Strangers on the Internet Taught Me How to Edit - Kayla Shields

 

Photo by Vaishnav Vharkat on Unsplash

“Editing” was not something that the best writers did. At least, that was what I believed for a long time. I was under the impression that great pieces, like Olympian gods, sprouted from their creator’s minds fully formed and flawless. Editing was not necessary if the initial product was already perfect — so for the first few years of my writing journey, I always strived for the strongest first draft, believing that if I just got it right the first time, there would be no need for revision.  

Nowadays, I realize this line of thinking created a lot of pressure. I worked on all of my pieces in one laborious sprint, declaring a piece finished as soon as the story reached its conclusion. I adjusted my writing as I went, making sure each sentence was perfect before even starting the next one. This method was about as effective as drawing without a sketch — not impossible, but so, so hard.  

The standards I’d set for myself were astronomically high. I spent my time fine-tuning details instead of establishing a good foundation or looking at the bigger picture. Difficult as it was, I carried on, believing that this was just how authors did things.   

My interest in writing reached a turning point sometime during my middle school years. The see-saw hit the mulch and catapulted me up into a fervor: writing was my thing now. I was determined for it to continue being my thing, determined to become as good as the authors whose works I read every day. I needed to know how they got there, how their works ended up so renowned and beloved. Like any technology-addled adolescent, I turned to the internet for answers on how to improve, how to publish my work, and how to perfect it. I never had editing in mind – I was still convinced that my writing was just fine without it.  

I stumbled upon a livestream on the platform Twitch.tv. It had the familiar set-up – face in the corner, chat full o’ people – but instead of showing viewers a video game, or telling viewers about their day, there was a Google doc on the screen. The person running the stream, an editor, was guiding us through an audience member’s work, noting what he liked as well as suggestions for future revisions. It was a writing group of sorts, and I was intrigued. I didn’t know people shared their writing like this, so I stayed to watch. I popped back in next week, and the week after that. Soon, it was a weekly affair.  

The importance of editing was emphasized pretty heavily in this group. At first, it confused me. In school, I was asked to check my papers over for errors in spelling or grammar, but here, things were different. Here, writers didn’t stop at just syntax errors. They asked questions such as “what do you want to say with this piece”, or “what do you want readers to feel by the end”. That the reader comprehended the piece overall was just as important as interesting word choice or good grammar. 

When I was in this group, I was surrounded by people who’d been writing longer than I had, people who aspired to make writing their careers, and their work reflected that. Their ideas were unique, and their styles were varied, but honed – anywhere from snappy and humorous to flowery and speculative. I not only admired their ability, but also their willingness to share. The group collectively acknowledged that it was scary to put your work out there for everyone to see and critique, but that didn’t make it any less impressive. 

I wanted to get involved, and to let them critique my writing, but I was conflicted. On one hand, it was nerve-wracking to let others do anything to my work. Writing was personal. My ideas, my stories, and my characters were precious to me. It felt kind of wrong to tear apart the things that I valued in order to make them better.  

But on the other hand, I admired these people’s work. They sounded like they had everything figured out. I was curious to see what they thought of my work, the work that I thought was the next New York Times Best Seller. Despite my hesitation, I submitted some of my stuff.  

I was humbled, to say the least. I remember sitting down to write one of the first pieces I shared in the group, a short story about a young girl with magical powers. I labored over it for the whole week leading up to the group’s meeting.  When I shared the story with the group, they came to a consensus – it was confusing. Sure, the prose was good, but the story needed some work: the girl’s motivations weren’t very clear; the story’s end was abrupt, and a tad unearned; and overall, it just didn’t feel like I knew what I wanted to do with the piece.  

The feedback hit hard, and I took it personally – I thought that instead of criticizing my piece, they were criticizing me. I didn’t see much wrong with it when I sat down to write it, so I wasn’t sure how much this feedback would improve my work.  

Some of their advice had seemed pointless at first – but I figured I’d try to take their suggestions to heart anyways, just to see what would happen. I remembered what they’d said about figuring out what I was trying to say with my piece. Truthfully, in that first draft, I didn’t think about how it’d end at all – I just carried on writing, hoping that my meandering would lead me to a good ending. I didn’t know what I wanted to say, and I didn’t know writers thought that hard about the process.   

Slowly, almost begrudgingly at first, I started applying their suggestions to my pieces: planning a piece’s structure or plot before I wrote it, rereading it to be sure that it flows well and made sense, and – very importantly – adopting a willingness to make mistakes.  

I’d say it worked splendidly. Throughout my time with the writing group, I felt like I was growing. I’d look back at my old drafts, comparing them to my newest ones, and realize that they were right. It wasn’t their feedback that seemed nonsensical, but my own past choices, and I’d guffaw at old drafts, thinking, this pacing is all over the place. The tone goes from Everest to Hell in two whole paragraphs. Gosh, I’m so glad I changed that. Why did I ever think that was good? It was hard for me to see the weaknesses of my own writing, but fresh eyes could pick out what I’d grown used to allowing.  

The most vital writing principle I gained from this group of complete strangers was this: the first draft will be terrible. It can be – will be – improved through editing. The old me would never – she would’ve dropped a work at the first sign of dissatisfaction, but current-me knows that it’s alright to change things. I repeat this to myself when writing anything for the first time, and even while I’m writing this. This will be awful, horrible, perhaps nigh irredeemable garbage, but many of the works I admire were like this once.  

So, for all my writing, my strategy is this: I will write without a care, put the pen down, return the next day, and re-carve it into something that I like more and more, little by little, until I can confidently say that I’m proud of it. And that is perfectly ok.