Revising with Negative Capability

Since this is the month for looking forward and backward at the same time, it feels like the perfect time to think about how I revise poems. And since I wrote about Negative Capability in December, I want to tell you about a strategy that helps me get out of “Fix-It” Mode and tap into Negative Capability during my revision process.

Here’s how I practice living with uncertainty in my drafts—whether they are book length manuscripts or individual poems:

I read aloud and listen to how the poem feels and sounds. While I’m reading aloud, I only let myself change the text in one way: by highlighting what I call the “sticky spots”—the words/phrases/images that sound off, the places where my mind wanders off to lunch, the things that make me cringe or that I suspect would confuse a reader. I’m not allowed to delete them or “fix them”. I just highlight them in aqua (for me, the yellow highlighter is too interrogation-lamp bright and makes my brain freeze up, but somehow the aqua feels like a friendly harbor for doubts, uncertainties, and new possibilities). And then I leave them there on the page in all their sticky, messy imperfection. I leave them there and walk away for several hours—or sometimes weeks. I accept that the draft is out-of-balance/not-working and resist the impulse to rush in and “fix” it. (I’ve found that my quick “fixes” are usually just patches. I’ll recognize that an adverb or adjective is wrong and throw in a new one without realizing that what the line actually needs is a new verb. It’s like wrapping some new duct tape around a broken handle instead of replacing the handle itself.)

When I return to the highlights with fresh eyes, something kind of magic happens: decisions and ideas surface. Sometimes I can see that a highlighted phrase is redundant or “too explainy” (a very useful not-at-all-technical term I learned in grad school!) and needs to be deleted. Sometimes a word or phrase floats up that smooths the sticky spot and enriches the poem as a whole (or even the surrounding manuscript). At other times, the process is a little less instantaneous; I might have an insight into why an image or metaphor isn’t working and type a list of possible alternatives/solutions at the bottom of the page and then choose (or find that the backstage management of my brain has decided upon) one on my next pass through the poem.

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure why or how the aqua highlighter trick works. I think, though, that it helps me over a few big hurdles. First, it acts as a kind of pause button; I don’t have to generate a solution immediately or worrying about forgetting that the poem needs work because I’ve got a colorful reminder on the page. My inner Neurotic Honors Student can stop trying to overthink the sticky spot and let my more creative/intuitive side take charge. Second, the highlights help me rethink the landscape of the poem; they let me visualize the sticky spot as existing separately from the poem and/or within it at the same time. Somehow that little block of color becomes a doorway on the page—one that I can open (by deciding I want to keep the sticky spot) or close (by deleting it) or look through to find alternate phrases/images/possibilities.

It's not a quick fix (and it’s sometimes scary to walk away from a manuscript full of highlights when contest deadlines are looming), but it’s a process I’m learning to trust. I invite you to test it for yourself in 2023.

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