You notice the dark, crumbly soil, moist after rain, and then you notice the feet walking upon them, wearing green and white canvas plimsolls. It is the plimsolls that stop me from procrastinating. I take out a notebook and start to write. I recognise the cautious, unsteady gait. It is me at the age of 4. I have to start writing to know where I am going. And a short story begins – one which, perhaps, could turn into a chapter for a novel. But for now, I must follow those tiny feet to see what awaits them.
In a novelist or poet’s life, months – in many cases, years – go by before a significant image takes hold of his or her mind. And as he or she starts to write, the aperture-setting and focal length of the image shifts, and it becomes clearer and clearer. By the end of a year or two, he or she has a newly minted poem or novel.
Often, the work is not successful, and you keep it aside for a month or two. Then, with the distance of time, you start on the second draft. With a novel, it could take up to a year. With a long poem or story, a couple of months.
This second draft is the most enjoyable part of the process. One goes about it slowly, savouring the process. I usually write the second draft on the notebook’s right side and keep the left for notes and insertions in the third draft. It is in the second draft that the signature qualities of the author come to the fore: wit, social commentary, clarity of his or her worldview.
At the end of the second draft, what we know as ‘voice’ – the distinct quality that makes us distinguish a Philip Roth from a Sally Rooney – takes hold. This voice is further refined in the third draft. It is the third draft that I start keying into the computer. The first two drafts have been done by hand, with yellow Staedtler pencils, on A4 spiral notebooks. It makes me feel like an artisan who is connected to the work he creates with his hands, like a potter or a weaver. The gap between the end of the second draft and the start of the next one is again a month or so. The distance gives you the clarity to spot flaws and repetitions. The printed page gives an air of professionalism to the enterprise, and one can work on paragraph-setting and sentence-timing. One cuts out the flab, but also inserts digressions, which add density to the narrative. By this time, the novel is usually complete.
Again, you leave it aside for a month or two. When you return, you will know whether it works or not. Mostly, it would, if you have been true to yourself. It would be 60-70% of what you set out to do. That is good enough.
So, it is perfectly okay not to write every day, but to wait for a significant image to float up, which makes you restless. Meanwhile, take up a mundane corporate job and keep yourself busy. If you have a small trust fund, go to the gym, travel, listen to music, love your family and above all, read, read and read. And wait for your significant image or memory.
Do not waste words by writing every day. There is a quota allocated to one’s lifetime. You need to ration it for significant work.
