Carol Bly wrote that the essential question we must ask during what she calls “the long middle stage” of writing is, “What more do I have to say about this topic?”  Certainly this is a good question to ask early on, when we’ve completed a draft and are unsure where to go next.  Usually we’re […]

The handiest revision tool I know is an empty notebook.  Even the presence of that notebook, silent and full of potential in my desk drawer, influences my writing.  Why?  Because those empty pages, which I’m saving for the purpose of “seeing my subject anew,” exert the same creative potential as the empty pages of my

Lately I’ve been feeling like a revision evangelical.  The majority of my teaching time is spent converting beginning and intermediate writers into revisers—that is, into writers who labor beyond their rough drafts into more and more mature versions, taking their creative ideas through the paces of the writing process until they become polished work.  Learning

The vast majority of revision work entails either expanding passages that further your piece’s heartbeat and cutting those that don’t—the old Michelangelo story about chipping away all the marble that’s not the angel.  Both activities are guided by discernment.  In spiritual circles, discernment means careful listening for what the Quakers call way.  What path is

Last month I wrote about the importance of dismissing the audience for the sake of creating a safe, private space where we can take creative risks.  The corollary to this, equally valuable, is that for writing to flourish we must at some point welcome the audience.  If a writer only considers the self the primary

“You must sympathize with the reader’s plight (most readers are in trouble about half the time) but never seek to know the reader’s wants.  Your whole duty as a writer is to please and satisfy yourself, and the true writer always plays to an audience of one.” When I came upon these words in Strunk

No matter how much we know about our story’s content when we begin a creative project (be it fiction or creative nonfiction), unknowns lurk around every corner and it’s best, I believe, to think of our material as an untamed wilderness.  If we assume we know this territory, we close ourselves off to the possibility

I recently led a manuscript review for a second draft of a book-length memoir.  As often happens at this stage, the class discussed what the book was about at its core, helping the author articulate its purpose and drive, and then named the thematic threads that unify the many disparate stories.  Some of these themes

I just finished rereading Patricia Hampl’s The Florist’s Daughter for a class I’m teaching, and one of Hampl’s techniques I was most impressed with was her use of the recurring motif.  These images, references, and anecdotes crop up repeatedly through her memoir and serve to bind her otherwise wandering reflections together; they become a structural

When I teach personal essay writing, many students are surprised to learn that essays needn’t make a point or answer a question.  An essay may ask a question, explore it, and arrive at a better way to ask the question.  What makes an essay work is movement.  Readers need to arrive at a different place