The Closet-Cleaning Method of Revising

~ by Amanda Smith​
Before leaving on a revision retreat in the summer, I left my two boys with detailed instructions on cleaning their closets. One of the check boxes stated:
Are you ready to get rid of some of the soft toys in your closet? If so, put them in my room.
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No, I am not being unreasonable. Both my boys are on the other side of 16. It’s time. Throughout the years, I'd broached the snuggie-subject, only to be brushed off with a “not right now,” but this time, three days into my trip, my husband sent a picture of two containers, lovingly covered with spread bandanas, like colorful funeral shrouds.

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Sometimes revision is exactly like getting rid of loveys. Friendly, fluffy, comforting words that are just hanging out in the closet of your manuscript – really not bothering anyone. But these words are taking up space, making it hard to maneuver, or to add anything more useful. Here are a few strategies for letting go:

The “not right now” mentality:
Sometimes we save revisions for later, because at the moment it seems too hard to cut, or we don't know what to do in the space that is left.
The cure: It is easier to make big cuts on paper. Print out your manuscript so that you can cross out sections without actually deleting anything yet. As you cross out, make notes in the margins or on sticky notes of all your ideas to fix, connect, or fill those spaces.
The benefit: You get a big picture overview, and nothing has been irreversibly altered, but you've made room for new ideas.

Cutting ruthlessly:
Sometimes words and scenes that were necessary to make your story grow, are no longer needed.  They belonged to your draft’s childhood and might actually get in the way of your manuscript launching. Ruthless revising asks, Marie Kondo-style, "Is this still useful? Do I still love it?"  You may combine this with the "not right now" strategy by doing it on paper, but commit that when you have crossed it out on paper, it must be deleted from the manuscript. No backsies.
The cure: Ruthless cutting, especially of backstory and info dumping that you initially needed to get to the heart of the story, leaves more space for the all-important story.
The benefit: A mature manuscript.

Sad goodbyes:
At some point you will have to actually delete from the actual manuscript. This is sad and painful, because as writers we take care to write well, to weigh words, and to measure sentences, and we take pleasure in the result of our labor. Sometimes when we have to purge, we might need to put those words in another room under a colorful bandana just until we're sure.
The cure: For each project, keep a darlings folder. When you cut something from a manuscript, paste it into a document in your darlings folder. That way you can still honor the words. You can tell them, “You are beautifully written and precious, but you are pre-writing and not needed here. Your job was to get me where I needed to go. You did that well. Thank you.”
The benefit: Well, just in case, and because letting go is hard.

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After my older child went back to college this fall, I slid open his closet to put away some linens. On the shelf, at eye level, sat Shamu, the beloved orca that resided in his bed since he was two until well into his middle school years. Next to Shamu sat Baby Tiger, the white tiger hand-puppet whose cuteness always resulted in belly laughs which morphed into a sweet gentleness in this boy and ended in a hug-fest. Every time. On the top shelf were a few other carefully selected fuzzy friends, including the puppy his preschool teacher gave him the day his baby brother was born. I nodded with approval and relief. Because sometimes we should also unapologetically hold on to the good stuff.

How do you know if it's good stuff?
Ask how it contributes to your story. Does it lead to belly laughs or hug-fests like Baby Tiger? Does it reveal something about the character? Hold onto it!
Ask whether the scene helps your character on his journey.  Does it mark a big life moment for your character, like Puppy?
Some words carry deep emotional value, even if they don't necessarily move the plot forward. Whether they are precious memories that promise safety and comfort like Shamu, or whether they bring the character's heartache or suffering to life, curate some space for a few of these emotionally laden scenes.

Because as much as we have to eventually clean out the carnival prizes and scruffy beanie babies of our manuscript, some friends (and words) are keepers.

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