Although we may not acknowledge our first drafts as part of
the revision process, each first draft is the beginning of a long process of searching
for words to create our stories.
Where our words come from is one of the mysteries of
writing. They may come out of the blankness of a sheet of paper, appearing as
blurry letters that only become clear after we’ve written them down. Or they may
come in a rush on a computer screen, flowing so quickly we can barely catch
them as our fingers race over the keyboard. Or they may come as a faint tingling
at the end of our fingertips, or the echo of a long-forgotten voice, or the
thread of a barely audible whisper.
The first step of the writing—and revision—process involves
facing that blankness and learning to listen. We have to learn that we are
writing, whether or not the words come, as we wait patiently (or impatiently),
hoping that the words will appear.
The next step involves letting the words emerge in the same
way that distant objects—the shape of a distant tree, for instance, or the peak
of a roof, or the round shadows of hills— appear gradually in the pre-dawn mist
as the light increases until we can distinguish shapes and shadows from each
other.
Once we put the words down—whether we have to chase
after them and frantically copy them down before they disappear or we manage to
catch them as the words surge through us—we may find ourselves tempted to
leave them alone.
The words, after all, make their way onto the page in a
particular order (an order that’s as mysterious as the process of finding the
words) and which we may want to accept because, as conduits for the words,
that’s how we receive them. Writing is hard work, after all, and it’s tempting
to say our work is finished once we’ve caught the words on paper and can watch
them glisten like fish caught in a net.
But that’s when we must bring our intellectual and emotional
resources into play. With the words on paper, we can review what we’ve written
as if we are reading the words for the first time. We can be the reader and the writer, simultaneously. When we
can read the words and observe how they make us feel as we read them, we can
begin to understand if they move us, draw us into the scene, the character, the
emotion of the moment. If not, we need to see what’s missing, what's in our mind but not yet on the page
And then we need to muster the determination and dedication to
bring into focus the details that will bring the scene to life, infuse the
characters with emotions that resonate in the reader, and give the reader the
chance to envision the scene and experience it as if he or she is immersed in it.
As writers, we repeat this process as many times as necessary until
the scene, the story, the characters, the plot feels complete, and we can see
no other missing pieces.
And that’s when the
rewriting begins yet again.
That’s when it’s time to send our work to our editor or
share it with our friends or our critique group. That’s when it’s time to
listen to the feedback of outside readers who can see things that we
can't see because of our closeness to the work.
Their feedback will help us see not only what we’ve done and
what we’re trying to do, but what we still need to accomplish. Here’s where you are now, they’ll
suggest, and here’s the target.
Then it’s our job to reduce the distance, to shrink the gap
between the two as closely as possible, before we can say we’re done.
For more on the revision
process, visit:
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