How to revise your manuscript without losing your mind
In Soviet Russia, manuscript revises *you.*
Eight years ago, a two-man indie pop act called Her’s released a song called “What Once Was.” (Yes, this newsletter is about manuscript revisions. Bear with me.)
Even before the horrible thing happened, “What Once Was” had haunted energy. The song is a bittersweet requiem for denial, for those strange hours we all experience between calamity and acceptance. It’s a song for Wil E. Coyote, running on open air over a gorge, unaware or unwilling to believe that the ground beneath him is gone.
This was a weird topic for Her’s. (Yes, I know: that apostrophe is so awkward.) Band members Stephen Fitzpatrick and Audun Laading were best friends—bouncy twentysomethings who met at music college in Liverpool and made comedy together before they ever made music. Most of their songs were goofy slacker rock.
Not “What Once Was,” though. Have a listen; you’ll see. Here they are playing it in Paste Studios back in late 2018:
Four months after this video went live, Her’s were on the verge of bonafide stardom. They were playing a sold-out tour of North America—mostly small venues, sure, but nineteen of them. Everything was coming together. Their lives were really, truly about to begin, and then fate rushed in like a tsunami.
They had just played the Rebel Lounge in Phoenix. They were en route to Santa Ana in their tour van. It was the middle of the night; their tour manager was driving.
The van rounded a curve and hit a drunk driver going full speed in the wrong direction. Both cars burst into flames. The drunk driver and the tour manager died instantly; Laading and Fitzpatrick probably perished in the fire. In a split second, they went from being here to being, well, what once was.
For Her’s fans, “What Once Was” is no longer just a song about loss and denial; it’s a kind of prophecy, sung by Fitzpatrick as though from purgatory.
Go back and listen to it again. It’s beyond eerie: startled young man sings on the other side of some life-changing event, reaching and reaching for the promise of the past—the joy that seemed so certain just moments ago.
I was at the end of every tether / Waiting for my love. / Waiting for—
Jesus—what on Earth does this have to do with manuscript revision?!
I’M GETTING THERE, STEVE.
Here’s what this story reminds us: in life, artists do not so much revise their work as get revised.
I don’t care who you are or how effective a control freak you happen to be: revision is primarily something that happens to you, not the other way around.
Time, growth, happenstance, and other people revise the meaning of our work in ways we never imagined—to say nothing of our perspective on that work. And we must find a way to revise ourselves alongside them.
I’m writing this newsletter because a client asked me to. They were struggling with their revision process the other week: daunted by the task of taking a shitty first draft and getting it to say, to mean, what they really wanted. They seemed surprised by how difficult they were finding this. They wanted to know if I had any advice.
Here’s what I want to tell them—and you, at the same time: revision is hard because it’s a process of surrender. Most people mistakenly think it’s about decisive action, artistic leadership, sculpting, asserting, directing. But it’s not. It’s the opposite. And when you think you’re supposed to be in control, surrender—the thing you’re actually supposed to be doing when you revise—feels wrong. Like, panicky-wrong. Paralyzing.
If you feel paralyzed by revisions, therefore, perhaps ask yourself if you’re trying to row against a tsunami. I’m willing to bet that’s your real problem.
To what are we surrendering when we revise?
We are surrendering to the fact that very soon, the meaning of our life and work will be completely out of our control. It’s going to be up to other people to decide. And time. And history.
To revise is to surrender active authority—to write oneself out of the text and let one’s work take on a life of its own.