The Abyss Has Notes: Why Writing Is Rewriting (And a Little Bit of Madness)
Rewriting is the sexy part
They say writing is 90% rewriting and 10% staring into the abyss.
It sounds poetic—melodramatic, even—but if you’ve ever sat down to write something longer than a grocery list, you know it’s not just a turn of phrase. It’s a lifestyle. A haunted, beautiful, caffeine-addled (Sprite Zero in my case) lifestyle.
Let’s talk about that 10% first—the abyss.
For my purposes, the abyss is not writer’s block. It’s not the absence of words—it’s the presence of too many words, most of them wrong. It’s when you know exactly what needs to be said—then your fingers hover over the keys, and all you can type is: “the angry man angrily shouted, ‘I’m angry!’”
Or it’s the blank page that stares back at you with the smug confidence of a cat watching you drop your third idea in a row.
The abyss doesn’t offer suggestions. It doesn’t care about your outline. It doesn’t give a damn about your “voice.” It waits in silence while you doubt every sentence, every premise—and occasionally, your entire career. But once in a while—if you sit with it long enough—it offers a glimpse of something in the dark: a sentence that doesn’t suck. A turn of phrase that rings true.
You grab it like a drowning person grabs a door clearly big enough for two. And you write.
But don’t celebrate just yet.
Because here comes the 90%: rewriting.
Rewriting is the sexy part—but not like red carpet sexy. More like covered-in-ink, cracked-knuckle, finally-got-it-right sexy. The rewrite is where I came up with the brilliant turn of phrase, or the clue that really brings the story together.
It’s where you meet the reality of what you actually wrote—and begin the long, sorta-magic process of making it not suck.
That beautiful paragraph? You cut it because it’s pointless. You rearrange the emotional arc so it doesn’t feel like a rollercoaster built by a lunatic with a grudge against linear storytelling. You realize that subplot you thought was deep is just confusing, and that line you thought was clever is actually cringey as hell (I do this one a lot).
Glamorous? Maybe.
Necessary? Absolutely.
Because first drafts are raw. They’re messy. They’re you, trying to wrestle ideas into language—and that never comes out clean.
Rewriting is where the magic actually happens. It’s where your instincts sharpen. Where the story finds its shape. It’s where characters stop being outlines and start breathing. It’s where you stop performing and start communicating.
And here’s the beautiful irony: the more you rewrite, the better your first drafts become. You start writing with revision in mind. You start hearing the rhythm of your voice, seeing the weak spots before they hit the page. It’s a slow kind of alchemy—but it works.
So yes—writing is 90% rewriting and 10% staring into the abyss.
But if you show up often enough—if you learn to sit in the silence, to swing the editorial machete with grace and grit—the abyss eventually nods. Maybe even takes a few notes.
Because the abyss doesn’t just stare back. It listens.
And it respects the ones who come prepared to revise.
Thanks for reading. If this hit your inner wordsmith—or outer perfectionist—go ahead and subscribe. I’ve got more sharp takes, messy drafts, and the occasional nod from the abyss coming your way.
Tony Sarrecchia