One Draft, Two Drafts, Three Drafts or More? 

Ruben D.Gonzales

I've written five books so far.Two have been published, one is making the rounds, one in a final editing process,and one in a rough draft form. I've got great ideas for books six, seven, and eight but with the time it takes between writing,editing, marketing, and all the other things we do as authors (not to mention all the things that grandfathers do) I'm not sure I have enough time to get to those last couple. Someone asked Sue Grafton about her alphabet series and if she would complete the series with a final "Z" book. At the time she must have been feeling the effects of her illness because she answered that she didn't know if she would.She said it took a long time to write a good book. I think she said for her up to two years between books.That's a lot of time and unfortunately for her and us, she ran out of time.

When you get to your senior years you start to look more critically at time. Comedian George Carlin did a set on "Time"once and it is hilarious. A favorite line in the set was someone young saying they had "All the time in the world." He laughed at that, of course, saying "That would be a lot of time and if you had all the time in the world then what would the rest of us have?

The fact is we don't have all the time in the world. Fact,we are lucky to have any time at all, so how much time should we spend on our manuscript drafts? Two?Probably at least two. How about three, four, five?I don't know that I have that much time. 

But I know my writing must be the best possible,so I spend time editing, draft after draft.Sometimes in that editing I must cut. Like most of us it scars me to cut a chunk out of a story. Like cutting off an arm. But I do it if the prized section doesn't really add to the story line, even if I thought the section being cut is good writing. 

So below is a bit of writing that made it into the "trash bin" on the computer. It may never see the pages in a future book, but at least it will see the light of day on this blog.

From "Early Tate":

Folk in the mountains take to guns and hunting naturally. It’s the odd fellow who doesn’t see guns as a right and I struggled with the calling, struggled with the killing. Oh, Pa tried to beat some toughness into me, taking a switch to me on a regular basis, but by the time I reached high school the beatings tapered off. I weighed 200 pounds when I weighed in for my junior year of football. One Saturday I went out for a walk, hauling the rifle with me, on the chance I’d get lucky and run into something to shoot, but I let the time get away from me and came back late.
            “Better wipe down that gun, Little Tate,” My brother Early called to me using my nick name, as he jogged across the barn yard late that morning, heading to the hog pen. He carried a mess of rope and a bag full of tackle. “Pa catch you putting it up soiled like that you’ll be in for it.”
            “I will, give me a chance.” I said coming through the gate from the morning walk.
            “Well, better come on then. Pa’s ready to stick the hog. He’s waiting on you!”
            “Boy, how’d you make out?”  Pa asked as we came round the barn. 
           “I thought I winged a doe this morning,” I explained, “but I tracked her up to Johnson’s field then lost her trail in the corn stubble there. It didn’t seem like she slowed any so I guess I didn’t hit her after all.”
            “Any blood?”  He asked trying to put his foot up on an old nail barrel. He smelled like the mash pot of his liquor still and tried several times to put his foot up before he found the range.
            “Well, you know the leaves are thick in there so I can’t be sure.”
            “You get the shakes again?”
            “I guess.”
            “You guess!  Boy,” he said as his foot slipped off the barrel, “You think that lead grows on trees?”
            “No, sir!”
            “Damn right it doesn’t. How many times I tell you boys to not waste my shot.”
            “Sorry Pa,” I said in defense.
            “Damn if you aren’t a case, boy. That must be the third or fourth doe you missed this fall. Hell, any more like that and we’ll be picking lead out of our spring crops.”
            We moved around to the south side of the barn where Pa kept the hogs. He put one of the old sows up in the side pen the week before and for the past couple of days we stopped feeding her. Even with plenty of water she still began squealing for food regularly and we tried our best to ignore her. Pa says it made for a messy slaughter if a hog ate too much before you gut them.
            Early put a fire under the water vat and started the lard pot. He put the knives and axe out on the table. He threw a line over the low limb of the fat white oak that shaded that side of the barn during the summer, and started to rig the tackle so we could hoist the hog up to clean.
            “You got any more shells for that thing?” Pa asked me, pointing at my rifle.
            “Yes, Sir!”
            “Well, what say you put one there between her eyes, and not too high up, I want some fresh brains with my eggs tonight so don’t go splattering them all over the damn barn yard.”
            “Ah, Pa,” I said, looking at the sow stare up at me with big eyes behind thick fat cheeks.
  “I ain’t never shot a hog before.”
            “Hell, boy, you ain’t hardly shot anything your whole life. Let’s see if you can kill something that can’t run off.”
            “Really Pa,” I told him. “I’ll probably make a mess of it.”

      “Boy I hope you learn there’s more to killing than chasing some doe through the woods on a pretty fall morning. Sometimes you got to meet ugly death face to face. Now put that barrel up against that old girl’s head and let’s get on with it.”

“That’s okay Pa,” Early said coming to my side, playing the big brother role. Early wasn’t as big as me but was headed to State College to play linebacker. “Let me do it. I’ve done it before.”
           “Boy, this is your brother’s day to learn.”
            “Ah, he’ll get his chance. Let me do this one. Maybe he’ll get next year’s.”
            “Little Tate, you’ll do this one or you’ll go and get me a switch. I’ve been waiting around all morning for you and I ain’t got no more time to waste. I got to get down to the still and get a fresh batch of mash going.”
            “Honest Pa,” Early said defending me, stepping in front of Pa, edging him back. “I can do the hog myself. You know Little Tate gets the shakes and besides it’s no bother.” We were both bigger than Pa then with Early a senior and me a year behind.
            “Now, Early, I don’t want you making excuses for your brother,” Pa said trying to point at me though I remained hidden behind Early’s wide body. “He needs to learn to kill with a steady hand one day and this is it.
            “Little Tate,” he repeated in a high squeal, “I’m not going to tell you again. You don’t do that sow then go and fetch me a switch and let me get it done so I can get on with this before it gets dark.”
            “No, Pa.”
            “No …?” he asked absently as he lowered his behind on the barrel to settle his shaky legs.
            “I ain’t going for no switch, Pa.” I told him as I looked over at Early. “I’m too old to switch like a little boy.”
            “Well, son, for someone so old you better mind your elders better.”
            “I know Pa but I don’t need no switch to remind me. Besides, Early already said he’d do it.” 
            “Yeah Pa,” Early agreed, “Little Tate will get the next.”
            “You too, huh, well maybe I’ll take a switch to both of you!”
            “Now, Pa,” Early cautioned, smiling at me, “You haven’t switched me in a long time now and it ain’t going to happen today so you best be settling down.”
            “Boy!” he cut him off getting wobbly to his feet and in a clearer voice he shouted, “Don’t be telling me what I am and am not going to do. You gon’na get that switch?”
            “Pa,” I said again, “I’m not getting no switch. And I don’t think I’d stand for it even if you already had one.” 
           “No, Pa,” Early agreed, “We’re too old for switching. Why I’m eighteen and Tater’s near sixteen. No, Pa, I gotta agree with Little Tate on this, we are both too old for the switch.”
            “Well, what about I knock you both about the head a bit.”  Though shorter than Early and me by a few inches, Pa stood like an old fence post against the wind, sturdy and tough as nails.
            “Now, Pa,” Early said, bringing himself to his full height, “you can try but truth be told, I wouldn’t much stand for that either.”
            “Hell, Mr. Football,” Pa said bringing his body up to his full height as well, “You going to stop me?”
            “Well Pa,” Early said in a steady voice, winking at me from the side, “if it came to that, I guess I would.”
            For the first time in my life I saw my pa falter in his resolve. Oh, I don’t really know what would have happened; I would have probably run off before he could get hold of me. But Early thought differently. He thought in long term where I thought only in short term. To Early, I think he anticipated the arrival of this point in his life, and though happy to face it, it still surprised him that it arrived so soon, right there in the shadow of the barn on a cold fall day with that sow squealing to save its life.

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