Molly Best Tinsley taught on the civilian faculty at the United States Naval Academy for twenty years and is the institution’s first professor emerita. She is the author of My Life With Darwin and a story collection, Throwing Knives, as well as two spy thrillers, Satan’s Chamber (with Karetta Hubbard) and Broken Angels, and a memoir, Entering the Blue Stone. She also co-wrote the textbook, The Creative Process. Her fiction has earned two fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Sandstone Prize, and the Oregon Book Award. She lives in Ashland, Oregon, and her middle-grade fantasy novel, Behind the Waterfall, will be released in mid-November.
Molly is also the co-founder and editor of Fuze Publishing where she works with authors to sharpen and polish their manuscripts.
We write the first draft for ourselves, partly in the throes of inspiration, partly just to see how and if it’s going to work, and maybe partly just to prove we can finish it. Out of this raw material, we develop the second draft (i.e., further drafts) for our readers, designing a strategy that will keep them perpetually curious.”
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The Second Draft
In ancient times, when I was trying to leap the genre divide between short fiction and the novel, an editor turned down my first, full-length effort with this explanation: “You have a lot of activity in these pages, but I’m not discerning the action.” As a plot-challenged, right-brain lover of language and quirky characters, it’s taken me years to wrap my mind around the difference.
What my early novel lacked was structure, or meaningful action. Instead I’d offered what was basically chronology—activity. Activity, no matter how textured or ingenious, leaves the reader wondering where the story’s going and what she should be tracking. A strongly structured narrative, on the other hand, hooks the reader into a ride she can’t resist.
I know how that feels. I’ve stayed up too late plenty of nights lured on by just one more chapter. I really want to make that happen for an audience. I think that’s why I decided to collaborate on a spy thriller and then craft a sequel on my own. In that plot-based genre, authors are unabashed about deploying strategies that engage and manipulate their readers.
In the early drafts of a narrative, you are busy telling yourself the story. It’s probably best to banish a hypothetical audience from your mind as you free your imagination to discover the surprises lurking in its recesses. It’s fine to ramble into backstories and what if’s. You write through to the end because you need to find out where you wanted to go.
But once you’ve got a finished draft, it’s time to tackle revision from the other side, from the perspective of your reader—what does she need to keep going? Can you pretend you know nothing about the world you’ve created, open to page one, and answer the question: does this narrative do more than give a well-written account of interesting events? Are your textured description, snappy dialogue, and humorous moments serving a meaningful structure? These are the issues you tackle in what I’m calling “the second draft.”
I now assess and edit manuscripts for Fuze Publishing, the same way I work on my own. I break the text into three simple parts—beginning, middle, and end—in order to get at its structure.
The Beginning: disrupting a pattern. For a story to have momentum, it must start with big bang, an attention-grabbing scene with the energy to propel the narrative forward.
Your entry point is not the time for a-day-in-the-life musings. When revising with an audience in mind, you need cut to the chase. Something must happen to destabilize your protagonist’s world. In a murder mystery, it’s the discovery of the dead body. In other narratives, it’s a “first”—a first meeting; an arrival.
A strong beginning challenges your off-balance protagonist to do something, anything, from simply struggling to regain equilibrium to saving the human race.
The Middle: maintaining momentum. Resistance is hot. When move hits counter move, energy levels rise. As your protagonist sets out to do something, let her encounter an obstacle course.
External challenges like illness, gender, or the Pacific Crest Trail, introduce resistance to your protagonist’s progress. Antagonists with ornery agendas add further dynamic, unpredictable obstacles.
But the most potent resistance to the protagonist’s endeavor should come from the inside–a personality trait, habit, or past wound that keeps interfering with progress. I call this the Fortunate Flaw because although it’s a weakness, this evidence of vulnerability elicits readers’ sympathy and forecasts the possibility of growth and change. It gives the protagonist’s story somewhere to go, the events acquire a rationale: the famous arc.
The Fortunate Flaw can be a simple idea: ambition, inability to trust, indecision, idealism. It becomes complex as it’s embodied by your particular protagonist.
If your narrative is heavy on plot, it probably plants many external, circumstantial obstacles in your protagonist’s path. To prevent her from seeming a pawn of events, it’s even more important to establish her internal life. You want the action to seem an extension of her character, the result of decisions she’s struggled with, a fate she is at least partly responsible for.
The End: from epiphany to showdown. At the high point of the protagonist’s arc, events cohere to produce an aha! moment, which inspires her to overcome that Fortunate Flaw. The revelation may enable her to solve a puzzle, make amends, and/or commit to a new plan. Strengthened by this internal change, she can go on to effect external change by confronting the antagonist in a showdown.
Initial disruption, continuous resistance led by the Fortunate Flaw, and transformative revelation make for meaningful action, which is what rivets readers to a good story. Does your narrative deliver? These components may be present but need to be pulled to the foreground. Can you turn up the volume on them to make their importance clear? Do they need to be decluttered of superfluous activity?
We all know that writing is really a process of rewriting, and that any given narrative can go through twenty drafts or more. But this process needs to include one final, crucial orientation. First we set down the material we actually wanted to write, capturing characters, setting, an action or conversation. This is the stuff that seems to flow as if inspired; for some writers it feels like “channeling.” Once we have a completed draft, we begin reworking it based on the needs of our imagined audience.
How can we deploy the elements of our story to pique curiosity, to keep our readers wondering what could possibly happen next?
Molly,
This is so perfect for me today. I’m revising a chapter with very little physical action. I was struggling with my protagonist’s reasons for making some incorrect assumptions that are going to lead her further into a quagmire. Only I ended up in the quagmire instead! In the end, a voice bellowed in my ear, “what’s her driving inner need?” It also reminded me to keep it simple. So with that inner need in mind I went back to work and discovered all kinds of superfluous activity (mostly mental ) that didn’t need to be there. And lo, once I cut, the chapter took on new life. I could actually feel it happen. Amazing. I also related to what you said in the beginning of your post. Many years ago, I had a 600 pg ‘chronology’ that bored the people in my my writers’ group to tears. That was when I realized I couldn’t really define ‘plot’.
I appreciate your clarity and simplicity here, especially given how un-simple writing a novel is. And the advice to sit in your readers’ chair is priceless beyond words. Thanks.
Susan, my writer’s heart goes out to you! I am so glad to hear my words helped. Of course, i still struggle with these same issues…and flipping to the other extreme–always wondering “will my reader like this” instead of what do I need to get out there–can be just as problematic. Balance. All best.
This is one of the finest breakdowns of the differences between composing that first draft and the work that comes after that I’ve seen. I love the concept of the Fortunate Flaw. You’ve given me a lever to work as I head into my next draft. Thanks!
I’m glad you get the Fortunate Flaw. It almost seems too simple–reminds me of analyzing Shakespearean heroes in terms of their “tragic flaw.” But I’ve found it really helps me let go of “activity” and turn up the volume on dramatic “action.”
YIKES, you’ve definitely hit a nerve here for me. I have this spectacular novel going, set up the Fortunate Flaw early on . . . and then buried it with “activity.” Your post is timely for me, and I’m going to print it out and post it on my wall. THANK YOU!
I’m thrilled to hear that your FF will ride again!
Why not put all the “second draft” things you mention in the first draft? That’s what I try to do.
Mostly because I can’t, David. The two phases to my process set up at different distances from my material–the early drafts are close in, boots on the ground, senses alert. The second draft gets above it all and the analytical brain kicks in.
Welcome to WU, Molly–full disclosure: I work with Molly on book design for her publishing company and have read her work. I like your breakdown of the living anatomy of a strong story into working parts that even I can understand. Many thanks.
I think of the first draft as the ‘dirty story’. Getting the idea down without worrying too much about details. concentrating instead on the 3 parts you mentioned. After that comes the layers, the trim, the take aways. it’s also where I find out whether there is that ‘Ah’ moment in the story. If its not there, then I go back and figure out why.
This sounds like a fine process.
This post is perfectly timed for me, since I’m revising a novel for the first time, and have been reading a pair of craft books which both lay out the centrality of what you dub “the fortunate flaw” to the hero and indeed the story. We discussed this at my writer’s group the other day, and another member pointed out that a “wound” (AKA “ghost”)can be a powerful flaw, and the light bulb went off in my head.
Thanks for a very timely article!
You are very welcome, Dale. May your revising process be fortunate too!
Such great points. Makes me think of the book I am finishing up — The Girl on the Train. I need to get my rear in gear, or seated, and finish the first draft floating in my head.
You’ve articulated this so well that I’ve shared it with my writing group. Thank you!
Thanks, Carla. I’ll mention to you what I just mentioned to Jamie–you and your group might find the Fuze Publishing Facebook page a source of literary advice and inspiration–as well as literary laughs.
Thanks, Jamie. If you’d like regular encouragement with your process, try liking Fuze Publishing on Facebook. We post all things literary and, we hope, inspiring.
I like the idea of first draft is written for me; second draft is written for my reader. But when you get to the 20th revision – now just who is that for?
;o) These are really metaphors for the two different ways you can write. Chances are, you’re doing a little of both on every draft…
Geez, I’m so struggling with my second draft. But the elements of conflict and the ‘BUT WHY??’ have really reared their heads while I’ve been working through it, and I’ll admit that even though it’s a very different story from the one I began, it’s probably a better one, too. Thank you for this, and for the encouragement that we all go through it!
Thank you again for a great article. This couldn’t have come to me at a better time. It must be fate. I’m about about half way through reworking my first draft. You covered it all. Way to much action that goes nowhere. I can’t for the life of me remember why it was there in the first place. I’ve been starting each chapter with the question ‘what am I trying to reveal.’ Once I work that out, anything that doesn’t work to that goal gets cut. I now have a few more questions to ask these chapters.
What a great article. I have the opposite problem, where the book is thick on plot but thin on character arc. Luckily I’m still in outline, so I could pretty easily go back and layer in the internal conflicts that had been completely missed.
Same problem, opposite end of it.
I found this really helpful. As a writer of women’s fiction, I’m currently in revisions of my first novel. I know, I know, a first novel is a trunk piece, but it’s actually got a lot of promise, if I can tease it out of the chaff. I love that you said that drafts are for the author and revisions are for the reader. I just need to keep my audience in mind! This isn’t purely a self-serving thing.