Ever hear the saying that there’s only two types of writers: gardeners (the nurturing) and architects (the planners)?

Well, it’s BULLSHIT. Know what that is? Archaeologist erasure and I’m. Not. Having it. Of course there’s not only those three either, I’m sure; somewhere out there, there’s a deep-sea diver and a space explorer and a hobo type of writer. But me, myself, I am an archaeologist.

“Beautiful and wise Robyn,” you say to your screen, hands clasped between your breasts, “whatever do you mean by that? What does archaeology have to do with writing?”

Why, I’ll tell you, my needy reader!

First off, we’re gonna use my current project as an example. I just wrote a first draft of a manuscript (no, please, you don’t have to throw your underwear at me) and I’m in the resting phase before I move on to the second draft. But in the first draft, as an archaeologist, what did I do? How did I approach it? We all know first drafts are a mad word vomit, a blueprint, a layout, nothing fit for other human eyes to witness. But when I come to it, it’s a constant dig. Not always down, sometimes out, sideways. There’s something there, I know it. Something hard and strange under the shifting sands. A first draft is me coming by with a giant leafblower and sending the dust away so that I can see the bony ridges rising up.

When writing, often people will get stuck on revising chapter by chapter or bit by bit, knowing that whatever they wrote just now won’t make it to the final draft. Okay, who cares? Who are you showing this to? Nobody, right? If I think a subplot that started in chapter two has hit a dead end by chapter five, I drop it. Just stop writing it. Obviously, that bone has chipped off and is lost, or the rib ends there. Keep it moving.

It’s feeling the creature out. Following lines. One of my favorite things to do is, if I encounter something that I didn’t start digging up earlier but obviously is too good to pass up, I just write it like I’ve been developing it the whole time. Again: who cares? The first draft is supposed to look like a half-unearthed dinosaur. It’s not supposed to be pretty, it’s supposed to tell the writer WHERE things are.

Here’s a good tip, as well, and this does have to do with being an architect instead:

• Build rooms! When you start writing your world, hint at stuff, give people things, give people too many things even. Set up a big important place. And then never go there, if you don’t need to. The point of this is to have recourse later on in the story and to encourage recursion. Having the characters relying on someone, something, somewhere that was set up and developed before will save you in a pinch and if you don’t use it, on your second draft, cut that shit. The first draft exists for you!

And finally, I don’t write the ending in the first draft. The last twenty/thirty pages? Nope. I just stop there and call it a draft, because what’s the point? When I go through the next time, the ending will probably change so dramatically that I’d have to rewrite it bottom up anyway.

Okay, so now your first draft is done. Time to wallow in should-haves, could-haves. This is great! You have the opportunity to get your ass in there and bridge things that are gaped, fill in those ghastly plot holes, explain why Mickey keeps stealing Patty’s panties and how he gets in her room. People tend to look at the second draft like it’s this horror coming for them, but it’s your salvation. You’ve got to look at it like learning from your mistakes.

More on my archaeologist ways after I finish the second draft. Keep digging, friends!