Dig for the Living Roots: the Archaeology of Writing & Editing
The end is often the beginning
Hey there Real Writers, I’ve been focusing on editing work for clients of late and wanted to share a recurring theme all editors encounter, I’m sure. I liken the experience to being an archaeologist as well as an editor.
It usually involves a painful truth: the end is often the beginning in a work.
This moment of truth happens in all forms of writing: poetry, essays, plays, prose. What a writer thinks is the big turn/ending/reveal they’ve been working toward is really the core idea of the work, often even the starting point. Definitely where the revision process begins.
Often, I reach the last five pages or chapter of a book, or the last line of the poem, and it’s clear why the way there was cluttered, repetitive, digressive or disorganized, without a narrative arc, without tension or momentum, capable, but uninspired. The writer needed to kill time until that ending.
What was written was a form of rehashing the beginning over and over from different angles, or wandering off into safer territory, or loading up on darlings (the writing we think is transcendent and brilliant but either isn’t or isn’t relevant to the piece, or both. Or it is brilliant but doesn’t fit). Or writing a story that doesn’t match up with the characters or their goals because it’s less scary, then trying to tie it all together quickly at the end.
In service to this truth, the writer must go through what’s been written to cull what’s in service to that idea, then proceed from there. There’s digging and discovery, not just in what’s already written, but the idea itself (because as an ending it wasn’t fully excavated), and a new path to a new ending revealed.
The story, essay, or poem can also be a good one. I’m not saying the piece is not good by definition. But where it lands is more high concept and way more compelling and that’s where the writer should go.
As a writer, editor, and reader. I get it. While I’m not here to talk about the middle, the middle can be hard. It’s the Great Unknown, where writers falter, make wrong turns. It’s The Way of Blood, Sweat, and Tears. But it’s where the magic is. The integrity. The authenticity. The growth. And, again, discovery.
Being careful, hiding in a lot of preamble, taking the safe road in plot and character development or images and metaphors, fulfilling basic expectations of poetic form, or using flashy, clever tricks, is wading in the comfortable shallows. You can observe and describe the big waves from there, but you’re not experiencing them. And it shows.
Authenticity and intuition are needed. The writer must be organically themselves.
Writing with authenticity and intuition create the spirit or soul of the piece, best expressed through figurative, symbolic, and thematic layers, including imagery and a writer’s language style/skill/sensibility/perspective that weave together to create meaning. These breathe life into a piece and give it dimension. And it has to be in the way only the writer can organically be—real.
This, I admit, is terrifying.
It requires sharing your own heart and soul, being vulnerable and taking risks.
But when have you ever seen an archaeologist speaking to the media who isn’t passionate and in awe of the work they are doing, what they are discovering, the historical narrative of the discoveries, and what they mean?
The answer is never.
Your self-worth as a writer is not about producing all the time, awards, readings, books sales.
To hang it on that is paralyzing and fragmenting and wastes so much time. It creates a disconnect so instead of being your real writer self you become a writer shaped by external factors and expectations that are impossible to satisfy and will deeply dissatisfy you in the end.
This pressure blocks your internal voice, authenticity, and intuition. Chasing approval never works. Eventually, we all learn that to live the life we want we have to be true to ourselves and trust that. Sometimes copying someone else or riding a trend can work, but if it’s not you, that will be a temporary, unhappy, exhausting imposter experience.
In terms of an editor acting as an archaeologist, I catalogue what isn’t working, as well as what is, until the “aha” moment where there’s a click and I see what the core issue is and what needs to happen to fix it. My intuition (mixed with education and experience) taps into what the piece wants to be. That always comes through, but it can be harder for the writer to see it. Once I know, I see how the existing elements need to be removed, rearranged, or supplemented.
When I share this with the writer, as gently as I can, but with excitement for the exciting work that lies ahead if they are willing to see it that way (revision really is the best part of the writing process!), their response is usually one of these:
That was mostly my original idea but I thought it wasn’t good enough. (Sometimes the idea needs to be massaged but don’t discount it!)
That’s what I wrote but I changed it because my writing group said…. (Sigh)
I know, but I can’t. It would be too painful/too much work. (I respect this, but writing can be painful and difficult. Take the time you need to be ready. It has to be committed to or not at all—being uncommitted shows. Readers feel it.)
I don’t know how. (That’s what editors, book coaches, workshops, and research are for.)
Related to that last one, I also consider it my job as an editor to help guide the writer to their own aha moment.
I help the writer trust their intuition and encourage them to keep checking their authenticity meter. We trace my suggestions and comments through the work and, along the way, I ask a lot of questions. I reflect back to them what they’re telling me and analyze it, nudging them to analyze it as well. I push them to dig deeper in their answers, not just to my questions, but in their responses to my suggestions and comments.
It will be clear the core idea is missing or a core element is not working, and I am fantastic at brainstorming, which I engage the writer in as fully as possible. It is so fun! But if the writer has hidden the core idea from the piece and themselves, I can only do so much. It will take a conversation in which I question them from different angles, sort of like asking “why?” over and over, going deeper and deeper, adding each piece into the puzzle until it’s revealed and we reach the real answer.
What comes out can often be very personal and/or important to the writer, which is always to be respected and handled carefully.
If it sounds a bit like a therapy session, that’s because it is (within limits, of course). A therapy session for the writing, and to some degree, the writer, which is unavoidable if they are being authentic and putting their heart and soul into a work.
You may know the famous poem by Seamus Heaney, “Digging.” Here’s an excerpt. The emphasis is mine.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I’ve no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it. --"Digging," Seamus Heaney
Through our work together, we dig for the living roots.
Learning this doesn’t mean they never need another editor. We all need editors. Editors need editors. But, over time, the writer will get better and better at seeing the treasure beneath the surface and how to dig to make their own discoveries.
I’ve had clients who did a spectacular rewrite that was night and day from the original version. That was so fantastic it took my breath away! Every writer has it in them. They just have to trust it. These writers needed permission. They needed to hear they could do it. That they had to do it for the success of the piece. And they committed to it.
I’m guessing some of you know that you need to do a bit of excavating with whatever you are writing at the moment and can’t imagine starting over, especially if you’ve started over before. I understand. I’ve done this myself.
I had a 581 page novel in grad school (first draft; waaaay too long, but that’s okay for a first draft), and realized and had feedback from others that much of it wasn’t the actual story. I ended up ditching three characters and 481 pages of the work then wrote another 150. It was painstaking work and it took me four years to get to the point I felt I could take it on and not lose my mind or ruin the story. I’ve shredded poems down to a few lines and started over as well. Many, many, many times.
Taking time, if you need it, is important. Move on to another piece. Get a little perspective. Or do research. Outline. Make a story map or board game of the new version of the piece to have fun with it and wrap your head around it. Take the pressure off.
But then move forward to excavate the core of the work. There will be tiny, delicate pieces to examine so take your time. Along the way, keep considering what is yours, no one else’s, to stay authentic. Follow intuitive hits (hint: they don’t always make sense). Above all, don’t spare yourself the truth.
You have to feel it so take your time. Keep asking “why?” until you hit the real answer. Then write that.
Dig for the living roots.
Happy writing,
Chris
Gold dust, Chris! Thank you for sharing such insightful archaeology. 😊😊😊