I have never been a fan of revising. The process of adjusting the larger essence of a project is a structural one. It’s like assessing the foundation, plumbing, and stability of a fixer-upper house. Many will argue that revision is where writing truly develops. If I even finish a story (a feat of its own), I often will commit to minor editing. Below is part of a piece I wrote in 2017, when I taught English for a full semester. 

After reading this section, I asked myself some upper-level questions. There are many more areas to consider, but I’ve simplified it here. The last part of this post is a somewhat revised version. Next in the process would be editing: adjusting sentences and improving grammar and punctuation. 

Feel free to write your own thoughts in the comments.

Two Weeks

I feel bitter towards time. In particular, I feel bitter towards two weeks’ time. Two weeks seems to be the juncture of time and space continually. I once was a quiet, but ever-present bartender in a high school musical: Crazy for You. Ever since, I have been burdened by the quantitative weight that is two weeks. Even now, looking out of my high school classroom, where I teach English, I am aware of this two week span. It will last an obscenely long period, yet flow past like the lazy stream by my local nature trail. Two weeks will stretch to fit any positive mood I may be feeling and turn it sour. 

The semester is two weeks old; February break is in two weeks; my plan book is set for two more weeks; I will get paid in two weeks. One thing that breaks the two week matrix is this English room. I took over for a retiring English teacher, who left behind decades of stuff. Tugging filing cabinets open, I have uncovered materials from the 1970s and 1980s, absolutely unhelpful in my first tenure as an English teacher. The same fading red American literature books I once was forced to read, I now present to my own students. The desk is only just a little less polished and a little more covered with donut sprinkles. 

The walls have their same art, painted by students from the 1990s. I am always drawn to look at the six energetic elderly folks…dancing? I find myself arguing about their activity. The faces are marked in contempt: a fellow with plaid yellow trousers and green tweed jacket bumps into a blue-suited peer. One woman seems to be forcing a smile, eyes showing the true emotion, and cringing at her predicament. And nearby, a watery scene with an orange sun rising over the horizon near an abstract mountain.

This one room is my shelter from time and space. I teach. The day goes by. But to me, I don’t lose energy until I walk out the orange door, which itself is fading on the outside, as if time is stripping away the paint’s tone. Years have passed since I listened to useless stories and missed out on opportunities to prepare for college. Yet, the room is the same. And I question my ability to teach English, despite a Creative Writing degree. I question my dedication to the program of studies: reading, reading, reading. There must be more writing, but I feel like a rogue to go against the grain that everyone else favors. 

Revision Question: What is the purpose of the piece?

Perhaps the purpose is therapy itself! As the story progresses, I might come to terms with “Two Weeks.” Through processing and self-reflection, maybe a fortnight will become less painful.

There’s much more to this…I’ll call it a collection. First, the introduction and history of the term “Two Weeks” in connection to my life (the exposition). Second, my depiction of the English room – my sanctuary from time. I rather like this bit, but not sure how it may fit into the whole bit. Third, I eventually personify “Two Weeks” as an old man with dementia. And lastly, I weave in memories from college. 

I’m not sure what path I had in mind when first writing this. In fact, after printing it all out and taking some notes, I wrote, “Do these stories parallel: English room, Old Man, and college memories?”

Hell, this could be turned into my memoirs of the stage! Two Weeks: Performances of Nick.

Revision Question: Am I still bitter towards time?

I don’t know if I actually was in 2017. Maybe it acted as an opening. I will cut that sentence entirely. However, I am…something… towards two weeks. What I didn’t explain very well is that my one line in the musical was “Two Weeks.” Joining the production mid-way through rehearsals, I never quite understood where the emphasis stood. I said the line (if you can even call it that) three different ways during the shows. 

I ended up performing in every musical and play in my high school career after sophomore year. But I have this aching feeling – nearly 10 years later – that I must reprise this role or seek counseling to move on. Since that play, the phrase “two weeks” plagues me, like a scar. Every time I hear it, a little part of me hurts. 

Revision Question: Why?

So, revising is like therapy? I suppose that hearing those two words is a reminder of a fragile Nick. Young, self-conscious, on stage for the first time, unsure of himself, transitioning from athletics to theater. Honestly, I am extremely grateful for my time in the Little Theater at Gardiner High School. From acting to directing, there are some wonderful memories in there.

Still, “two weeks” is some sort of reminder of insecurity. I know I shouldn’t have this distaste for the period of time known as a fortnight. It’s silly, actually! How and why should this term pinch my nerves? 

Looking back, I would have liked to consult with Young Nick. “What is the motivation of the line?” I’d ask. I had two directors then, and both did a fantastic job. It wasn’t their fault that I didn’t ask the right questions. I wonder if they thought I said the line appropriately. 

Revised

The semester is two weeks old. My next school break is in two weeks. My planner is set up for two weeks. I get paid in two weeks. Protecting me from the two-week matrix is this English classroom, where I’ve taken over from a teacher who retired mid-year.  Filing cabinets are full of materials from the 1970s and 1980s – no use to me in 2017. The same fading, red American Literature books that I once read from bear down on ancient shelves. The desk has seen its share of conflict with the dreaded red pen, a tool I refuse to operate.

This one room is my shelter and shield from time and space. I teach English, using those same red volumes. The day progresses, but I don’t lose energy until I exit from the orange door, which itself is fading on the outside. Time has stripped the paint’s tone, but my room protects me. Years have passed since I sat in the desks before me. But the room has remained.

Outside, two weeks reminds me of my first high school drama production in Crazy For You, where I played Harry the bartender. In fact, my one line is “Two weeks.” Despite all the assistance from two directors, I’m plagued by the inability to understand where the emphasis belongs. Years later, the phrase “two weeks” is a lash opening old wounds. Recovery requires a reprisal of the same role or therapy.

The performance, otherwise, is the beginning of something great: Nick’s career on the stage. Rehearsals were awkward, especially the singing and dancing. Young Nick – uncharismatic, unself-aware, unattractive, unsure – was a horrible partner. Sorry, Eloise! Despite all this, I learned to love the theater, especially the bonds formed under the pressures to memorize lines and express emotions. 

Conclusion

This is a rather difficult process, adapting the structure. I made the task more difficult by revealing a short section. Revision is not easy. It requires the complete breakdown of your work to identify areas for improvement. I find the most enjoyment watching words span across the page. Moving ideas around doesn’t give me the same pleasure, but it’s just as important, if not more so.

This is a work in progress. Second Pass will see the final product in November’s edition of the newsletter or in a separate post.

Other Memories…