From First to Final Draft: What We Can Learn By Reading Draft One of South of Sepharad
Introduction: The Mysterious Process of Revision
When I attend book readings, a common question I like to ask authors is, “How did the novel change over the revision process?”
Typically, they’ll provide a timeline. Something to the effect of, “I did six drafts over eight years, but really it was those last two years where things started to fall into place…”
While the number of drafts and years gives an idea of the work that went into their writing process, it reveals little about the creative choices, mistakes, and improvements that occurred from draft to draft.
I love hearing that the main character was originally a different person in the novel, or the author wrote six different endings, or that their historical novel was originally envisioned as a science fiction epic. But these details are typically closely guarded by authors. Either they don’t want to share them, or they blocked out the mistakes they made along the way. And who can blame them? Isn’t it more impressive to think the novel came out complete on the first go?
Unfortunately, this lack of reflection makes revision one of the opaquest steps in the writing process. Publishers occasionally release early versions of classic works (the original scrolls of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road come to mind), but these are rare.
South of Sepharad
As revision can’t be learned by example, it can only be learned by doing. This forces writers to write, but the lack of a clear roadmap also leads to second-guessing, confusion, and at worst, accidentally making a decent draft worse.
The first ten or so years of writing fiction, I had great difficulty finishing anything because I didn’t truly grasp how revision worked. Why would something improve simply because I wrote it again? How would I know when it is finished?
After years of revising South of Sepharad in preparation for publication, I feel I can speak from personal experience about how revision impacts a manuscript along the way.
In the hopes of helping fellow writers struggling with these same questions – as well as readers who are curious about how a manuscript changes over time – I am including below the very first scene from the very first draft of South of Sepharad. This draft was written in August 2019, four and half years before the novel was released. I’ll be dissecting the very first scene I wrote and how it changed on its way toward becoming a published novel, revealing how revision can improve a manuscript.
Please note the original manuscript is in standard font, and my analysis on the manuscript is in bold font.
Draft One: Draft and Analysis
Chapter One
The curfew ended at sunrise. Vidal and Eliezer left their home at dawn and walked down the narrow cobblestone streets of La Judería toward their first appointment of the day. They carried leather bags filled with medical supplies and hugged their matching black robes close to their bodies to combat the chill of the late winter air.
I struggled initially with where to open South of Sepharad. Openings must accomplish so much: hooking readers, introducing characters and setting, while hinting at plot and theme.
Rather than waiting for inspiration, I started writing by simply introducing my protagonist, Vidal. I wrote this scene where he and his son Eliezer make a house call as physicians. I chose this scenario because a character's profession reveals much about their personality.
This scene eventually became Chapter Two in the published novel. Though significantly revised, the core action survived because it effectively established these characters.
The published Chapter One—written much later during revisions—better fulfilled the requirements of a strong opening. But I could only have conceived of it after completing multiple drafts.
When beginning a manuscript, start anywhere that sparks your interest. The perfect opening often reveals itself only after you have written an entire draft.
At the crossing where La Judería met the neighborhood of Bib Rambla, they passed soldiers who stood at attention in front of stores opening for business and wooden houses on both sides of the street. The soldiers wore battlefield armor and bevors that covered their mouths and noses. Only their eyes were visible. Vidal and Eliezer kept their heads down as they passed. The soldiers had not harassed anyone from the neighborhood since the new king and queen invaded Granada a month earlier, but Vidal did not want eye contact to break the standoff.
In the original draft, world-building was sparse. A few neighborhood names, descriptions of wooden houses, and soldiers wearing bevors are the only details presented. This bare-bones approach stemmed from my uncertain vision for the novel's narrative voice.
Initially, the narration was traditionally omniscient—an objective, detached style common in historical epics. However, I soon realized this approach kept readers at arm’s length from the characters’ inner lives. Midway through the first draft, I transitioned to a close third-person perspective, focusing specifically on Vidal’s subjective experience. This shift required a complete rewrite of the early chapters to deepen the reader’s intimacy with Vidal in draft two.
My initial drafting strategy prioritized character development over historical context. Though I was tempted to flood the pages with historical information, I instead chose to let history emerge organically around the characters’ experiences. By the second draft, I realized this scene would accomplish more if it occurred on the same day that Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand entered the city, allowing Vidal to experience this historical event firsthand while tending to his patients.
This approach—focusing first on character and gradually layering historical details—prevented me from becoming overwhelmed by exposition in the early writing process.
Vidal and Eliezer continued toward the south end of the city, passing wooden houses with orange tiled roofs packed together wall-to-wall. They reached one of the few houses made of brick and knocked on the wooden door. The daughter of their patient, Señor Castile, opened the door and invited them inside. They passed through the open-air courtyard at the center of the house into the master bedroom on the ground floor. Señor Castile lay on a featherbed inside. Weeks of illness had emaciated his body.
In my first draft, I introduced the Castile family as a mere plot device—characters invented to provide Vidal an opportunity to practice his medical skills. It wasn’t until I re-read my completed first draft that I realized the Castile’s never appeared again.
Rather than keep this family for a one-off scene, I realized this scene could be re-written as an introduction to Vidal’s oldest daughter Catalina, who plays a significant role in the novel. Catalina simply absorbs the role of Señora Castile.
This is a revision technique called “character folding” where one character’s scenes and goals are folded into another character. It creates for a richer and more fully realized single character, rather than two lesser fleshed out characters. As a result, Catalina is now introduced into the novel right away and we learn much about her life marrying into a Catholic family while also seeing Vidal care for her grandfather-in-law.
I advise against character folding during the first draft. Draft one is about discovery—learning which moments and characters are most important to your protagonist’s journey. After completing draft one, it’s easier to see which characters deserve more significant roles in the narrative and which can be merged.
Vidal stood over the bed and examined Señor Castile while Eliezer stood back and observed. Señor Castile wheezed and coughed phlegm. His eyes followed Vidal’s movements and voice, but he was unable to respond. Vidal put his ear to Señor Castile’s bare chest and listened.
Señor Castile’s wife entered the room. She wore a blue gown and her hair grayed at the roots. “Can he be cured?”
My initial draft demonstrates a bare-bones approach to description. I defaulted to basic physical details—a blue gown, hair grayed at the roots—that provide little insight into character or atmosphere.
In subsequent drafts, I learned to transform these flat descriptions into more evocative details. Instead of simply noting a character's blocking, I described the nuanced details of the room: the way Señor Castile lays in bed, how clothes spill from the dresser, to create a more immersive scene.
In 2019, I approached writing with “character first, descriptions later” approach. However, this novel taught me to advocate for a more active approach to description in draft one. I learned that sensory details are not decorative elements meant to show off our writing. Instead, they can be used to reveal character, thought, mood, and context in a way action and blocking cannot. A room’s appearance, the texture of fabric, the quality of light, can breathe life into a scene.
Writing the second draft of South of Sepharad involved an enormous amount of retrofitting description into the narrative—a daunting and dispiriting task that involved rewriting whole chapters from scratch. I recommend investing more time in description in your first draft, as it can save you countless revision hours later and create a more immersive story from the start.
Vidal turned to Señora Castile. “He is phlegmatic. It is common for this season, but his case is severe.”
Surprisingly, Vidal says the exact same thing in the final draft. The idea of a patient being phlegmatic was pulled from my research into Avicenna’s The Four Humours, a popular medical concept in 1492. The research allowed me to write a line that worked from first to final draft.
“Will he die from it?”
“At the moment, I am uncertain.” The wife gasped and stepped back. Vidal realized he had spoken too frankly. The sight of the soldiers had put him on edge. “I am sorry, Señora. We want to remain hopeful, but it is important that I also be honest.”
“We can give him a remedy to improve his breathing,” Eliezer said.
Vidal held up a finger to his son. “How long has your husband been ill?”
“Three weeks now. Possibly four.”
“Why did you not call on us sooner?”
The wife took a labored breath. “I called on a Christian doctor. He, too, made a remedy for my husband. But it did nothing. He seemed to know little, as if medicine was not his trade.”
The dialogue in this scene mundane. Mostly a series of questions and answers. This is because I was too new to the characters to understand their voices or personalities. After spending an entire draft with Vidal, I became more familiar with how he spoke and I rewrote his lines accordingly.
Of all elements of literature, I believe dialogue benefits the most from revision. We understand our characters more with each draft, which makes it easier to learn how they’d speak, address someone, or react to something. Likewise, dialogue typically takes up a minor section of the prose, so it can be rewritten more quickly than description or interior monologue. Late in my revision process, I usually do a revision draft or two devoted purely to dialogue, not touching other aspects of the narrative.
Character folding Señora Castile into Catalina also provided greater opportunity to improve the dialogue in this scene. In the first draft, Vidal needs to stay very professional and proper while speaking to a stranger, but once I changed this to a scene between a father and daughter, it allowed me to rewrite a livelier conversation.
Vidal could not think of a single Christian doctor in the city. Catholics from the Iberian kingdoms had arrived daily since the invasion of Granada. He imagined there were physicians among them and it worried him. He knew nothing of the Christian teachings of medicine, nor did he trust them.
“We shall give your husband a remedy to ease his pain and dissolve the phlegm,” Vidal said.
Vidal gave Señor Castile an herbal remedy of ginger, lemon, and aromatic flower buds to drink.
In the final draft, Vidal gives ginger, lemon, and garlic to the patient. I changed one of the ingredients after double-checking my research. Still, including ginger and lemon in draft one is a good start. Again, this is where research benefitted the writing process. Because I already knew what Vidal would give the patient, I didn’t need to drastically rewrite his herbal remedies later.
This is one of the great benefits of writing historical fiction. In other genres, there are a million different decisions to make for how a scene plays out. But with historical fiction, I could rely on research. I gave myself a simple heuristic when revising the historical details, “If it can be backed up by historical fact, it is the correct decision for the scene.” This allowed me to minimize the second guessing that comes with revision. The historical answer was always the right answer.
Eliezer lit an opium pipe meant to calm Señor Castile and wafted the smoke into the man’s nostrils. As Señor Castile’s breathing returned to normal, his wife held his hand and kissed his forehead. She thanked Vidal and waited outside while they finished. Vidal and Eliezer packed their supplies and exited the bedroom.
In the courtyard, Señora Castile and her five daughters stood at attention when Vidal and Eliezer exited the bedroom.
“Is he better?” the oldest daughter asked.
Vidal nodded. “I assure you he is comfortable.”
“Will you join us for breakfast?” asked the youngest daughter.
She had dark hair and round cheeks. She reminded Vidal of his youngest daughter Sara, who had died in her bed on the last Sabbath before her second birthday.
Sarah, Vidal’s deceased youngest daughter, plays a major role in the novel despite having died before the novel opens. Initially, I introduced her here through a triggered memory: Vidal sees five girls and reflects on his late daughter. However, when I folded Señora Castile into Catalina, it affected this introduction.
I first attempted to salvage the scene by having Vidal think of Sarah while looking at Catalina—but it made Sarah feel like a minor detail. A blink and you miss it introduction. I realized I needed a more memorable way to introduce Sarah and this led to writing an entirely new chapter that depicts her burial—chapter one in the published novel.
This experience provided an important lesson: revisions are not isolated events. Folding Señora Castile into Catalina seemed straightforward, but it required me to reimage connected moments of the story I had not originally thought to change.
When revising, I propose planning out each change before committing to it on paper. Make sure you know how a change can lead to unexpected consequences in that scene, a few chapters later, or even the novel’s conclusion.
On a minor separate note, I revised the name spelling of “Sara” to “Sarah” to keep with the more common spelling of Sarah’s Biblical namesake—an extremely minor detail that nevertheless feels more authentic to the character.
“That is very kind of you. But we must go. We have many patients to see.”
Señora Castile waved for her children to exit the courtyard. “Children, off to your chores, so that this house might look clean and inviting for your father once he is up again.” The children dispersed throughout the house and Señora Castile turned to Vidal. “Dr. ha-Rofeh, may I speak with you in private?”
Vidal told his son to wait for him outside and Eliezer left them in the courtyard.
“Doctor,” Señora Castile said. “Forgive me for the question I must ask. I know it is not my place, but my husband would ask the same, and as of the moment, he is incapable.”
“There is nothing you cannot ask me.”
She folded her hands across her lap. “Doctor, you seem like a good man. You are clearly a skilled physician. Our new king and queen are going to need men like you. Have you thought about exploring the Catholic faith?”
Vidal chose his next words carefully. A month ago, the Castiles had been a small minority of Catholics who lived in Granada. Under the Emir, the Catholics needed to work with the Jews and Muslims if they wished to have a successful business. But overnight, they had become the ruling class.
“I see patients of all cultures and faiths,” Vidal said. “It is part of my oath.”
“But you are a Jew.”
“I am aware that the new king and queen do not favor my faith. But I imagine, at the moment, they are more concerned with what to do with the Muslims.”
“You are a smart man, Doctor. What do you think they will do after that matter is solved?”
Ever since the Emir had surrendered, Vidal had tried to keep away thoughts of what the Catholic king would do with him and his family. As a boy, he’d heard rumors of Jews being forced from their homes in the kingdoms of Aragon and Castile. Pogroms in Córdoba, Jaén, and Santaella. But those were only rumors. Rumors from before his children’s births.
“I do not know,” Vidal said. “I try not to worry about the future, less it concerns the well-being of my patients."
He waited for her response. He believed there was something she knew, something important she chose not to tell him. But he was in no position to ask her to elaborate. They wished each other a good day and he left the house.
Even before writing draft one, I always envisioned South of Sepharad as an exploration of Vidal’s faith. This early understanding allowed me to weave the central theme into the first draft of the novel.
A theme can be a guiding light in writing a first draft, as well as the revision process. I never view theme as a lesson or a moral, just a concept, and I believe theme works best when summed up in one word. In South of Sepharad that word is “faith.” Anytime I could weave faith into the narrative, I knew I was on the right track. Anytime I found myself straying from that theme, either in drafting or revision, I realized the scene might be superfluous.
On a separate note, the idea of theme is introduced in this first draft with Señora Castile asking Vidal about conversion. It’s serviceable but also makes Vidal seem passive. I first revised this scene as a discussion with Catalina, but then made a further revision where Vidal proactively asks Catalina about faith. He says he’s suspicious of how Isabella and Ferdinand will treat Jews—a concern he could not have brought up to Señora Castile. This allowed me to improve upon the scene while giving Vidal more agency and internal conflict in the earliest pages of the novel.
Outside, the sun had risen over the white rooftops. Eliezer looked up at the Alhambra, a gargantuan palace on the hillside that seemed to have grown out of the mountain among the rock formations and trees that it dwarfed. All of Vidal’s life, it had been home to the Emir. He still found it unsettling to know the place was occupied by invaders. But he decided this was none of his concern. Who controlled Granada had no effect on the health of his patients. What the nobles did was their business. More urgent matters required his attention.
This paragraph of interior monologue serves as a jumping off point for the paragraph that appears in the published novel. The details about the Alhambra and Vidal’s basic thoughts are same, but they are expanded upon in the finished work.
Revision helped bolster this paragraph because when I wrote this original draft I didn’t know Vidal very well. I could only guess at the handful of things he’d consider. As I grew to know him, it allowed me to include more of his thoughts.
This is one of the great benefits of writing something repeatedly. You get to know your characters better, which allows you to expand upon their thoughts in ways that would have proved challenging while still getting to know them in draft one.
They walked east toward their next appointment.
“What did she want?” Eliezer asked.
“You are not a physician yet, Hijo. That means I cannot tell you.”
When Vidal refers to Eliezer as “Hijo,” I made a factual mistake in the dialogue. I’d read several books on 1400’s Spain before drafting, but I never researched what language people spoke. As the novel took place in Spain, I assumed everyone spoke Spanish!
As I continued researching while writing, I learned that Vidal’s family would speak a mix of Arabic, Spanish, and Ladino (Judeo-Spanish language) at this time. In rewrites, I tried to incorporate the correct foreign words into the dialogue, but it became confusing. When would they speak each respective language? How would I keep track that I didn’t accidentally write the wrong language? How would readers keep track?
While I like the idea of inserting different languages into the dialogue, I ultimately eschewed the use of foreign words in Vidal’s family’s dialogue. However, some Spanish characters (like Catalina’s in-laws) occasionally speak Spanish and Ladino is still written when characters sing in the novel.
Sometimes a detail you want to include simply creates too many problems. Rather than forcing it, try to find alternative solutions.
For the remainder of the day, Vidal and Eliezer made house calls around Granada. Every hour that passed, Vidal thought less of Señora Castile’s vague warning. It was absurd to think that the new monarchs would care about his faith. They had fought for control of Granada for nine years. They now found themselves exhausted, depleted, and in charge of a new kingdom. They were no doubt concerned with how to get supplies through the mountains, how to run the economy, how to govern the Muslims, how the irrigation system worked. He doubted they thought to ask the Emir anything before they banished him. Yet he should convert to Catholicism as a precaution? He laughed every time he asked himself this question. What difference would it make? He was one man in a city of thousands.
Like the previous use of interior monologue, this paragraph is similar to what appears in the published novel – though it’s expanded upon and goes deeper in subsequent drafts. While I hadn’t discovered the “voice” of the narrator yet, the interior monologue passages feel the most fully realized. It’s clear on reflection that I was naturally gravitating toward writing the novel in close-third person, rather than omniscient.
Of course, I never could’ve figured this out ahead of time. This was a process that took multiple drafts, but it never would’ve started without taking this first step.
Conclusion: How Do I Know When My Novel is Finished?
My hope is that the above sample has demystified the revision process and proven how a piece can improve over subsequent drafts. However, it doesn’t answer the other question I presented in my introduction, which was, “How do I know when it’s finished?”
The simplest answer is the correct one: The book is finished when it’s published. South of Sepharad is finished not because I declared it finished, but because it’s bound in book form and can be purchased in bookstores or online. I can never alter it again.
But how do you arrive at finished? With revision, there are a million directions to pursue, so how do you navigate this process?
From my experience, it’s subjective when art is complete, but certainly elements of the writing process are objective. Ask yourself:
How can I make the characters more active and more unique?
Do my characters have consistent motivation throughout the whole novel?
At the same time, do my characters demonstrate the ability to change/grow?
Do I have too many characters? If so, who’s doing the least work and can therefore be “folded”?
Is the theme effectively dramatized and explored throughout the story?
Can the descriptions be more evocative?
Is the story historically accurate?
Does my novel have a clear beginning, middle, and end?
And of course: do I feel I’ve written this story to the best of my abilities?
This last question is tricky. It’s easy to lie to yourself. “I wrote it, and it’s finished so therefore it must be great!”
Wrong! Ask yourself if you’ve given it your all, if you feel there’s nothing else you can do to make it better. Most importantly, if this was a book someone else had written, would you be satisfied that you paid money to read it?
Note I’m not saying the book needs to perfect, simply something you’ve worked on to the best of your ability with the skill level you currently possess. This may take you several drafts. For me it typically takes three to four. You must make sure the book is working on your own terms and meeting your own criteria for excellence first, because once you start to show the book to other people, they’re going to have a million opinions.
Some opinions are going to be great and will bolster the book to levels you never could have achieved on your own. For instance, I received feedback that Vidal’s wife Bonadonna was underwritten and I needed to do more to make her a fully realized character. After listening to these changes, she became one of the most beloved characters in the novel.
Other opinions are going to miss the mark and can make your book worse or at the very least change the story entirely. For example, a reader thought the book would be better if told from Catalina’s perspective exclusively – it’s not a bad idea, but Catalina’s journey is not the main story I set out to write.
Accept all feedback, positive or negative, helpful or unhelpful, with gratitude. You’ll sort through the feedback and choose what works for you in private. Once you have a clear idea of what your novel is meant to be, you’ll be able to make judgements about what changes are best for your book.
Once you’ve selected the ideas that work best for the project, do another rewrite or two that incorporates this feedback and enhances the novel you’ve written. At that point, start reaching out to agents, publishers, and/or editors. Once you’ve found someone to take you on, follow their guidance and trust their expertise as you incorporate their feedback. They will help lead you to the finish line where your book is finished, published, and something you can proudly hold in your hands.
About the Author
Eric Z. Weintraub earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Mount St. Mary’s University where he wrote his debut novel South of Sepharad. Growing up in Los Angeles, CA, he came from a family of filmmakers, writers, and educators stirring in him a passion for storytelling from a young age. His short fiction has appeared in Tabula Rasa Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, The Rush, and elsewhere. His novella Dreams of an American Exile won the 2015 Plaza Literary Prize and was published by Black Hill Press. His short story collection The 28th Parallel was a finalist for the 2021 Flannery O’Connor Award in Short Fiction. When not writing fiction, Eric profiles true stories of complex medical cases where he works at the Keck School of Medicine of USC.
Fleeing death by the Spanish Inquisition, a Jewish doctor makes an impossible choice between home and faith, then struggles to lead his family on a journey for a new life.
In 1492 Granada, Jewish physician Vidal ha-Rofeh refuses to convert after the Alhambra Decree, choosing exile over safety. Forced to leave his eldest daughter behind, Vidal’s family joins a caravan to Fez, facing hardship and strained bonds. Meanwhile, his daughter endures the Inquisition. South of Sepharad explores faith, family, and resilience amid forced exile.
