I am in the midst of the fifth draft of my young adult monster hunter romp, affectionately known as ItB around these parts (although the title is most certainly changing). I’ve probably done more on the book in the last three to four months than I did in its first year.

Looking back, it seems inappropriate to even call the thing a book in the state that it lived for its first year. It was more like a book’s embryo. The little tadpole looking thing you see on ultrasounds, filled with potential but in need of some incubation and life goo.

What lit the fire under me to start all these drafts? Well, I’m heading to Los Angeles later this month for Writers Digest Conference West, wherein I’ll be participating in a Pitch Slam. It’s kind of nutty, basically speed dating but cruising for literary agents, trying to gauge interest in your book. Figured I’ve been doing the novel writing thing for a few years now, and it’s a worthwhile step that just needs to happen.

In the process of writing all these drafts, I feel like I’ve learned more about writing than ever before. Here are some of the lessons that I’m going to take with me for future novel endeavors:

1. Do. Not. Line. Edit.

Seriously. Pretend that line editing is lava. You do not, under any circumstances, want to dip your toes into magma, because then you will go out like Denethor in Lord of the Rings or one of those ridiculous gorillas in Congo.

Leave it alone.

I know, it is just so tempting to tweak and perfect every sentence to make it just so. But you have to ignore how bad it is and get the book done. Let it suck. It seems contrary to every writer bone in your body but it’s necessary, so you can finish your story, and finish it again, and finish it again.

There’s no need to fiddle with every last word. Why? Because you might cut almost half of them when you realize that having your main character go to school with red pants on made sense until you decided to set the story on a planet of alien creatures that have no legs. I rewrote half of ItB between the third and fourth draft, and I’m rewriting another third of it for the fifth draft. So many fractions! But the math is pretty simple — zero line editing now will multiply your progress. Leave line editing until the story is set in stone.

2. Trust your instincts.

Kind of worried that the one plot device you used to get your hero from point A to point B is hackneyed and totally force-fed? Or that maybe you’re laying on the exposition a bit too thick in that 6000 word chapter that’s nothing but one dude talking? Or that the heroine who does whatever her boyfriend says is a lifeless automaton?

You’re probably right.

Those things that bug you about your story, that feel unnatural, heavy-handed, too light, too sudden, overwrought and under-delivered usually are. Trust your gut on that. You’re the painter here, the sculptor. Nobody knows what this thing is supposed to be better than you. And if you’re starting to see these issues, it’s guaranteed that somebody else will. Do you have to fix it right this second? No. Save it for the next draft if it’s too daunting. Give yourself permission to move on. But don’t ignore it if your gut is doing somersaults.

On the flip side, trust your gut about the good stuff, too. You’ve got an amazing idea, but it might totally change the whole first act? It’s probably worth doing. I’ll bet it’s the best idea you ever had. Start a new version of your document, pull the trigger, see where the bullet goes. The story might be more on target than ever.

3. You are wrong.

I know, I’m totally contradicting the last point. But this one is double true. More often than not, your first decision about everything will be wrong. How to introduce the porcupine love interest, how to propel the main character into his decision to be a nudist superhero, how many times you use a form of that dreaded “be” verb.

You will be wrong, and you will be wrong a whole lot.

But that’s OK. Learn to fix what’s wrong. Learn to mess with the broken stuff until it looks less broken. And then learn how to turn that stuff into stuff that’s actually good. Listen to early readers that have issues with how the story is told. Even if it sounds so ridiculous that you never want to talk to them again because they just don’t get it, man — hear them out. Or more importantly, what’s behind the critique. There’s a wizard beyond that curtain. You just have to fish him out.

4. Lose it.

Cut, cut, cut. You don’t need it. I promise you that your story can exist without the complete and exhaustive concordance of your made up fantasy language. I promise that people will understand the hero’s motivation to swim with laser-firing sharks without needing a monologue about it every other chapter. We don’t need progress reports or check-in conversations getting all the characters up to speed. Your story will keep spinning along, just like our pretty little blue-and-green planet does, despite what you remove from it.

Try it out. Get rid of stuff. It’s actually liberating to discover that there are thousands of words you don’t need. This leaves room for the necessary stuff to breathe. To grow. For the story to go where it should go, rather than where you want it to go. Everything should be cause and effect, not a series of randomly unconnected scenes. Lose it. Even if you love it. They always say kill your darlings, but it’s better to just massacre those things.

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So that’s what I’ve been learning over the last few months. Do you guys have any writing tips you’ve learned from extensive editing?

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