Editing Your Third Draft - Make Your Blog Post Unforgettable
Several years ago, I helped my father-in-law move a couch.
(This is something you should never do unless you are serious about staying with his child forever. The twists and turns of marriage don’t compare with the terror of moving furniture.)
The chair was a black, wobbly leather thing. We drove it 3 hours to the new place. Then, we stopped and unstrapped it.
We hauled it off the truck…
up the stairs…
around the corner…
and onto the deck.
With a final “HURGGH!”, we shoved the couch toward the front door. It didn’t fit. We tried again. It didn’t fit. No matter how many times we turned the legs, smushed the cushions, or screamed “PIVOT,” the couch was not going in the house.
We needed an inch. Maybe.
The sofa would slide in if we removed the screen door. To remove the screen door, we needed a screwdriver. To get a screwdriver, we’d need to buy one. (No tools in a new house). To buy one, we had to take a 30-minute drive back into town.
I suggested we rip off the door, Rambo style. I suggested donating the couch to Goodwill. I suggested a well-shaped stick to move the screws.
“Nope. We need the right tool.”
So, instead of tearing off the door, tossing away the couch, or playing Tim the Toolman with branches, we took an easy drive into town and paid $3.26 for a screwdriver.
We also got a pretzel because I was hangry.
Armed with our new tool, we removed the door, carried in the couch, dropped it in the living room, and plopped down on the seats in minutes. No fuss. No cuss.
The right tool changes everything.
This is true in editing as well.
Unfortunately, when writers talk about “tools” today, most of the discussion revolves around technology.
What notebooks do you use?
What’s your writing tech stack?
What social media do you distribute with?
What kind of Mac are you using?
These are the tools that allow a person to generate ideas and distribute work. Not one of them addresses the tools found in the language itself.
When it comes to editing a post to make it pop, modern writers do the equivalent of shoving the couch in the door, over and over. We don’t want tools. We want the right angle. We want to feel like the words work.
Sadly, feelings are fragile.
You may feel that removing your second paragraph would make your argument clearer, but that impulse may just as well be driven by an intense desire to pee. You may feel that another adjective belongs in the third sentence; however, that desire could have been spawned by your reading too much bloated, wandering, self-indulgent poetry. A lovesick writer feels differently about his draft than one who is in a healthy marriage. An enneagram 9 would feel different than a 2, and an INTJ will not make the same assessments as an INFP.
Your feelings can get you stuck on a piece that’s already very good. They can also falsely empower you to release mediocre work.
There’s a tremendous irony in this. Using the proper tools to edit a post often achieve that feeling we seek in the first place.
The good news is, like screwdrivers, these tools are old as language itself.
That’s why you can find them in both Shakespeare and hip hop.
Here’s Cardi B in the pre-chorus of her hit Up:
Big bag bussin’ out the Bentley Bentayga Balenciaga Bardi back and all these bi — es f — ed.”
Is that really so different than when Shakespeare wrote this in The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra?
“The barge she sat in like burnished throne, Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold”
Same tool. Same letter. Same effect. Shakespeare was a little more measured in his deployment, but a simple alliteration goes a long way.
Most writing I see today does not suffer from a lack of ideas or good references, but from the author’s inability to spice up sentences in a meaningful and memorable way. You can’t feel your way to doing that. You can edit your way there with the very same techniques used by Shakespeare and Yoda and George Lucas and Ernest Hemingway and yes, Cardi B.
Those people think writing comes from magic.
Really, the magic of writing comes from editing tools.
While inspiration strikes at a moment’s notice, good writing (which is to say, good editing) takes time. An idea can help you put up a tent of decent thoughts. Editing tools can help you turn that idea into a metaphorical mansion.
But, writers hate tools
Saying a word like “framework” or “formula” to a writer is a lot like saying the word “math.”
Same nostril crinkle.
Same dimple pucker.
Same inner scream.
Nobody wants to hear it. To imply that any writing could be formulaic is to insult the great muse Calliope, who floats around and graces us mere mortals with ideas.
It’s a lie. Well, it’s a half-truth, anyway.
You can’t feel your way to good writing. You need a full tool chest. When you have more tools in your belt, it’s easier to build good writing, but it’s also easy to fix writing gone wrong.
Most of us resist tools, though. Having been allured by the blurry-eyed myths of writing myself, I’ve come up with a few ideas why that is the case.
The first reason: “tools” of writing sound dull
Any hint that you might soon learn about grammar, punctuation, or parts of speech reminds you of that cranky old Mr. Bailey who taught your sixth grade English class. He smelled funny. Because of him, you became disinterested in the building blocks of writing.
The principles of sentences are the basic tools of writing. Without them, you won’t be able to use advanced tools.
Many modern writers think they need more exposure to advance their career as a writer. Often, they just need to learn how to use pronouns properly.
The second reason: using “tools” feels like cheating
The apparent magic of writing is intoxicating. You’re sitting on a deck drinking bourbon and — BOOM! — an idea hits you. You’re daydreaming while driving and — WHAM! — a lovely line appears. You’re dusting off the desk and — POW! — Chapter One wrote itself.
Using tools to write feels icky because tools sound like work. Most of us would rather follow the Romantic path.
The Romantics did a lot for art. They also left some squirrelly, misleading guidelines about how to make it. Here’s Mark Forsyth in his wonderful book The Elements of Eloquence.
“The Romantics liked to believe that you could learn everything worth learning by gazing at a babbling mountain brook, or running barefoot through the fields, or contemplating a Grecian urn… they wanted to be natural.”
Writing is not a natural process. It is not natural for any human being to sit alone smashing letters in order to make an argument to a fellow man. What’s natural is to punch that fellow man in the mouth to make your point.
Doing anything “naturally” sounds nice until you try it. Natural homes are just sticks propping up other sticks. There is no natural air conditioning, save the wind.
Humankind developed tools to improve what is natural.
The third reason: we don’t know the tools for good editing
Sociologist Pierre Bourdieu once argued that free museums do not make people more appreciative of art because there are certain understandings required to appreciate art in the first place. A Picasso is nice. Unless you are a painter. Then it is magnificent.
This phenomenon holds true in writing.
Every teenager is shown Shakespeare’s work in school, and all of them think “geez, this is dull.” We aren’t taught the fundamentals of good writing. We didn’t have teachers paced around the classroom, thrust a copy of Hamlet in front of us, and shouted:
“MY GOD — LOOK at this! There’s an alliteration, assonance, a rhyme, and polyptoton all in the same line. He doesn’t break the story, AND he’s done it in iambic pentameter?!”
Instead, students are asked questions like “What do the three witches represent?” “How is Taming of the Shrew relevant today?” “What are the implications of the feud between the Capulets and the Montagues?”
We look for abstract, fuzzy meaning of written words when you could as opposed to studying concrete, clear ways to use them. Sure, authors sometimes use symbols. But also, they sometimes use the word “yellow” instead of “green” simply because it sounds better.
“Class, why did Charlotte Gilman say her wallpaper was yellow when she wrote The Yellow Wallpaper?”
Good question. Maybe because IT WAS YELLOW.
Never once is there a discussion of the lovely alliteration between the double “L’s” in “yellow” and “wallpaper?” Nor is there mention of the alliterative “W” that ensure the words flow well together.
It would be far more effective to communicate the genius of Shakespeare by trying to pull off what he does. Doing so would make you shockingly aware of just how many writing tools are at your disposal and get you slowly acquainted with how use them properly.
We don’t, and so we are left guessing.
That’s why blogs don’t say “I need to end this section on an anapestic tetrameter.” Nor would you hear an influencer advise a young content creator to “try out an epistrophe.” And unless you’re in a Harvard graduate class, there’s no chance you’d catch anyone advising a personal brand to “use anadiplosis more often.”
It’s a shame. If we did have those conversations, titles like “The Four Hour Work Week” would be written on purpose instead of by accident .
4 Editing Tools to Start Using Today
Imagine your response to hearing this sentence:
“Please use this hammer to drive a nail into the wall.”
Odds are, you’d follow instructions. You’d pick up that hunk of steel and smash the small slice of metal into wood. Even if you’d never seen a hammer or a nail before, you could probably figure out what was supposed to be done.
Now, imagine the last half of that sentence got lopped off:
“Please use this hammer.”
This sentence is equal parts empowering and terrifying. Use the hammer? For what? A birdhouse? A door? Should I use this hammer to build a structure or break one? The possibilities are endless.
There’s a caveat, though: the tool is more effective if you know how to use it.
That’s why instructions are nice. You can’t make a mistake when you have instructions. And even if you do, at least it wasn’t your fault. Over time, though, instructions restrict you.
When it comes to nonfiction writing, most of us follow instructions and stay in the land of safe restriction. We write five-paragraph essays like our teachers taught us. We copy templates formed by other bloggers. We stay in the lines.
We worship the instructions, not the tools.
The opposite is much more fun.
Certainly, there are plenty of writing “tools” that would be beneficial, so to be clear, these aren’t productivity tools, nor are they software-based. These are tools of language that make for better writing.
The particular set of tools here are called “rhetorical figures of speech.”
Most writers discover these by accident. They fiddle their words and furrow their brows until a sentence clunks into place and gives them the sort of inner peace Gandhi would have been jealous to find. It’s as if they’ve been given the keys to the universe. The light of discovery shines within.
In reality, they’re just copying what Shakespeare did, accidentally.
Your best bet for picking up all of the rhetorical figures is to grab a book called Elements of Eloquence by Mark Forsyth. That book inspired this series of emails. For now, though, I’ve cherry-picked 4 rhetorical figures that are simple to learn and easy to implement. I’ve even skipped over alliteration and assonance to give you a bit of a challenge.
Ready? Let’s go.
Number 1 — The Rhetorical Question
Writing is a one-way street. You sit down. You arrange your thoughts. You present your case. Then, separately, the reader absorbs what you have to say. Any arguments must be made away from the page.
Since writing lacks the dynamism and flexibility of conversation, how can you make readers feel at ease? Is it even possible to simulate their side of the conversation?
The answers are, in reverse: “yes” and “by asking questions.”
In speech, rhetorical questions are queries that do not expect or anticipate an answer. In writing, all questions posed to the reader are rhetorical by default because they cannot be answered.
Let’s pretend you want to argue that every experience is positive like my friend Tom Kuegler did recently.
You could lay out a few long sentences.
Or, you could fire off a series of rhetorical questions.
By hopping into the mind of his readers, Tom quashes their objections. He’s providing evidence for his theory while addressing concerns people might have.
It’s rather effective, don’t you think?
Number 2 — Hypotaxis and Parataxis
Think about riding in a vehicle.
Unless you have passenger anxiety, you don’t feel like you are moving so long as your speed remains constant. Whether your car is scooting through a school zone or whizzing down the interstate, your body assumes you are still.
Punch the gas, though, and you feel it. Hit the brakes, and you feel it. This is the effect of hypotaxis and parataxis.
It’s more complex than this, but here’s the simplest way to remember these two structures: hypotaxis is long sentences. Parataxis is short ones. Swapping the two helps take the reader on wild ride as opposed to a slow slog.
Here’s a wonderful example of a hypotaxic sentence immediately followed by a parataxic one. Feel how this passage from Steven Pinker’s The Sense of Style hits you:
“I know many scholars who have nothing to hide and no need to impress. They do groundbreaking work on important subjects, reason well about clear ideas, and are honest, down-to-earth people, the kind you’d enjoy having a beer with. Still, their writing stinks.”
That last four-word sentence pops the balloon filled up in the previous ones. Ty Burr does the same thing in a passage from his book that I bring up every chance I get:
“Cary Grant, the studo system’s Perfect Man, privately rages against the Academy for not giving him an Oscar and experimented extensively with LSD. Read between the lines of their existing biographies and the mythic love affair of Kate Hepburn and Spencer Tracy turns into a problematic tale of alcoholism, enablement, and emotional cruelty. I’m pretty sure Tom Hanks picks his nose.”
In contrasting the length of the sentences, he’s also contrasting the size of scandal between the stars. It’s a clever way to say, essentially, “Tom Hanks is a nice guy.”
Number 3 — Antithesis
When you write an antithesis, you’re drawing a clean line in the sand to show two, and only two different options.
“It’s now or never.”
Doesn’t that sound great? What that snappy bit fails to address is whether or not the reader can in fact take action a week from Tuesday. Would all would be well then?
Antithesis is as dangerous as it is powerful. Politicians use it all the time. If one party is “pro life,” what does that make the other? Thinking the world is split up into good people or Satanists is an excellent way to lose all faith in humanity, fast.
This is the fire of antithesis. Get it right, and you wind up with a clean line that inspires new thought. Get it wrong, and you can incite hatred, anger, and even violence. Be careful.
Still, though. If it couldn’t be used for evil, it wouldn’t be a superpower. And speaking of superpowers that get misused…
Number 4 — Anadiplosis
Anadiplosis has unfortunately been hijacked, tortured, and otherwise pillaged by people hell-bent on pushing slippery slope logic.
I’m thinking now of the unspoken line of thought in that town where Footloose took place. “These kids can’t dance! If they dance, they’ll move their bodies too much! If they move their bodies too much, they’ll want to have sex! If they want to have sex, we’ll be overrun with heathen babies who will all come dancing right out of the womb!”
Anadiplosis is when you use the same word or group of words at the end of one sentence and the beginning of the next one. One of its most popular uses comes from a little green man in a galaxy far away:
“Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. And hate… leads to suffering.”*
I remember anadiplosis by thinking of that one mouse that should never be given a cookie because if you give him a cookie, you’ll wind up doing his laundry or whatever that chain of rodent reasoning led to. You can use it within paragraphs or between them.
Don’t just show us a staircase. Take us step by step. When we climb, we appreciate the end of the journey much more.
*(This is one of the few times Yoda’s speech wasn’t laden with hyperbaton, but that’s another rhetorical figure for another time).
A fair question to ask is:
“Do I need any reason to use these tools?”
The answer is — no. Respond to writing situations just like you would to the second posed at the beginning of this section (“use this hammer”). Use the tools you learned here to do whatever you want.
Don’t know how to spice up a paragraph? Try some anadiplosis. It can be that simple.
After all, the more tools you try out, the more you have in your writer’s bag. The more you have in your bag, the easier it is to keep people’s attention. When you have their attention, you can get them hooked at the beginning.
When you have them hooked at the beginning, they’ll usually go to the end.
