Editing can be the most satisfying part of the writing process. Unlike the alchemy of writing itself: the nothing that was once in your head, into the something of congregated letters.
Editing is like irrigation, learning how to guide a river of thought: a source that was always there, will always be there. It is where the crux of communication becomes action. It is the point where the mind begins to speak to itself, deciding, what was I really trying to say here? And then, bravely, begins to maneuver, distribute, and cultivate the language.
A well written page of words is an airy feeling, a feeling that you could be caught up in the wind. Despite the density of the text, it is open.
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Once an assignment to write an essay was made, the desperate race of language began. At home I would claw for the end of the page, engorging periods by two or three points, just enough to go undetected, garble language, crush prepositions together until the page count was reached, and when it was all over close my eyes, hold my nose and toss the essay like it was a dead fish at my teacher, praying they would just forget to read it, or some magical ghost would rewrite it entirely before they got to it. All to call a writing assignment complete.
In the long vinyl hallways, in the exhilarating and terrifying formation of school, I was afraid to write because I knew what it was like to speak in a room that felt to echo with one thousand candles of judgment. Humiliation is a mask eaten by worms. And the solitude it brings is all the more profound because it reminded me how alone I was not, how alone I could never be. I would always be seen, and judged.
Editing was accepting each of the red marks of an authority’s pen, understanding that each was another misunderstanding, misspelling, miswording, wrong turn. But sometimes, when I was finished I might discover a shift in my sternum, a small light shining through. I was proud. I did compose these words. Yes, I was checking the box that a school administrator made up in some small room in Albany. But maybe I had an idea, maybe it was worth reading about. It looked like something in any case.
Anyone who writes knows that words strewn, consolidated, fattened, or growing on a page does not guarantee that pride. It doesn’t necessarily even communicate.
I’m here for automatic writing, that miraculous and direct form.
But the process of editing is a waiting game. It’s a gardening practice. You have to be willing to cut and feel for the new growth that may arise from unchoked sentences. You have to be merciless and gentle. You have to know when to stop.
A writer I worked with called it being in front of the writing. Once the writing becomes about the writer, it loses its voice. This is the job of an editor, to keep the voice of the piece, and cultivate it. It is for this reason that it’s so hard to stop editing. Language is a fluid thing, meaning is also a fluid thing, so any form that a piece is going to take will change the next time you read it, after you have lived that one day further. An editor works with the gentlest touch, no matter the lettered environment, constantly listening to the rhythm of the piece.
As a writer or a teacher, insisting upon the separation between the writing and the editing is paramount. In the same way that writing can be painful as the writer faces builds the courage to express what they need to, editing is about learning to let go, to look again at what might have been quite hard to mine. Write, wait, and then return.
Here are some thoughts on editing. In my estimation they may be done in this order. But, of course, you can break any rules you see. Who am I to tell you what to do? Once completing a first draft:
- Read the piece outloud. Or have someone read to you (if you trust them).*
- Walk away: wait between 6 and 24 hours, heck, if you’re able to, maybe even a couple of days, or weeks. Then return to the piece.
- Edit for different things each time. Call them glasses, or masks, call them eyes. The punctuator, the word master, the architect or storyteller, the designer. Each has a different role.
- Give it to a respected and trusted friend to read and give you feedback. Tell them what you’re looking for. You don’t want them to go back saying, “this is trash, rewrite the whole thing.” Say that.*
- Once you’ve done all these things, just let it go. you can go back and make things better if you want to. It’s not like most breakups where you have to block it on all social media (though that might be important for a second). If it’s meant to be, it will call you back at some point. If not, it’s alright. We don’t have to write our magnum opus every day.
*a trusted reader can be an invaluable resource. No matter what age or level the writer is working at. This stage of the process is like a test run for the piece to enter the world.
Edit with patience. It will make your piece better. Trust yourself. Let go.
Bending Tree Education 