Now that the first serious draft of my Katyn manuscript is complete, I now begin the next stage of the writing process: the revision. Revising one’s written work is both exciting and daunting. The etymological roots of “revision” are “to look or see at again,” “to visit again,” and “to look back.” The word history for “revision” suggests a coming to terms with the past, a re-examination of one’s previous writing. I tell my college students that they aren’t the same students and writers they once were when they began the semester. Intellectual growth has occurred. Their thinking has deepened, and therefore, their writing has become stronger, more thoughtful, and more eloquent. When they complete their Final Revision Projects in my Writing courses, I also ask them to write a self-reflection, a kind of self-diagnostic essay that asks them to identify and articulate the changes in their writing, comparing their new strengths and weaknesses as writers with their earlier strengths and weaknesses as writers. Like my students’ self-reflections, in this blog, I, too, notice new, dynamic changes in my writing (and thinking).
Revision of my Katyn manuscript is exciting because it now allows me to consider things I had wanted to incorporate in my writing, but for whatever reason, I backed out from it. Revision can be a confidence-booster. A familiar speaking line in my writing classes is when I tell my students: “The reason we don’t short-change or omit the revision stage of our writing process is because I don’t want you to experience the ‘OMG” moment when you place your writing assignment on my desk. The ‘oh, no! I forgot to mention X, or I should have taken out Y and replace it with Z.’ For those reasons and more, we give ourselves time to revise.” Because revision is a kind of reckoning with the past, we need time for revision; as writers, we need to schedule plenty of time to revise. We need time to revise. Don’t rush the process, don’t rush through revision. Our first drafts aren’t our final drafts. Otherwise, as Anne Lamont famously has written, our first drafts will remain shitty. Revising our writing reduces the shittiness of our drafts.
Revision of my Katyn manuscript simultaneously is daunting because revising is terrifying. I’m no different from my students who voice misgivings about revising their written work. “Do I really need to? Is revision just busy-work?” are serious questions my students sometimes ask. I empathize particularly with students who must revise extensively their drafts. “I know. I get it. You work hard. Writing the paper took you a long time to complete. And now, I’m telling you to cut this out. And the cuts may consist of several paragraphs, even pages that you think are examples of great writing. But, please understand something. When I wrote my Melville dissertation, I went through 7 very different versions of my Moby-Dick chapter. And I cut several pages. Doing so hurt me. A lot. However, when I completed the final 7th version of the chapter, I saw that it was much better than the first draft. And I felt satisfied and proud. I felt glad that I overcame my pride and hurt feelings to persevere and go through multiple drafts to reach the 7th one which turned out to be the version.” Revision initially is painful; however, revision is an endurance race. Once you reach the final stretch, your attitude changes; you feel uplifted by the accomplishment.
When I reached the 500-page mark of my Katyn manuscript, I heard multiple voices that questioned whether I needed those 500 pages, and indeed whether I needed additional pages to finish the manuscript. I realize now I became too self-conscious about the length. What was needed during the (first) drafting phase was to write. And not to worry about how long the draft would be. I should’ve listened to the professorial voice in my head when I tell my students: “When you’re drafting, just commit all—and I mean ALL—your ideas on paper. Don’t worry about grammar and structure and organization and spelling. Some of those concerns are for the editing phase of the writing process. You’re not there, yet. Drafting includes everything you want, need to say. So, say it. You can always take things out, LATER, when you’re revising.”
Now that the first major reading of my Katyn manuscript is complete, King Arthur and I agreed that certain passages, including whole chapters, need to be omitted, thus freeing up space for new material to be added. Some of those cuts hurt me because I invested deep emotional connections to those chapters; however, King Arthur sympathized, reminding me that those sections may be powerfully moving, but they are tangents, too far removed from my Katyn experiences. I realize that insight is an honest and profound one, and, more importantly, I agree that I need to cut them out. At the same time, there are two sections or so I still believe I shouldn’t remove from the manuscript; however, my fight to resist those cuts may be content for another blog. And perhaps as I dive deeper into the revision stage, I may realize that I need to separate myself from those sections. I’ll see.
Nonetheless, I also agree wholeheartedly with King Arthur that particular sections in the manuscript need more writing because, as he calls them, these are “the reaching the top of Mount Everest” moments. I need to spend more time viewing the world from the top of my Everest. I need to savor the hard-won victory of reaching the top of my Everest. After the difficulties of travelling to the Katyn Massacre kill sites and dumping grounds I experienced and wrote about, King Arthur the reader wanted to see more, feel more, experience more those places. King Arthur the reader wanted to know how those moments changed me. I agree.
King Arthur the editor entered this project with his proverbial editorial scissors, and his professed task as my editor was to cut things out. He made strong cases to cut this and to cut that. Objectively I, too, saw that I needed to cut this and to cut that; when I viewed my manuscript as a “writing professor,” I understood why King Arthur called for me to cut this and that. I agree that I need to cut those sections.
I must thank King Arthur because he has helped me to become a better writer. His keen editorial senses, and more importantly, his sensitive reading skills are not only impressive but have taught me many new lessons on being a reader myself. Writers write for an audience, and editors are members of that audience, too. More than an editor, King Arthur taught me new lessons on how to revise.