Revising the Writer

A ruthless edit on the character we’ll call “Author.”

The Inciting Incident

“Excuse me, is that your book?” 

He sits in the empty seat across from me in the corner of the coffee shop nearest the restrooms that I can always count on to be uninhabited. The staff don’t complain about me slowly molding a permanent imprint of my backside in this undesirable patch of real estate while I nurse my small drip coffee for hours.

Draft v.1

“Yes, sorry, I can make room.” I scootch my belongings to one half of the coffee table I rarely have to share.

“No, I mean it looks like your photograph on the back, are you the author?” He picks up the book, my book in every sense, and idly flips through the pages.

“Yes… I mean it’s really a just a journal mostly… I didn’t write a ton…” …or spend countless hours conceptualizing, drafting, formatting, editing, proofreading, designing, indeed creating the bound pile of paper that does resemble a real book now that you mention it from the tiniest spark of an idea in my own mind.

“Wow, that’s fantastic. Do you have a spare copy by any chance?”

“I think so.” I stammer, trying to remember if I returned the crumpled Trader Joe’s bag stacked with copies to my trunk after the last time I mistakenly carried it in with the groceries. I note that the copy in his hand could probably be considered a spare, though I am currently using it for internal validation.

“I would sure love to take this home with me, pour over it with rapt attention, then purchase copies for everyone in my international book club and Tweet about it to my three million followers,” he says — or something like that, it’s hard to tell through the cloud of imposter syndrome that has descended and blurs my vision, muffles his words.

“Would you sign this for me?” He asks, producing a tool that looks vaguely familiar and crisply pressing the cover open.

I find the end of the pen used to produce ink and with shaky fingers, calloused from flying across pages with ease every morning, try to recall one of the first words I learned to spell: my name. Conveniently, it’s printed right there on the title page as a reminder, and I replicate the letters in penmanship that makes it resemble the copy my child has commandeered as a coloring book.

“Thank you so much, what do I owe you?” His wallet, overflowing with bills, occupies the hand not caressing my book, and I reply.

“Oh, it’s fine, please take it.” I think of the stack of author copies in my office corner that has dwindled by the exact number of people attending Thanksgiving dinner at my parent’s house. They were relatively inexpensive, and the royalty I would receive if he purchased a copy online right now wouldn’t pay for my coffee refill, so really, it was fine. The visual of a stranger holding a copy of my book provides more sustenance than the extra caffeine.

“Are you sure?” He gives me a second chance, wallet still in hand. No, I can’t ask for his money. I was probably going to spill coffee on this copy anyhow and ruin it. And I could really use the space back in my office, why do I have so many of these? Wasn’t it much better if he took this one off my hands and perhaps remembered me as a benevolent writer who passed along to him something clearly of little to no value?

The man leaves, I put my noise-cancelling headphones back on and return to my view of the bathroom door, shaken but ready to bang out a few thousand more words on my laptop. Just twelve more units of my soul to pour onto the internet and I can pay off my credit card coffee before the interest kicks in.

Thus concludes phase one of my writing process — a first draft that falls flat, leaves something to be desired. I feel the narrative and characters deep yet write them shallow. The triumph of the final period lasts only a brief moment, and I realize I hate it. Suck it up, main character, your story sucks. You suck. Suckity suck suck…fuck. We need to speed up this character arc pronto and get to the happily ever after.

I shake off the imposter cloud and open a blank document, reimagining a much more satisfactory means to tell my story. I recycle a few concepts from the original but remove the drivel. Strengthen my weak character. Craft more compelling plot points. Add flowery language to make it sound more pretentious.

Content Revision — Draft v.2

“Absolutely,” I scrawl a thoughtful and personalized inscription making it ineligible for re-gifting, and add my signature with a flourish. I open my credit card processing app and hand over the phone without flinching at the numbers on the screen.

“Here is my card, you can visit my website to order additional copies and peruse my other work. Please use this QR code to leave me an honest and glowing review. Here are suggested hashtags to use when posting about this meaningful interaction and soul-altering work of art across social media.”

I rise and swivel grandly away from the bathroom corner to announce loudly:

“Fellow patrons, I am an author. Copies of my book are available for sale and will graciously provide autographs in exchange for a double shot skinny soy mocha latte, lite whip, caramel drizzle.” I bow modestly to the round of applause and ask the clientele to please form an orderly line.

The three other inhabitants of the coffee shop give me wry smiles, replace their noise-cancelling headphones, and return to their writing.

I have overcompensated and swung too far in the other direction, somehow making this story far worse.

Slashes on the page, furious notes in the margins. Finally, in a third draft that looks nothing like the previous iterations, I find the sweet spot that rings of truth somewhere in the middle. 

My author can take a lesson from the flamboyant proud art-eest in the revision and at least hold her head high and graciously accept payment for her work — because that’s what it is after all, work. She can be appropriately flattered when asked to inscribe a copy (irrelevant backstory note: this has happened exactly twice with people who did not share her last name), but not demand whipped cream-topped confections in exchange for the privilege.

She can say “yes, I am the author” without shrinking into her hooded writer’s armor.

She might not be sensational, aspirational or shocking, but she doesn’t have to gather dust in a corner either. She can comfortably occupy that relatable middle ground where she values herself and her work, but is not a pretentious asshole she no longer recognizes.

The beauty of revising my own story is that I get to write the ending.

Final Draft v.3

“Thanks so much, I appreciate your support.”

Now was that so hard?