(Rough Draft Example)

As an aspiring writer my theory of writing comes together much like a student’s theory—as a hodgepodge of writing truisms—albeit from better sources that have had the opportunity of time to cut out the cliché dross (“Show, don’t tell.”).

The process, too, is like a student’s, though perhaps closer to the iterative ideal. Write, revise, rewrite. I like revision and support it. I practice it when time allows—is my own procrastination part of my theory of writing, my process? When I take a smoke break between writing sessions, I like to have an idea or piece of writing to loll on. (Smoking shouldn’t be part of my process, I know—not a habit of the greats to emulate.)

My friend, who has worked with students in the past as well, dislikes revision. He has a term for his compensation: “high first-draft proficiency,” the degree to which he’ll really have to edit his work come submission-time. I like this too—I do not subscribe to the idea that the first draft should be a mess. I think it should be mess in the sense of its ambition, its attempt to cover the subject(s), but it shouldn’t devolve into a morass of half-conclusions to be concluded in the Final Draft.

It’s hard to discuss a theory of writing without dipping into a theory of thinking—I have thought so long as a teacher. At one point I drafted stories with a character’s Emotions, Values, and Beliefs in mind for structure, a replication of the “What, How, Why” pattern I’ve used with students—what is the character feeling at the core of the conflict, how is it a function of their value system, and why do they hold those beliefs? Now I dive in after I’ve considered their Desires and how to Stall them to apoplexy.

To teach one class before another means that, generally, the classes improve as you go. Your thinking refines; your teaching refines. Considering this, along with the nature of revision, I am reminded of something I’ve said to the students to allay their fears around revision—sometimes, if not all the time, you should be deleting before adding. “You should be deleting,” I may have intoned again for emphasis.

So: “My theory of writing is that often I don’t know the explicit purpose of what and why I’m writing something until I’ve said something about it. I don’t know what I’m doing until I’ve done part of it. I don’t know what or why I’m writing until I’ve written part of it.”

This is true of my teaching: a question that was on the lesson plan in the morning gets deleted by the afternoon, and a better question or activity that popped into my head in the middle of the lesson shows up, this time more refined, in the afternoon.

This is true of my writing: I’ll write a page or two until I finally write the sentence that stays. The rest is often lost, or left to reappear later, hopefully refined.