Writing Right with Dmitri: Taming the Rewrite Monster
Created | Updated Nov 20, 2011
Words, words, words. That's what we're made of. Herewith some of my thoughts on what we're doing with them.
Writing Right with Dmitri: Taming the Rewrite Monster
Rewrites. We hates 'em.
It's the bane of every professional writer's existence. You just get everything the way you fondly imagine the client wants it. You mail off the copy with a sense of satisfaction, hitting the 'Send' button with a triumphant flourish. You sit back and wait for the oohs and aahs of delight.
What you get instead is an email that says, 'Well, that's almost, but not entirely, completely unlike what I wanted. Do you think you could rewrite it? The comments are in Track Changes, rather a lot of purple, I'm afraid. Oh, and could you have it back by EoD1 tomorrow?' Groan.
You spend all day with one eye on the digital clock, and part of your mind mumbling the mantram, 'Why didn't they tell me before I wrote this that all their customers were Republicans?'
Because it's easier to criticise than to use foresight. They're lazy, Binky. Live with it.
That's the inevitable kind of rewrite, the kind you can't avoid and is bad for your professional bottom line, as it takes up your time. But the kind we're more concerned with is what we have to pay attention to in fiction – the revisions that are a necessary part of the creative process. These alterations are generated in two ways: by ourselves, and by others.
Let's get the other-initiated rewriting out of the way first. If you've got a writing partner, or you regularly submit your prose/poetry to a workshop, you're used to getting feedback. Feedback may lead to changes. It may not. That depends on you. The kind of feedback you get in a workshop may be practical – 'I found a typo, and you changed the character's ethnicity halfway through the story', for example. Many of us refer to this process as 'having an extra pair of eyes', and it's a useful form of cooperation.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle could have used a writing partner, or at least a good proofreader. Unfortunately, the poor man was sitting in his surgery (that's what he called his office) the whole time, scribbling away with a steel-nibbed pen, of all the awful things, on something called foolscap (=watermarked paper), in between patients. Lack of editorial supervision led to bloopers like this one:
"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in."
"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a light-house.
"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?"
"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too.' – The Man with the Twisted Lip, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
What is wrong with this, I hear you ask? You must not be a Sherlock Holmes fan. Everybody knows that Watson's first name is John. Everyone except his wife, that is.
How can you help a friend decide on rewrites? The best kind of feedback is offered in this spirit: You try to help your writing friend accomplish his goal. His, not yours. Feedback that starts with 'I don't believe the world is like that' is neither welcome nor useful.
How can you decide whether to accept suggestions from your friends? Same way. Ask yourself, 'How does this feedback indicate that I'm not getting my point across?' Revise accordingly. They may hate your main character. Let 'em. Figure out if they can understand what he's doing.
An example of this kind of feedback is the anecdote told by the late Isaac Asimov2 about attending the premiere of 2001: A Space Odyssey. When HAL, the insane shipboard computer, assassinated one of the human characters, Asimov was so upset that he jumped up and shouted, 'He can't do that! He's violating the First Law of Robotics!'
To which Arthur C Clarke, sitting beside him, replied calmly, 'This is my story, Isaac, not yours.' 'Nuff said.
Once you've dealt with the alterations that others want, suggest, hint, or outright demand, you have to deal with your own urge to tinker and fiddle3. There's where you have to avoid what I call the Frank O'Connor trap. O'Connor was a master of the short story. He also appears to have had Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. He rewrote each story up to fifty times. All his editors had tales to tell about working with him, trying to get him to leave well enough alone. Sean O'Faolain, another great Irish literary figure, accused O'Connor of 'forgery' by rewriting so much. This made O'Connor angry, but there's something to the suggestion that endless rewriting can destroy the creative integrity of a work. When O'Connor's work was finally 'finished' – usually when his publisher strong-armed the manuscript out of his hands – the results were amazing. Read this gem of a little story and see.
At any rate, when you're rewriting, be glad for the Word (Microsoft, not the Logos). Whether you use Track Changes, or simply open a new document and use Copy & Paste, rewriting these days is never the chore it was in the days of that awkward pen-and-foolscap business. On the other hand, the old methods allow us to peek over the shoulders of great authors such as Charles Dickens, who apparently did a lot of rewriting on A Christmas Carol. By reading his manuscript, for example, we can discover that the decision to save Tiny Tim's life was a happy afterthought on the part of the storyteller – in the original draught, we don't learn Tim's fate. Whew, that would have ruined our holiday.
When should you rewrite? When should you stop, and send your work out into the world?
'Begin at the beginning,' the King said gravely, 'and go on till you come to the end: then stop.' – Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
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