Writing Is Rewriting Is Rewriting Is Rewriting

Posted by David Duhr in ABCs of Writing      63 comments

Feb
8

Discussion questions: What is your approach to rewriting and revision? Do you buy into the whole “Ninety percent of writing is rewriting” thing? Why or why not? Do you have a good example of a passage from your own work that you’ve changed so much, it barely resembles the original? If so, copy/paste the various versions in the comments below, and detail, if you’d like, its evolution.

The actual percentage will vary depending on your source, but there’s an old writer’s saw that goes, “Ninety percent of writing is rewriting.”

We’ve always believed this. It’s a rare writer who can sit down and bash out a draft that doesn’t need an immense amount of attention and love.

This was driven home to me earlier this week, as I flipped through my blue notebook and stumbled across the opening line of a story I began some months ago, a story that I’m now almost done with and am getting ready to submit for publication.

The original opening line bears little resemblance to the current version. Luckily I’ve saved the in-between drafts too, and so I thought it might be interesting to explore the evolution of the first sentence, and to try to remember, or guess, why I made the decisions I made during the various stages of rewriting/revision.

The original handwritten version, including crossouts, goes like this:

After Schneider’s funeral they we all went to Weisler’s to tip a few and tell Schneider stories, so of course Lenhart tells them us all the Navy one.

The following lines are in first-person plural, so that’s a decision I must’ve made in the moment, moving from “they” to “we,” from “them” to “us.” Following my instincts, which is something we always urge other writers to do.

It’s a simple line, about twenty-five words, just the one comma. It establishes the place and the situation — someone named Schneider has died, some group of people goes to a bar to tell stories about him, and someone named Lenhart goes first.

It also establishes something of an unpolished “voice”: “tip a few,” the use of Schneider’s and Lenhart’s surnames only. And the “of course” kinda/sorta implies that the perceived audience is familiar with these people, which I like.

But there’s something unsatisfying about the line. Maybe it’s a little too simple. And colorless! As a reader, I just want to shrug and say, “OK. So?”

As you’ll see, I later veer a little too far away from simple.

I also definitely do not like the repetition of “tell,” especially in such a short amount of space. Come on, David! Do better.

In the next version, I move back to the third-person and shift to present tense. By then I was writing on a computer, so there aren’t any strikethroughs; I don’t know what kinds of edits led to this:

After Schneider’s funeral some of the boys from the plant gather on the back patio of his favorite bar to daydrink and storytell, same as they did after Lathrop’s funeral, then BossMan’s, and Scholz’s, and same as they’ll do after the next.

A similar setup — Schneider is dead, people go to the bar. But clearly this time I felt a need to introduce this daydrinking/storytelling thing as a tradition. And add the fact that they work (ostensibly) at a plant.

It’s kind of clunky, though, and throws at the reader a lot of character names that have little to do with the rest of the story.

And it immediately deflects some attention away from Schneider, whose death is the occasion for the story. Also, I omitted any mention of the Navy, which is at the heart of not only Schneider’s death, but Lenhart’s story.

Oh yeah, I guess I also omitted Lenhart. He’ll come back. And then disappear again.

I go whole hog on the “voice” in the next draft:

After viewing Frankie Schneider’s carcass up at the Lutheran church we all go down to Weisler’s to tip a few in his name and take turns telling Schneider stories, so of course Lenhart goes first, you know how he is, and he starts with this one from twenty-five, thirty years ago about Schneider and some kid.

Back to a collective narrator, and this time the tone is more like an oral telling of the story of a night of storytelling.

I like the “up” at the church facing the “down” of the bar. And I took the “of course” thing even further this time, adding something of a direct address to the reader with “you know how he is” — Lenhart is someone you know, so of course he’d go first… you know how he is.

Plus, “carcass” is kind of a grabber. Why are they referring to their dead friend’s body as a carcass? Their dead friend whose name we know this time is Frankie.

I like the rhythm here, but as a first line, it’s… a lot. You might even call it off-putting. A 56-word run-on sentence with four commas is a bit much to open a story.

And it still doesn’t include mention of the Navy, which is more important to the story than the fact that Lenhart speaks first.

So in the next (and current, though probably not final) version, I push Lenhart out and instead spend some time establishing the themes to come. It’s even longer than the previous one, but the colon (I’d hope!) prevents it from being a potentially confusing run-on:

After gawking at Frankie’s carcass up at the Lutheran we all go down to Weisler’s to tip a few and tell Frankie stories, but after we get our pitchers all we can talk about is that U.S. Navy T-shirt he was stuffed into: who put it on him, was Frankie even in the Navy, can’t a workingman get some dignity in his goddamn box.

Not only does it mention the Navy, it specifically mentions the Navy T-shirt, which is really what sparks Lenhart’s tale to come. Frankie’s “carcass” is “stuffed into” the shirt, clearly an undignified look, especially for a funeral. Which the narrators are aware of, because last version’s “viewing” has become this version’s “gawking.” As much as they want to do their usual thing — tell old, comforting stories about their dead friend — the only thing on their minds is the hows and whys of this T-shirt.

And why don’t they even know if this friend of theirs was in the Navy? Will they (and we) find out by the story’s end?

It also, in a way some of the previous versions don’t, explicitly identifies these guys — or Frankie, at least, and the others, implicitly, by extension — as working-class.

It still showcases the demotic “voice” (gosh, I find it difficult to use that word with a straight face; that’s probably why I use the quotes), but in a more controlled fashion.

I’m sure I’ll do more work on this — it’s a story-in-progress — but I think this line is near its final version. Until the other day, flipping through that blue notebook, I didn’t remember how simple and uninspiring the original version was, which is why I think this makes for a good example of the importance of rewriting/revision.

Whether you like this line or not (and I’m definitely not asking!), it has come a long way from “After Schneider’s funeral we all went to Weisler’s to tip a few and tell Schneider stories, so of course Lenhart tells us all the Navy one.”

Is there an example from your own work that you’d like to share? A line — not necessarily an opening line — you’ve changed so much that it barely resembles the original?

If so, copy/paste the various versions in the comments below, and detail, if you’d like, its evolution.

Also, what is your approach to rewriting and revision? Do you buy into the whole “Ninety percent of writing is rewriting” thing? Why or why not?

Let’s talk about it below.

WriteByNight co-founder David Duhr is fiction editor at the Texas Observer and co-host of the Yak Babies podcast. He writes about books for the Dallas Morning News, Electric Literature, Publishing Perspectives, and others.

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