Thank You for Being an Asshole: How Brutal Editing Made Me a Better Writer
I used to write on a typewriter. Not for nostalgia or aesthetics, but because it was what I had. Every draft was a commitment; every revision meant retyping entire pages, sometimes dozens of times. And I did it because I had someone in my corner who didn’t care how long it took. He cared it was right.
He was a music major, but had a solid grasp of the English language. He was smart, meticulous, and brutal. I’d hand him a refreshed draft, thinking I’d nailed it, and he’d rip into it like Freddy Krueger on a dreamer. No mercy. No soft encouragement. Just red ink and razor-sharp critique. I’d spend hours on three pages, only to hear, “Do it again.”
And again. And again.
It pissed me off sometimes, though I didn’t say it out loud. I thought he was nitpicky, arrogant, maybe even a little sadistic. I’d drafted something twenty times, and he’d still find fault. But here’s the thing: he was right. Every time. And because of him, I got better.
My stories became tighter. Cleaner. More enjoyable, not just for readers, but for me. At first, the final drafts felt like someone else had written them. But when I looked closer, I saw the truth: they were still mine. My voice. My style. Just sharper. He hadn’t rewritten me—he’d refined me.
He butchered my babies, but what came out was stronger.
That kind of editing sticks. It leaves a mark. Years later, I carry this precision into every draft I write. I notice the things he used to flag. I hunt down the overused gerunds, the filler words, the dreaded “that.” Even now, his ghost whispers, “Tighten it. Cut it. Say it better.”
In fact, when I revised the second edition of House of Fate, I applied what I had learned from him, and made over a thousand refinements. The first edition wasn’t wrong, but it could have been better. When I read the final version, I saw the difference. It was leaner. More confident. Still me, but me with a scalpel instead of a shovel.
I’ve read every Robert B. Parker novel. His style—tight, rhythmic, full of “and”—taught me repetition can be a tool, not a flaw. I’ve studied Hemingway’s economy of language. And I’ve learned to spot the crutch words in other writers, like “seriously” used three times a page. Things like this make me wince now, because I know better. Because someone made me learn.
I used to overuse gerunds in dialogue. “He said, throwing the tie.” “She said, rushing forward.” “He said, sulking.” It’s fine in moderation, but when it shows up every other line, it becomes a rhythm trap. I didn’t notice until my editor friend pointed it out. Now I can’t help but do. Now I fix it.
He showed me why having an editor is so important. They spot things you may have missed, and will help you refine your style. A great editor will change how you write without sacrificing your voice.
He was brutal. He held the whip with an iron grasp, and used it until my fingers bled. But because of it, I became a gooder writter, if you’ll forgive the grammar; because sometimes, you’ve got to end with a laugh.
If I knew where he was now, I’d want to say: Thank you for being an asshole. You didn’t just critique my work. You carved it into something worth reading. And I’ll carry it with me through every draft I write.