The Grumpy Grammarian

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Learning by Revising

A cliché says that practice makes perfect, and, even though we know this to be an overstatement because practice doesn't take us quite that far, we firmly believe that practicing any skill will make us better at it.  Writing is no exception.  The more we write, the better we may become at it.  That is true, especially when we are first learning the skill, but we are mistaken if we think that this is all there is to it.  An important element in becoming an effective writer is learning the art of revision.

I believe so strongly in revision and rewriting as an essential part of learning to write well that I require my students to revise all their essays at least once.  I would go as far as to say that those students who diligently revise their work learn more from doing that than they do from all the instruction I give them in the classroom.  Unfortunately, most of them give revision short shrift.  They correct the errors that I have marked and try to untangle the most obviously awkward sentences, but that is not what I mean by revision.

Revision, as I am using the term, means being self-critical.  It means stepping outside one's own work and trying to view it as the reader (or an editor) would.  During revision, one looks at small matters – a redundant word to be removed, a word that can be replaced by a more precise or effective word, a roundabout phrase that should be compressed, an awkward phrase or sentence that needs to be more graceful, and so on.  One also considers larger matters – a thought that should be developed or explained more fully (and, conversely, one that has been overexplained), the overall "flow" of ideas, and whether the work is logically organized.  Sometimes, the author's critical eye may detect an entire paragraph that is so tangential that it's a distraction and should be deleted altogether.  That may be the hardest revision of all to make, for it could involve tossing away a beautifully crafted passage on which one spent a considerable amount of time – but if it doesn't fit and can't be made to fit, it must go.

The value of such labor is not only that it improves the work at hand; it also makes us much more conscious of the faults in our writing.  It may make us aware of bad stylistic habits to which we have unknowingly become addicted.  Thus, what we learn by revising may be applied to all future efforts.  First drafts become better because we become more skilled at self-editing "on the fly."  We begin to spot awkward or wordy phrasing almost as soon as we write it, and we correct it at once.  Of course, in our eagerness to express our thoughts, some sloppy writing gets in.  We still need that all-important revision pass.

Few writing courses (or courses that include writing) place much emphasis on revision.  That was true even when I was a student, in both high school and college.  We wrote papers, handed them in, got a grade and sometimes a critique, and then moved on to the next assignment.  Sometimes an instructor would tell us to write a paper, let it "cool" overnight, and then look it over for possible improvement – but that was the end of the process.  I suspect that this is one reason why my students don't or can't revise their own work.  They lack practice.  Just as writing itself tends to improve with practice, one's skills at revision become more finely tuned as we train ourselves to review our own work.

Although not many people have the opportunity, revising other people's writing can hone our ability to improve our own work.  I believe that my years of experience as a proofreader and then as an editor may have contributed more to my own writing than any courses or books have.  When it is one's job to detect errors in the writing of others and to suggest stylistic improvements in their work, some of that is bound to rub off on one's own work.  For that reason, teachers who thoroughly analyze and critique students' writing not only benefit their students but themselves as well.  Many of my colleagues say that I go overboard in my corrections and commentary ("They won't read it all, and it just confuses them"), but it's a habit I can't break.  Besides, I know that many of the faults in my students' writing – from grammatical errors to weaknesses in style, such as wordiness – have never been pointed out to them by anyone.  They don't even know they are faults.  The benefit to me is that the more I do this, the more exercise my critical faculties get.  Correcting student papers is a verbal workout for me – especially when I go beyond correcting obvious errors to diagnosing problems with style, organization, continuity, and the like.  Criticism of their work makes me more critical of my own, so that I can lead by example.

Despite my colleagues' comments that I go to extremes, most of my students say that my extensive critiques are helpful.  Of course, some may be apple-polishing, but, when they have the chance to opt out of getting critiques and just having their papers marked for errors, none make that choice.  They recognize, I think, that intelligent revision is going to be difficult if they don't receive extensive criticism.  This, in turn, leads them toward self-criticism so that they can modify subsequent work before they turn it in – and that is precisely what I want them to learn.  This ability to review and revise is far more important than creating a perfect first draft – and nobody can do that anyway.

Of course, I would save myself a considerable amount of time if I didn't write critiques, and students would save themselves huge amounts of time if they never had to revise or rewrite anything.  That is, alas, the way we are coming to think about too many things – if we can shave even a few minutes off the process, we will do it.  This is, by the way, the mindset that besets mass publications today.  Reporters or writers compose at computer keyboards, maybe run a quick spellcheck, hit the "transmit" key, and – poof! – something riddled with typos and sloppy sentences appears in print.*  I've watched students do the same thing.  In classes where they compose on the computer, they print their papers and hand them in without a second glance.  When they handwrite papers, they write the last sentence and instantly turn in their essays without proofreading them – even when they have ample time to do so.  The few minutes it takes to ensure quality, which might even transform a C paper to a B paper, aren't worth spending.

But I digress.  Proofreading is merely a "baseline essential," like checking to be sure that one's fly is zipped before one goes out in public.  The process of review and revision is much more than that, like making sure that our clothes are neat, attractive, and color-coordinated.  When we do that with our prose, what we write becomes decidedly more "presentable."  Most importantly, the more we practice review and revision, the more skilled we become at writing presentable prose.

Here's a goal that should resonate with almost anyone – making good writing easy to do.  We may not ever achieve that goal perfectly because good writing is always hard work.  However, practice with review and revision can make good writing easier while also making good writing better.  That, I believe, is worth the time and effort.

*Observe a new principle of proofreading in the electronic age.  Best results are achieved by reading printed copy (hardcopy).  For reasons nobody fully understands, it is very easy to miss on a computer monitor mistakes that become obvious on the printed page.