My first draft is just me chucking my story down—like a toddler with a new paint set. Everywhere. On everything. And then proudly presenting it like it’s a masterpiece by Mark Rothko. Nope. Sorry. It’s just a bunch of words that begin to tell a story.  And that’s not nothing. It’s hard to get a beginning, middle, and end on paper. So, if you’ve completed the first draft of your manuscript –  take the win. Pat yourself on the back. Go out for a drink or an ice cream cone, whatever floats your boat. And then get back to work. The first draft is just the beginning.

But oh, then comes the second draft, which I lovingly refer to as the “What Was I Even Thinking” phase. You’d be surprised at how much of my initial brilliance I tossed out during this time. Oh, those darling plot points that seemed so pivotal. Gone. That character who had a full arc and backstory? Deleted because, frankly, they were as exciting as beige wallpaper. By the end of this massacre, err, I mean “revision,” I at least have a semblance of where my story and characters are headed. And by “semblance,” I mean I’m only 40% lost as opposed to 95%.

Now that the big stuff is sorted, it’s all about revising. And revising. And, oh, did I mention revising? Because, in case no one’s whispered it into your ear, writing is basically 10% actual writing and 90% revising. (Don’t quote me on the math.)

Enter the heroes of our story: “Seven Drafts: Self Edit Like a Pro” by Allison Williams and “Manuscript Makeover” by Elizabeth Lyon. These aren’t just books; they’re lifeboats in the tempestuous sea of revision. If the first draft is the act of a toddler with paint, these books are the equivalent of giving that toddler some direction, structure, and maybe a paint-by-number guide. In short, they’re lifesavers every author should clutch as they navigate the stormy waters of revision.

Do I always get it right after seven drafts? Ha! Cute thought. But at least by then, I have something more than word soup and toddler-like chaos.

Embrace the chaos, then clean it up. And for the love of all things literary, get those books. Your manuscript will thank you.

And remember: every great work of art starts as a hot mess. But with the right tools and maybe seven (or seventy) drafts, we can all achieve literary greatness. Happy revising!

Whether you fall ten times, five times, or once on your chosen journey, each time will be a learning experience. I like to refer to those moments as ‘school fees.’ You put one step in front of the other, and each time you go down, you come back up, understanding something you didn’t know before.

In my journey to publication, I learned too many things to fit into a blog. But if I were forced to pick one thing, it would be the art of persistence. Learn it. Use it. Learn it again.

Persistence is what you need when you get to the end of your first draft and realize your plot is so full of holes you could drive an army of Mac Trucks through your story.

Persistence is what you need when the brilliant idea you had two months ago has lost its luster, and you want to quit because it’s difficult to put any words on the page.

Persistence is what you need when you have to tear your manuscript apart for the third time to make it coherent.

Persistence is what you need when your editor sends back more edits than there are pages in your manuscript.

And you’ll need an unrelenting push-through to run the gauntlet of the query process and get your manuscript sold.

But like the sun will shine tomorrow, if you persist, it will pay off.

I know because it did for me.

The advantage of getting up and writing at 5 a.m. is that no one else is awake. It’s just me, the blank page, and the keyboard. Even the neighborhood deer are asleep.

Waking before the sun motivates me to get words on the page. I mean, if I’m going to get up before a crack of daylight peeks over the horizon, I sure as hell ain’t gonna mess around scrolling through social media looking at other people’s posts telling me how great they’re doing.

So, in the inimitable words of Nora Roberts – and I quote:

“Stop making excuses and write.”

“Stop whining and write.”

“Stop fucking around and write.”

Whether it’s scrolling through Goodreads, perusing the stacks on the tables at Barnes and Nobles on east 18^thStreet in Manhattan, or trolling the shelves at my local library – books are a common theme in my life.

Finding the next one to read, or the ‘hunt’ as I like to call it, is just as rewarding as the act of reading the book.

Here are a few that got my attention in 2022

Lessons In Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus
A searing commentary on the treatment of women in the 1960s, featuring a smart, stop-at-nothing protagonist. All written in a refreshing voice.

The Dead Romantics by Ashley Poston
Who doesn’t love a love story with a little bit of magic realism? All the elements of a romance, and then some.

Here for the Drama by Kate Bromley
Loved the writing in this delightful rom-com. The images unfold like you’re watching a movie.

Out of the Clear Blue Sky by Kristan Higgins
I’m a fan of this author – but I think this is her best to date. The protagonist’s journey is funny, poignant, and in the end, everything you hope for.

The Bodyguard by Katherine Center
Another go-to author. A rom-com with a heart and twisty ending, and a big satisfied sigh when you close the back cover.

The Summer Seekers by Sarah Morgan
I loved this story. A mother and daughter on different paths find a way to each other. Each learning something. I cried, and I enjoyed every single page.

The first time they rehearsed the kiss, his soul eased, as if it had found its other half. 

“You ready? It’s nearly 6:30. Get a move on.” Janine  steps into my office, bouncing on the balls of her feet, gym bag slung over her shoulder.

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Just give me two minutes,” I say, without looking up from my computer screen.

“Make it fast, your two minutes is more like twenty.”

“If you shut up, I’ll get this last sentence done.” Two seconds later I hit send. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“Marlene, over in HR said it was a total blast,” Janine says.

“Oh, well now that’s a ringing endorsement. Marlene has no life, anything would be a blast for her.” I shut my computer down and reach under my desk hauling out my gym bag.”

“Don’t be cruel.” Janine grabs my arm, ushering me out of my office. “Did you remember to bring your swimming costume?”

“Yes, I have my bathing suit,” I say, emphasizing the words in an effort to remind Janine that as cute as her British accent is the only time Americans wear a costume is on Halloween. “But just so we’re clear,” I continue, “the idea of a spin class under water strikes me as a little unsanitary.”

“Unsanitary? How so?” Janine asks.

” I just think public pools in general lack the necessary amount of chlorine to kill the kind of germs they’re up against. I mean just think about it, a bunch of people in the water, pedaling hard, on heavy machinery, and sweating their brains out. It’s a little gross if you ask me.”

Janine tugs me toward the elevators. “We’re going to have fun. Trust me.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said last week about the meditative yoga class. There wasn’t anything calming about twisting into a pretzel and practically pulling my shoulder out of its socket.”

“Okay, so that may not have been the best choice.”

I scoff.

“No wait a minute.” Janine punches the elevator but with her palm. “I have a strong feeling about this. I think this is going to do the trick and you’re going to sleep like a baby tonight.”

“Why do I not believe you?”

“Because you’re jaded, and a little lazy,” Janine says, never one to mince words.

“I’m not lazy.”

“Oh please. You’re a cliché. Your idea of exercise is shoveling a spoon full of ice cream into your mouth.”

“It works the biceps,” I say.

Janine rolls her eyes.“Every cloud has a silver lining.”

“That’s a non-sequitur,” I say.

“Not really. What I mean is, in five years I haven’t once been able to get you to take an exercise class of any kind. But in the last two months, since you’ve starting having those awful dreams, well…look, we’ve gone to…” Janine counts silently, “ten different classes.”

“Exactly, and none have worked,” I say, with a little triumph in my voice, although I don’t know why. She’s only trying to help and I love her for it.

Janine picks up the pace as we step out onto the street and head toward Central Park West where the class is being held. “I refuse to give up. I just want to help. I hate seeing you so miserable.”

“I know. I know, and I really don’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s just that I’m not feeling very hopeful,” I say, breathing heavily because Janine is practically race walking.

“Come on, hurry it up, we still need to register before the class starts, they won’t let us in if we’re late.”

I can no longer speak as we are now jogging in earnest while holding my purse and my gym bag. It’s a workout and I’m not sure I’ll have anything left once we hit the pool.

When we finally arrive to 60^th Street and Central Park West, we take the elevator to the roof. The ascent is silent and the doors slide open to a stylish, gleaming white reception area. Suddenly, I’m not nearly as skeeved out as I thought I would be.

As we complete the registration form that clearly indicates we are responsible for our own deaths should we over exert ourselves, a perky young woman, who looks like she eats lettuce for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, bounces over, pony tail swinging.

“Hi, I’m Crystal. Ready?”

We both nod, and I find myself staring at her enormous smile wondering how she gets her teeth so white.

“Great, I’ll show you to the lockers.” She gives us quick instructions on how to work the locker combinations and the importance of taking a shower before entering the pool. With that last instruction, I forgive her bouncy, too energetic style, and I no longer what to lift her up and throw her into the used towel bin. Clearly, she understands the importance of hygiene.

“If you need anything, just pick up that phone on the wall and dial zero,” Miss Energetic Perky says.

Janine and I smile and nod.

“Well, this is awfully chic. Will you look at the towels, they’re like fluffy cotton balls. The expensive kind,” Janine says.

Yes, the locker room looks clean and modern with its blonde wood benches and matching lockers. There’s a wall of sinks, with every kind of designer soap, shampoo, and lotion you could want. There’s even a row of blow dryers and hair spray. “They make it convenient, I’ll give them that,” I say.

It doesn’t appear to be crowded, there’s only one other woman in the locker room, and she looks as if she’s spent the last ten years sucked into the grooves of her couch while eating copious amounts of over processed snacks. I should talk, as I struggle out of my girdle.

Once I release my flesh from the spandex holding it in, it’s evident that I’m not exactly guiltless. All those weekends lounging around, eating double chocolate chocolate chip and watching movies. I’m disgusted with myself for not being disciplined. Maybe this exercise thing, if it doesn’t rid me of my bad dreams, will aid me in the battle for a waistline.

“You ready?” Janine asks.

She’s wearing a red two piece, and it’s evident she’s not been spending her time stuffing her face with cheetos. But with all the baggy clothes she wears, you’d never know that underneath is one helluva body. I mean I’d date her. Her arms are toned, but not too chiseled. Her abs are ironing board flat. Her thighs, hamstrings and calves are muscular, but not like a body builder, just like someone who takes care of herself.

“Wow, Janine, you look amazing.”

She blushes and looks down at her body. “I like to work out. Helps get rid of stress.”

We take a quick shower and make our way to the pool area. Instantly I see why the locker room was so empty. There are about fifty bikes in the water, nearly all filled with what looks like people in a race, because they’re pedaling like mad.

“Has the class started already?” I ask Janine as we hang our towels on a hook and slip out of our flip flops.

“No, it looks as if they’re just warming up.”

“That looks like more than just a warm up. That looks serious,” And I point to one guy whose veins are bulging at his temples, “he must be going at least forty miles an hour.”

Janine just shrugs and jumps in the pool making her way over to an empty bike.

With that single leap into the pool, I admire her fearlessness. I’m not the kind of person who can tolerate extreme temperature shock.

Walking over to the step ladder, I begin to slowly lower myself inch by inch. My ankles are fully submerged when I hear a loud shrill whistle and the sound of thumping bass.

I look up and see our instructor jump into the pool and swim toward the lone bike facing us.

“Woo Hoo! Are you ready to take it to the max!” says the overzealous voice of our incredibly energetic and super toned instructor. As she gets ready to mount her bike, she fastens on her head set. We now hear her encouraging words coming through the loud speakers mounted on the front corners of the room, the sound amplified in the Olympic size pool area.

My shoulders tense and I silently wish I’d brought a pair of ear plugs. It all seems too loud, too in your face.

Janine gets my attention and motions me over mouthing the words, hurry up. Not wanting to be the straggler that interferes with other riders, I jump in. I shout out a curse as the cold water makes contact with my entire body. With the music now up to full throttle, I have no choice but to swim over and take the bike next to Janine.

The other riders give me a look as Janine screams over the music giving me instructions on how to adjust my bike.

When I situate myself as best as I can, I begin pedaling. It’s slow going and I’m surprised at the amount of friction the water offers. I feel as if I’m stuck in a jar of molasses and I’m pushing the entire weight of my body, all one-hundred-and-fifty- five pounds of me up a hill with a lead weight on my back.

I manage to look around and I find the other riders actually look as if they’re having fun. Seriously, they make it look easy. But, I can assure you this is so far from fun that I feel tears spring to my eyes. My heart feels as if it will explode, my thighs are on burning as if someone were holding a blow torch to them –  and this is just the freaking warm up.

I wonder what in the world I’ve gotten myself into, and how do I get out of this self-inflicted agony?

Looking at the overhead clock I can see three whole minutes have passed. The over enthusiastic instructor raises her voice yet another octave, “Okay, second position, one, two, one, two…”

As I gasp for breath, a vision streaks across my minds, of ripping the mic off her head and telling her to shut up.

Judy Berman’s article from Flavorwire, “Why is Indie Film Dying While Indie Music Thrives?” has, to say the least, stirred some argument, such as Filmmaker Magazine‘s Scott Macaulay in his response “How Cool is Indie Film?” and all over the Twitterverse.

I don’t think “indie” film is dying at all.  I think it’s being reshaped – the very definition of “indie” is undergoing transformation in that there really is no single definition.  Everyone has their own.   “Indie” film has a bright future, but I think one thing needs to happen before that future can be bright – the abandonment of the term in all creative fields.

For many, “indie” is used as a badge of honor, “I’m an independent artist…” or a crutch, “I can’t get the money because I’m an indie.”  The term “indie” is  utilized and defined in so many ways that it’s lost all meaning.  There’s a stigma to it, there’s a badge of honor.  “Indie” is controversial. “Indie” is better.  “Indie” is worse.  “Indie” is quirky.  “Indie” is hard core.  “Indie” is real.  “Indie” is a stepping stone.  And worst of all – “Indie” is an excuse.

That’s just a small smattering of how “indie” is used across all forms of art, criticism, study, and pop culture (another term that should be abandoned).  There’s no single definition, and that deadens the creative title we creatives work so hard at mastering.

Filmmaker.  Photographer. Comic Book Creator.  Writer.  Musician.  Add “indie” to that and see what connotations arise – both good and bad.

In Michael Chabon’s wonderful book of non-fiction essays, Maps and Legends: Reading and Writing Along the Borderlands, he writes “I read for entertainment, and I write to entertain.  Period.”  Entertainment is entertainment, and in spite of what we may think, we’re here to entertain, to illuminate, and to please ourselves and hopefully an audience, because unless we do that – there’s no “next project.”

Why do we have to be “indie?”  Can’t we just be filmmakers? Authors? Musicians?  I don’t care about being cool.  I care about being good, always improving, and entertaining.

Last week, I wrote on this site, the wall between audience and creator is gone, and as that wall goes down, “indie” and “studio” or “mass produced” blur together.  People want to be entertained, and we need to be there to do it for them.  Once we stop, then not just “indie” film or “indie” music will die – but entertainment as a whole.

Stop labeling.  Stop excusing.  Make content.  Deliver.  Entertain.  The how and means to which you get there are immaterial (studio, independent funding – oops, there’s another one).  What matters is HOW you entertain.  That’s your voice.

Entertainment is entertainment.  Who cares where it comes from?  Just be sure you’re the one entertaining and that you do so with a voice.  That’s true independence, and the only kind that matters.

And as long as people have a brain and a creative streak, it’s not going anywhere.

And yes.  I’m going to practice what I preach and make a conscious effort to remove the prefices “indie” and “independent” from my Filmmaker credit.  I am what I am.

Tyler Weaver is an independent filmmaker and unrelenting multi-hyphenate, a regular contributor to the pulptone.com website, and is the founder and EIC of Multi-Hyphenate… which you’re reading right now. He’s currently making new things…