Muse vs. Editor: Writing a First Draft

By Margaret Lucke

“Whee! Look at these! So pretty. So wise.”

My Muse is flinging words and ideas at what a moment ago was a blank page, while I scramble to get them down. She’s as happy as a toddler in a mud puddle, and about as disciplined. I can’t wait to see what she’s going to come up with. I’m starting a new story, and I know my best course of action is to let myself simply follow her lead.

“Hey, you two. What’s going on here?” Uh-oh. My Editor has arrived and is peering over my shoulder at the screen. “You want to say that? Really? Are you sure?”

I reread the freshly written paragraph. A moment ago it seemed just right, but suddenly I’m having second thoughts. “I don’t know. It sounds pretty good to me.”

The Editor harrumphs and shakes her head, as if pitying me for having such faulty discernment.

“Go away,” the Muse demands. “You don’t belong here. I’m in charge of the first draft.” She splashes the Editor with muddy water. Drops land on the pristine page, making it look smeared and dirty. I frown. Maybe what I put down isn’t so wonderful after all.

The Editor leans in closer, jabbing her finger at the screen as she tries to confirm my misgivings. “Look. That word’s misspelled. And you left out a comma.”

“Little stuff,” the Muse sniffs. “Mere tweaks. Come back when we’re finished being brilliant and creative.”

“Just trying to help,” the Editor retorts. “While I’m at it, let me point out that there’s no way Lucy would sneak out of the house on the night of the murder. Totally out of character.”

The Muse claps her hands over my ears. “Don’t listen! Make her go away.”

I pull myself free. “Listen, you two. Play nice. The Muse is right, it’s her turn. The first draft is all about letting her run wild while we get to know the characters and figure out what the story is.”

“Ha! Told you.” The Muse gives the editor a raspberry.

“Not fair.” The Editor slinks into the corner to sulk. “No one gets how important I am. See if I ever come back.”

I sigh. This is like refereeing a fight between kindergartners.

“Of course you’ll come back,” I say in my most placating voice. It’s true that the Editor needs to leave now, but I don’t want to alienate her forever. “When it’s time for the second draft, you and the Muse will collaborate. I’ll need both her art and your craft.”

“Probably won’t be worth my effort,” she grumbles. “What you’ve got so far is garbage.”

The Muse rolls her eyes. “Of course it is. The first draft is supposed to be garbage.”

“You can fix it,” I promise the Editor. “In the second draft, maybe the third one, too. And the final one—that’s all yours. You can change words and fix punctuation to your heart’s content.”

I wonder what the Muse will say to that, but her attention has wandered. She’s capricious and whimsical, and it’s not easy to keep her focused. Right now she’s amusing herself by slapping bits of mud together into a castle.

There’s a long moment of silence as the Editor watches the construction project. Finally she says, “That’s the poorest excuse for a horse I’ve ever seen. I can tell that making sense out of this story is going to be a huge job. You have my number. Call me when you’re ready.”

She leaves my office, but I know she won’t wait for the call. She’ll be back tomorrow. She can’t resist trying to interfere in the first draft.

I turn back to my keyboard. “Okay, Muse, let’s get back to work. Where were we?”

My Muse stands up and wipes her muddy hands on my sleeve. “Oh, I’m done for today. Do we have any ice cream?”