In the days before heading off to a writing retreat with some friends, I rushed to complete the first draft a new short story. Once I’d written to the end of the piece (and with a few days to spare, no less), I felt relieved but not quite satisfied. It’s true I had my first draft—a shitty first draft, for sure, but then what first draft isn’t rough around the edges?—and I could set it loose into the world for its inaugural round of feedback. As tempting as that might be, however, I wasn’t ready to hand this version over to anyone. To get the most out of a critique, I needed to continue working on the story—to turn the first draft into not quite the second, but something more along the lines of version 1.3.
Over the years, as I’ve racked up countless hours in writing groups, not to mention the MFA and receiving feedback on my novel drafts, I’ve come to value the gift that is the initial critique. A beta reader’s first and fresh read is the most precious of all—which means this first read is too valuable to waste. Giving my story (or essay, or novel draft) to my trusted readers is generally reserved as a one-time experience. I usually won’t come back to the same readers with a revised version of that same piece, and even if I do, I understand the feedback might not be quite as useful.
My personal rule of thumb is that I should be able to answer my own questions surrounding a piece of writing before sending it off for a critique. This sounds simple, but it can take a surprising amount of patience and restraint—it’s easier, after all, to pass the story off to first readers and ask them figure out its problems. But I’ve found the wait is worthwhile.
For example, while I proud that I managed to get this story down on paper at last, if I was honest with myself, I had some lingering reservations about the plot and character motivations. If someone else had written this story and handed it to me, how would I respond? Surely I’d notice this plot hole, and that one over there, and I’d question a few problems with its organization and world building. If I could already see these issues in my own story, I had no doubt that my sharp, observant readers would pick up on them, too. Why waste my time—and theirs—by ensuring the critique focuses on problems I already know about?
So I dove back into the story. I moved things around, cut some extraneous parts, and worked to more deeply develop the characters and the world. Once I thought I’d answered my own questions, I still didn’t submit the story. Instead, I slept on it, then woke up early the next morning and discovered even more complications that needed my attention.
I kept working on the story until things clicked. It’s that moment writers long for, when the pieces fall into place and the story (or poem, or essay) starts to crystallize, to feel not like a combination of first-draft parts jammed together but instead like a fully functioning machine. It was only then, when my gut told me Yes, this is ready, that I sent it on to my fellow writers.
Even though I technically revised the story several times, I still considered it a first draft when I submitted. Perhaps for me, “first draft” means a brand-new piece that hasn’t yet received the benefit of feedback from trusted readers. Or maybe “first draft” is when I fully, honestly feel I’ve given the story my best shot. From there, I need the guidance of an outsider’s perspective to unveil additional layers of questions or complications.
In this case, my patience paid off. The critiques I received at the writing retreat allowed me to focus on some of the more subtle workings of the piece rather than focusing on a handful of more overt issues. Now, when I return to make revisions, I’ll start from a much better place, and the story is that much closer to reaching its final form—all because I demanded more from my first draft.