his is just a draft.” I love that phrase. It is my favorite little lie. I say it all the time, usually with an apologetic shrug or a self-effacing laugh, as if I accidentally sneezed out a few paragraphs between roasting a chicken and quietly stalking my local parking warden. Of course, it is nonsense. I have obviously made an effort and have put hours into the thing, fiddled with it until the fiddling became a form of avoidance. There is nothing casual about this. But by calling it a draft, I create the illusion that I am both capable and humble.
We live in a culture allergic to the idea of being in progress. We are taught to present ourselves as finished products and if we can’t manage that, we offer disclaimers. Some are quite creative. One of my favorites was, “Drafted on a train next to a loud chewer. Please adjust expectations accordingly.” Poetic, really. But I digress. The truth is, we are all walking works in progress. Loose edits of who we were yesterday. Half-finished attempts at who we might be next week.
The only people who are not drafts anymore are either deluded or dead. And frankly, neither seems like a fun hang. I once met a man who believed he was “finished.” No further growth required. Years later, I am still baffled by him because one, who says that? And two, he also told me he did not believe in second chances which struck me as a bold stance for someone wearing camo Crocs.
Still, most of us would not admit any of this. No one walks up to a stranger and says, “Hi, I’m Brenda. I too frequently reply ‘you too’ to waiters wishing me ‘bon apetit.” But honestly, would that not be far more truthful and considerably more entertaining?
I get it, walking around half-finished all the time is exhausting. The constant recalibration and endless internal notetaking takes its toll. But here is the thing: being a draft means you still have a chance of becoming someone marginally less annoying and that’s a win for everyone.
That is why we should stop hiding behind the disclaimer “this is just a draft.” Not because we have suddenly achieved perfection, but because we need to stop pretending we do not care. If you worked hard and it is still a bit crap, fine. Join the club. But at least own the effort. We should commit to all of it, because it all counts. It all got us somewhere. Not just in writing, but in life.
What a relief it would be to admit we are all still editing and might one day be tolerable company.
So no, this is not just a draft. I did not throw it together while simmering a stew and plotting revenge on Harkeet (the aforementioned parking warden with no chill). I put effort in. I care. And if it is not perfect, well good. That would be insufferable.