Your initial draft is often done with energy and care. However, its persuasive strength will only come through revision. This stage is the least fun and the hardest work because it requires a different kind of attention. It is here that your writing begins to truly shine.
Revision involves careful thinking. Books are written over time, and chapters done five weeks ago may no longer be easily recalled, which creates common problems. Look for repetitive thoughts, for sentences that circle around an idea without moving it forward, and for meandering sections that slow the progress of the idea without adding anything of lasting value. These troublesome bits tend to accumulate during the drafting stage. Never fear the delete key or the backspace key.
There is a discipline in deciding what to keep and what to remove. Material that is interesting or well written may still need to be cut if it does not serve the larger purpose of the piece. This requires a willingness to prioritize the book’s purpose over a passionate side point or a favorite section of brilliant prose. The goal is refinement, to make the book better.
I had the privilege of working with the late Calvin Miller on his great book Into the Depths of God. We sat in his study and took turns reading his manuscript aloud. I would read something and he would frown, saying, “That’s terrible. Who wrote that?” We would laugh and cross out a full page or two of text. By the end, thirty percent of the manuscript was on the cutting-room floor.
Good revision acknowledges that the first version of our thoughts rarely represents their clearest expression. Every pass through the manuscript asks the same question, “Does this help the reader understand what I am trying to say?” If the answer is no, the sentence should be removed. The reader will never know how much pain you suffered by making certain words, clever phrases, paragraphs, or pages disappear. That is how it should be. The best revisions are invisible. Yet it marks the difference between a book that is merely finished and one that is truly persuasive.


My story gently wandered
through ports of lovely prose,
ink and paper squandered,
for that’s the way it goes,
my passion duly sacrificed
to better tell the tale,
loquaciousness bound and triced
to better hoist the sail
that would let the plot’s true arc
stand out and stand alone
to let, perhaps, the reader hark
to the stempost cutting foam
on this literary sea
that still mysteriously calls to me.