After my first novel was published, I participated in several group readings. At one event, an audience member asked each author which we preferred: writing first drafts or revision? I answered, “First drafts because I love the exploration.” If I were asked this question today, I would say, “Revision.”
What changed during the past fifteen years?
Novel writers tend to divide themselves into plotters, who outline stories before they start to write, and pantsers, who write by the seat of their pants. I’m a pantser. When I start a novel, I typically know some basics about my main characters, the book’s genre, the setting, and the inciting incident but not much more than that. I develop the characters and story in the process of writing and discover such matters as “whodunnit” along with my protagonist. Like all exploration, this is a tad unsettling — I never know if the story will hang together until I near the end of the first draft.
With my first novel, I let the story go wherever it wanted. Each day, I continued writing from where I’d left off the previous time without a backward glance. Not surprisingly, my characters and plot went all over the place and became mired in extraneous details, but the work went quickly with this free approach. During my second draft revision, I cut large chunks of writing and made major changes, like adding and then deleting a significant character.
While I was struggling with the third draft, I attended a speaker session on three-act novel structure, which is based on the screenwriting principle that certain types of happenings must occur at specific points in the story to make it a satisfying tale. During the first quarter, the protagonist dithers on whether or not to accept the challenge posed at the start until she finally commits to the quest, however the story defines this. Midway, there’s a reversal that changes the story’s direction. Then the action nosedives to the black moment at the 3/4 point. In movies, the protagonist typically wallows through moody music until she summons the strength to push to the story’s climax. Even classic novels, written long before movies, follow this structure. The speaker opened her copy of Pride and Prejudice to reveal the reversal in the middle of the book. Jane Austen had an instinct for story that is hardwired into the human brain.
This talk was a lightbulb moment for me. I instantly saw how and why three-act structure works and where I had naturally applied it to my messy draft and where I’d fallen terribly short. The opening quarter was way too long. My story had a reversal but skipped too quickly to the black moment. This led me to cut tons of stuff from the first quarter, add a completely new chapter after the black moment, and make numerous other changes. This third draft took longer to write than the first one, but it was better than it would have been had I not discovered three-act structure.
I started my second novel with structure in mind. Since I knew the book would be roughly 100,000 words, I created a structure outline that divided it into quarters of 25,000 words each. I still didn’t know what would happen in the story, but I wrote to the three major turning points – commitment, reversal, black moment. If I felt events were moving too quickly toward a turning point, I added another development to enrich the story. If events moved slowly, I eliminated something unimportant that I’d planned. For instance, I initially wanted a wedding to take place in the first quarter. When there was no space for it, I postponed the wedding to the second quarter, and then the third, and finally never. This saved me the work of extricating the wedding and its offshoots during revision.
My first draft of this second novel was less messy than the first, and I continued the process with subsequent books. Along the way, I added new things I’d learned to create a more detailed structure outline. I still didn’t know what would happen in the story or how everything would resolve, but my first drafts required increasingly less revision. For my latest novel, A Killer Whisky, each draft became quicker and more enjoyable to write than the previous one as I developed and polished the existing material.
Last month, I finished the first draft of my current novel-in-progress—yay! I realized that I’ve become far more attentive to the writing than I was for my earlier novels. Whenever scenes fell flat or veered off in a wrong direction, I went back and rewrote them before moving on. This increased my time spent on the draft, and yet I still didn’t know if the story would work or how it would end until the last few chapters. So, my first drafts now combine the worst of both parts of the process—the uncertainty of pantsing a first draft and the attention to writing that I used to reserve for revision. It’s exhausting. But the toughest job is done (I hope), and I look forward to my new favourite part of writing novels—revision.
