Revision is life

Mary Cassatt's 16-state exploration of "The Bath," a perfect metaphor for revision

When I was a little kid dreaming big about writing stories, it never occurred to me that the bulk of the writing life would be consumed by revising. In fact, I was an adult before I learned the brilliant novels that have inspired and intimidated me over the years began as the authors’ shitty first drafts—and slightly less shitty second, third, and fourth drafts. 

In the past few years I’ve revised my novel more than 12 times and rewritten several short stories five to six times each. Some of these revisions were complete overhauls; some were major haircuts to reach a target word count; and some were edits responding to reader or critique partner feedback. But only recently have I discovered what it means to feel truly “done” with a manuscript.

The author Peter Ho Davies, in his book The Art of Revision, suggests that writers “draft in haste [and] revise at leisure.” Most writers don’t actually know know our own intent when we start out to draft something. Even if we have a solid idea, the actual heart of the story may still lurk under the surface, waiting to be fully uncovered, identified, honed, and polished. Often, the art of revision is about giving the story space to emerge, and to allow the synapses in our minds piece together why we’re really telling it in the first place. 

In my case, letting a story percolate has given me the added advantage of improving as a writer with later drafts. As I’ve participated in critique groups, worked with editors and coaches, read craft books, and taken courses, I’ve accumulated a lot of a-ha moments that helped me see my drafts through a fresh lens.

One example: a few months ago I was reading Writing the Heart of Your Story by C.S. Lakin at the same time I was getting feedback from beta readers on my novel and critique from a writing group on a story. All of this learning helped me discover some big flaws:

• I wasn’t entirely clear what my characters wanted, or why it mattered that they got it. 

• My characters were acting like “cold fish;” I’d been ignoring their emotional reactions as the plot progressed, and I also wasn’t paying attention to the story’s overall emotional arc.

• Especially in the short story, scenes hung together too loosely and at times felt disconnected. 

Planning for the long-haul revision process

Recently I visited an exhibit at the San Francisco Legion of Honor of one of my favorite painters, Mary Cassatt, a groundbreaking impressionist who depicted family life in the nineteenth century. In addition to her well-known finished pieces, the exhibit showed some half-finished paintings, as well as a series of woodcut prints. Cassatt was inspired by Japanese art she’d seen at the 1890 École des Beaux-Arts and wanted to recreate the woodcut technique. According to the Minneapolis Institute of Art, she created 16 different states of an aquatint print called “The Bath,” reworking the image multiple times to add tone and change lines before arriving at the final state. 

I love this as a metaphor for revision. Rather than expecting perfection, as a writer I want to know I’m beginning a journey of experimentation—to be able to try things boldly, cut and change confidently, and keep polishing until I’ve arrived at the “state” I’m happiest with. This process seems to follow a flow something like this:

1. Write an uninhibited first draft (the “shitty first draft,” in the words of Anne Lamott). This might involve a light outline or plan, but with enough flexibility to pursue new ideas and let the story unfold as it will. This draft should be: too long and verbose, full of words that aren’t quite right, maybe with stilted dialog and an imperfect or missing ending.

2. Put it away for at least 2 weeks. Don’t think about it. Then pull it out and read it as if it’s brand new, ideally on paper and far away from a red pen. 

3. Outline the next draft. Develop a character sketch and a summary of the story and what it’s really about—the theme, the intent, the reason it exists. 

4. Write the second draft, then put it away for 2+ weeks. 

5. Repeat: Read, re-outline, work out weird connections, explore alternative plot progressions, dig deeper on the characters, cut stuff that doesn’t contribute to the story. Try to get the story closer to the target word count. Do at least two more rounds of this. 

6. Revise for sound. Read the story out loud; record it and listen to it, or use the Speechify app to read it to you. Pay attention to language rhythm, the words you use, the tone of the piece, how the dialog sounds. Do a round or two of language polishing. Get closer to your target word count.

7. Get feedback. Send the story to a few critique partners, to get a read on how the story and the language are working with other writers who are also readers. Incorporate changes. If the feedback is substantial and you agree with it, go back to Step 5. (Critiques may happen earlier in the process, of course, but if they haven’t happened by now, this is where they’re critical.)

8. Polish, polish, polish. Plan for at least three rounds of copy-editing and proofreading. Run a search to make sure you’re not overusing the same words too much. Trim wordy sentences, zap passive voice and “to be” verbs, snip out over-explanation. Make every sentence tidy and perfect. Do one final round just to look for typos and errors—there’s always a missing or extra word someplace. 

9. Send to beta readers. If you don’t have that absolutely sure feeling in your gut that the piece is perfect, send it to people who enjoy reading (not other writers), just to get a pre-publication read on how the story lands. 

10. Finished! Getting here might take weeks, months, or years. I’m learning that I’m beginning to know instinctively when I’ve reached the finish line—and that if anything is still bothering or worrying me about the story, I’m not there yet.  

I’m someone who has always knocked out (non-fiction) writing on tight deadlines, so committing to a process like this seems like a big undertaking. But I’ve also discovered that treating my drafts as “states” gives me the time and space I need to improve my craft along the way and explore what a story is really all about—the only way to bring a story to life and write something worth reading.