First drafts are like bad one-night stands. Fast, messy, and often disappointing. They’re the foreplay to what we really came (wink) here for: the rewrite.
That‘s where the magic happens.
I’ve never trusted a clean first draft. If it comes too easy, I start asking questions. Where’s the tension? The bite? The sweet ache of tearing it apart just to stitch it back together? Drafting is cute. But revising? That’s dirty work. And I like getting my hands dirty.
First drafts are just the tease
First drafts are like that wide-eyed, eager-to-please ex who kept asking “Is this okay?” It’s trying its best — bless its heart — but it’s not the one.
That first version of a sentence, a scene, the whole thing is pure vanilla. No spice, no edge, not even bite marks. It’s only once you’ve looked it in the eye and said, “You can do better,” that things start getting interesting.
The rewrite is where I become a dominatrix
Rewriting is not for the faint of heart. You have to be a little cruel, even to yourself. You have to know when to cut what you loved, when to tighten what’s loose, and when to slap a paragraph ’till it’s red and can’t sit down for a few hours.
Some days I feel like cracking the whip on my draft until it begs to be rewritten. Other days, I’m on my knees begging the story to cooperate. It’s a power exchange, baby.
A sweet spot between pain and pleasure
There’s a moment, somewhere between draft four and six, where it stops hurting and starts feeling so good. The sentences start to smile. The plot tightens like a corset (and another canal I know). The dialogue bites.
You realize you’ve taken something flaccid and made it throb with life. That’s not just editing. That’s art. And other things. Isn’t that the ultimate kink?
Tense play turns me on
I’ve been writing Hel on Earth for who knows how long — it’s the fiery, filthy continuation to “Ravishing Disaster” from Miniature Novels I — in past tense originally. And for a while, it worked. It had that classic, cinematic vibe that I was going for.
But something was missing. The candle wax wasn’t burning my chest enough. It felt… remembered instead of lived. And if I’m going to write about someone unraveling in real time, I want the language to sting like a slap.
So I did the unthinkable.
I rewrote the whole fucking thing. In present tense.
Line by line. Scene by scene. I ripped the verbs out of their cozy little past-tense beds and dragged them screaming into the now. Because Hel on Earth isn’t supposed to feel like a bedtime story. It’s a descent.
And, trust me, you want to be there as it’s happening. Hopefully soon. Maybe.
Why I keep coming back for more like a desperate ex who hasn’t had a proper orgasm in months
I don’t write because it’s easy. I write because I’m obsessed with transformation.
I love the idea of wrestling with language, pinning it down, and maybe even choking it a little. There’s a beauty in falling in love with the same idea all over again.
I’ve accepted that the first draft is foreplay. And the real fun starts with a red pen.
So go ahead, get rough with your work. Rewrite it. And again. And again until it feels orgasmic. You’ll know you’ve got it right when it leaves you breathless. Maybe even after a couple of rounds.
— Montse
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