Revisionist Theory Revised

Alex Myers, June's guest blogger

When I left my MFA program, I had in hand a “finished” draft of my first novel. I’d worked on it with two faculty advisors, I’d presented sections of it in workshop, I’d given it to my wife and parents to read, and I’d revised it dozens (dozens!) of times. Friends and faculty suggested I should send it off, see if I could get an agent. Sure, I thought, why not give it a try?

I entered this process and believed that I would be acquiring a whole new skill set, one that my MFA program hadn’t prepared me for (there, I’d learned how to write and rewrite, read and critique, among other less tangible skills). In part, that was true. I learned how to write a query letter and synopsis; I learned how to research agents and discover what might make them interested in my novel. I learned to wait. All of these were crucial lessons in a writing life, but they were not the most crucial. In fact, what I ended up learning in the process of signing with an agent was a whole new perspective on revision.

Here’s what happened. As I said, I graduated. (Hurray!) I researched and wrote a query letter. (Smaller hurray!) I sent it out and waited. (Okay, no hurray.) In a few weeks, I started getting requests for partial manuscripts as well as rejections. I sent out fifty pages here, a chapter there, more queries – casting my bread upon the waters. Most agents, even if they asked for a partial or full look at the manuscript, eventually replied with a polite “looks nice, but it isn’t for me.” Talk about advice that isn’t helpful…. But amidst all these rejections there were three or four agents who took the time to spell out a few suggestions. Some were global (“too much internalization from the main character”) some were more particular (“the opening is slow” or “the battle scenes are confusing”). One agent listed twelve aspects, from broad to small, that she felt needed to be changed.

At first, I grew frustrated: all these rejections, all these flaws. However, within a short while, I realized that those few agents who had taken the time to give me suggestions had actually read the manuscript. That made them the first people who weren’t related to me or paid by a school to turn its pages, think of it as a book, and reflect on it. And their suggestions weren’t to consign it to flame; they were tips on how to make it better. Two of them even said they’d be willing to look at it again if I made changes.

And yet, even as I contemplated making these changes, I started to feel (to be cliché) like a sell-out. It seemed as if I was giving up on my artistic vision and letting someone else tell me what to do with a piece. Well, I argued with myself, what’s so different about this advice as opposed to what a faculty advisor might say? The difference was the goal. For an advisor or workshop leader, the goal is to make the writing better and to teach me how to write above and beyond this particular piece. But an agent’s goal? To sell a manuscript. Something in me – likely something fermented by the artistic aspirations of an MFA program – chafed at making these changes.

But I was the one who had sent out the manuscript, who had decided it was ready for a new perspective. And if I wasn’t ready to consider it as saleable, as a commercial product, then I had no business querying agents in the first place. Too often in an MFA program, the business side of writing is ignored, downplayed, or belittled. And it took me a while to get over my prejudice.

This is where my writing lesson began. When I sat back down at my desk, I took out the agents’ suggestions and saw that the sort of revision they were asking for was quite different from how I’d revised in the MFA program. The veneer of the MFA discourse, the consideration of “craft,” and the pleasant, positive comments in the margins were gone. But more substantially, the agents unflinchingly suggested massive overhauls of the book. If I took their suggestions, there’d be nothing left! Cut the first eighty pages, one wrote. Add a subplot that involves New York City or a major historical figure, wrote another. I quickly saw that I couldn’t follow all the advice I’d been handed. So I focused first on the common ground – the weaknesses more than one agent had picked out. Then I went through the suggestions from the two who had been more detailed; I felt that their comments indicated a closer attention to (and therefore greater interest in) my manuscript.

In the end, what really changed about my revision process was the concept of audience. The grinding away at suggested adjustments was the same as ever, but I rewrote with the knowledge that these agents would take one more look and would want to see not only how I had rewritten (and how good the revision was) but also whether I had paid attention to all of their suggestions. After all, they had taken the time to read and respond: they would want to know that I had taken due time to address their concerns. Writing became a process that was less personal, but in a good way: it became shared, it forged a connection. When I did send the revised manuscript back to the agents, I carefully made notes about what I had elected not to change – not to be defensive, but to acknowledge that I knew they’d suggested an alteration (okay, and I wanted to show a little spine and ownership too).

Deborah Sampson Gannett, Alex's ancestor

And guess what? The agent who had provided the most detailed list for revision was the one who emailed me back and said she loved the new manuscript. I signed with her and what did I get next? Another list of suggested revisions.

Well, I made those, too, and a few more besides. Then my agent sent the manuscript out, I had phone conversations with editors, my novel went up for auction, and I signed with Simon & Schuster. As I write this, I am at home on summer vacation from my teaching job, awaiting a letter from my editor; a letter that, most assuredly, will contain a (very long) list of suggested revisions. I can’t wait.

Alex Myers lives and teaches in Rhode Island. His novel, Revolutionary, is based on the life story of one of his ancestors, Deborah Sampson. Sampson ran away from home in 1782, disguised herself as a man, and joined the Continental Army. Alex graduated from VCFA’s MFA program in January 2011. Details of his short fiction and book review publications can be found here.

Tagged as: Alex Myers, MFA, publishing, revisions