On Revising For a Deadline
Or, rather, on not revising for a deadline.
See, it’s easy to decide on an arbitrary deadline, the date by which my story or chapter should be done. I’m really good at that. The hard — nay, impossible — part is actually meeting it.
I don’t think this is because I’m bad at revising. I write lots, even when I don’t feel like it, even when every word I write seems to me to be trash. I propose instead that I’m terrible at deciding on deadlines.
Like everyone else, I have this abstract idea of revision as something so easy it should take no time at all. And, to be fair, great revision ideas practically beg for this misunderstanding: they’re so simple, so unifying, so clear that once you’ve thought of them, it’s obvious they’ll compress the story in hot fusion until your unruly lump of coal bursts into brilliance in its new diamond life. Presto-change-o done.
All I have to do is make the main plot this instead of that. If I combine those two characters, everything else works out. If I cut away all the dross, the gold will shine through.
Sounds simple even when you know better, huh?
The trouble is, revision in the theoretical gestalt is easy and freeing — revision in the details to make that whole happen is painstaking and hard.
How did I think this change was going to work? I forgot about the scene that makes it JUST IMPOSSIBLE. Yes, yes, yes, putting the murder the chapter before the theft seemed like the way to go, only I forgot that using the grapple to steal the diamond means that Sir Percy has to still be alive. I can’t very well think of a whole new solution to the mystery, can I? (… Wait, can I?)
When I first set about revising my 60K manuscript this spring, my guesstimates of when I might finish were as laughably innocent as Pollyanna*: sure, I’m moving on the first of the month, but I definitely should be able to rip everything apart at the seams and hand-sew it, stitch-by-stitch back together so that it looks even better than before. Oh? For some strange reason, I didn’t manage it? It must be a fluke. I definitely can keep to the chapter-a-day schedule I’ve set myself for the next month.
Er… hmmm. That one didn’t work either, did it? Uh… look over there!
I’m lucky that my self-imposed schedule didn’t work out. For me, I’ve learned, it means that I’m living up to the most important thing I ever learned in school at any level: my third- and fourth-grade teacher’s motto. If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.
I was the kind of kid who’d do a “research” project the night before by reading the encyclopedia and summarizing from there and still do OK. My revisions used to be along the same lines: oh, you don’t find the main character likeable? Well, I wrote in two lines that mention how she volunteers at an animal shelter. Done. The plot moves too slowly? No problem: I combined a couple scenes near the beginning and again in the middle and did minor line-edits with the rest. Problem?
To be fair, some kinds of writing are amenable to strict, fast deadlines. Some (fortunate) kinds of writers are, too. For example, for me, blog entries are something I can write to a deadline. I can have one ready each week unless my life goes haywire. Likewise, when I was a grad student, I could write papers and dissertation chapters at a reasonable clip when end of term loomed.
But when it comes to my fiction, I might have to face the fact that I have to balance classic “butt in chair” writing advice with the equally classic “put the draft in a desk drawer for a couple weeks to gain perspective on your work.” Fact is, sometimes, my mental Archimedes wants a good, long soak before he’s ready to jump out shouting “Eureka!”** The harder I concentrate on my characters and bash my forehead against the brick wall of HOW. DO. I. FIX. THIS., the more solid it becomes. And of course, my headache gets worse.
In the silent cocoon of my hard drive, novels amass the author insight to evolve from Metapod to Butterfree (what, did you expect a classy metaphor?) Case in point: for almost two weeks, I stressed and strained over how I could POSSIBLY finish this new chapter in my current WiP. What would make sense? What wouldn’t make sense? Did I even have a plan in the first place?
And then when I was walking home from boxing the other night, letting myself forget about my chapter woes, thinking about only the new sequences we learned and what lessons I needed to plan during my office hours, the answer full-grown Athena’d from my brain.
Duh, the assumption I’d been working with was wrong. I was clinging to a holdover from my previous draft, not moving the story in the way that best served the new plot.
But even though I know it’s best for my story, I still feel ashamed that I’ve made myself a liar. I said June 1. I’m at Sept. 8 and counting. I would never mess up a deadline that badly for my colleagues or students. I certainly wouldn’t have done it to my customers when I ran my own treasure-hunt-planning business.
I should be ashamed, but not because revising is taking me so long. Instead, I should be ashamed that I know exactly how long it will take me to plan a lesson, mark a paper, or post a class announcement. I know how to give myself extra hours in case other tasks come up.
But the work I love best in the world? The work nobody but me can do (i.e. writing my story)? Instead of telling myself to take the time to do it right, I rush. I panic: what if this moment right now is the exact right moment to get an agent’s attention or land on an editor’s desk or become a critically lauded multi-millionaire bestseller? I don’t have confidence in my process, so instead of plotting out twists and turns and red herrings, I plot out much less plausible personal schedules that would require Hermione Granger’s Time-Turner.
But actually, what I really need is a Post-It note. I need to stick it on the wall above my desk.
It has to say: REVISION TAKES THE TIME IT TAKES.
In fact, Scotty might have the right idea — but why only four? Go big or go home, Mr. Scott.
* I think. I never watched it. A family friend used it as a threat when we were misbehaving.