The Art of Revision: 7 Things to Look for Before You Hit ‘Publish’

Writing is rewriting—but not everyone knows what to look for.

I used to think that once I typed the final sentence, my piece was done. I’d do a quick skim, fix the obvious typos, and send it off—confident and a little smug. But over time (and after cringing at a few too many posts I hit "publish" on way too fast), I learned that writing the first draft is just step one. The real magic? It’s in the revision.

Revision is where your piece finds its voice, its rhythm, its teeth. It’s where good writing becomes great writing. But if you’re anything like me, revision used to feel vague and intimidating—like, what am I actually supposed to do here?

So I made a checklist. And today, I want to walk you through it. These are the seven things I always look for before I hit "publish"—real, practical things that have helped me turn messy drafts into polished, punchy, ready-to-be-read work.

1. 🎯 Clarity of Purpose

Before anything else, I ask myself: What is this piece really about? Like, not the surface-level topic, but the actual core message I’m trying to get across. Because if I can’t sum it up in one clear sentence, no metaphors, no rambling, it probably means I don’t fully know yet. And if I don’t know? The reader definitely won’t either.

I’ve had drafts that I was sure were brilliant, thought-provoking, nuanced, clever. But when I went back and tried to describe what they were actually about, I ended up with five different ideas tangled together like headphone cords in the bottom of a bag. One article I wrote started as a reflection on creative burnout but halfway through turned into a rant about online hustle culture. By the time I hit the conclusion, I’d accidentally written a think-piece on my phone addiction. Needless to say, it wasn’t my best work.

So now I start (and revise) with clarity in mind. I write out the central idea, like a mission statement for the piece. I ask myself, "What’s the point I’m trying to make? Why does it matter? And why now?" If I can’t answer those questions, I pause. Because writing without direction might be cathartic, but it’s not always publishable.

Clarity doesn’t mean dumbing things down, it means giving your reader a clear thread to follow. One idea. One core message. One reason to keep reading. If everything in the piece doesn’t orbit that, it either gets reworked or cut. Harsh? Maybe. But I’d rather have a tight, focused piece than one that tries to say everything and ends up saying nothing.

2. ✂️ Ruthless Trimming

I am a chronic overwriter. I will wax poetic about a single metaphor for half a paragraph if left unchecked. Honestly, I love my sentences too much sometimes, it’s a problem. So this step? It’s crucial. It’s where I have to become the editor that my writer self dreads a little: ruthless, unsentimental, and ready with the red pen.

When I revise, I get mean. If a sentence doesn’t earn its place, if it doesn’t serve the point, add emotion, or move the reader forward, it goes. I don’t care how clever it sounds or how long it took me to write. If it doesn’t help the piece, it’s out. No exceptions. It’s like clearing out your camera roll: you might love that blurry photo of your coffee from three angles, but do you need it? Probably not.

Reading aloud helps a ton. I’ll pace my room, muttering paragraphs to myself, catching things that felt fine on the page but sound all kinds of awkward when spoken out loud. That’s where the magic is, hearing the rhythm, spotting the drag, finding the hidden clutter that your brain has learned to skip over.

I also like to do a “delete pass,” where my only goal is to cut. Not revise. Not refine. Just remove. It’s amazing how much lighter and sharper a piece feels after even a small trim.

Think of this like decluttering your closet. Keep the pieces that fit, that flatter, that serve the season. Toss the rest. That old analogy about "killing your darlings"? Brutal. But real. And your future readers will thank you for it.

3. 🎢 Emotional Flow

This one took me a while to understand. It’s not just about the ideas, it’s about how they feel. Because even if your argument is airtight, if it doesn’t feel like anything, people won’t connect with it. And writing that doesn’t connect? It’s forgettable.

I used to think my job was to just deliver information in a clear, structured way. But clarity without emotional impact is like baking a cake and forgetting the sugar, it technically works, but who wants a bite? When I finally started asking myself how I wanted my reader to feel at the end of a piece, my writing changed completely.

Does your piece take the reader on a journey? Are they laughing at your opening anecdote, nodding at your turning point, pausing to reflect during your closing paragraph? Or does the emotional tone zigzag all over the place and leave them dizzy? I once revised a personal essay where I kept flipping between sarcastic humor and intense vulnerability. I thought I was being clever and layered, turns out, I was just confusing.

Now I ask: What emotional movement am I trying to create? Am I taking the reader somewhere, or just tossing feelings at them and hoping something sticks? Is the tone matching the story I’m telling, or am I using humor as a shield because I’m afraid to go deep? Are the transitions actually building momentum, or are they dropping the emotional thread every other paragraph?

The emotional arc matters just as much as the logical one. Sometimes more. Because readers remember how you made them feel long after they’ve forgotten your clever phrasing or bullet-point advice. And that’s what I want: for my work to leave a feeling behind, not just a well-formatted page.

4. 💡 Original Insight

I try to avoid parroting advice we’ve all heard a million times. You know the kind, "show, don’t tell," "write what you know," or my personal favorite: "just be authentic." (Thanks, I’ll get right on that.) Instead, I ask myself: What am I really saying here? Where’s my angle? What part of this feels like me? Because if I’m just recycling what’s already out there, what’s the point?

It’s not always easy. Sometimes I sit back after a draft and realise I’ve basically rewritten a blog post I read last week, just with different emojis and a slightly sassier tone. I cringe a little, sigh a lot, and go back in. That’s the uncomfortable part of writing honestly, realising that if you’re not careful, you’re just echoing the internet.

But when I push deeper, when I stop thinking about what will please the algorithm or what might get shared and instead focus on what I really think, what I actually feel, that’s when the good stuff starts showing up. That’s when the piece shifts from "helpful" to "honest," from "pretty good" to "damn, that’s mine."

Sometimes that means admitting something uncomfortable or writing from a place I usually keep tucked away. Sometimes it means saying the obvious thing in a way only I can say it. But that’s where the gold is, not in trying to sound smart or polished, but in showing up real and a little messy.

So now, when I revise, I hunt for the parts that sound too clean, too neutral, too... anyone. And I ask: Could only I have written this? If the answer is no, I dig deeper. Because that’s where my voice lives, in the honest, slightly chaotic, deeply personal layers beneath the surface.

5. 🧠 Structural Strength

Structure isn’t sexy, but it’s everything. You can have the most beautiful sentences in the world, but if they’re just sitting there like awkward guests at a party who refuse to mingle, your reader is going to check out. That’s why I always check the bones of my piece before I worry about the glitter.

Is the intro doing its job? I mean really, does it pull the reader in, set the tone, and make them want to stick around? I’ve scrapped entire intros because they sounded great but didn’t actually connect to the body of the piece. That’s a tough cut to make, especially when the intro has a line I’m secretly obsessed with. But if it doesn’t support the structure, it has to go.

Then there’s the middle, the connective tissue. Does each section flow naturally into the next, or am I just hopping from one idea to another hoping nobody notices? I’ll often print my piece (yes, old school) and physically rearrange sections to see if they read better in a different order. Sometimes the ending is actually the beginning. Sometimes what I thought was the main point turns out to be a supporting idea. And that’s okay, revision is about discovering that.

The conclusion is where it all lands, and if it just fizzles out or feels rushed, that’s the last taste the reader walks away with. So I always ask: Did I leave the reader with something to hold onto? Something that ties it all together, maybe challenges them, maybe comforts them, but definitely sticks.

I’ve had to completely reorder paragraphs, rewrite transitions, and yes, kill more than one “perfect” sentence because it didn’t work in the new flow. Don’t be afraid to cut, rearrange, or rewrite whole chunks if the structure feels off. Think of yourself as both architect and interior designer, you’re shaping how someone moves through the space. And when it flows just right? It’s magic.

6. 🪞Reader Reflection

This one’s a gut check. Who am I writing for, and am I actually talking to them? Not performing, not broadcasting, but actually speaking to someone who might need to hear this right now.

It’s easy to slip into performative writing, especially online. You start thinking about engagement, or whether this sounds smart, or whether it matches the tone of other "successful" pieces. I’ve done that plenty of times, written something that looked great from a distance but felt hollow the moment I reread it. The intention wasn’t there, just the aesthetic.

But my best pieces? Always the ones where I imagine the reader sitting across from me, coffee in hand, maybe tired, maybe curious, maybe just needing a moment of connection. I picture their face. I picture them nodding. And then I write to them.

When I revise, I ask: Is this clear? Is this kind? Is this real? Am I saying something that matters, or am I just trying to sound clever? Am I giving the reader something they can carry with them, or am I writing in circles because I like the sound of my own voice?

Sometimes I’ll even read my piece out loud like I’m telling a friend. If it sounds stiff, I know I need to loosen it up. If it sounds vague, I get more specific. If it doesn’t sound like me, I start again.

And most importantly, what do I want them to feel or do when they finish? I want my writing to feel like a conversation, not a lecture. I want them to walk away with something that sticks. That’s the kind of writing I love to read. So that’s the kind of writing I try to create.

7. 🧽 Final Polish

Yes, grammar still matters. Typos sneak in. Punctuation gets wild. Commas multiply like rabbits and dashes appear out of nowhere. I’ve learned not to trust myself when it comes to the final polish, not because I’m careless, but because my brain fills in gaps that my eyes miss. Familiarity makes us blind to our own mistakes.

That’s why I do one last read-through just for the small stuff. I treat it like a scavenger hunt, searching for sneaky homophones, double spaces, wandering apostrophes. I even change the font or read the draft on a different screen, like my phone or in a preview window, because it tricks my brain into thinking it’s new. Suddenly I’ll spot a typo that’s been hiding in plain sight for days.

Another trick? I read it out loud again, slowly, like I’m narrating an audiobook for someone very picky. If I stumble over something, I know it needs smoothing.

And here’s my bonus weird-but-wonderful trick: reading backwards, one sentence at a time. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but it works. It forces me to slow down and isolate each thought, stripping it from the context of the paragraph. That’s how I catch repeated words, awkward phrasing, or missing punctuation, things that are invisible when I read in flow.

Polishing might not be glamorous, but it’s essential. It’s the difference between a piece that feels rushed and one that feels intentional. And if I want my words to have impact, they need to show up dressed and ready.

✨ Final Thoughts

Revision isn’t about perfection, it’s about intention. It’s the moment where you slow down and decide: This is what I want to say. This is how I want to say it.

So take your time. Reread it once more. Sharpen it. Soften it. Shape it into something that feels solid and true. And then? Hit publish. Loudly, proudly, and with purpose.

And tell me, what’s on your personal revision checklist? What do you look for before you hit publish? Let me know in the comments.

As always, if you’ve made it to here, thank you for reading! If you liked this article, please give me a follow!