Thoughtful text that is concise and accessible is a mark of persistence.
No worthwhile creation is born fully-fledged.
Complex physical movements are always performed clumsily before they become fluid: walking, running, riding a bike, throwing a ball, strumming a guitar, mincing an onion, hitting fifth position… No amount of natural ability in any of those tasks can substitute for disciplined practice: persistence in refusing to accept failure – or mediocrity. Similarly, complex ideas are always articulated clumsily before they can be refined. You simply can’t see the weaknesses in your ideas until you try to write (or speak) them. You have to write (or talk) to find out what you think. And, following that, you have to write (or talk) for other people to find out what you think. This is what I meant when I wrote that I am working my craft in this blog.
Learning to walk requires a lot of falling down. A LOT. And getting back up.
Learning to write requires a lot of clumsy and inarticulate attempts at rendering meaning in text. And revision.
I love Anne Lamott’s advice to start with a shitty first draft. Get the ideas down, so you can see what you have to work with – and what needs work – then fix it up. Similarly, Stephen King says you should write the first draft with your door closed and the second draft with your door open. Aiming for perfection in a first draft is an excellent way to ensure it never gets done. But if you are genuinely interested in getting the thoughts from your head into someone else’s, then it is probably a good sign if you find yourself hoping, as Anne Lamott does, that you don’t get run over by a speeding bus before you have revised your first draft, lest anyone else sees what came out initially. That worry can only arise if you: a) believe you have something worth saying and 2) care about whether another person will understand what you have to say. Put another way, if you are satisfied with your first draft, you either don’t care enough about communicating your ideas – or you need better ideas.
Even when asking a friend or colleague for feedback on a draft, a shitty first draft won’t do. Asking someone’s opinion of completely unrevised work is a bit like dumping a puzzle-box out onto the table and asking what they think of the image. Lamott’s advice, again, seems right on to me: the dental draft. Polish the draft for review like you would brush your teeth before a visit to the dentist. Clear away as much crud as possible, so the dentist/reviewer can see clearly where the problems lie. Then they can help you.
So write your shitty first draft. Write to find out what you think. But get it down with your door closed and then fix it up before you open the door and subject other readers to it. Revise it with your readers in mind – to communicate to them what you think.
In my experience, allowing the first draft a little time to rest, as you might freshly kneaded dough is a good practice. Without the distance that a little bit of rest can provide, when you review your work you are likely to see what you meant rather than what you wrote.
That’s it, I think. I can’t add anything genuinely new to the brilliant advice already given by Lamott, King, and other writers more accomplished than myself. I can only restate it in slightly different words:
A first draft is for the author. Write it to find out what you think.
Revisions are for the reader. Make them so other people can see what you think.