So lately I have been thinking about first drafts. I’ve been reading a lot of different books and blogs about them, and I’ve talked to other writers about them, all in pursuit of some central, secret truth I can lay out like frail parchment on my desk. I want to trace the old patterns with my finger, and somehow manage to walk away a wiser person, able to write books in a single bound.

We all want that parchment, after all. That super secret pattern we can follow through the labyrinth of our paper messes. Like dozens of earnest little Apprentice Mickeys, we want the work to go a little faster and easier (and also make us feel like geniuses). Between the internet, books, college courses, MFA programs, basement and coffee house groups, millions of dollars have to be spent each year searching for the parchment that’s going to make the world a better place for the writer who has it.

The conclusion I have come to, though, is that searching outside ourselves is not going to bring the parchment to us. The first draft is the parchment. Every day we sit down at our desks, every time we pound out another agonizing sentence, we are working on our secret parchment to that story. It’s not perfect, it’s not glorious, and yes, it would probably be mistaken by some for a pile of manure. But it’s the parchment that holds the pattern to the story, and until you write it you’re going to be lost. You have to sit down and pound the keys every day, or write until your hand cramps and then write fifteen minutes more, or you aren’t going to have a secret parchment to help you.

Come to think of it, don’t think about the first draft as a book at all. Mostly, it’s only pretending to be a book. (The bad grammer, stilted dialogue, and egotistical main character aside, most first drafts are just the semblance of a finished novel.) Instead, think about it as literally being the sacred pattern, which will lead you through the second draft, the third, or the hundreth (if it takes that long) to the finished story you know is there.

And the only way you get to the second draft (or the third or the hundredth) is if you finish the first.

Which means I should stop here – and you ought to close this window. (Seriously, shut off the wireless while you’re at it or unplug the computer altogether.) Then bring up the document with your current first draft and start writing. Don’t worry if there are sixteen different beginnings or if Alice, who was decapitated in Maurice’s booby trapped car, has returned without explanation. This isn’t the book itself, it’s the pattern for the book.

The secret truth is at your fingertips. All you have to do is follow where it leads you – and for God’s sakes, try to write fast enough to keep up!