Monday 19 February 2024
When drafting this blog on revision, I initially entitled it, “When Revision Is Cutting.” I liked the title. Within moments after writing out the title in my notebook, I fastened upon the word, “Cutting.” I grimaced, puzzling over “Cutting.” I didn’t like the word. Slashing, carving, lacerating…. all violent and destructive actions. I wasn’t swinging a cleaver in a butcher’s shop, chopping off inedible parts of my Katyn manuscript. “What exactly am I doing during this revision,” I questioned myself. Again, more aggressive, lethal words came to mind: getting rid of, eliminating, taking out. I was attempting to improve a work of non-fiction, not destroy something. For me, all works of creativity possess an energy or aura (to use Walter Benjamin’s terminology), and by “cutting” the manuscript, was I bleeding out that energy?
Before you accuse me of exaggerating or over-writing about a common and necessary part of revision, I need to say that revision shouldn’t be done nonchalantly. Cutting for the sake of cutting isn’t revision. When a gardener is pruning a plant, they must be mindful of not cutting too much because cutting off too many branches can weaken, even kill the plant. Pruning theoretically promotes growth, but when done incorrectly, pruning can do more harm than good.
The writer while in the revision stage of “cutting” must know the reasons why they’re “cutting;” otherwise, the manuscript, too, can be harmed. Is the writer removing a section that is tangential, a branch impeding the way of the main branch? Is the writer clipping a digressive section that then makes room for the main branch to bud more flowers? Knowing what to cut to promote growth isn’t easily done. How do you coach the writer to sense when to cut or keep a section? Having an outline of some sort is instrumental; however, the writer must have the vision of the final message for their writing. With time, an honest writer will also see which parts of their writing obscure that vision or enhance it.
I have “cut” sections out from my Katyn manuscript; however, I prefer to describe this “cutting” as letting go. Being emotionally attached to one’s writing makes revision almost impossible. Writers try to be objective and neutral, but writers need to be mindful of their subjectivity. Having a first-rate editor helps to bring perspective to the writer. And yes, I have disagreed with my manuscript editor. The editorial comments: “I know you don’t want to hear this, but…” or “I know the experience you wrote about was important to you, but it’s not for your Katyn story” originally stung and confused me, but, with time (time meaning reflection), I, too, understood I needed to hear that a particular written section doesn’t enhance my writer’s vision of my Katyn story. I don’t want to use the word “divorce” glibly, but I needed to learn how to free myself from those emotionally important but irrelevant sections of written text. In a desperate, last moment effort to not “cut” a particular section, I counter-argued my manuscript editor, saying, “But what if I add stronger transitions….” He sighed. I did, too.
In revision, letting go isn’t easy. A kind of disillusionment is at work. In that in-between space of denial or holding on to a previous belief and acceptance or welcoming of a new, stronger belief, I am still learning that profound lesson of freeing myself from ultimately (or should I say truthfully?) irrelevant sections of the manuscript. In fact, I am still clinging to one part of the manuscript. The sentimentalist in me is blocking me from departing with it. Before I highlight the written section slated for “cutting,” and click (and the writing professor in me knows I must click) the delete button on my keyboard, I ask again how irrelevant this section is. A (paraphrased) Ralph Waldo Emerson insight comes to mind: with every gain there is a loss. Perhaps I need to rearrange, or rather, revise that line, making it read as: with every loss there is a gain. Maybe that insight is the one I need to study most.