revising

My Fellow Perfectionists, Let Us Embrace the Suckitude

I admit it. I’ve been struggling with perfectionism pretty much my whole life. (You’ll have to ask my mom how much of it manifested when I was a two-year-old, I guess.) There’s a particular aspect of it that sticks with me. If I couldn’t do something perfectly, I’d rather not do it at all.

No settling for “okay.” No such thing as “good enough.” All or nothing, a hundred percent or zero.

If I were still full-throttle in that zone and trying to write novels, I think I’d be dead already.

Don’t get me wrong. Striving for excellence is great. It’s something we should do, and something I still do. But writing is never going to be perfect, and it’s going to be very unperfect for a long time before we get it as close to perfect as we can. If we lock onto the flaws during the process, we’re never going to move forward. So here’s what we can do:

We can let our first draft suck.

It’s okay. We have permission. It’s allowed.

If we’re coming up on a fight scene, and we know we have a hard time with action descriptions? That’s okay. Write it badly. Let the words come, because then we have something to work with.

I’m not saying editing/revising as you go isn’t allowed. Personally, I tend to do that as I draft. Others, like Mindy McGinnis, prefer the first draft to be “word vomit”—just get it all out there and tidy it up on the first revision pass. When I feel my perfectionism creeping up, though … when I get those doubts saying I can’t write what I need to well enough, so I may as well not bother at all … that’s when I know I need to just let it spill.

Once it’s out there, I can see how bad it really is. Maybe it’s worse than I thought, and I need to educate myself on how to fix it. More often than not, though, it’s not nearly as bad as I expect.

For me, the fear of sucking is much worse than actually giving something a shot. So I’m trying not to fear it. I’m trying to embrace that suckiness, knowing at worst, it’ll only be temporary.

A crappy scene can be revised and fixed. A blank page is just a blank page. Great for origami. Not so great for telling a story.

Speak up:

4 comments

Starting From Scratch, Kind Of (The Mega-Rewrite)

A lot of publishing is about waiting. We send out queries and wait. Get requests for partials or fulls and wait. Our agent submits to editors and we wait. We revise, send to our editor, and wait.

Best thing to do with the waiting is work on something else. One thing I’ve been chipping away at (on an off-and-on basis) is a near-complete rewrite of my very first manuscript.

(Some of you remember Fingerprints, right?)

Can someone coin a term for the writerly version of beer-goggles? I’ve revised and re-revised this thing so many times I’ve lost count. It got better each time, and I don’t think it was ever terrible.

I still believe in the characters 100%. The world, too. Even the plot, largely.

But the execution … ugh. Very “what was I thinking?” in places.

I think this is okay. It’s not beating up on myself. It’s acknowledging the skills I’ve gained and developed over the past three years. If I weren’t capable of writing better now, I’d be worried.

So, the solution?

A blank document. A different opening scene. The same general story, but with new ideas for added tension and conflict. And yes, here and there, some words that are worth keeping.

This is kind of intimidating in some ways. I really hope I can get it up to snuff, so there are lingering worries that maybe it still won’t cut it. Hopefully I can just let those doubts motivate me to silence them through sheer awesomeness.

It’s also tricky because the original is so cemented in my mind. I want to change enough without changing too much, and there’s no telling whether my internal gauge is calibrated right on that count.

Thank goodness for critique partners.

(Yes, Mindy, this means that someday you’ll have to read the darn thing AGAIN.)

Have any of you ever done a from-scratch rewrite? Any advice for making it work?

Speak up:

3 comments

Telling Teenagers that Revising Rocks

On Monday, I had the opportunity to talk to a writing class in my school about the feedback/revising process. I’d been talking to the English teacher at department meeting last week about some revisions I was about to get started on, and she said, “Oh, please, can you come to my Composition classes and talk about how that works for you?” (I’m talking to the second class this afternoon.)

Turns out some of the kids get very reticent, uptight, and defensive when it comes to criticism and making changes in their work. Some feel like it’s not theirs anymore if they make the changes suggested by their teacher. Some say straight-up, “But I want it to sound this way, not that way.”

It’s always fun to get out of my classroom and say, “Hey, look at me pretending I’m NOT a math teacher!” So I threw together an entertaining little PowerPoint and headed over. (It helped that with my teeny-tiny school, there were only five kids in the class—not so nervous-making.)

The kids were good and engaged, and honest about their feelings. Through the presentation and ensuing discussion, we came to two key points.

I told them about one of my critique partners (Mindy McGinnis, yo), and noted that just because she suggests something doesn’t mean I have to make that exact change. Or any change. And if I choose not to, it doesn’t mean she’s going to scream at me and stomp her feet and never ever EVER talk to me again.

Same goes for the teenagers and their English teacher. We discussed that some feedback is the Just Fix It kind—errors in spelling, grammar, punctuation, or facts. But the really valuable feedback is the Ponder and Figure It Out kind—when passages are boring, awkward, confusing, or annoying. Suggestions on how to fix those issues are just that—suggestions.

And that leads us to the second point:

This was just part of a little scenario I put together. Mindy notes something doesn’t work and offers suggestions X, Y, and Z for fixing it. I go ahead with X, work in Z-with-a-twist, and come up with Q all on my own. When I run it by Mindy, she knows I didn’t use Y, but that’s okay—she says, “Yeah, Q totally works.”

Surprisingly, the group kind of latched onto that concept (teasing me about bringing mathematical variables to English class). Some of the students had been stuck in a mindset that the teacher’s word was law, so her suggestions had to be followed to the letter. Thus their feeling that the writing wasn’t theirs anymore.

Through the discussion, we kept coming back to, “And there’s that situation where you need to find your Q—find a way to modify it to address the problem the teacher pointed out, but that still stays true to your voice and characters and story.”

These reactions and mindsets aren’t unique to teenagers, or to those who write only because they have to for school. Those of us who want to (or do) write professionally go through cycles of the same thing, I think.

I don’t care who you are—finding out something you thought was great doesn’t work can sting. I think a key part of my presentation was when I admitted to the students that I’ve gotten feedback where my initial feelings were all, “I suck! The story sucks. There’s no way I change that in a way that will work. I’m too stupid.”

Feeling that isn’t a problem—as long as we take the next step, which is rolling up our sleeves and getting to work.

Like I told them, you don’t wipe some mud off a car and call it polished. Polishing takes time and effort.

And like Mindy added, exercise doesn’t necessarily feel good (or look glamorous) while you’re doing it, but the results feel great.

Speak up:

4 comments