FIRST DRAFTS SUCK

And murder most unfoul

You may have heard the quote that first drafts suck, although the word suck is sometimes replaced by a more scatological four-lettered one. I always believed that it was written by Ernest Hemingway, although half an hour’s trawling through the internet suggests this may not be correct. If it wasn’t written by him then it sounds like it should have been. Or perhaps uttered when he was under the influence in a bar or speakeasy.

I’m not a great fan of Hemingway’s, having been forced to read For Whom the Bell Tolls at school and finding it dreary. I guess that I’d have found him fascinating though, at least for the first couple of hours of meeting him. Then my left eyebrow would have inched upwards in a rueful manner. Too loud, too bloodthirsty, too much in love with death in the afternoon.

I liked his house in Key West, however. In 1938 he came back from a period away and found that his wife had spent $20,000 on a swimming pool (about $450,000 in 2025 prices.) He is alleged to have said. ‘Pauline, you’ve spent all but my last penny, so you might as well have that!’ He flung a penny at her and she had it embedded in the concrete path beside the pool.

Anyway, I have just written the first draft of my novel and well, yeah but no but yeah but, as Vicky Pollard would have said. I slowed down as I neared the end and told myself that this was because I could see the finishing line and was reluctant to reach it.

But this isn’t the case. The book needs more work than my normal first drafts. I had an inkling of that when my editor said, ‘who is the protagonist?’ I was momentarily unsure. There are three main characters and each will have the biggest part to play as the series goes on but I was switching backwards and forwards between them like a child let loose in a sweet shop. So, I have to buckle down and focus on one character for the bulk of each book. It’s obvious in hindsight. This is what happens when you undertake a second draft.

One rule I find difficult to follow but know I must, is to ‘murder your darlings.’ This is not about assassinating the characters you like most, it’s about getting rid of writing which you are too pleased with, the over-elaborate and finely wrought sentences.

Some people claim that the phrase was first used by William Faulkner, Oscar Wilde, Eudora Welty or Chekov. And Stephen King has repeated it in a more trenchant form - ‘Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.’

However, it was another, almost forgotten author who was responsible for the advice.

Arthur Quiller-Couch said it in 1914 in his inaugural lectures as Professor of English Literature at Cambridge University. He said:

If you here require a practical rule of me, I will present you with this: Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it—whole-heartedly—and delete it before sending your manuscript to press. Murder your darlings.

This is especially useful advice for historical novelists. All our research we think of as darlings but we know that allowing them to swarm snivelling over our novels is the kiss of death. Although I struggle to cut my choicest pieces of writing I find it easy to take the scythe to over-demanding research. I don’t always manage it, of course.

Here’s my new first chapter.

THE NORTHERN WALL

January 448

Ambrosius Aurelianus was woken by a rough hand shaking him on the shoulder. He groaned and sat up.

‘There’s trouble at the gate, quaestor,’ the servant said. ‘Commander Bassus thought you should know.’

Ambrosius got out of bed, shivered at the cold and put on his tunic. The servant handed him a woollen overgarment. ‘Wear this as well, sir. It’s freezing outside.’

Ambrosius was glad of the woollen tunic and the thick cloak which he belted tight around him. He hated being sent so far north. He climbed the steps to the wall and found Gaius Bassus peering north across the sparse moorland.

‘A group of Pict traders arrived yesterday,’ he explained. ‘They left at first light in a hurry.’

‘With booty?’

‘With the wife and daughter of the wealthiest man in the town. Naturally, he’s playing hell. I’m organising a cohort to go in search of them. Can I ask you to take charge of the fort? My second in command is useless.’

‘You can’t lead the cohort,’ Ambrosius said, pointing to Bassus’ leg, fractured by a fall from a horse.

‘But I must —’

‘No arguments, Bassus. You remain here and I’ll lead the rescue party.’

Ambrosius clattered down the steps before Bassus could argue. The rescue party were waiting by the gate, eight men led by a young decanus.

‘My name is Pera, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve had plenty of experience north of the wall. We’re honoured to be led by you today.’

They came upon the Picts just before noon. A scout came back with news that they were camped in a small wood nearby.

‘Why are they still so close to the wall?’ Ambrosius asked Pera.

Pera was astonished that the quaestor consulted him.

‘They will have arranged to meet more of their tribesmen here,’ he said. ‘They knew that we would try to mount a rescue.’

He pulled his sword from his scabbard and cursed.

‘A problem?’ Ambrosius asked.

‘The quartermaster gave me a useless sword. It’s almost blunt.’

Ambrosius pressed his finger on the tip; it would go through flesh but he doubted it would pierce a leather jerkin.

‘Is this usual?’ he asked in an incredulous tone. The garrison on the wall were the front-line defence of Britannia and had always been allocated the best equipment.

‘It’s getting worse by the year,’ Pera said. ‘Our best weapons are fifty years old, the last from the empire’s smithies.’

Ambrosius hid his anger. ‘Let’s attack before the Picts are joined by their friends.’

They found the Picts in a clearing, half a dozen of them. Ambrosius soon realised there was another reason for their tarrying so close to the wall. The woman and her daughter were spreadeagled naked on the ground. Two of the Picts were climbing off them while another two pulled down their breeches in readiness.

‘Come on,’ Ambrosius said, drawing his own sword. ‘The bastards won’t know what’s hit them.’

But Pera stopped him mid-stride. ‘More Picts.’

A score of armed warriors came through the trees. They yelled with excitement at sight of the women. Some threw down their weapons, anticipating their turn. Their chieftain, huge and muscular, strode over to the women, scrutinising them with anticipation.

‘There’s too many,’ one of the soldiers said.

‘We’ve surprise on our side,’ Ambrosius said. He charged into the clearing.

He slew the two men waiting their turn with the women and turned towards the chieftain. The Pict drew his sword but had no time to do more. Ambrosius drove his blade into the man’s chest and he crashed to the ground.

The rest of the Picts gaped with consternation. Pera ran to join Ambrosius and yelled to his men to grab the women.

‘For Rome,’ Ambrosius cried.

‘For Britannia,’ the young decanus said. They were his last words.

A Pict leapt towards him. Pera gave a ferocious stab but the warrior’s jerkin was of seasoned leather and the blade failed to pierce it. He laughed and thrust a spear into Pera’s neck, killing him instantly.