What this story shows is that, no matter what you have written, it can be made better. We may feel that what we have turned out is excellent, even perfect, but the fact remains there is always room for improvement. That’s why I strive to set aside my pride and self-regard when rewriting, and cool the passions generated by the creative process. I have to be careful not to cool them too much, though, since that would make rewriting impossible. I also have to prepare myself to handle the comments that come from my outside readers. Though their criticisms may hurt, I still must somehow find the patience to listen to what they are saying. By contrast, I don’t take criticisms that come out after a novel is published all that seriously. If I worried too much about that stuff, I couldn’t go on! When the writing process is still underway, however, I have to be able to incorporate criticisms and suggestions in as humble and open-minded a way as possible. This is and has always been my firm belief.
During my many years as a novelist there have been editors with whom I have not seen eye to eye. They were not bad people, and I’m sure they worked well with other writers, but when it came to editing my books the chemistry just wasn’t there. Their opinions often left me shaking my head, and there were times （to be honest） when they really got on my nerves. I could even get angry. Nevertheless, I had to make it work somehow—it was our job, after all.
On one occasion, when we were at the manuscript stage of a novel, I did a rewrite of all the sections the editor had queried. In most cases, however, I rewrote them in a way that was the opposite of what he had suggested: when he instructed “Make this section longer,” for example, I made it shorter, and expanded the sections he wanted me to cut down. Pretty outrageous behavior, I know, but the rewrite that resulted turned out to be a big improvement. Thanks to our exchange, the novel was far better than it would have been otherwise. Paradoxically, he turned out to be a very useful editor for me. Far more helpful, at least, than those editors who told me only what I wanted to hear. To my way of thinking, at least.
What’s crucial, in short, is the physical act of rewriting. What carries more weight than anything else is the resolve to sit down at one’s desk to improve what one has written. Compared to that, the question of which direction to take in those improvements may be of secondary importance. A writer’s instinct and intuition derive less from logic and more from the level of determination brought to the task. It’s like beating the bushes to flush out the birds. What difference does it make what kind of stick you use or how you swing it? Neither matters as long as the birds take to the air. It is that flurry of movement that jolts our field of vision, allowing us to see things in a new light. This is my opinion, anyway, crude though it may be.
At any rate, I spend as much time as I can on the rewriting process. I listen to the advice of the people around me （even if it makes me angry） and try to bear it in mind as I rework my novel. Their comments are valuable. Anyone who has just finished writing a long novel is bound to be in an emotional, overstimulated state. In a way, we are out of our minds. This makes sense, since anyone in their right mind would never undertake to write a novel in the first place. Given the circumstances, therefore, it is perfectly acceptable to be deranged as long as you are aware of that fact. For like it is with all crazy people, the opinions of the sane are really important to you.
That does not mean, of course, that you must swallow whole whatever others tell you. Some of their opinions are bound to miss the mark or be entirely wrong. Nevertheless, since they are uttered by those of sound mind, they carry a certain meaning for you, whatever they are. They will cool you down to a more proper temperature. Such opinions are nothing less than those of the world at large—in short, those who will read your book. If you ignore them, you can bet that they will probably ignore you. Some of you may say, “That’s perfectly all right with me.” I have no problem with that. If, however, you are a writer who wants to maintain contact with the outside world （and I think most writers do）， then it is important to ensure that you have one or two people near you who will read your work, “fixed points” that you can use to orient yourself to your surroundings. Naturally, those fixed points should be able and willing to communicate with you in a frank and honest manner. Even if you flip out every time you hear criticism!
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How many times do I rewrite? There is no specific number. There are countless rewrites at the manuscript stage, and I ask for new galleys many times during the proofreading process, much to my editor’s dismay. I mark the galleys up in pencil until each page is covered in black and send them off, then mark them up again when the clean copy is returned. Over and over again. As I said before, writing is a profession that requires stamina, and in truth, I don’t mind. The fact is, I have a deep-rooted love for tinkering, so I have no problem reading a passage multiple times to check its rhythm, or fiddling with its word order, or making tiny adjustments to its expression. I like looking at the galleys being covered in black, and the ten or so No. 2 pencils wearing down to stubs on my desk. I don’t know why, but I can’t get enough of it. I could go on like that forever and not get tired.