Before we talk about revision, I think we should talk about good writing, which is, of course, the goal of revising. More specifically, I’d like to say a few words about what good writing isn’t.
Most importantly, it isn’t something that will please all readers. It will please your people. By “your people,” I mean the human beings in the world who share with you certain aspects of how they see the world, how they confront it, what they love and need from stories. Think of it this way: There is no piece of writing in the history of the world, no matter how beloved or financially successful, that someone doesn’t hate. Is Casablanca for me? Uh uh. Pulp Fiction? Nope.
I hope you hear exactly what I’m suggesting here. I’m not saying that great writers sometimes write badly, which of course they do; I’m saying that great writing is only loved by some people. Not so-so writing. Great writing.
So how does this impact our process of revision, or the creation of our first draft for that matter?
Here’s how: It means we’ve got to be as clear as possible about whom we’re trying to please. Put those people on your shoulder while you’re writing—mini, weightless versions of them so that they don’t screw up your posture—and then let them whisper to you when they have something to say.
“You’re really gonna write that?”
“Oh! You were expecting me to laugh just then?”
If you’ve taken tickets at the door to your shoulder and only allowed admission to your people, then pay attention to those voices. Revise accordingly.
Do not give a ticket to your Uncle Phil who hates your favorite president and who thinks your entire way of life is suspect, at best. You can still give him a birthday present if you want, but do not give him a ticket to your shoulder while you are writing unless he is to become the inspiration for your screenplay’s villain.
Just as importantly… if you have the right people sitting on your shoulder and you’ve started to write, give these weightless minis the chance to laugh uproariously, to give your writing a silent thumbs-up. If they need it, give them a second to wipe away tears.
And then go back to the story.
When you’ve written the tenth draft, pay attention to the shy and retiring mini-person in the back row who hasn’t yet said a word. She’s been half-raising her hand for about six drafts, but every time you glance at her, she quickly puts the hand back in her lap and looks at the wall like she never wanted your attention in the first place.
At some point, this woman will whisper to you the last thing you want to hear. You will seriously consider quarantining her with Uncle Phil.
Let her talk.
Get mad at her if you must. Eventually, she will whisper to you the very thing that makes your screenplay great. In fact, she’ll write the scene you never saw coming—the one that makes even you look on with a little bit of awe. The best part—or the worst, depending on how your conscience works—is that she will give you full credit for the scene and for the whole screenplay which, if you’re honest, you now acknowledge depends entirely on this scene that you didn’t write. Egoless, she’ll disappear from your shoulder, allowing you to feel that she did nothing and that you never needed her in the first place. When you finally look again, her seat has already been taken by the guy with the open bag of Doritos in his lap who frees up his neon orange hands just long enough to start the inevitable slow-clap for your brilliance.
At this point, I like to look around the room—the actual room I’m in. I make sure I’m alone with the shoulder-people, and then I go ahead and take a little bow.
I’ve only got five drafts to go.