Everything created is the last failure in a series of failures. We cannot write a report, a proposal, a brief, a letter, even a wedding announcement, without failing along the way. It’s the process itself. Michelangelo failed and refined, failed and refined, as he created David; so it should work for us. It’s not supposed to be good the first time. Or the second. Or the third. Acknowledging this frees us to fail, which we will, as we sail with the Muse toward a fine document. If we could get Michelangelo over to the house for dinner, I'm certain he would say he was never quite satisfied with one of the fingernails on that right hand.

Back at the keyboard, in the middle of all that whiteness, the Cursor is throbbing to the beat of my heart. I can almost hear it. What do I do?

First: Hide the research. I need to know what I'm talking about, but I write my early drafts from memory. Everything I need to know is all there in my Right Brain.

Next: Converse. I imagine a dialogue between myself and a real person--friend/spouse/client/boss--in a real setting--office/home/kayak/over a glass of wine. That person has just said to me, “So, tell me about this idea/case/deal/problem.” Am I going to walk away? Look out the window? Stare at my friend/spouse/client/boss? Or am I going to say something? Lights! Camera! My alter ego waits, fingers poised--Tom Wolfe in the white suit at the cocktail party--to record everything I say! It will not be organized! It will not be good! It will not be pretty! It’s not supposed to be! It’s the first failure along the way! Action!

Remember: Don’t stop writing. No matter what pops into my Right Brain, it goes down on paper. I do not pause, do not look up, do not question. Hollywood says every movie is allowed one suspension of disbelief; here’s the one in this movie: In the early stages, it is far more important that I write, than it is what I write. Please trust me. If I do not stop, the momentum alone will carry me in and out of brilliant and not-so-brilliant insights. I just get black on white. Later, I will toss the not-so-brilliant stuff. How do I know I'm finished with the first draft? The Right Brain tells me; it slows down, like popping popcorn, in about four minutes.

But will I meet my deadline? Will it be good? Will the Right Brain ever speak to the Left Brain again? And just who’s going to clean up this mess? Stay tuned next week for Draft II – Return of the Curse.

Everything created is the last failure in a series of failures. We cannot write a report, a proposal, a brief, a letter, even a wedding announcement, without failing along the way. It’s the process itself. Michelangelo failed and refined, failed and refined, as he created David; so it should work for us. It’s not supposed to be good the first time. Or the second. Or the third. Acknowledging this frees us to fail, which we will, as we sail with the Muse toward a fine document. If we could get Michelangelo over to the house for dinner, I'm certain he would say he was never quite satisfied with one of the fingernails on that right hand.

Back at the keyboard, in the middle of all that whiteness, the Cursor is throbbing to the beat of my heart. I can almost hear it. What do I do?

First: Hide the research. I need to know what I'm talking about, but I write my early drafts from memory. Everything I need to know is all there in my Right Brain.

Next: Converse. I imagine a dialogue between myself and a real person--friend/spouse/client/boss--in a real setting--office/home/kayak/over a glass of wine. That person has just said to me, “So, tell me about this idea/case/deal/problem.” Am I going to walk away? Look out the window? Stare at my friend/spouse/client/boss? Or am I going to say something? Lights! Camera! My alter ego waits, fingers poised--Tom Wolfe in the white suit at the cocktail party--to record everything I say! It will not be organized! It will not be good! It will not be pretty! It’s not supposed to be! It’s the first failure along the way! Action!

Remember: Don’t stop writing. No matter what pops into my Right Brain, it goes down on paper. I do not pause, do not look up, do not question. Hollywood says every movie is allowed one suspension of disbelief; here’s the one in this movie: In the early stages, it is far more important that I write, than it is what I write. Please trust me. If I do not stop, the momentum alone will carry me in and out of brilliant and not-so-brilliant insights. I just get black on white. Later, I will toss the not-so-brilliant stuff. How do I know I'm finished with the first draft? The Right Brain tells me; it slows down, like popping popcorn, in about four minutes.

But will I meet my deadline? Will it be good? Will the Right Brain ever speak to the Left Brain again? And just who’s going to clean up this mess? Stay tuned next week for Draft II – Return of the Curse.