Editing is self-censorship

What flows from the nib of your pen or the tips of your fingers must be your first, clearest, unadulterated thoughts - right?

Wrong. The seeming purity of thought is an invisible force until it makes contact with the machinery of speech or writing implements. That there's clarity in speech is a wonder to me. I'm not the only one, I'm sure; but I'm regularly astounded that anything comes out of my mouth at all. And also that when I do do all that mouthy acrobatic stuff, I make as much sense as I do. Speech is a bunch of weird clicks and changes in pressure waves carried on the breath. Remarkable.

Writing is equally astonishing.

Coming back to my earlier point - and it's mildly philosophical. Nothing too grand, I admit.) The first thoughts must be the most direct and honest, surely? I'll be generous, maybe in poetry this is true. One can write from the heart and any changes become evidence of self-censorship, milord. Yet, I know from my own experience that when I write a line of poetry, it often doesn't capture exactly what I mean it to do.

Why is this? Why does it take several iterations - tries and crossings out - puzzlings and agonising decisions to refine the words and make them speak on paper to my satisfaction (and hopefully to the reader's also)? And it's much worse when writing fiction. There are whole sets to build with words. Swathes of characters to dress and cover in makeup. Put words into their mouths. Simulate events, encounters, journeys, triumphs, disasters, conflicts, disappointments...yadda, yadda, yadda.... It would be very difficult to get each of these elements set down in words exactly right first time given the interplay between the elements. So that must be it: the human mind isn't able to construct such a complex, complete and perfect novel world in terms of a fully functioning self-contained universe. Pause for breath - that sentence wasn't perfect first time was it?) Built into the endeavour is the need for editing.

Ergo, the needs of the story - the need for the novel to be consistently whole within itself - this necessitates and transcends the needs of the artist (writer) to be true to him or herself. Ultimately, we are slaves to the novel [like Grace Jones is a slave to the rhythm or Richard Dawkins is a slave to his genes].

It's not self-censorship, only a realisation and bowing down to the needs of the work.

Here we are, sitting in front of what we believe are our notebooks, tapping words, phrases and sentences into our computers for the edification of our readers, when in actuality, all we are are conduits for the work. The work is King. It dictates.

We don't fashion a great work. It fashions itself through us. Frankly my work's not paying me enough for this torment. Let's form a union and take some action. Strip these mothers of their reliance upon words.

Keepthewordsflowingwithoutspacesandseehowtheylikeit.We'renotsmucks.

Scrub that.