It took five months to write the first draft of Instructions for the Working Day. I edited constantly to keep the manuscript reasonably tidy. If I leave gaps to fill in later, or scenes left unfinished, or notes-to-self, I can’t look at it again.
I don’t mean it was perfect in terms of plotting, pacing, character development or narrative tension. Far from it. I knew there would be plenty of issues to confront.
I printed out and read this first draft in a few sittings without making ANY alterations to the text or annotations in the margins.
At this stage, it wasn’t about fiddling with sentences. It was all about feeling the rhythm and pacing, the throbbing heart of the story. Tweaking a single word here and there would have led to other small distractions and the point of this first draft readthrough would have been lost. I wouldn't have detected large-scale plot problems or major issues with character development.
All I did was jot down the odd note on a separate piece of paper. These notes were brief and intimidating, such as: whole chapter horribly overwritten.
After this readthrough, the next stage for the first draft was CUTTING. Cutting all the unnecessary words, every bloated paragraph and inconsequential scene. The best advice I can give is CUT AND FORGET. You won’t regret it.
As well as the obvious horrors, I also removed some sentences I really liked. If they were not serving the novel, or were causing narrative clutter, or simply there to sound nice, rather than actually earning their keep within the story, they had to go.
Here is an invented example of how I might cut a paragraph:
‘John walked all the way down the grassy slope to the neglected pond at the end of the long, terraced garden. The surface of the water was clogged with old autumn leaves. The white plastic chair he’d bought in the sale at the garden centre and sat on all last summer had fallen on its side. It must have been blown over by the strong winds they’d had in November. Susan had left her russet cardigan down here in late August, which was the very last time she came. Now it was floating about on the water, almost indistinguishable from the leaves clustering round it. She always wore autumn colours; bronze, copper, burgundy, orange. It was drifting here and there with its sleeves stretched out in supplication, or as if it had finally given up waiting to be rescued.’
I might have changed this to:
‘John walked down the slope to the pond, its surface clogged with old leaves. The plastic chair he’d sat on last summer lay on its side, blown over by the wind. Susan had left her cardigan here the last time she came. Now it floated among the leaves, sleeves stretched out in supplication, or surrender.’
This paragraph is now half the length and has a more striking rhythm. I have shed the narrative clutter, which was guilty of diluting the melancholy atmosphere of John’s loneliness without Susan. The mood is is in starker relief now, which enhances the slightly disturbing image of the floating cardigan. Cutting has—hopefully—given the paragraph more tension and pace, greater clarity and vigour.
There is something satisfying about cutting. It’s a way of sharpening individual scenes and, most importantly, re-establishing the theme, or big picture, which can easily become muddied during construction of the first draft. The cutting process clarifies the way ahead, like clearing a path through a forest.
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