Second Drafts
I am a self-proclaimed, “one draft wonder.” Much to the chagrin of every English teacher I have ever had, I put pen to paper, fingerprint to keystroke once and only once. Statewide, fourth grade essay contest on what I would do if I was Governor for the day? One draft and I won. Writing part of the ACT? One draft with a score of 34. I’ll admit I am a “one _____ wonder” and feel confident that whatever you fill the blank with errs on the side of truth.
Ten bags of groceries? One trip upstairs. Albeit, I get to the door with permanently mottled hands.
I spend a lot of time proclaiming things about myself, even if only in my own head. I proclaimed many moons ago that I am a self-diagnosed perfectionist. I am THE “expert in residence” on what it is like to be me. I only need to do things once because I am good at them and I only do things once if I am not good at them. I will forever remember losing the fourth grade spelling bee tryouts on the word “toboggan.” That day, I made a conscious decision to never learn how to spell the outlandishly outdated noun for a sled. Since the year 2000, I have resentfully right clicked on the red squiggly line that screams at me, “Erica, YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA HOW TO SPELL toboggan.”
I have exactly ONE spelling bee try out under my belt.
I have been known to throw knitting needles at the wall when I make the FIRST, and to be accurate, the last mistake on a scarf after learning how to knit in just three days.
Irish step dancing? ONE year, if that.
I have erased pages and pages of my most genius inner thoughts because if I start from scratch, it’s still a FIRST draft…
Here it comes, you beautiful and hopeful people. This is the moment of my own enlightenment. This is the part of the story where you read I learn the values of patience and perseverance and ride off into the metaphorical sunset, finally accepting that life is mostly about making mistakes over and over and over again until I get it right. Right?
Hahahaha.
Most days I am still a “one draft wonder” painfully wandering and wondering how the hell to survive a life that begs me to learn from mistakes which in turn calls for me to make mistakes over and over and over again until I get it right.
Right? Right.
Even now, I am fighting the urge to erase everything I have typed and start over because everything I have typed isn’t it. But, everything I have typed isn’t, not it.
So, maybe the real moment of enlightenment is the realization of middle ground, existing somewhere between first drafts and drafts upon drafts upon drafts.
For most of my life, thus far, my first reaction — that visceral feeling some people refer to as intuition or gut or God — has served me fairly well. Until it hasn’t. You see, in my life, in my experiences, the places I needed there to be an alternate ending, there could only be a first and final draft.
Begrudgingly out of my own control, the first draft has oftentimes been the final draft where I so desperately wish I could have rewritten three and four and five alternate endings.
So many times, I have laid my pen down, too angry at the endings I can’t rewrite. Too painful to think of, live through, write down, I thought the silence may save me.
Right? Wrong.
I am a writer and writers must write.
Starting today I am writing and living the stories of my life without pretense, with no concern for verb tense. I am writing with abandon, abandoning what I think I know about what other people need to read so that I can write what me, myself and I feel must be written. I am writing my truth, as it stands in the terribly terrible moments and the damn good ones, too. I am writing with reckless abandon without abandoning myself — honesty is reckless enough.
This is my second draft. What’s yours?
