Unwrite

The hardest lesson to learn about writing is how to unwrite. In writing, as in life, victory comes to those who fail well. To misquote Samuel Becket: Fail, fail again, fail better. Thomas Edison exemplified this, saying that his many attempts to discover how to make a long-lasting light bulb were not failures, but that they were opportunities to learn what does not work. When I toured his research facility as a child, the boxes of various potential filament materials were kept in small drawers in a long hallway, and stood as a dramatic visual reminder of how important failure is. Learning to write means, more than anything else, learning what not to write. You do that by writing a lot, and throwing most of it away.

There are three reasons I think revision is the most important part of writing. After reviewing these, I explain how I revise my own work. Just as everyone writes differently, they also revise differently; my approach may not be the best, but an example may be useful. Finally, I discuss relationship of clear writing to clear thinking.

Why Prioritize Revision?

There are three major reasons revision is the most important part of writing. First, separating out the editorial process from the creative process avoids the potential of “stuttering”: that is, writing in bursts and then repeatedly going back and fixing your work as you are writing. When writing took place more often on yellow pads and a typewriter, this sort of separation was the obvious process. The ease with which work can now be altered means that we often take two steps forward and one backspace. This is no substitute for rewriting and proofreading, it only guarantees that both will be done poorly. By clearly creating before editing, you remove the filter, and allow yourself to write without worrying–the best salve to writers’ block.

The second reason it is worth prioritizing the process of revision is that it provides a much more tractable way of improving your writing. Certainly practicing the act of writing is, itself, one way of improving, but you may just be reinforcing bad habits. Any sort of learning requires a feedback loop: some understanding of what you want to do more of and what you want to do less of. Your writing may improve very gradually simply by writing more, but in revising you learn to separate the good from the bad, and this means your writing can improve more quickly.

Lastly, you are judged not by what you write, but by what others read. Revision can make you a better writer in the long run, and in the short run it can make you appear to be a better writer to others. Good revision, then, means that you are freed to write, that you become a better writer, and that you are thought of as a good writer. Given this, it would be a mistake to not make time for revision. Not revising may not save you any time, and in the process makes you look less capable than you are and provides less opportunity to become more capable.

When to Revise

We have already determined when not to revise: during the process of writing. But revising shouldn’t immediately follow the completion of writing. Like a fine wine, you need to let something air out before you can revise it. You have to come to it as a stranger. Horace recommended you wait nine years before revising something. For most emails and just about anything else we write, waiting nine years before writing a second draft is just not going to happen. For an email, it’s great if you can let it rest as a draft for a few minutes, then come back to it. For a paper or article, it’s wonderful if you can leave it for at least a day. The idea is that you need to get some cognitive distance, need to be able to treat it as something alien to yourself. In many cases, I’ve left a paper that I thought was completely finished, only to find that I have completely left out necessary articles or verbs. Just because I know what I meant to write does not mean that it managed to be correctly expressed.

Revise, Then Proofread

Good writing doesn’t happen linearly, it happens in layers. The ideas are rebuilt over time, with only the best material retained. It is a bit like sculpting, in that you remove chunks from the original that no longer work. Of course, you also often add material, but usually revision means that you end up with less than what you begin with. And like diamonds, which require careful cutting to reach any real brilliance, this process of removing the unnecessary is central to the revision process at each stage.

But particularly in the first revision, rearrangement of elements often takes priority. The way we tell stories in everyday life can inform the way we write, but writing is necessarily structured in a less linear fashion. Even if you do not begin by outlining a piece of work–and few writers do–you should do some form of outlining during revision to make sure that the structure of your document is clear to both you and to your potential readers. It is an effective way of seeing whether you have said what you set out to say.

That outline should make clear whether you have adequately defended your thesis. In most cases, you haven’t, but you may have found another thesis along the way that is more interesting and compelling. Be a critical reader of your own work and identify the ideas that stick out as being original and intriguing, as well as ideas that are not directly relevant to your main argument. You don’t owe any allegiance to your initial thesis, but you need to have a good thesis at the end of the process, and your reader must be able to easily identify that thesis. If you’ve found something more interesting, precise, surprising, and exciting as a thesis, rewrite your thesis statement to reflect this, and reorganize your piece to support that new thesis.

If there are parts of your argument that are showing up in the wrong order, or the wrong place, this is the time to fix that. You should read your paper in the character of the most objectionable, skeptical, rude, and obnoxious reader possible. Try to ask the tough questions of your prose. Look for holes, and when you find them, add the material that will help you to keep your detractors at bay.

Perfect Paragraphs

Once your document is appropriately structured, and you have a good idea of how each paragraph supports your argument, it is time to look at the interior of those paragraphs. Like the piece as whole, the structure of your paragraph should be obvious. Look at each paragraph in turn. Make sure it has a topic sentence, and that the paragraph tackles a single idea. That idea should be supported by a series of claims, with clear evidence that is explicitly linked to those claims.

Within each paragraph, determine what the major claims are. Remember, a claim is any statement of fact that isn’t common knowledge. So, when I say that Cincinnati is in Ohio, or that Einsteinium was discovered by Albert Ghiorso, or that the president is a natural citizen of the United States, these are matters of common knowledge. That doesn’t mean that everyone knows them, but that it is the sort of settled fact found in encyclopedias. Evidence should be provided for any claim that isn’t settled fact, and you should be making such claims, because otherwise your work isn’t providing anything of much interest. Evidence can be drawn from primary sources: that is, direct observation or gathering of evidence from source documents that tend to support your claim as factual. They can also draw on reputable authorities, in the form of secondary sources. If it turns out you just don’t have evidence for a point, or that it is merely anecdotal evidence, it does not mean the claim must be excluded. No one writes perfectly supported arguments. But you should make your case as strongly as you know how, and be aware of those weaknesses and do whatever you can to make the claims compelling.

The length of paragraphs is often determined by the genre of a piece, but generally, avoid short paragraphs and very long paragraphs. By ensuring that there is only one major idea for each paragraph, you make it more likely that you will choose and appropriate length.

And Now, Re-Introducing…

Having fixed your paragraphs, argument, and structure, it’s time to finally write your lead and introduction. Yes, I know you already wrote it, but it’s crap. It is natural not to want to delete something you have created–no one said unwriting is easy–but if you want the finished product to be persuasive, you need to recognize that some of your writing needs to end up on the cutting room floor.

Actually, getting rid of that first draft of the introduction is usually the quickest and easiest way of improving a short piece of writing, particularly if it can just be lopped off. I’ve already suggested to two of you this semester that your work could have been improved by dropping the first one or two paragraphs, and coming quickly to the matter. Coming quickly to the heart of the matter in everyday conversation is considered rude. You are supposed to engage in small talk, to suggest that you see the other person as a friend and not merely as someone to do something for you. In writing, just the opposite is the case. There is no space here for small talk–drop it.

Some of the best writing is the kind that doesn’t hide. In the very first sentence it says: here I am, this is what I’m about, read me. It’s like Babe Ruth pointing out to the bleachers. It shows confidence that you know where you are going and promises you are going to take your reader there.

In any case, while you may have had an inkling of what your paper was about as you are writing it, it’s only after you’ve read it, and perhaps outlined the argument as a result, that you really know what it is about. As the first reader of the article, you are the best person to introduce it. Think about your reader: how do you get them instantly excited about what they are about to read? What are the key ideas that will motivate them to keep reading.

Simple Sentences

Now that you’ve wrapped up the structural pieces, it’s time to make every word and every sentence count. Going sentence by sentence is exceptionally difficult. After all, you’re bored by this stuff. You know what you wrote: you wrote it. It is really easy to find yourself skimming. You have to avoid that. You have to look, again, for every little piece you can jettison. The quality of your writing is not determined by what you write so much as it is determined by what you throw out. Look for every opportunity to make your sentences shorter and simpler. Make sure your sentences are sentences, and punctuation falls in the right place. Never forget to check your references.

Read the piece aloud. You may feel silly doing this the first few times, but nothing is better at catching awkward language or bad grammar than hearing yourself say it. Don’t just read quickly; speak the lines as if you’re being paid to do it in a recording studio for an audio book. And as you are speaking, listen carefully to how each sentence and each word sounds. If you have to go back and restart the sentence, there’s a good chance that a reader will have to do the same.

Stylin’ Diction

It’s important that your writing is clear, concise, and grammatically correct. Good, well structured writing works anywhere, but there are particular conventions for particular contexts. You don’t wear the same thing to a beach bar in Mexico as you do to a dinner party in London–at least unless you are James Bond. It’s worth noting that a very well fitting and classic tuxedo can be worn just about anywhere. You will attract attention when you walk into your favorite fast food establishment, but it probably won’t be negative attention. The same is true of writing: if you want to cultivate a single style, make it classic and a bit formal. (And formal writing–as with tuxedos–does not mean frilly. It means simple, crisp, and clean.) Formality requires more time for revision, but far better to overdress than to be asked to leave.

We generally understand that Instant Messaging allows for informality and that a cover letter for a job application does not. Email falls into a questionable in-between area. It’s often a less formal way of writing; I rarely address an email with “Dear Professor X.” If I were to send the president an email, it would take a force of will to begin with “Dear Mr. President:” rather than “Hey, Barack,” even though I would have no difficulty choosing the first for a letter typed on paper.

Emails may be our most “wrinkly” of written works, but at least a quick read-through will make you sound smarter. That will take more time,, but it also encourages you to keep your emails short and to the point. Take the five sentences pledge: keep your emails as brief as possible. Shorter, narrower, more concrete. All of these things lead to better writing. And the less you write in the first place, the more time you have to review it, and to make it as powerful, punchy, and exciting as possible.

Anything “above” the level of email should have time for revision written into the plan of creation. And that time for revising should be pretty extensive, making up well more than half your total writing time. That may seem like a lot, but only if you write slowly. Write fast; revise slowly. Leave that backspace key alone. Don’t edit until you actually have something substantial on the page.

Writing and Thinking Clearly

Writing is more than just reporting what you know. It is a way of actually finding things out, of learning. Many students have told me something like “I know what I want to say, I’m just not saying it right.” I want to yell “liar!” I used to think that too, when I was an undergrad. It is one of those myths–like “I want to leave some mystery in my writing to make it more complex”–that I am happy to have been mostly cured of. I now believe that if you can’t write something clearly, you simply do not understand it clearly. But by fixing your writing, you can often fix your thinking.

Revision is not merely something that happens with your writing or your documents. It is a more formal way of organizing your thoughts, your time, and your life. Revision requires looking at your work in a new way, and cutting away the unclear, the inefficient, the ugly, the self-involved, the parts that fail to do good work or pull you toward a conclusion. Clearer writing is a worthwhile goal in itself, but it can also lead to clearer thinking, and the ability to reach your goals more effectively outside the world of text.