A Self-Editing Checklist for the Exhausted Writer

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Abstract

writing can be improved with time and care, but usually between the first and second edit, things get stunted for me. At this point, I typically just want to be done with the damned thing.When I fail in my edits, it’s because I succumb to my own impatience or weariness at this point, and the impulse to finish outpaces my desire to produce good work. Much as writing requires dedication, editing is its own discipline, one based in habits that constantly reveal my own natural traps. It is vulnerable, interrogating those weak points.It’s no wonder I loathe it.For me, the best way to trick myself into doing necessary labor is to build a to-do list. For draft #2, I find it useful to fill a page in my notebook with a list of checks, such as:<ul><li>Be wary of ‘of’: This is an annoying but revealing trick. I’ll search the document for every instance of the word “of” to see where I’ve stretched out phrases rather than wording ideas directly (i.e., She found herself wondering what kind of person she was becoming, vs. She wondered who she’d become).</li><li>Make quotes pop: Often if I zip through and look at the quotes or dialogue, I can find spots that need clearer attribution. Or perhaps attribution is altogether unneeded, or the volley between quotes is too fast, and I should slow things down by giving one speaker a quick description (i.e., He said, “X.” She said, “Y.” He said, “Z.” She said, “ABC?” ready to vomit.) Then, cut it all back. Much as I love including a source’s voice, a snippet of meaningful dialogue carries more punch than a big block quote.</li><li>Watch for the sprawl: As someone who often writes on assignment, I usually work to a set wordcount, then run right past it. To start trimming, it helps to scroll through and do a quick wordcount for each section in the piece. I jot that list of section word tallies on a post-it. Those numbers in a line show the rhythm of the ideas I’ve strung together. The sections don’t all need to be equivalent. (There can be good reasons to have punchy, short sections here and there.) But when I find one section sprawling out at twice or even three times the average length of the others, that’s a sure sign there’s an idea that either needs to be spli

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t into two sections or carefully preened away.</li><li>Cool the em dashes: Good god, I love an em dash. A quick scan for them usually shows multiple lines mashed together with one hand-holding em dash after another — me, interrupting myself, repeatedly, with rude disregard. I will always keep a few but untangling the thickest nests of em dashes usually forces me to pry loose the smaller, component, but clearer sentences.</li></ul>I’ll count completing a list like this and another read-through as the second draft. By now I have come to resent the thing I love. If at all possible, it’s wise to get at least a day away for distance, longer for lengthier pieces. For the third draft, I make the copy itself look different. I’ll turn the document to landscape layout, put it into columns, choose a new and odd font. Comic Sans for a tragedy? Sure. Make that bright, pink Comic Sans.This makes my darlings and my word wrecks all look equally absurd. Killable.The battle of later editing rounds, for me, is trying not to default to what I think I already wrote — the articulate dream draft I’d pictured in my mind — and face the choppy reality before me.By draft three though, some of the lines have started to smooth, and whatever themes reside within that I hadn’t noticed (or even intended) start to make themselves known. I can see an impression of the story I meant to write and where it needs nurturing to solidify. Sometimes I’ll read this silly-looking draft and simply highlight the clunker phrases so I can come back to fill in improvements later.Last, I use the read aloud function to hear the piece and catch any haltering moments.Sadly, even after all this, the work isn’t done, but I’ve reached my capacity to see where it needs more help by myself. Now, I’m likely up against deadline. It’s an unexplored rule of the physical universe that my ability to self-edit is directly correlated to deadline. Time’s up, my brain turns off. There’s nothing more I can do, and I don’t want to anyway.This is precisely why writers will loyally follow good editors anywhere. There’s little better than a wise reader unafraid to tell you how to do better, spare you working out draft number four on your own.</article></body>

Tricks for going from first draft to nearly-finished when your mind just wants to be done

Over the coming weeks, writer Sarah Stankorb offers a window into her process. She says there’s no single, right way to write, but a glimpse at another writer’s tricks can offer insights into one’s own methods.

Finishing a first draft is a brain-emptying venture. Whether by plotter’s outline or zipping through a vomit draft (“pantser” mode), the momentum of fresh words on a page can be hard to match. It’s the activity of creation. If you’re lucky, it carries a sense of being touched by the muse.

Almost always, the result, even if inspired, is a bit of a mess.

Most writers recognize a first edit may be painful, like reviewing one’s junior high school photos. Both represent a period of ample potential squeaking out in uncontrolled combinations that only rarely can be called beautiful. The human form takes time to develop, settle into itself. In the first edit, all the gawky parts lunge forth. It’s easiest then to see what isn’t working, where thoughts don’t string together, where whole words are missing. I’ll give the partially formed thing a read and mark it up on paper and make the changes to my document.

A piece of writing can be improved with time and care, but usually between the first and second edit, things get stunted for me. At this point, I typically just want to be done with the damned thing.

When I fail in my edits, it’s because I succumb to my own impatience or weariness at this point, and the impulse to finish outpaces my desire to produce good work. Much as writing requires dedication, editing is its own discipline, one based in habits that constantly reveal my own natural traps. It is vulnerable, interrogating those weak points.

It’s no wonder I loathe it.

For me, the best way to trick myself into doing necessary labor is to build a to-do list. For draft #2, I find it useful to fill a page in my notebook with a list of checks, such as:

Be wary of ‘of’: This is an annoying but revealing trick. I’ll search the document for every instance of the word “of” to see where I’ve stretched out phrases rather than wording ideas directly (i.e., She found herself wondering what kind of person she was becoming, vs. She wondered who she’d become).

Make quotes pop: Often if I zip through and look at the quotes or dialogue, I can find spots that need clearer attribution. Or perhaps attribution is altogether unneeded, or the volley between quotes is too fast, and I should slow things down by giving one speaker a quick description (i.e., He said, “X.” She said, “Y.” He said, “Z.” She said, “ABC?” ready to vomit.) Then, cut it all back. Much as I love including a source’s voice, a snippet of meaningful dialogue carries more punch than a big block quote.

Watch for the sprawl: As someone who often writes on assignment, I usually work to a set wordcount, then run right past it. To start trimming, it helps to scroll through and do a quick wordcount for each section in the piece. I jot that list of section word tallies on a post-it. Those numbers in a line show the rhythm of the ideas I’ve strung together. The sections don’t all need to be equivalent. (There can be good reasons to have punchy, short sections here and there.) But when I find one section sprawling out at twice or even three times the average length of the others, that’s a sure sign there’s an idea that either needs to be split into two sections or carefully preened away.

Cool the em dashes: Good god, I love an em dash. A quick scan for them usually shows multiple lines mashed together with one hand-holding em dash after another — me, interrupting myself, repeatedly, with rude disregard. I will always keep a few but untangling the thickest nests of em dashes usually forces me to pry loose the smaller, component, but clearer sentences.

I’ll count completing a list like this and another read-through as the second draft. By now I have come to resent the thing I love. If at all possible, it’s wise to get at least a day away for distance, longer for lengthier pieces. For the third draft, I make the copy itself look different. I’ll turn the document to landscape layout, put it into columns, choose a new and odd font. Comic Sans for a tragedy? Sure. Make that bright, pink Comic Sans.

This makes my darlings and my word wrecks all look equally absurd. Killable.

The battle of later editing rounds, for me, is trying not to default to what I think I already wrote — the articulate dream draft I’d pictured in my mind — and face the choppy reality before me.

By draft three though, some of the lines have started to smooth, and whatever themes reside within that I hadn’t noticed (or even intended) start to make themselves known. I can see an impression of the story I meant to write and where it needs nurturing to solidify. Sometimes I’ll read this silly-looking draft and simply highlight the clunker phrases so I can come back to fill in improvements later.

Last, I use the read aloud function to hear the piece and catch any haltering moments.

Sadly, even after all this, the work isn’t done, but I’ve reached my capacity to see where it needs more help by myself. Now, I’m likely up against deadline. It’s an unexplored rule of the physical universe that my ability to self-edit is directly correlated to deadline. Time’s up, my brain turns off. There’s nothing more I can do, and I don’t want to anyway.

This is precisely why writers will loyally follow good editors anywhere. There’s little better than a wise reader unafraid to tell you how to do better, spare you working out draft number four on your own.