The internet is stuffed with advice on how to edit, most of it couched in violent terms that imply ruthlessness. Viciousness seems a necessary attribute for any writer who aims to successfully improve their own work. The most famous ones quotes, of course, are these:
Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetuate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it–whole-heartedly–and delete it before sending your manuscript to press. Murder your darlings.
The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shockproof, shit detector. This is the writer’s radar and all great writers have had it.
But what if you’re too ruthless?
If you’re anything like me, you know that there’s such a thing as being too hard on your own work. You have no problem culling words (hell, I enjoy it!). Your shit detector is screaming constantly. Kill your darlings? In the past I’ve interpreted that as taking out every line I actually liked. Joy in any part of the work was suspect. I can’t afford to be precious.
And the shit detector-! Every single word sets it off. Every “is” or “was” or “been” or “had”–blaring klaxons. Every word is one too many. I’ve leaned into the 10% Solution and Refuse to Be Done lists of words to eliminate from my writing, and I’m darn good at hunting them down and removing them. I’ve gotten so good at pulling out words, that I’ve found there’s even a negative-buoyancy point when the words just start tumbling out of their own accord, the word count going into free fall.
However, while I’d never say trimming a work back is a bad practice, there is a point of diminishing returns, and the risk of the dreaded overworking.
How much is too much editing?
If you listen to all the advice online, it seems geared specifically towards writers who don’t want to edit. We’re pushed to produce a shitty first draft, because you can’t edit what you haven’t written. Writing is rewriting. We’re expected to do four, five, fifteen drafts, because that’s what good work takes. Dedication and persistence unto excellence.
But what about writers who loathe their work at times? Who hate everything about what they’ve produced and can’t see a way to make it any better? Advice to edit and edit and edit is stymieing, paralyzing. And the truth is, too, that you can ruin a work with too much tweaking. You can suck the life out of your work, draining it of passion and excitement and interest. In painting, it’s called muddying, when you’ve over-blended, over-mixed, and your contrasts have melded to nearly the same tone, and the colors are bland and lack brightness. I’m well familiar with overworking in painting, but writing?
How can I tell when done is done?
This is what I’ve been struggling with as long as I can remember writing. Of course, there are quotes about “abandoning” rather than “finishing,” but even that implies perpetual work could be beneficial. I can’t tell you the number of stories I’ve written and wrestled with, eventually tucking into some innocuous computer folder for further revision once “I know what to do with it.” The problem, of course, is that I sometimes never know what to do to fix the issue. Sometimes it’s a problem with the core idea. Sometimes it’s a bad POV or the wrong voice or the wrong angle on the story. Sometimes I can tell I just don’t fully believe what I’m writing, which is death for any speculative story. Lack of confidence is another one that’s hard to pin down (I can’t tell you the number of times as a slush editor I read a story and thought, WOW, this person knows what they’re doing–confidence shines through).
And never being done? Never letting go of an imperfect work? That’s the same as trunking a story. Because as I get older, I realize there are stories I’m never going to revisit and fix. I’m not the same person or writer I was when I created the story in the first place, and my motivation to write it has gone. And that feels–to me–so much worse than sending out something that may not be perfect.
Letting go takes practice.
This month, I’ve been focusing on letting go. I’ve been looking at my editing method, doing what I can to cut extraneous words with a scalpel instead of a chainsaw, and training myself to look for what I like about a piece. Because that’s the only method I can think of to preserve the heart of a work: keep what you love. Not every useless thing, but a few are okay. Give yourself breathing room. I’ve taken the Marie Kondo method out of the home and into my work: does it spark joy? If so, then keep it. If not? Let it go.
Editors aren’t going to remember your name for a bad piece of writing. They’re getting hundreds, possibly thousands of submissions. A bad submission is just an easy rejection.
I’ve had too many stories I held on to, thinking I’d fix them someday, only to submit them as-is later and find them solid homes without any of the major edits I personally feared they might need. Looking back at them now, I’m not at all ashamed of them. Sometimes I need that outside perspective to see what works. Experience has also shown me that I’ve successfully placed work I didn’t harp on too heavily, meaning the less-stringently edited work might have a value I can’t judge particularly well: a vibrancy or chaos that lets it breathe.
So I’m limiting my editing. I’m still going through my drafts, reading aloud for flow, and listening via dictation software for those odd spots that feel clunky. I’m trying to be more conscious of how many characters and settings I’m putting into a story BEFORE I need to evaluate whether they’re necessary. I’m keeping a list of words I personally use too often (“so,” for example, and “little” and “just”), and I’m trying to weed those out of drafts. But I’m not letting myself set things aside for “when I know what to do,” because that’s the tar pit I get stuck in. I’m not writing off resting periods for work entirely, but I’m limiting it to days or a week, at most, rather than letting that period expand into months and months. It’s never really helped a story to rest that long.
I like the term “weeding” for editing. It’s less violent, less ruthless. Weeding is a delicate process. You must remove only that which steals life and energy from the delicate roots surrounding it, the roots you want to keep.
And weeding is impossible with a chainsaw.