Occasionally, life hands us the opportunity for a do-over. And when it does, we may seize a chance to right a wrong, succeed where we have failed before, and wipe a dirty or imperfect slate clean again.
Among writers (and other creators), the do-over takes a very special form that we call “revision.” Like mythical tricksters, revision appears in many guises, ranging from the well-placed tweak to a wholesale ripping-up-and-starting-over.
In all its forms, a revision boils down to an admission that we didn’t quite get something right, or we recognize it’s not as good as we’d like it to be, and we set out to make it better.
The first draft reveals the art; revision reveals the artist.
But while a do-over may apply to any aspect of life at any age, whether public or private, the revision belongs exclusively to the artist and is nearly always a private affair between the artist and her work, at least initially.
If you buy that idea, then perhaps you can see why revising is so damned difficult and emotionally fraught. It amounts to an internal struggle the artist has with her ego, her self-doubts, and her desire to make better art (a novel, a painting, it doesn’t matter)—even if she isn’t sure how to go about that.
Many writers will tell you that revising occupies its own circle of hell within Dante Alighieri’s imaginative inferno.
I have to agree—though I willingly lean into the suffering with a hope that what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. Failing that, I just want to write better.
I completed a first draft of a novel about a year-and-a-half ago. It’s a polished first draft, meaning I’ve gone over it many times and rewrote and revised all along the way—both before and after the last page was written.
It’s taken me all this time to screw up the courage to take another hard look at it and figure out what needs to change—in terms of character development, pacing, storytelling, and all the little things that add up to big things in a work of fiction.
My reputation for writing quickly and effortlessly notwithstanding, I am strongly in favor of intelligent, even fastidious revision, which is, or certainly should be, an art in itself.
Time and distance are gifts to a writer embarking on a revision. We can approach our work with a modicum of detachment and a more critical eye that we simply lack when we’re in the lengthy, initial throes of creation.
But there’s nothing easy, nothing whatsoever, about revising, whether you wait three months or three years before embarking on the process.
For one thing, second-guessing one’s creative choices is tough. We feel as though we’re condemning our decisions…voiding them…and sending ourselves back to Square One….All that hard work…wasted?...
No, never. You cannot revise well unless you’ve thoroughly committed to making something in the first place. Revisions don’t occur in a vacuum; we revise created work, so don’t despise what you’ve already made: it serves a vital purpose.
Stories…occur primarily as technical objects when they're being written… They're the result of thousands of decisions made at speed during revision.
Let me be clear here: There comes a point where writers may choose to share their completed work with an editor (or must do so, if the book is accepted for publication) who will advise them on the kinds of changes needed.
That’s all well and good, but I’m focusing on the rounds of revision that require the artist to hold a conversation with herself about what she wants to create and how she wants it to come across. You can’t escape this phase, whether it falls early or late in your creative process. The moment always arrives when you are making changes, not an editor.
Ironically, as I struggle with this process myself, I have received accolades for a chart I created to help writers revise and rewrite a second draft of a novel so that it’s better, strong, and deeper. You can download that chart here. (I teach workshops on demand based on this, by the way. Please ignore my hypocrisy.)
In any case, here’s what I tell myself so that I keep moving forward despite the painful nature of revising:
Revising my novel is an investment in my growth as an artist. If I’m serious about learning how to do this better, then I have to endure the pain and uncertainty that comes with the territory. No pain, no gain—for real.
All writers revise, including the great and prolific ones. I’m lying to myself, and undermining my commitment to my craft, if I think I can write this thing once and be done with it. Come on, get serious.
Revising is an opportunity to make exciting new discoveries about your story and its characters. Why cheat yourself of that opportunity? I’m already getting glimmers of that, just a few chapters into my revision work. I’m excited to see where that leads.
So, do I love revising? No. Why do you think I waited over a year to do it?
Do I acknowledge the necessity of revision? Absolutely. It’s like getting a colonoscopy after age 50. Dreaded but needed.
Can I reframe the revision process so that it’s nothing like a colonoscopy?!
I hope so. I’m working on that. And I’ll take all the credit I can get.
WRANGLING THE DOUBT MONSTER: FIGHTING FEARS, FINDING INSPIRATION
The little book of encouragement every creative person needs right now.
The illustration at the top of this essay was generated by CoPilot using DALL-E. I will never use AI to create text.
"Revising is an opportunity to make exciting new discoveries about your story and its characters."
This is the part I'm trying to focus on.