A Confession About Revision—Let the Carnage Begin

The hardest—and probably most painful—part of writing is accepting criticism.

When I walk into class after returning their first edited manuscript, some students smile politely while mourning the loss of a limb; others behave as if I’ve performed a full lobotomy. I sigh the unavoidable sigh of a writing teacher, hand back the pages, and brace myself. There’s no other way out. I have to give them the news the same way I’d want it delivered to me.

I still remember my first editorial review from a writing professor. I thanked him feebly, but panic nearly paralyzed me. Was he telling me my work was hopeless? Unrevivable? My only comfort was knowing he let me keep coming back.

The first draft is a joyride—a glorious shut-off-the-brain sprint so the story can tumble out. But revision? That’s when the gloves go on and we start poking around inside the body. Is that a tumor? Will that limb need amputation? I nearly second-guessed myself into heart failure while learning to self-edit. Usually, the answer is yes—cut deep. Leave the manuscript bloodied, but better.

Before I understood the discipline of revision, I felt like Dr. Frankenstein, slapping on new body parts, hoping I was making something human. I’d breathe life into it, watch my creation sit up and speak—and then thank me for bringing it to life. But after twelve flat rejections, I feared I was only creating monsters.

Fortunately, my writing teacher kept returning—each time with more carnage—until I realized he was giving me life and breath from his own hard-earned editing lessons. Eventually, I grew hungry for the next edit. Maybe I was a little bloodthirsty. His zeal for the process gave me the courage to face the mess. I dissected his comments, shook the secrets out of them, and listened for what they were trying to teach me.

I would no sooner finish a story proposal than he’d say, “Send it out.” It became an exercise in collecting rejections. Then one day, after receiving about ten of my stories, an editor called. “This one’s not a fit,” he said, “but I wanted to tell you—your writing has improved by leaps and bounds this year. I expect to hear you’ve sold a book soon.”

It wasn’t the news I hoped for. But it was exactly what I needed.

That may have been the moment I began writing toward an audience. I often ask my students, “Who wants to write a story no one wants to read?”

Three stories later, I sold my first novel. Lucky thirteen.

Setting out to write something of worth starts with carnage, some wailing, and a monster or two. But if you persist—if you revise—it ends with something human. Now, when I begin a new novel, I brace for the butchery ahead. I expect it. I welcome it. And when that early draft lies untouched on the page, I look it over with anticipation.

Scalpel ready.

Let the carnage begin.