First Drafts
When Jesus was here on earth, he used stories to help us understand God’s kingdom. And today, we can still use stories as we understand our reality, as we interact with this kingdom that is both already and not yet.
Sometimes trusting God with our stories is the most difficult work we can do. I shy away from conflict, so dealing with my problems and processing through how I’m feeling gets put on the back burner. It’s easy to float through life—right until it isn't. Eventually, the metaphorical deadlines creep up and I have to turn something in. I want to give God the best version of myself, but that’s not what grace asks for.
“Books have to be heavy because the whole world's inside them.” —Cornelia Funke
I stare down at my life’s work laying on the table, and I’m going over all the possible reasons. Maybe if I had cut chapter 14, they would like the book more. Maybe if I hadn’t used so many sappy similes, they would keep reading. If they would just keep reading, I know they’d like the ending. Maybe.
Or maybe they just don’t. Maybe it’s just not good enough. Maybe it really is me and not each countless publisher that’s abandoned the story before giving it a real chance.
Maybe I don’t deserve a real chance.
With each return, I find more damage. The scratches on the cover and cracks in the spine are all too familiar, but I run my fingers along them as I open the book, remembering what it was like to first discover how carelessly it was treated.
This time, the damage is not as obvious. But I eventually find it—the corners of some pages have been folded over. One should never do this to books; it hurts them. I am livid, but it’s a sleepy anger because I am shocked but not surprised. What were they marking or wanting to remember? Were these the pages they liked? The pages with the most mistakes?
I look closer, and I realize it’s the pages I keep coming back to over and over again, constantly overthinking. These are the pages I read and doubt my own prowess as an author. These are the ones I know don’t measure up to the books that get published. I leave the corners folded. I don’t want to, but I do anyway.
They marked the pages. They poured over the words, and they still gave up on it.
I know there is a book Collector downtown that is known for not returning stories. I’ve heard many tales and even know people whose books he’s kept. What joy that must be. I could give mine to him too, but how can I trust that it will be the same for me? Everyone else gives my book back, so what makes him any different?
He’s even reached out to me, offered to help me change my story. He said that he’d keep it safe in his library. But what if I don’t like the changes he wants to make?
I grab my red pen and start working on this round of revisions right away. Whichever publisher gets my book next will absolutely get its best version. I pour over the marked pages—again. Why can I never get these right? Why do people have to point this out? I should just be able to figure this out on my own. Why am I so clueless with this?
Maybe I do need help.
Nope. If I keep working at this, if I keep changing my story, maybe people will like it better. Sure, it won’t be true to what really happened, but a writer is allowed to take artistic liberties, right? I have to please the readers. That’s what matters.
I cut chapter 14—it totally never happened.
I think what kills me is that I know. I know I need to give my story to the Collector. I know that most, if not all, of my questions will be answered and my story will finally be kept and safe. But I’m afraid.
Why am I so afraid?
“Welcome.” His voice comes from an indistinct location, echoing off the many bookshelves. Some shelves look ancient, dusty, and heavy and are filled with long stories. Others smell of fresh wood and boast of new releases. How did I get here?
“I need help!” I hear my voice leave my throat. I don’t know why.
I step toward the maze of bookshelves and run my fingertips along the many spines lined up on each shelf. These spines are also cracked like mine, but I don’t get the sense that they’re damaged. Instead, these books seem to be well-loved.
“Welcome,” he says again as I round the corner, his kind face finally coming into view.
“Would you help me with my story?” I hold my book out to him and look at my feet, suddenly ashamed I didn’t come to him sooner.
Doesn’t matter. I’m where I need to be. I can tell there is a place for my story in his library.
“Actually, I can’t take that,” he says.
I look up, stunned. I knew it. I just knew it. What’s the point? I turn around—I can’t say anything more to him. The anger building up inside me is the realest I’ve felt in a while. The tears begin to sting.
“I want your first draft.”
I feel the breath catch in my throat.
“No revisions, no edits, just the story you wrote first.”
I stop and turn—hopeful.
Lauren Margheim is the content coordinator here at Summit. Basically that just means she writes or edits all the words. She loves coffee, Disney, science fiction, and writing in third person. You can email her your Star Wars theories, any coffee shop recommendations, or if you’re interested in writing with our volunteer team.