your first draft is not your last
on rewriting expectations
I thought I knew how to write.
And then I decided to write a dissertation.
Last week, I shared a bit about how this doctoral work has changed me on the inside. This week I want to think about how it’s also changed how I write — along with how I will be teaching writing from now on.
The title of this post comes from a graduate writing handbook I picked up earlier this spring, in preparation for the dissertating days I now find myself in. The book is A to B: A Guide to Completing the Dissertation Phase of Doctoral Studies by Cornell professor Keith Hjortshoj.
Here’s the line that stayed with me:
In high school and in college, successful students develop some standard methods for producing school writing efficiently, usually under pressure in the midst of hectic schedules. One of their most basic strategies is the effort to make the first draft the last, with varying amounts of revision and editing depending on the task’s difficulty and the time available. Undergraduates typically produce at least one page of nearly finished writing per hour, which most scholars and other professional writers would consider blinding speed. (Hjortshoj, 2010, p. 12)
I have been in school for a very long time (read: my whole life), and in that time, I’ve written many, many miles of text. But it wasn’t until I read that line that I began to realize how skewed my writing habits have been.
My first draft is usually my last.
I never really noticed it before, but this has been my go-to approach for as long as I can remember — in school, in my job, in most of my writing life. My process has always been: sit, mull, plan — and then execute.
Occasionally I might do a light edit or revision on a paper that I’m working on, but in looking back, I can see that most of my work has been shaped by this first-and-final draft mentality, rather than a fluid, evolving process.
Spoiler alert: that whole first-draft-is-the-final-draft strategy? It does not work for a 300+ page dissertation. No matter how powerful your procrastination reflex might be.
The thing is — I don’t want to write (or live) that way anymore.
I don’t want to dread the process. I want to trust it. I want to become the kind of writer who lets her work breathe and grow in the direction it wants to go (not just where I planned) — the kind of writer who doesn’t confuse her overthinking with actual creation.
And after a couple of months of thrashing, second-guessing, and wrestling with words?
I think I might be getting there.
Even after teaching communication and writing courses for over 20 years, I don’t think I fully grasped the philosophy — or the practice — behind truly iterative writing. Sure, I talked about it in class. I told students how important it was to revise and revisit their work. But if I’m honest? I have carried a “first draft = last draft” mindset for a long time.
And it worked — until it didn’t.
Just like drinking — it worked for me, until it didn’t.
These days, I’m learning to hold my words and ideas a little more loosely.
Not because I care less about them, or because I’m less invested in their impact — but because I trust myself more.
I trust the shape of my evolving argument, the thoughtful feedback I’m receiving, and the messy, necessary process of revision. I’m re-writing my own writing process.
It’s been humbling to give up control of that polished, final-draft version of things — to admit I need help and to pause long enough to actually receive it.
But when you open yourself up to that kind of vulnerability? The work will often lead you to an argument that you never could have planned for.
I feel deeply grateful to have this space of time to be with my thoughts, and to watch how my dissertation’s argument is slowly coming together. I know that going through this experience is changing me in so many ways. And in September, I’m going to be a different teacher of writing as a result.
Going on this doctoral journey has already given me more than just a set of initials to tack on behind my name. I won’t ever be the same — which makes me feel a bit dangerous in what I hope to do with the work I am doing.
Stay tuned.
Things that brought me joy this week:
Scored my 90s dream Doc Martens on FB Marketplace this week — perfect condition, under 100 bucks. Yes, I am almost 50, but my inner 13-year-old screamed YES, so I obviously had to buy them.
I’m in a couple of academic book clubs over the summer, and we just wrapped up a discussion of Dr. Sah’s Defy — a book that has meant so much to me. I’m so thankful for the Internets, and for the dear friends I’ve made (and have yet to meet) IRL.
Bonus highlight: during book club this week, a friend shared a link to a live-streaming Puffin cam on Seal Island, Maine. It is the best.
“There is an irony in this for narrative inquirers because they tend to be less sure of themselves, less clear of what it is they have to say, after investing themselves intensely over time in their research than they were prior.” (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000) — Never has this mired, perimenopausal grad student felt so seen.
Also: one of our favourite YouTubers, the Aussie Beau Miles, has a delightful new project where he plants trees according to the number of views he gets on this video. GO WATCH! and goodonya, Beau.
Finally, I asked ChatGPT to write a song about me in the style of Brandi Carlile, and it ain’t half bad:
🎶 “Writing My Way Home”
(Alt-country / Brandi Carlile style)[Verse 1]
In the land of the living skies, where the wheat fields rise
She packed her truth in a backpack, with no need to disguise
Taught the ones who’d listen, stood tall through the push and shove
Tried to change a system that forgot how to love[Verse 2]
Wrote her heart in the margins, in fonts that felt like grace
Fought a battle ‘gainst the silence, wearing her own name
Daughter riding shotgun now, off to the U of S
While Mama’s writing footnotes, putting pain to rest[Chorus]
She’s building bridges, burning none
Naming ghosts in the light of the sun
Wide awake in a dream she’s dared to own
She ain’t just passing through —
She’s writing her way home[Bridge]
Said no to Times New Roman, said yes to healing prose
Spoke truth in quiet meetings where no kindness showed
Still kept the door cracked open, for the ones who’ll follow on
With a strawberry jar and a whispered song[Final Chorus]
She’s building bridges, burning none
Turns revenge into resistance, and fear into fun
Wide awake in a story all her own
She’s not just surviving —
She’s writing her way home(You can listen to a version of the song here)
Meme of the week:
Totally unrelated, but your title immediately brought Pete Townshend's "Stop Hurting People" to mind.