Now I know how much. Because no one can see the movie, you are trying to paint with words. Only you can see that. I could have a house full of people and my husband beside me, but it is just I and the cursor blinking in front of me. He doesn’t know what I see, and he can’t help me, at least not with that.

When I ask other writers how they do it, it is this mysterious parable like Jesus talking to his disciples, and it always ends with, “do what works for you.”

Once again is just me and the page.

Making Myself Put One Word on the Page

I didn’t realize there would be times when I would make myself write even when inspiration didn’t come. And I do it because I can not edit what is not there.

Yet, the pressure builds on the back of my neck, and sometimes I pace, and sometimes I clean. Because I know, I need to finish this draft and exorcise this movie out of my mind. All the while, the story haunts me, showing scenes and pictures, I can’t necessarily describe at that time, and leaking into my subconscious at night to tease me some more. And only I can see this. Only I can feel this.

Whoever said writing a novel was like running a marathon got it entirely right. I have yet to run a full I’ve only run halves. And it never fails at the seven-mile mark, when I’m beyond halfway, my brain breaks from the trance and asks, “What the f*** are we doing here?”

Because it’s painful and it just realized that, and it knows that half of my muscles are in pain, the other half are numb but will be in pain the next day.

I’m at thirty thousand words for my first draft. My goal is fifty thousand before I start to edit. I am past the halfway mark. And although I’ve heard the metaphor of writing and a marathon, I never quite understood its meaning because I’m stubborn and need to burn my hands before I know not to touch the pot.

The metaphor is there because, like a marathon, writing is long, tedious, painful, and lonely. But like a race filled with other runners, so is writing filled with other writers, locked inside their imaginary world, typing word after word. They are like runners logging miles, step by step.

But drafting is hard, at least for me, for it is hard to finish. So I made a pact on social media that I will not stop, no matter how little I write and finish the draft. Thus far, each day, I’ve shown off my average word count of 700ish words proudly.

My Miserable Accomplishment that Didn’t Turn out to be so Miserable Afterall

However, two days ago, I wrote one hundred words. That’s it. One hundred miserable words and I posted the miserable accomplishment on social media because I promised to keep myself accountable, but I didn’t want to, not at first. For who likes to fail publicly?

But amid the anonymous likes, on the miserable accomplishment, a voice sounded off from someone I did not know. “You got this,” it said.

I stopped everything I was doing to reply. I looked at the tweet and thought, I’ve been running alone, but here is another racer cheering me on. I thanked the kind stranger profusely because inside my lonely world of characters, plot, pacing, and imagery, her voice pushed through my doubts and encouraged me.

When I run races, I tell my hubby to stand past the halfway mark, and once I pass that mark to wait for me, at the corner before the finish line — the place where I can’t see the banner because the hill is a bit high and covers it.

These are my Achilles heels in the race, where my brain taunts me to stop and give up. But when I see him cheering me on, it lifts my spirits, and I find that my muscles don’t ache as much. And when he’s at the part where I’m so close but can’t see the word FINISH, he claps even harder and reminds me just how close I am to finishing. And I push just a little harder and find strength I didn’t know I had. My lungs always burn during this part, and my nostrils flare and struggle to filter air through crusted mucus trapped in the tiny hairs. But it doesn’t bother me, not then, because I know how close I am to the finish line.

Do you know what I love the most? Those runners who finish and run back to cheer others. Those I love the most, and they fill my heart with joy because they didn’t grab their orange, two ounces of electrolytes, got in their car and left. No, they turn back to help others finish their race.

When I see the sign, that says FINISH my legs lift so high, and I sprint, as if my legs are not heavy and my knees don’t throb. I know my hair is a mess, and my face even more so, but I run so fast until I pass the sensor and the finish line.

Every time I finish, I’m elated, and I forget all about the pain. I put my hands behind my head till my harsh breaths slow down along with my heart. I feel the dried up snot and tears on my lips and cheeks and scrub them with the back of my hand, and I taste salt from the pounds of sweat I left behind.

Then I smile. It’s a painful smile for my skin is sweaty and dry at the same time, but a grateful one too. And once I hug my husband, I go back and clap for the ones that ran behind me to encourage them to finish their race.

Then I get in the car, and the next two days will consist of ice and Epsom salt.

When I wrote one hundred miserable words, I wanted to give up. But the author I did not know didn’t let me and cheered me on to write some more. Yes, I’ve realized how writing is a lonely world, and how long the journey can be. But that day, I also found out that like in a race, there are others around me to encourage and cheer. They are a community filled with writers, readers, family, friends, and yes strangers with a kind soul that give even if it’s just three words — YOU GOT THIS. I’ll take those three words, write three hundred more, and more until I finish this marathon. Then I’ll run back to cheer on the others still running their race.