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. Us...
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