This statement may seem harsh. Okay, it is.
But if we are not re-reading our work and revising it to make it better, it does bring up the question: What’s the point?
Let me soften this a little with some clarification.
First, if you and I are writing for sheer joy, and we have absolutely zero plans to publish what we’re writing, then that is absolutely okay. In fact, I write pieces all the time that will never see a keyboard. They are called journal entries.
I keep a separate notebook for poems, musings, and questions to ponder. But it’s for my eyes only.
In that notebook, do I occasionally go back and read what I’ve written? Yes.
Do I ever revise it? On paper, no. But I do often think of a better word or a way I could have downsized a sentence to contain fewer conjunctions. The reason I rarely bother to go back and rewrite or revise this notebook is that my plan is to — once it’s full — either store it where hopefully nobody will ever find it or toss it. (I know this strikes at the heart of every saver. I don’t save much.)
Before I get into the subject of saving old journals, let me move on.
Photo by Dina Spencer on Unsplash
Second, if you and I are writing with the hope of someday publishing, it is crucial that we learn to re-read our own writing. But we cannot — must not — read it with a critical eye all the time. In fact, if you can imagine divorcing yourself from yourself-the-author and simply reading it for enjoyment, that’s the way to go.
It helps you see it from a mere entertainment perspective.
You can ask yourself if it’s something you would pick up and continue reading if it were in one of those free library boxes at the park.
You can ask yourself what the “big idea” is while you’re still only halfway through it.
You can even ask yourself if it’s worth finishing before you grab that snack or finish that task that’s on your to-do list. (Or if it’s a longer work, such as a novel, is it worth putting off the weekend’s honey-dos to find out what the outcome is?)
But please don’t just re-read it to hack it apart on the first or second re-reading. That diminishes the work of a credible author, who is YOU. (Imagine that you are reading a friend’s Substack article; would you minimize or hit the large X in the top right corner of the screen immediately or start erasing phrases with your backspace key? I hope not. So give yourself the same courtesy.)
Third, once you’ve read it as a non-authorial reader, you can then go back and read it as someone who would critique it. Start with a short description or a paragraph.
Does it have too many words?
Can you imagine the description as you’re reading it?
Can you hear the voice of the characters with their own idiosyncratic pauses, accents, and word choices?
Is the nonfiction article or book circling around the point instead of getting right to it?
Does the point (previous bullet) need further illustration to defend itself?
Are there parts that made you laugh?
Do you wonder what is going to happen next? (Okay, you might know what’s going to happen next if you are a plotter, but if you are a pantser? You might not.)
Would you want to grab a coffee with the main character? Or does the villain irk you?
These are some general questions you can ask upon the second or third reading of your own work. They’re a blue-sky way of jumping into the revision process without getting in the mire of a comma here or a semicolon there.
In fact, George Saunders shared that revision is not nearly as complicated as we make it out to be. We simply need to picture our imaginary readers as ourselves. He writes:
“If we read our text and get a feeling that, at a certain place, it’s dull, or condescending (or whatever), we might also, simultaneously, get a quick flash of what to do about that.
“For me (as I’ve written here before) these flash-insights, that come before there’s been any rational thought, are the most valuable ones.
“I’ve found this to be a powerful editing approach. It’s simple. We just read, and feel, and react.
“The question is always: ‘What do I think? What do I really think?’” (To read more from Saunders’ post, check it out on Story Club with George Saunders.)
So let’s do our work a favor by reading it again and then reading it again. And then probably, again.
What sticks out to you on that second or third read?
Is it sentence construction?
Is it the overall pace of the piece? (Too slow, too fast, or just right?)
Is it the lack of defining moments? (Tip: These can be made richer by using illustrations and stories in nonfiction and adding in a character’s thoughts or dialogue in fiction.)
Is it that the point is hard to identify (nonfiction) or that the scene isn’t really crucial to the rest of the story (fiction)?
If you’re interested in the topic of revising your own work and you find it a struggle, check out my e-book, “8 Great Revisions.” It’s on sale for $6.99 this week, so grab a copy and let your inner editor come out (after your inner reader-not-author gets to read it a few times first).