In The Creative Habit, Twyla Tharp writes that “metaphor is the lifeblood of all art, if it is not art itself.” She goes on to explain that “metaphor is our vocabulary for connecting what we’re experiencing now with what we have experienced before. It’s not only how we express what we remember, it’s how we interpret it—for ourselves and others.” For me, asking What is revising like? is a way of identifying what I believe about revision, and also getting at some of the less tangible aspects of the process: What does revision feel like? What are the fears and hopes we invest in the process? Where is the quicksand and where are the scenic overlooks? (See, already I’ve broken into metaphor.)

Writing in general and revision in particular are often compared to building a house. Susan Bell, for example, writes in The Artful Edit that “if writing builds the house, nothing but revision will complete it.” I often find myself reaching for knitting or sewing metaphors in my editing work, advising writers to weave elements together or stitch a new paragraph or chapter into their text. The problem with both of these metaphors is that they focus on detail work, on small changes. If you are renovating a house, it’s easy enough to add on a room. But if you are going to change the whole footprint of the house, you would need to just knock it down and start over again.

Can you imagine doing that with a brand new house you had just designed and built? Or with a sweater you had painstakingly knitted? The problem with these metaphors is that they imply that you are working on the finished object from the moment you start, with each piece complete and final as you add it. If that’s how you approach the first draft of your novel, then the idea of revision—of knocking down this whole carefully constructed edifice you have built—would be horrifying. (Not to mention that the pressure of perfection makes the drafting process that much harder.)

In order to embrace revision, I think you need to change the way you see that first draft (and perhaps subsequent drafts too). If you can think about your first draft as a place for creative play, for experimentation and exploration, then the process of accumulating the words won’t seem quite so hard, and you won’t be quite so attached to keeping every single one of them in place when you get ready to revise. What would happen if you thought of your first draft as being like an artist’s sketchbook rather than a cement foundation for a finished house?

Now, if you are writing the third book in a series with an overarching plot line you have already decided on, you may indeed be able to lay your foundations and put up the walls and maybe even position the furniture in your first draft. But if you are embarking on your first book or trying out a new genre or writing literary fiction, it’s quite possible that seeing your way to the end of your story will be the only thing you accomplish in your first draft. The work of revision then is to step back and evaluate what you have and decide what to do with it. Revision is the act of being willing to venture again into the void of the blank page, but this time with more certainty that you will create the beautiful thing that is hovering at the edges of your vision.

In Elements of Fiction, Walter Mosley says, “Writing is rewriting, and rewriting will bring you home.” Home is a place that is familiar, safe, known—you’ll recognize it when you arrive there. A home, unlike a house, is a place you find, not a place you build. As I explore the topic of revision on this blog, I’ll do my best to help you get there.

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