The Life Cycle of a Rough Draft

By Maria Farb


When I've typed the last word of the final chapter, revised, edited, and can't bear to stare at the screen another moment, I print out the manuscript. Weeks later, with a marked up, scribbled on stack of papers, I type my changes back into the computer manuscript.

Then I drop the obsolete rough draft onto the scratch paper pile. Two-hundred-plus pages, storied on front and blank on the back, each ready for the next stage in its life.

To what destiny?

Some draft pages are chosen by my fourteen-year-old prodigy artist. She started drawing people at age two and hasn't stopped since. Every scrap of paper, edges of spelling lists, and end pages of books she owns are covered in people, creatures, and scenes. As soon as she's done eating, she grabs a paper from the scratch pile, a pen or a brush, and draws while carrying on dinner conversation with the rest of us. As we watch lines take life, the conversation pauses. She shrugs at our comments, finishes the drawing and tucks it back into the scratch paper pile. She's created for the joy, not the keeping.

Sometimes I rescue the drawing to tuck into a portfolio. But often the papers continue onto their next stage. My ten-year-old pulls out a sketch, holds it to the window with a blank paper over top and traces, adding her own sweet style. My two-year-old grabs another sketch and crayons it in, happily reporting on “cats”, “oh pretty” and “dragons.” All horses are dragons to her.

Other draft pages are the canvas for math problems, teased out between mind and pen. Numbers crowd against numbers. Scribbles of frustration or big inked stars showing I've finally got it. My twelve-year-old swaps between imaginary and educational journeys of the mind. Castles and maps invade the paper's borders. The two journeys blur together, as numbers morph into castle stones, mirroring a similar struggle and journey on the opposite side of the page.

On some, my seven-year-old copies out plants and animals from the Smithsonian Natural History. My five-year-old covers the paper, blank side and story side, in thick interconnecting lines of marker—his mazes to stump me.

Brainstorms for family projects take up other papers, my rough blobs represent spoken words for garden plots, my husband's intricate sketches clarifying my dreams.

Torn strips of draft paper become bookmarks. My novel's hero tucked into Hop on Pop, Dinotopia, Ella Enchanted, and How Things Work.

Shopping lists, jotted out directions, origami. Pinata paper-mache. Table shields under painted pumpkins. And sometimes, when both sides are fully used and abused, mulch bin fluffer.

Art and more art. Fairies flit on the back of battle scenes. Marker dragons leak through and shadow treks through the desert. In some future, will someone turn over a saved piece of art to see the hero's love, the villains closing in, and ask—what happened next?

Even new stories take birth on backs of old ones. My middle daughter chews on her pencil, then scribbles in scenes from her imaginary world of Sara and Ben. My oldest son plots world maps, naming each land for its resources. My first born designs races—part animal, part human—notating the size, diet, abilities, and personalities along the margins. Phoenix rising from paper ashes.

Once, when paper and canvas were expensive, the artist painted over old art. In our family, we follow a similar path. Not because of cost, but because of the thought, I can create whatever I want on this page, and if I mess up it doesn't matter, it's just scratch paper. And creations abound.

What will take birth on the rough drafts of this story?


My stories become canvas for their art,
And their lives are canvas for my stories.

Christmas

This is the first of my poems after November

It’s beginning to feel

a lot like Christmas.

All around our home.

Children cut snowflakes,

while Mommy reads out loud,

A Christmas Carol or maybe

Stubby Pringle's Christmas.

Paper bits build in drifts along the floor.

A child calls, “Read some more!”

They create beauty while hearing

tales of kindness, joy,

forgiveness, and

Christlike love.

Giggles and whispered secrets.

Siblings making gifts for siblings.

Paper dolls for a sister.

Dragon sock puppets for brothers.

Hand drawn art on a t-shirt.

Crochet snowflake.

Snow--dots of potential fun--

drifts from the sky.

Children pile into

cold and freedom.

Boisterous shouts, too loud inside,

fill the outside perfectly.

Snowmen and snowball fights.

Sledding, exploring

whitewashed worlds.

Carols 'round the piano,

Off key and robust.

Daddy's bass voice an

intune anchor for the rest of us.

Joy to the World, followed by

Hey, Ho, Nobody Home, and

California Raisins version of

We Three Kings.

Service Angels, added nightly to our tree.

Time to reflect on how we’ve served another.

Mostly little things:

Read to a sibling, chose patience,

did dishes for mom, listened.

And sometimes a little bigger:

temple service, clean church house,

caroling at the rest home.

Our gifts to the Christ child.

It’s beginning to feel

a lot like Christmas.

Even with sibling spats

and parenting mishaps.

We are growing closer to the

One whose birthday we celebrate.

Given Much

Because I have been

given much.

I too must give.

Loaf of bread and

glowing fire.

Simple daily needs.

But also patience,

compassion, and

withheld judgment,

for those who see

differently than me.

Can I give a

soft answer and

benefit of the doubt,

to those who lack kindness?

Can I love

those who are

hard to love?

For some days,

I lack kindness and

I am hard to love,

Yet my Lord

loves me still.

Because I’ve been

given much,

I too must give.

Grateful in all things

God’s apostle spoke

difficult and comforting words:

Be grateful in all things.

Not for but in.

My grateful for list is

never ending, when I start it.

Family, home, food,

earth’s beauty, health,

stories, learning, creating.

Never ending,

but each one endable.

Could I lose each of those,

like the Christian martyrs,

or the Jews in holocaust,

and still be grateful?

There is one sure and eternal

focal point of gratitude:

My Savior.

And as I am grateful to

Him, my

Creator,

Redeemer, and

Advocate,

I learn to be grateful

In all things, both

beautiful and difficult.

And my life, which is

filled to overflowing with

blessings, increases in

richness of

understanding and joy.

*inspired by Elder Uchtdorf and Betsy TenBoom

Oregon Trail

Ten minutes to

travel a day’s walk.

A day’s drive to travel a

wagon’s summer trek.

Centuries seperate our

journey from our

pioneer ancestors.

They met

hunger, thirst, footsore days.

Rattle snakes, sick oxen,

broken wagon wheels.

We face as a family of eight,

confined to sit for hours,

bored teasing, carsickness,

and twice a flat tire.**

They joyed in

games along the trail,

evening dances, and

fireside stories.

We delight in

word games,

seat dancing to music,

books read outloud.

We like them, look

forward to our destination.

And when arrived to the

hugs of loved ones,

the journey is worth it.

** That was our 2017 trip to see family. Thankfully no flat tires this year.

The Worth of a Soul

Alma 20:23, 22:15, 18

Trembling under Ammon's sword

The king of the vast

Lamanites nation

swore an oath.

“If thou wilt spare me

I will grant unto thee

whatsoever thou wilt ask,

even to half of the kingdom.”

Half his kingdom

for his life.

Under Aaron's teachings,

the king's perspective expanded.

He promised:

“I will give up all that

I possess, yea, I will

forsake my kingdom, that I may

receive this great joy.”

All his kingdom,

for eternal life.

Then he learned,

it isn't his kingdom

God wants. But him.

He bowed himself

upon the earth, and

raised his voice to heaven.

“I will give away

all my sins to know thee,

and that I may be

raised from the dead, and be

saved at the last day.”

All his sins,

to know God.

This is the

greatest sacrifice,

and the path to

greatest joy.

I can do it

She struggles with the door.

I open it.

She closes it,

and struggles with it more.

“I can do it!”

Rushing to get to church.

I buckle her car seat latch.

“No!” she cries and

pulls at them to part.

“I can do it!”

Each day,

getting dressed,

eating, creating.

She grows quickly,

because of her

Toddler independence.

First words

My child's first word

“Mama”

And some days,

even years later,

feels like his only word.

I'm hungry,

“Mom!”

I need help,

“Mom!”

Watch this,

“Mom!”

The call comes when

my hands are full,

my thoughts occupied,

my emotions ragged.

Yelled past others,

willing to help,

but invisible to him.

He is a lesson in

childlike faith.

Do I turn to God with such

single minded focus?

And even as I

teach him to

temper his voice, and

see who else can help,

I try to learn to

turn my pleas heavenward

with the same zeal.

Egg Drop

I don’t encourage

dropping eggs.

My son,

eager to explore,

asks for an exception.

Do I step in to

minimize the mess?

Or step back to

allow the learning?

Straws and tape,

and an hour later,

an egg enclosed

like a lunar lander,

takes its maiden voyage

off the second story deck.

My son’s smile flies high

as the egg plummets low.

His egg, his structure,

created by him,

untampered by me,

survives.

But even if it hadn’t,

his growing

Confidence

is worth the mess.

Cook and Eat and Wash

This was inspired by my ten-year-old as we washed dishes side by side. He joked "We cooked together, and now we wash together?" Then he started chanting "cook and eat and wash".

Cook and Eat and Wash

Cook and Eat and Wash.

Day in, day out.

Cook the meals.

Eat the food.

Wash the dishes.

Cook and Eat and Wash.

Week in, week out.

Chop the veggies.

Bear the refusal.

Wash away the residue.

Cook and Eat and Wash.

Year in, year out.

Friendships grown preparing.

Lives shared over food.

Service learned cleaning.

Cook and Eat and Wash

Three daily parts of

Nurturing my

Family.