I have been writing stories for a while now. I cannot remember for how long. Some time in elementary school I decided I wanted to be a writer, after some endless iteration of another Disney-inspired handwritten short story of mine. Though my writing looks a little different now, this future aspiration has not changed. What has changed, though — more recently than I’d like to admit — is how I’ve thought about writing, and how my perspective on it has evolved.
Throughout my life, writing has been a kind of statue for me. It stands behind me and stands very tall. It seems too heavy to be knocked down by criticism — though it can and does get chipped a good amount by rejections and, I’m ashamed to admit, constructive criticism — but it has stood behind me very stable and very strong when other facets of my life and academics have not. High school and college insecurities are inevitable, but even in a sea of maybe I’m bad at this or maybe this isn’t for me, creative writing has been constant. It is my protective statue. I have practiced it but never in a way that felt like practice. Even in moments of academic insecurity or social conflict, I have turned to writing. At least I can write it out.
I have always operated under the assumption that my statue was growing with me. I never felt like I had fallen behind as a writer. Even after the inevitable worry of what if I’m not so good at this?, I would feel my statue standing behind me and realize that it was okay — that writer’s block is difficult and it takes time to think of an exciting idea. But I have realized this year that I have never actually turned around and looked at my statue properly. I had never considered that it might not have grown so much after all; that its foundations are old, its feet worn-out and tired of standing for so long; and that some much needed renovation is required to mend all its time-worn cracks.
I continued to disregard my statue throughout my first few semesters at Hopkins. Not intentionally — I simply took it for granted. I used to give myself more time and think about my stories more seriously, but with increased commitments and strengthened confidence in a statue I hadn’t looked at in years, I was sure I would be fine. Write a five-page story the night before it’s due because I don’t have time? Sure, I can do that, and do it well. Quickly scan an assigned story late at night to check it off my to-do list? Yeah, I can do that too, and I can gain everything I need to know from that quick, 12 a.m. skim. I assumed my statue was perfect and I assumed it would always be there.
The comments — from professors and classmates alike — said otherwise. Nothing so dramatic as to open my eyes fully, but gentle comments here or there: kind, constructive and helpful, if only I paid attention to them. This is good, but it could be tighter. What are you actually trying to say here? Give us a little more context. I did not actively disregard these comments, but I didn’t properly acknowledge them either. I would see them, glance once or twice very quickly at my statue (never enough to see its weathered appearance), think about ways to edit my pieces, and forget about them, focusing instead on some new reading for another class.
But each semester opened my eyes a little. I watched classmates craft careful stories. I went to workshop and not only saw my peers diligently taking notes on the feedback provided, but I also saw those edits worked into new, careful revisions. And after a sloppy story submitted late at night with fancy words but not much plot or character development, I turned around and looked at that seemingly impossible, immovable, perfect statue and realized it was none of those things.
This is not to say I am ashamed of my writing or that it is not the academic facet of my life that means the most — it is. It is just that my conviction in its constancy has rendered me blind to the process of serious revisions: of taking a first draft — words with potential — and turning it into words that do something with that potential, that think seriously about structure and progress and even little things, like passive voice and verb choice. I had never thought about writing a piece like this — a piece where every choice means something and every word does work on the page.
My professors and classmates have always encouraged revision, but only now do I even begin to understand what that means. To me, revision was either a dramatic rewrite or a few quick word changes. I cannot say I fully understand the intricacies and effort involved in serious revision even now. I certainly cannot say I have ever seriously revised a story to the point that I can confidently look at it, properly, and say that it is finished. I am not sure I will ever get there. But at least I am looking at my statue. I am no longer covering my eyes.
Lana Swindle is a sophomore from Princeton, N.J. majoring in Writing Seminars. She is a News and Features Editor for The News-Letter. Her column views her everyday experiences from a different perspective.
