The art of editing
“Every word matters to me: if I find myself with extra words, I remove them.”
Dear friends,
This week I’ve been editing poems. It’s a long process for me. Usually a poem’s idea begins like some kind of kernel. I work on it for a few days — editing and paring and changing line breaks and trying to make the language do the work of sharp language — and then it’s put in a folder alongside other poems. When it comes time for the poems to be submitted to a publisher, there’s another round (insomnia helps) of editing and changing and paring and reducing. Every word matters to me: if I find myself with extra words, I remove them.
Sometimes, as part of editing, I rewrite a poem from another perspective. I had a dream this week, a bad one, and I wrote about it. This morning I re-wrote the poem about the dream, but I removed the information about it being a dream. I’m unsure which draft I’ll keep, but it’s certainly true that today’s edit is more raw. Each edit does its own work.
There’s a brilliant — and visually beautiful — article from The New York Times a few years ago that examines the drafts that Elizabeth Bishop’s poem “One Art” went through between its original composition and its final edit. If you have a subscription (or haven’t used up your free articles!) it’s worthwhile having a look.
What goes into editing? The art of trying to say something that you wish to last.
Editing can seem like a literary exercise, but it ties into a deeper consciousness in us: I rewrite the poem; I write the email but sleep on it before I send it; I compose a text message but delete it; I open my mouth to speak but shut it before I speak. We are all editing ourselves all the time. And that’s not necessarily oppressive; sometimes it’s wisdom. “I don’t have enough information to know what I think” is a useful sentence, especially when you have feelings, and intuition. The prompt this week will be, What’s a time you edited yourself, and were glad about it? It might be a poem. It might be something you were about to say. It might be a letter you thought to send but didn’t.
But before I sign off, I want to offer a tool for editing. Not for the editing of poetry — although it might help — but for the deeper art of editing. I do some work at Columbia University’s Center for Cooperation and Conflict Resolution, and my colleague Peter Coleman has a polarization detox challenge that he’s devised. It’s not something to do in ten minutes. It’s four weeks, with a reminder every day. You can do a quick exercise, or some days you might want to go more in-depth. It’s not an exercise in vague middle-of-the-road fence dwelling where your opinions become deflated. In many ways, it’s a tool for sharpening: your questions, your mind, your capacity to listen, the difficult reflection of, What do I have to learn?
For me, the art of poetry and the art of conflict resolution have always been about the same thing: language. What language will I use today? What will its effect be? I fail all the time at this. (I’ve sent variations of this text before: I’m sorry. What I said was awful. I meant something else, but that barely matters, because what I said was what you were left with. I’m sorry. Can we try again?) Edit edit edit. Elizabeth Bishop was famous for editing much of her own life out of her work, and her poetry shines as a result of this honing. Other forms of editing — in art, in life — are about putting yourself in, or your doubts, or your grief, or your worry, or your limitations.
Here again is the prompt:
What’s a time you edited yourself, and were glad about it?
And the invitation — I’m serious, I’d love to hear in a few weeks what the four-week learning of the polarization detox challenge did to your conversations this November — is to think about that tool for learning that addresses the human hunger for elevated language, and sharpens the questions that surround the cathartic effect of language that might be hard to undo.
See you in the comments, friends,
P.S. This week sees the end of the current season of The Corrymeela Podcast. I’ve interviewed Peter Coleman (the conflict and cooperation guy mentioned above), as well as Juliane Okot Bitek (Ugandan poet living in Canada, about the complications of the word reconciliation), and Marina Cantacuzino (a journalist who, for twenty years, has concerned herself with the complicated word forgiveness), and political scientists Duncan Morrow and Jude Lal Fernando about divided societies. If you have listening you want to do while you bake, or drive, or wonder what to do about living in the world, these might be an accompaniment.
Poetry in the World
U.S.A.
Book Are Magic | Brooklyn, NY
On the 20th of November, I’ll be in conversation with the brilliant Nick Flynn on his new collection of poems, Low. Tickets are $10, and will include either a book copy or giftcard to the bookshop. We start at 7pm ET, and will also be live streamed on YouTube for those who are unable to join in person. Details and registration here.
ONLINE
Reading Rilke Today
On Sunday, December 3rd at 4pm ET, Pádraig will join Rilke translator and poet, Mark S. Burrows and Marie Howe, to explore the writings of Rilke and why Rilke’s words challenge and inspire us, offering “words that still ripen in the silences.” Registration is free, with more details here.
As a Veteran I feel I live a life of endless edit. It’s the art of poetry and conflict resolution exploding like a Jackson Pollock in my head everyday.
And on this Veterans & Remembrance Day 🌺 weekend, I’m always preparing, prepping, pivoting, “What language will I use today, when they say what they say to me on this day.”
And before they can utter the words, all too familiar, and still far too awkward and discomforting for most, I’m editing my response.
Thwacks of paint hit my canvas mind, but my heart pulls the paint thinner and pours it out, washing over my linguistic desire to deeply connect. It’s not safe…it’s too risky…I might stumble , again. So, I edit.
And then I yearn. For a place and time where we may let our service to a country be a conversation starter, not an ender, nor an edit.
Can we all resist that titillating tendency to uncomfortably end, and edit, a conversation with the words, “Thank you for your service.”
Instead we wonder, what if we let it be an opening to understanding and healing. We didn’t just serve, our families served alongside us.
So there’s an unexpected entryway. We are all finding our way, along the way. To hear us is to help us. To help us is to heal us.
Veteran’s Day Grief is real. In surges and swells 🌊 like this one, which woke me in the middle of the night with the rain and wind hitting my windows like colorless paint splatters. In every drop an entire story. 🌧️
I stir, exhaustion reigns, but I cannot keep the heart from straining, nor the mind from racing. We see the world in its state presently, and we ask, “What was it all for?” Can we go back and edit?
I guess one soldier’s evermore is another sailor’s everward. Where’s the paint thinner when you need it?
I’m okay. Truly. Genetically programmed ☘️ (Irish doldrums) to ride the swells, they are often the amplitude of inspiration and stirring creativity. Pádraig knows of what I speak.
And edits, be glad for the edits. ✍️ The very ones that make these words, on your screen, in your time zone, in your dance of detox come to life.
Graciously putting myself in - this communitas of healing. ❤️🩹
My doubts, my worries, my grief, my limitations…and my service. Feels lighter in the sharing. 🙏🏻 Thanks for all you do.
My dear friend is experiencing dementia. I am learning to edit out my comments such as, “The last we talked, you said you were keeping the keys on the hook by the door.”
It is hard to help from a great distance. I am working on ways to cue action that don’t include “Remember?” Still not getting it right, but I keep trying.