Writing is Revising, Revising is Writing

Some thoughts on the art of revision

On a recent phone call with my dad, I told him the editor of my forthcoming novel Space Trucker Jess wanted me to cut about 15,000 words from my manuscript. And my dad replied, “That must be hell!” And I said, “No, I love revising. Revising is writing. Writing is revising.”

There’s this wrong assumption that’s been around forever, but is extra prevalent today in our age of dopamine addiction and instant gratification. It’s the false assumption that all you need to tell a good story is an idea. It’s the false assumption that the actual writing of an idea is only grunt work. It’s as if all the work for building a house lies in the architectural plans and not in the actual labor of construction. It’s the kind of false assumption that leads people to call themselves “authors” who put in a one-sentence prompt into ChatGPT to get it to spit out a “story.” And it’s the kind of false assumption that compels your well-meaning but clueless uncle to approach you at a family gathering and say, “I have a great idea for a book! You can write it, and we’ll split the profits!”

Anyone who’s actually tried to write fiction for longer than five minutes will recognize that translating one’s ideas onto the page is actually hard. To get around this, beginning writers often inundate the reader with description. Yet if you write for long enough, you’ll realize your written words never perfectly convey what you have in your head. You can only suggest. The reader is just as much of a storyteller as you. And, like you, the reader creates a version of your story in their mind. Their story may be very different from yours. Perhaps better. And that’s okay.

In an August 2024 essay in The New Yorker about generative AI called “Why A.I. Isn’t Going to Make Good Art,” author Ted Chiang talks about fiction writing as a series of choices. In a 10,000 word story one makes (at a minimum) some 10,000 choices. More likely, the author is making quite a bit more. The idea is only a starting point. It’s the execution that’s hard. It’s where you put in the actual work. And it’s in these myriad choices where the real creativity lies.

In your first draft there are many choices, but I’d argue that in revision there are many more. Not only do you pore over your original choices, but you’re now considering ways to refine, clarify, and highlight those choices, sometimes opting for a different word, sentence, or scene. In some of my fiction I’ve rewritten some paragraphs over 100 times just to find the best way to express my thoughts. It’s hard work, but also incredibly rewarding. Like a blurry picture resolving, refinement brings my story into focus. Why would you want to run away from the most creative and thus the most human part?

Being asked to cut 15,000 words from my 137,000 word novel forced me to make difficult decisions: how can I express this complex thing more succinctly? Is this aside necessary? Is this scene adding anything to the story? Is this scene compelling? When you pare your thoughts down to the most essential, it forces you to do two things:

1. You must think in depth about what you are trying to say, helping you further clarify your thoughts. Muddied thoughts equals muddied words. Having clear thoughts means you’re better able to express yourself clearly.

2. You must describe your thoughts in a more succinct way. Shorter doesn’t always mean better, but brevity and clarity is often better than long-windedness and (often unintentional) obfuscation.

There’s a phrase you’ll hear in writing circles that says, “Kill your darlings.” When I first started writing, I thought this meant “don’t be afraid to kill your characters.” That certainly could be part of it, but what I’ve come to understand it to mean is, “Don’t be precious about your words.” You have to be ruthless. You have to cut those words, sentences, paragraphs, scenes, and chapters if they don’t serve the story. Sometimes it hurts to lose them. They are your “darlings” after all. I usually have a “cut stuff” section in my manuscript, where I place my beloved deleted scenes. I’ll probably never use those scenes again, but it makes me feel better that they’re not “gone” forever.

In the end, use whatever method works for you to not be so precious about your words. Be ruthless. It will reward you in the end, and your work will be better for it.

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Histories Within Us by Matthew Kressel