By Kristine Laco
“Good first draft.”
First words from the developmental editor who had reviewed my memoir.
She could not have known what she read was my eighth or maybe forty-seventh draft, because I’d stopped counting.
I couldn’t see beyond those three words. I tried, but tears blurred the screen. I closed my laptop and collected tissues and a pint of ice cream.
First draft? Who does she think she is ?
Scoop.
What does she know about me ?
Scoop, scoop.
She’s right. I’m a lousy writer who should give up.
And I poured ice cream soup into my mouth from the carton, dripping vanilla down the front of my shirt. I was sticky, tear stained, and pathetic.
For the next three months, I was a failed author with no plan B—and I’d just pooched plan A.
When our kids returned to university, I was home alone with nothing but my idea of becoming an author. My failure clung to me, and I wallowed in it, finding solace in chores and dog walks.
But as November approached, I once again felt the call to write. In previous NaNoWriMo attempts, I’d scribed a scant dozen pages of garbage. This time, I had something to prove. I opened the document of ideas I’d thought of while in the shower. One premise held promise. I wrote my 1,667 words per day, and when I finished the manuscript in mid-December, I barely remembered sitting to write. The days had been alive with ideas. Pages and pages of ideas.
“Now that’s a first draft,” I said before typing THE END for the second time in my life. Hot with adrenaline, I closed my laptop. I needed a moment to cry happy tears and find celebratory ice cream. But when I returned to my desk the next day, I laughed. The absurdity of completing a full-length work in such a short time tickled my brain.
I could not edit it yet. Instead, I took time to declutter my desk, littered with evidence of the manic weeks. I threw out the Post-Its covered with ideas, word count logs, and two poster boards of structure work. The novel needed room to rest and breathe, and so did I.
Behind the NaNoWriMo mess peeked a baby blue binder. My memoir. I hesitated before picking it up then hugged it to my chest, eyes closed. I opened the cover to re-read the first page for the first time in nine months. I flipped through the sheets, scanning paragraphs I recognized but no longer felt attached to.
I finally understood.
“Good first draft” had been a compliment. First, meaning fundamental. Good, meaning those 75,000 words demonstrated plenty of room to grow from their infancy to a fully formed story. The editor had given me permission to continue putting flesh on the bones I had created.
During NaNo, I had let my story be the driver. Dialogue and action filled the pages. The words sang with energy. The frantic tension and pace of getting the words out quickly made the first draft work.
It had plot but was missing the heart.
The memoir, meanwhile, had the opposite problem. I had forgotten that vulnerability can be too much if it consumes each page. What the memoir needed was a novel’s touch—pacing, tension, humor, and conflict. It needed life.
Writing a novel taught me to trust my storytelling and remember why I wrote: because I had to. If I didn’t get words out of my head, they pestered me until I relented. When I stopped overthinking, I rediscovered my confidence, excitement, and I wrote with my authentic voice.
With my newfound confidence, I returned to editing the memoir, which had never stopped nagging me like a hungry toddler. I cringed at the leaps in logic I’d made, the repetition, the arrogance of that draft that I’d felt was so well-crafted only months before. But with my new eyes, I recognized the polish required: strengthen verbs, write more scenes, be honest with interiority, and tell a story. My story. It was fun again and I edited with gusto knowing, now, what to do.
It will take me more than a year to re-draft my memoir. A year to analyze what should be on the page to present the narrative that I want in the world. In three words, the editor saved me and my work. She was right. It was a good first draft. The words were out of my head, on the page, and ready to take shape. I’m proud of it, yet willing to work on however many more drafts it takes.
___
Kristine Laco is a satirist, memoirist, and essayist living in Toronto, Canada. She is currently over-editing a memoir and a contemporary women’s fiction novel that will never be perfect. You can follow her on Twitter , Instagram or subscribe and read some of her favorite pieces here .
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