Is it possible, or worth it, for a writer to see and eliminate his or her blind spots?
Writing is a tough job. And many writers find themselves in those quiet hours of the morning staring at the last 300 words worth of writing with no idea why they’re not coming out like they’d planned. Meanwhile, in the background that blinking cursor, which just won’t quite, is counting down every wasted second of the morning’s failure. And this is just one of many similar scenarios writers face all too often. Without a doubt, writing is not for the faint of heart. It takes a lot out of you while giving very little back, and the rewards can be very hard to find. Did you ever wonder why writer’s get giddy when they receive even the slightest hint of praise? It’s because, in the world of writing, compliments often come with critiques and honest praise is rare. And yet we plunge forward anyway. So what is it that keeps writers writing through the tough parts even though they know there’s very little to be gained?
Kill Your Darlings
Every writer has heard this before. Or at least some version of it. This advice is now so common, likely because of Stephen King’s take on the topic, that it has been discussed across various writing platforms from journalism to filmmaking.
One only has to do a brief search on the topic so see that it’s a common concern for all writers. The now famous advice, originally from Wiliam Faulkner, suggests that people identify those things that are dear to them in their own writing and attempt to eliminate them. These “darlings” can be sentences, characters, plot twists, or epic endings.
The most important issue and easily the most frustrating aspect of this advice is that most people can’t seem to identify their own precious material. This results in a lot of unnecessary distractions in our writing and often destroys the reality or sincerity of the most integral moments in our stories.
What’s at the heart of the problem?
So, why can’t we see our darlings? Well, this is the tricky part. I think at least part of it comes down to love. Writer’s love their sentences, their characters, their clever use of foreshadowing, and the surprise twist at the end. These things are the “darlings” that William Falkner warned about.
Writer’s in general love words. And that’s when things get dangerous.
If we know one thing about love, it’s that it clouds our judgement. It’s all too easy to notice the velvet-petaled bloom and ignore the thorns, even as they tear at our hands. This blindness lies at the heart of the problem. You’ve no doubt heard the famous phrase “true love is blind.” Well, nowhere does that ring more true than when a writer can’t see the issues that plague his or her own work.
The bigger problem
Even the world’s best advice is only as good as it is useful. And what can be more useless than telling a writer to look away from the beauty and toward each ugly imperfection in his or her writing. It would be like telling a husband to see a less perfect version of his wife. It presents a couple of problems.
First, it seems counterproductive. Taking a flaws first perspective requires a rewiring of thinking that necessarily contradicts with the viewpoint of the writer. In other words, the version of you reviewing the work is at odds with the version of you who wrote it.
Second, and more important, is the “why?” Why would a husband want to lessen his current view of his wife? It’s certainly not to his benefit. The same can be said for a writer in love with his work. The writer is bound to it, inexplicably tied to the image he or she has created around the work. So it stands to reason that there can’t be a natural rewriting or repurposing of the circumstances that surrounded, and necessarily supported, the process from the beginning.
In other words, any change would be unwanted and unnatural, and this could undermine the integrity of the writing. Which, of course, leads to the ultimate question: is all of this worth it?
What to do about it?
Others have already covered the “hows” of this process. In fact, Lynda Dietz over at The Writing Cooperative has written extensively about identifying and eliminating the darlings from our writing here. Her advice, such as relying on critique partners and the response of beta readers, to sniff out the potential trouble spots is both practical and useful. So, I’ll skip ahead to what I feel is the true sticking point for many writers: How important is this process for a given piece of writing? In other words, is it always necessary?
I think the answer is up to the individual. The benefits of looking back at a piece of writing with a reflective and critical eye are obvious. Reflection, followed by revision, is a natural part of the writing process–it’s a part of the writer’s DNA. But how much scrutiny is necessary and when does it begin to transition from good practice to cruel judgement?
Again, much of this is up to the individual, but I know many writers, plagued with the all-too-familiar self-doubt, who beat themselves up all along the drafting process. To those writers, the practice of returning to one’s work with the idea of eliminating those things they’re proud of and most attached to would be daunting at best and abusive at worst.
And for those thicker-skinned writers who find the process less painful, there’s still the matter of integrity. In other words, how much can a writer change about his or her piece before it stops looking or sounding like the thing they had intended to write? How much can an artist change a painting before it becomes a new work of art entirely? These are important questions for those who will at some point in the process be faced with the task of eliminating those elements of story, whether it’s the poetic first sentence or the too-perfect character, that excited them in the first place.
Wrap-up
To be sure, there is certainly room in the revision process for writers to look for those things they’re unnecessarily attached to that are likewise interfering with the story. That’s just good practice. But if that element truly is a “darling,” if it is loved sincerely, and if removing it makes the piece unrecognizable to the person who sat down to draft it, then the usefulness of the whole process is thrown into question.
So, I say, go ahead and kill your darlings if you’re ready and willing. Just be careful not to kill your story in the process.
Of course, I’d love to hear what you think. Comment below to share your thoughts on this topic.