8 Tips for Masterful Scene Revision
Scene revision is the most important process of taking a manuscript from good to great. It’s the moment when a story you may have written in bursts of inspiration begins to take its final, solidified shape.
Your first draft is like a rough sculpture: the form is there, but it’s up to you to chisel away what doesn’t belong, smooth the edges, and let the character and story shine. Unlike the first draft, where the focus is “get it on the page,” revision asks: Is this scene important to the story in every detail? Does it deepen character and tension? Does it make the reader care?
Many writers, I’m guessing, revise by starting at page one, fixing some punctuation, or switching out a word. This accomplishes hardly anything significant. If you’ve dealt with your story structure and big-picture elements so that you don’t have to toss or rewrite entire scenes, the next stage is targeted revision: focusing on specific objectives like honing dialogue, embellishing sensory details, and adding microtension. (If you don’t know how to do any of these well, take my signature online video course 8 Weeks to Writing a Commercially Successful Novel!)
Many writers struggle with scene revision because it can feel like a balancing act. Too much detail makes the scene drag. Too little, and it feels shallow or confusing. The temptation is to rewrite entire scenes, add more subplots, or polish every sentence before you’ve even fixed the core problems.
The most effective revisions come from clarity and focus, not from simply adding or embellishing. Think of it as sculpting again: you remove what doesn’t belong, reinforce what does, and carefully bring out the moments that matter most.
Here are some practical, actionable strategies I use when revising scenes:
- Focus on What the Reader Needs to Know
Every scene exists for a reason. Before you revise, ask yourself: What does the reader absolutely need to know here? List the key beats—plot points, character choices, emotional shifts—and make sure every line serves one of them. Anything extra? Cut it.
In the opening of Wool by Hugh Howey, notice how the protagonist’s attention is selective in these first paragraphs: the character doesn’t catalog the entire silo but observes what matters most to him in this moment. This selective focus keeps readers immersed without overwhelming them as well as spark curiosity. While the details Holston notices may seem trivial, they tell us about the setting indirectly (via POV), which is the masterful way to bring setting into the scene:
The children were playing while Holston climbed to his death; he could hear them squealing as only happy children do. While they thundered about frantically above, Holston took his time, each step methodical and ponderous, as he wound his way around and around the spiral staircase, old boots ringing out on metal treads.
The treads, like his father’s boots, showed signs of wear. Paint clung to them in feeble chips, mostly in the corners and undersides, where they were safe. Traffic elsewhere on the staircase sent dust shivering off in small clouds. Holston could feel the vibrations in the railing, which was worn down to the gleaming metal. That always amazed him: how centuries of bare palms and shuffling feet could wear down solid steel. One molecule at a time, he supposed. Each life might wear away a single layer, even as the silo wore away that life.
Each step was slightly bowed from generations of traffic, the edge rounded down like a pouting lip. In the center, there was almost no trace of the small diamonds that once gave the treads their grip. Their absence could only be inferred by the pattern to either side, the small pyramidal bumps rising from the flat steel with their crisp edges and flecks of paint.
Holston lifted an old boot to an old step, pressed down, and did it again. He lost himself in what the untold years had done, the ablation of molecules and lives, layers and layers ground to fine dust. And he thought, not for the first time, that neither life nor staircase had been meant for such an existence. The tight confines of that long spiral, threading through the buried silo like a straw in a glass, had not been built for such abuse. Like much of their cylindrical home, it seemed to have been made for other purposes, for functions long since forgotten. What was now used as a thoroughfare for thousands of people, moving up and down in repetitious, daily cycles, seemed more apt in Holston’s view to be used only in emergencies and perhaps by dozens.
Another floor went by—a pie-shaped division of dormitories. As Holston ascended the last few levels, the last steps of his life, the sounds of childlike delight rained down even louder from above. This was the laughter of youth, of souls who had not yet come to grips with where they lived, who did not yet feel the press of the earth on all sides, who in their minds were not buried at all, but alive. Alive and unworn, dripping happy sounds down the stairwell, trills that were incongruous with Holston’s actions, his decision and determination to die.
We learn so much about life in this silo without being told about it with heavy author explanation.
- Stay in Character POV
Masterful writing is indirect. Show your character moving through their world, noticing the things that matter to them—not everything in the room. Avoid out-of-POV commentary or laundry-list descriptions. A good rule of thumb: aim for threes—three details, three beats, three shifts—to give readers enough to feel grounded without overloading them (example above: the treads, the dust motes, the vibration in the railing).
We saw this done beautifully in the excerpt above. Holton is literally moving through his world. We are in his head (which you can do in first- or third-person POV) and sense his mindset in the moment. Deep POV is the default setting for commercial fiction (though, yes, there are exceptions).
- Fix the Problem, Don’t Rebuild the Scene
It’s tempting to scrap an entire scene if something feels off. But often the issue isn’t the scene itself—it’s what the scene is missing: stakes, tension, or a character realization or motivation. Look at the underlying problem. Could a single conflict, a new beat, or a sharper emotional moment solve it? Don’t rewrite the whole scene just because it feels “slow.”
The key is to identify your purpose for the scene. You should be able to state it in one succinct sentence. I do this with all my scenes. Something like: “The purpose of this scene is to show my character is falling apart, worse by the minute. By the end, he collapses from the strain, worried he won’t ever see his child again.” Doing this kind of simple summary is key, and involves, most importantly ….
- Identify Your High Moment
Every scene should end with a punch—a high moment that delivers stakes, revelation, or emotional impact. Before revising, contemplate this moment and its importance. Then, make sure the beats leading up to it build naturally: one, maybe two smaller beats of tension or realization before the scene’s climax. Each scene should leave the reader wanting more.
At the end of the opening scene in Wool, Holston arrives at his office (he’s the sheriff of the silo). His decision is definitive and punched home in the last line:
Holston … pointed to the rack of keys behind the desk. “Holding cell,” he said.
The deputy’s smile drooped into a confused frown. He set down the mug and turned to retrieve the key. While his back was turned, Holston rubbed the sharp, cool steel in his palm one last time, then placed the star flat on the desk. Marnes turned and held out the key. Holston took it.
“You need me to grab the mop?”
Deputy Marnes jabbed a thumb back toward the cafeteria. Unless someone was in cuffs, they only went into the cell to clean it.
“No,” Holston said. He jerked his head toward the holding cell, beckoning his deputy to follow.
He turned—the chair behind the desk squeaked as Marnes rose to join him—and Holston completed his march. The key slid in with ease. There was a sharp clack from the well-built and well-maintained inner organs of the door. The barest squeak from the hinges, a determined step, a shove and a clank, and the ordeal was over.
“Boss?”
Holston held the key between the bars. Marnes looked down at them, unsure, but his palm came up to accept.
“What’s going on, boss?”
“Get the mayor,” Holston said. He let out a sigh, that heavy breath he’d been holding for three years.
“Tell her I want to go outside.”
We get a nice beat before the last line (a pause, with the sigh and powerful imagery of holding a breath for three years). Keep that in mind—beats amplify tension and make the moment bigger. I always look for 2-3 key shift (anchor points) moments in a scene to make bigger this way. A great element of revision.
- Deepen, Don’t Overcomplicate
It’s tempting to “make a scene better” by adding characters, subplots, or backstory. Often, this only makes the scene confusing and heavy. Instead, look at what’s already working. Can you deepen the emotion, clarify the stakes, or heighten the tension? Focus on enriching your existing material rather than piling on more.
- Macro Before Micro
Polish the prose after you’ve fixed the structure. First drafts are for story, not beauty. Trying to craft perfect sentences before the scene works structurally is like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. Once your scene hits the right beats, shows character truth, and moves the plot forward, you can polish dialogue, tighten description, and eliminate filler.
- Show Emotion Through Action
Readers care most about characters they feel and understand. Don’t tell readers how a character feels—show it through their reactions, choices, and internal observations. A small gesture, a beat of hesitation, a line of dialogue can reveal more than an entire paragraph of exposition. Study what makes you feel while reading and replicate that in your characters. Go through every line in your scene and rewrite so that you do more showing than telling (some writing coaches poo-poo this age-old adage, but I think it’s more relevant to fiction now than any other time).
- Be Brutal—But Creative
Revising scenes isn’t just about cutting words; it’s about amplifying impact. Kill repetition, filler, and anything that slows pacing. At the same time, look for moments to show your genius—small gems in description, metaphor, or motif that give your scene resonance. Ask yourself: What’s missing from this scene that would make it unforgettable?
Scene revision is the difference between a story that readers skim and one they can’t put down. When you focus on stakes, beats, character POV, and emotional resonance, every moment of your story serves a purpose. You don’t have to rewrite from scratch—sometimes the smallest adjustment makes the scene unforgettable.
Remember: the first draft is rough. Polishing prose before the story is solid is like icing a cake that isn’t baked yet. Start with the core of your scene—its purpose, tension, and character arc—then layer in your voice, description, and subtle artistry. That’s when your scenes move from functional to masterful.
Revising scenes is hard work, but it’s also where the story comes alive. Each beat you sharpen, each emotion you reveal, and each high moment you perfect brings your reader closer to your characters and keeps them turning pages. Treat every scene like a gem: remove the dull edges, polish it until it glows, and let it reflect the best of your story.
Want to become masterful at scene revision? The next 6-week master class is about to begin!
Watch this recording of one of my master classes (which includes hours of scene critique/analysis). And if you want to participate in the next master class, it’s about to begin in January! You’ll submit and revise a scene, as well as critique others’ scenes. We meet weekly on Zoom (2-hour sessions) for 6 weeks.
Fill out the interest form ASAP so you can get in on this upcoming class! This class is going to focus on dialogue, one of the hardest fiction elements to master. So join in!
Featured Photo by Sam Haddad on Unsplash
