Depending on the metric standard, I close the long holiday with twenty-six pages of revised material. The ideal was thirty, but I’ve only visited that island, never lived there, so twenty-six is it. My eyes can tolerate very little more screen time or the sight of the Open Office interface. A bit more about the standards of measurements and why it matters to the total follows. First, though, consider the type of demons I wrestled this weekend.

How to get a page from pre-Team Eagle Eye to Final Round Draft varies widely. At its core, the present condition of a chapter is the most influential factor as how long a fix takes. Really, that’s probably number one and two. When the material rests on a good foundation, making it better is not so hard. Almost fun, even. I had some of that. Satan has a sense of humor.

Less fun, and more prevalent are errors of context. As happens to me often, a passage is one hundred percent right–let’s say ninety-eight, there is no perfection–but in an awkward spot. Or it’s very close, but a single sentence knocks the paragraph out of whack. However, that exact sentence works nicely three chapters later. Unbelievable, but it occurred so many times, I stopped questioning why and just chalked it to the golden rule of novels.

Rarely do sentences surface in the most effective chronology. Snapping the jigsaw piece into a better fit can consume tremendous amounts of time, because it requires more than just copy-paste. Once I move the sentence or passage into what looks like its true home, the new kid on the block impacts the adjacent sentences or paragraphs. Perhaps it suggests another plot point for a later day. In extreme cases, it spawns a major turning point that requires set up earlier in the story. Which in turn, impacts the scene where the new kernel lands. And so on. This little demon cried for food quite a lot.

And then there’s the worst kind of revision: Hit-chuck-and-run. The scene reads well. It is interesting. Fine writing might bind the paragraphs together. But, whoops, the gem has nothing to do with the story. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong novel. Passage screwed. Just beat it like an insolent Beelzebub and toss it to the curb, because it’s not getting any better.

Now, to close the thought from the first paragraph, had there been a few less hit-chuck-and-runs this weekend, the tally might have ended on a very different number. Essentially I ran out of gas and stopped in the middle of a scene. Since the chapter remains unfinished, none of it counts toward the total. Other individuals might include at least a portion.

I just suck at being a page whore, I guess.

Fixed up 17 pages so far this holiday weekend and plan on tackling a few more before the night ends. I envision the final tally for the four day sweep in the mid-twenties. Managed some fun during the time off, as well.

The deeper these edits go, the shorter the chapters become. Thus far, considering the edited sections, the page count per chapter averages out at 3 1/2. Keep in mind, among them is a smattering of singles and doubles. When it comes down to it, just one paragraph rich in progression can drive a chapter home, though I haven’t done that yet. I could. But there’s more than raw math behind the brevity.

First, that amount of text for a scene feels right for me, and the way I write. Partly this is the byproduct of evolution – lots of writing makes a writer better. Developing a story telling voice has taken the better part of four years now, and I have concluded that less is more of a good thing in my situation. Narrative blurs where pages and pages go by and nothing changes no workie for me. Unchecked, they make me want to chain the writer to a couch and set their fucking house on fire. Perhaps not always in that order, either.

Brevity organically contains the amount of personal indulgences. Those diversions are little inside references significant only to me. Likely no sane person would ever figure out the meaning of these, nor would they probably waste their time. The end result a reader less patient with the writer. The cure is so simple. In many cases, short chapters preclude indulgences altogether. Very good. Because the longer a scene runs, the more likely I insert myself, instead of the characters surprising both of us with the unexpected. Tragically — my friends support me on this confession — I’m not interesting. Therefore, I climb in the backseat, ride, and listen. When lightning strikes, I get a few things onto the page.

Short chapters also trap doubling down. Whenever a sentence appears multiple times in a different form, no matter how well restated or right the context suggests the second go round might be, the net result weakens both occurrences. Well crafted repetitions of these sort are very seductive at first glance, and easy to overlook. Often this sin thrives in scenes with little to no motion. Like a defense mechanism, doubling down tries to mask plot or character weakness by overcompensating with another strength, and might temporarily distract the reader from the problem. But in the end, the story suffers. Oh, how many times I have committed this crime.

And for these and other atrocities, editing serve as its own atonement.