How Stories Evolve: Why My First Drafts Look Nothing Like the Final Story

Death of a Salesman author Arthur Miller wrote the entirety of Act One in a single day. Over the course of six weeks, he finished and polished the entire play.

Why am I telling you this? Because immediately after learning that little tidbit, I was doomed. I set a level of personal expectation that sitting down to write a first draft was...easy...clean...possible. What I learned is that first drafts are consuming...difficult...BUT not impossible.

For me, the first draft is less “writing” and more internet, research deep-dive. I’m stumbling around in the dark, waving a flashlight with half-dead batteries trying to figure out what this story actually wants to be--yes, what it wants to be. Sometimes the characters feel like cardboard cutouts I’ve dragged on stage. Sometimes whole plot lines evaporate after a few chapters. Sometimes I realize, 20,000 words in, that I’ve been telling the wrong character’s story altogether. That one hurts...

The funny part is, by the time I reach a draft that feels solid—one I’d let anyone but my husband read—it barely resembles the original. Whole scenes are gone. Entire characters disappear. Subplots I once thought were “the point” end up cut without ceremony. And the ending? It often shifts so much that I almost forget what I originally thought it would be. The bones of the story might still be there, but the muscles, skin, and heartbeat are brand new--fresh out of the womb.

In my most recent project, an entire character was eliminated somewhere between drafts two and four. I can't pinpoint the exact moment. What I do remember is the realization that she didn't belong--the energy had shifted and somewhere along the line, the story pulled me in an entirely different direction. Maybe she'll make an appearance elsewhere but the point stands that she was cut which sounds a great deal easier than it actually is. Sifting through 500 pages of manuscript to erase her completely wasn't a simple search and replace. That would have been nice...

Unfortunately, the deletion required extensive rewrites and countless readings to ensure she was once again nothing but an idea . What she used to represent in the novel, the heart of her purpose, remains but looks completely different now. If I hadn’t written the “wrong” version first, though, I never would’ve found the right one.

I used to fight this. I thought it meant I wasn’t “disciplined” enough as a writer, that real writers surely plotted out every detail then executed a beautifully polished draft the first time through. But the more I write, the more I realize: the mess is the process. The first draft is me finding out what I don’t want to write just as much as what I do.

And honestly, I’ve learned to love that chaos. It feels a little like excavation. I start digging because I think there’s something shiny just beneath the surface. Then halfway through, I realize the thing I unearthed isn’t shiny at all—it’s dirt-caked and jagged and kind of strange. But I keep digging, brushing away the rough edges, and sometimes I find something unexpected and amazing and perfect. Something better than what I thought I was looking for.

The relief for me is that I no longer expect my first draft to be recognizable. It’s clay slapped onto the table, not the finished sculpture. It’s scribbled notes in the margins, not the polished essay. If I demanded perfection on the first pass, I’d never make it past page one.

So no, my first drafts look nothing like the final story. And that’s the beauty of it. Every time I return to the piece, I’m a little surprised at what the story has become—how much it has changed, how much I’ve changed alongside it. Maybe that’s what keeps me writing: the act of watching something transform, knowing it wouldn’t exist at all if I hadn’t been willing to start with the mess.