Is it Hard to Edit Your Own Writing?
or
Dry January (i.e. you betcha)
By JL Copeland
Alright?
No, I didn’t give up alcohol for January.
These days I drink so little, after two beers I’m dancing a conga of one around the lounge while my kids yell I’m in the way of the serious business of watching endless improbable YouTube shorts of porch pirates being tricked by exploding glitter boxes.
Yeah, the fun never stops in oo-lee jeeb (Korean for ‘our house’).
The dry refers to my general feeling in the first weeks of this, the year 2026.
Music for this post? Apologies, but to stay relevant, I need to go mainstream. Here’s The Fab Four:
Yes, CONTENT WARNING, this post is an inside look at my writing process (process—ha!); specifically, where I am with by debut novel (about to climb into a wheelie bin and gently rock myself into a volcano).
I will try to throw in a few life lessons towards the end, but if reading about writing seems a snooze-fest, I get it.
If writing’s not your thing, and you just want the usual bonkers, then before you go, check out the top acting in this video. I recorded it for a Korean co-teacher’s open class back in the day, and I’ll catch you next time.
Still here?
Okay. Apologies if I ramble, but hey, one (or two) chances a year to vent about my hopeless writing career is all I ask.
I had a plan for this winter vacation.
I’d nail the edit of my final draft of my novel, Nicksgate.
Then I’d send it to beta readers (friends/acquaintances/the few people who don’t hate your guts; they read it and tell you what they think).
A few tweaks based on their feedback, then publication and worldwide fame and fortune.
Or family-wide fame.
Or at least be the Big Deal in our household (when the wife and The Girl are away. And The Boy is asleep).
Straightforward, right?
Ha.
Hahahahaha.
Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
Is editing a novel hard?
You betcha. One of the most common pearls of wisdom you’ll hear as a writer is ‘Writing is rewriting.’
Any fool with a pen can knock out a first draft.
But returning to it, pass after pass, edit after edit, polish after polish? That takes guts.
That’s what separates the king cobras from the koalas (not sure if that comparison works, but we’ll roll with it).
Before I detail my struggles, here’s a bog-standard elevator pitch for Nicksgate:
Nicola has spent her life keeping her head down in a mining village that never let her belong. When she’s named the village’s reluctant champion against an ancient evil under the mountain, she’s forced to confront her fear of the dark, her mistrust of people, and the irritating fact that she might actually care whether the village survives.
Be aware that this pitch changes with every draft. Next month’s might include a troop of glue-sniffing Howler Monkeys running security for a gambling den in Turkmenistan.
I wanted to make the novel more ‘voicey.’ In mid-December I began, intending to blitz a complete rewrite in a few weeks.
Yeah, I know.
Three chapters in, the wings snapped off. It wasn’t bad, but I felt like I was over-egging the soufflé. The main character—who narrates the story—was starting to sound too much like me (and anything sounding like me is never a good idea).
So I turned to Intuitive Editing by Tiffany Yates-Martin. I’ve attended a few of her lectures on writing craft on Jane Friedman’s website.
During the lectures, I always make loads of detailed notes.
File them away carefully.
And never look at them again.
But that’s just me. Seriously, her advice is insightful, and her speciality is editing.
I resolved to stick to every word of Intuitive Editing until my manuscript was finished.
You know what’s coming.
Her first piece of advice was a cold read: read your manuscript, ideally in one sitting (or two), and at the end make a few notes on your impressions.
I managed 70 minutes on my first read.
The following day, 40 minutes.
The next, 25.
Then 8.
2.
0.
It was like walking into a wind-tunnel through a knee-high furlong of Lyle’s Golden Syrup.
It made me physically sick—I’m serious. I had a headache (I never get headaches) and started to feel nauseous after half a dozen pages.
Not the best of signs.
There were two issues:
- I was bored to death.
- My prose, for the most part, stank.
A weedy voice inside piped up, ‘If you’re at the point where you can’t face it anymore, it’s time for the beta readers.’
Too easy.
You’re supposed to call in the betas for your novel when you’re struggling to see any way to improve it.
I spotted dozens of problems in Nicksgate.
In my desperation, I posted a question on a Facebook writing group. Something along the lines of: “Debut novel bores me—kill self?”
Almost all the replies were: “Send it to the betas.”
But one person opined:
“How many books have you read 50 times and not been bored to tears?”
Fair.
I returned to Yates-Martin’s book.
The next step (and standard editing advice) was to ‘fix the big stuff,’ e.g. character arcs and motivation, etc.
I tried.
Again, I got to about chapter 3 in Nicksgate, and I was done.
I couldn’t bear it.
Part of it was the uncertainty of deciding exactly where the problems were so bad they needed fixing, and how to fix them.
Is it hard to edit your own writing?
I think the hardest editing is that you do on your own work. Eventually, you hit a wall. You just can’t see things anymore; you don’t trust your own judgement.
That was me.
I’d lost all objectivity.
Cue the dark night of the soul, cue the dryness.
Christmas, New Year and early January I was a desiccated corpse. I perched on the sofa, the festivities a background blur of light and echo as my noodle cycled through a bleak slideshow:
It’s hopeless.
You’re not a writer.
Okay, maybe you are, but this is a practice novel. You’ve been polishing a turd for the last five years.
Or maybe you’re simply a coward; you always were and always will be.
Etc. etc. etc.
What do most writers struggle with?
Exactly this, the self-doubt. I’ve heard it never truly goes away, even for those on the top of the turd-pile.
I took a few days off.
Better.
It’d be a shame to consign it to my ‘abandoned projects’ folder without someone having a look at it.
My ‘why am I bored with it’ question had been answered; that just left the prose. Why was the quality so drunken sailor-ish?
The only person to have read Nicksgate is my writer friend Karmen Spiljak (excellent book coach by the way, and her latest collection of short stories has just been released). Since then, I’ve made major changes.
Two main POV characters have become one. I’ve developed the antagonistic force and the role of the village in the story. A brand-new first chapter, and the second chapter heavily pruned.
But I’d made these changes with a focus on whack-a-moleing plot holes.
Among the original chapters that had been polished over six or seven drafts were large sections that were essentially first drafts with a quick polish. No wonder I was reading some of these new parts and thinking my writing is dreadful.
The manuscript read like that photo at the top of this newsletter: some parts well-formed, others a bit like ‘what the fandango happened here?’
I made another plan.
I’d still skip the ‘big stuff’ but focus on the ‘sexy stuff,’ i.e. examine paragraphs and sentences, cut pointless words, choose better ones. Make it at least readable for the betas.
I found a couple of useful resources on removing unnecessary words. I especially recommend this one:
I began in mid-January. Over the next two weeks, a funny thing happened: I started to get into the novel again.
Last summer, the page-one rewrite I’d completed came in at 110,000 words. During autumn, I’d cut it to 96,000. I thought I was done; I’d struggle to cut anymore.
In the last two weeks I’ve cut another 5,000 words of pure fluff.
I also listened to this audiobook:
Oh no, not another How to Write book, you whine.
Yeah, I know, I’m a recovering craft (book) addict (although I still mainline writing tips), as you can read here.
But the reviews said this one was different, almost an anti-craft book.
I took a chance.
It’s great.
I won’t go into details, but some of the takeaways:
- Nobody really knows how to write a book. Do what works for you.
- Write about what interests you, not what you think you should write or what other people expect you to write.
- If in doubt, keep going. The only thing that matters is that you figure out a way to get the work done.
I think you can apply that sage wisdom to many areas of life, not only writing.
If you pick it up, go for the audiobook; she’s got a hooky voice.
Anyway, it really helped my mindset. In short—as always—I’ve just got to stop worrying about shit and keep going.
Nicksgate won’t be perfect—but what is?
I finished the list of unnecessary words. Then I divided the 261-page upchuck of text into chapters. That helped A LOT as I was able to manage the tension in the story. It began to feel like a real book.
Now I’m going through each chapter in random order (the only Tiffany Yates-Martin editing tip that’s worked for me), trimming and polishing:
After I’ve revised each chapter, I think a couple more passes and then I’ll be done.*
*probably end of February-ish (fingers crossed).
When it comes to editing, this is what’s working for me. Don’t worry if you struggle to follow someone else’s system; do whatever works for you to get the writing done. That’s all that matters.
You’re going to have days (or weeks) when you think, ‘Hey, this is pretty good,’ and days (or weeks, or months) when you want to roll up your manuscript and choke yourself with it. This is normal. Keep going. I promise you it’s worth it.
In Spring, I’ll send Nicksgate off to the betas, I promise. I won’t bottle it, I’m not that wet.
But I also don’t feel so dry anymore.
Speak soon.
JL
PS: Want the skinny on momentum and the truth about finishing a novel? Then check this post out.
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