Fortunately, I’ve learned a thing or two since then and have developed what I think is a pretty sound approach to the revision process—which, by the way, isn’t all that different from the process of creating a first draft. The only real difference is that other people have now weighed in, so to some degree you’re reacting to their opinions. But the actual writing process, the mechanics of making the story work once you re-engage in it, is pretty much the same. The trick is to get your mind right first.
The Note Giver Has Left the Building
So, you’ve sorted through all the notes you’ve received on your script and determined which ones are useful and which ones aren’t. Now it’s time to show the note giver the door. You can’t ever have anyone else’s voice bouncing around in your head when you’re writing. You must have an absolutely clear channel so you can get back to the business of tuning in your story. Besides, your note giver has helped you all they can up until this point. You shouldn’t feel bad about tuning them out.
In a similar vein, you can’t do a rewrite trying to anticipate what that note giver will say next. This can be especially problematic when you’re getting paid to write what you’re working on, or when the note giver is highly invested in your success. In the end, like you, all they really want is for the work to be better, so it really doesn’t matter what they think until they actually tell you.
Now here’s the good news:
Note givers have short memories.
When your note giver reads your new draft, they’re going to have a whole new set of notes. Ideally, with each passing draft there will be less and less, but even if there’s still a lot of work to be done, your note giver is always going to be commenting on what’s in front of them, not what you did before.
Keep your focus. Get back to your process. And remember, the note giver has left the building.
Major vs. Minor Revisions
The next piece of business you need to handle is to determine the scope of the rewrite you’re about to do. Is it a major revision or a minor one?
A major revision means making significant changes to the structure of the story. So, in addition to potentially adjusting characters, changing the content of scenes, and rewriting dialogue, various scenes may need to be reordered and/or replaced and entire acts reconfigured.
A minor rewrite may involve adding or removing selected scenes, but doesn’t involve such a widespread overhaul. It mostly entails revising action and dialogue within the existing structure.
There are two big reasons why it’s important to make this distinction. First, you’ve got to understand what you’re getting yourself into, and how much of your time and energy it’s going to require. I’m not suggesting you rush or change your process, but to be a professional you do have to develop an accurate sense of your own limitations, while being able to consistently and reliably bring the ship into port.
Second, when you’re getting paid to write something, the one question your employer will inevitably ask is:
How long do you think this revision is going to take?
If you’re getting paid a flat fee for the work, your answer is mostly about giving them the product in a reasonable time frame. But if you’re getting paid on a weekly, daily, or hourly rate, then this is also a financial question. So, it’s obviously critical (for both you and your employer) that you have a firm grasp on the speed with which you feel you can execute.
Minor rewrites are not particularly taxing. Major rewrites, on the other hand, can be very difficult and usually entail going back to the whiteboard and/or index cards to rejigger the scenes in order to satisfy the notes. What’s especially unnerving about this is that the notes often don’t call for the entire story to be trashed, but when you start to replace just a scene or two, it’s like pulling a loose thread on your sweater. Before you know it, the whole thing unravels. So, it’s not uncommon for what starts out to be a minor rewrite to turn into a major one.
It’s also often hard to part with certain scenes. Not necessarily because you’re in love with them (though that also happens), but because they’re actually working. The problem is they don’t work anymore because of the new direction the story is taking.
Psychologically, the way to deal with this is to try and get yourself into that same mindset of “letting go” you adopted between finishing the first draft and giving it to people for feedback. The same way that the child was suddenly no longer just your baby, it’s now no longer just your baby again. So be prepared to let go of everything about it if you have to.
On a more technical note, something that I often do at this point is use a double-yellow-pad approach. Remember my outlining process in which I write every scene on a single line so I can skim the entire story in fast-forward-mode? I do the same thing again, only this time I do it twice, on two separate yellow pads. On the first pad I write down the current structure (based on the current draft). On the second pad I restructure the story, this time allowing myself to embellish the scenes wherever necessary (in other words, not restricting myself to one line per scene). By studying the structure of my current draft on the first pad, I’m able to recognize various components that are working and use them as templates to reinvent setups and payoffs within the new structure I’m assembling on the second pad. Then, when I’ve got the new structure worked out, I once again write the whole thing down, using one scene per line so that I can see if it passes the fast-forward test.
Once you make it through this gauntlet,
