More than anyone else, I credit my Mom with teaching me how to write. Starting in middle school, she edited pretty much every writing assignment I had. The first draft would invariably come back covered in red ink– delete this word, turn this into the active voice, develop the idea more here. I’d revise and revise until I was satisfied, and the red ink stopped. I was a bit of a perfectionist, and I’d keep editing, moving around commas, until it was time to turn it in. To this day, I do not accept the first draft. The real work is in the editing, the revision. Now, I think of the first draft as kind of an opening offer, knowing that it will be heavily changed over the process of writing. The fact that it will need revision is not a comment on it being bad, but an inherent part of the process.
Although the context here is writing, it is a useful framework for approaching a lot of things in life. I’ve been helping my own kids learn to write, and they often feel the initial edits are a sort of judgment on their ability to write, the ideas they present, or the quality of their work. Rather than seeing the revisions as a part of what is needed to develop a great piece of writing, it's a vote of no-confidence. Seeing their frustration, I can remember what that felt like, that sense of moving from I’m about done, and it just needs a bit of touch up to I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me, work that I’d rather not do.
In order to do this, there needs to be a strong ability to separate criticism from rejection. The fact that a sentence does not work does not mean the piece is bad. Often though, we react to criticism as if it is rejection. We feel that by pointing out a problem in our relationships, we are rejecting the relationship itself. Or, that by pointing out a problem at work we are rejecting the work itself. The work might need improvement, but that does not mean that we are bad at it. An idea may need to be reconsidered or revised, but that does not mean that we are stupid for having the idea itself. Our understanding may need to change, but that does not mean that the old way of thinking was worthless. Revision is often the process of correcting what we get wrong.
We almost never have the complete picture when we set out. When we start something new– whether that’s a project, a business, a job, or a relationship– we do not typically have a full understanding of what it will be. There are parts we predict correctly, and other parts that leave us surprised. When I start to write an essay (like this one), I may start with an idea, a vignette, a feeling, or an insight. Sometimes it is relatively clear in my mind, but usually it is more of a direction. Through the act of writing and revising, I myself gain clarity. I develop more insight into what I did not understand, the idea’s implications, applications, or limitations.
This process of clarification happens all the time with recovery from substance abuse. People come to treatment with a strong, clear idea about what their recovery will look like. Usually though, the reality is different from what was envisioned at the outset. That does not mean that they were wrong or bad or stupid at the beginning, but that going through the process itself can help shape both the road and the destination. Revision isn't simply making an existing idea sound better. Sometimes it's how we arrive at the idea in the first place. It is in the process of revising that we discover what we actually think or feel or discover to be important. Sometimes, it changes what we think is important, or what we wanted in the first place. With recovery, that might mean setting out desiring sobriety, but then coming to the conclusion that what we are actually after is peace with ourselves.
The process of revision changing our goals is not limited to recovery. Many people I talk to have a goal of becoming rich. People see the benefits of financial resources, of living a nice lifestyle, of having lots of beautiful things and want that for themselves. However, in the process of that acquisition– perhaps because of it– they start to recognize that what they really want is something else, something related. Perhaps that is security, or recognition, or comfort. It is through revision, through repeated clarification, that we often discover what we actually want, or what we actually mean.
The idea of revision challenges what we're often taught about sticking to our beliefs. Perhaps we'd be better off thinking of our goals and beliefs as drafts: our best current understanding of what matters and how to navigate the world. We should be willing to defend them, but not so attached to them that we cannot recognize when they need to change.
We tend to think of becoming better as a process of adding things to ourselves. But often, it requires changing things we've already built. We cannot revise something we haven't written. We have to be willing to begin before we know exactly what we're trying to make, accepting that our first attempt will be incomplete and may be wrong. We often prefer to have the right plan before we begin. Emotionally, that feels safer. It gives us something to defend.
But much of what we need to know only becomes apparent through the process itself. We discover what works by trying, what we've overlooked by examining the results, and sometimes what we actually want by pursuing something we thought we wanted. We resist revision because we want the satisfaction of getting something right without the discomfort of changing it. But we cannot do the editing before we've written the first draft. Starting means accepting that we don't know enough yet. Revising means accepting that what we've done may need to change. Both are part of making something worthwhile.
The goal isn't to decrease our commitment to the things that matter to us, but to become less attached to our first understanding of them. We imagine that we need to know where we're going before we begin, but often we only discover what we're looking for by getting started. The process itself changes our understanding of what matters and what we're trying to accomplish. We can remain committed to a relationship, a purpose, or an aspiration while recognizing that our understanding of what it requires may need to change. We can defend what matters without feeling compelled to defend every idea we had about it along the way. Revising our original idea is not a departure from the purpose, but how we come to actually understand it.
Love,
Doc
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