The truth is I have very little idea what I’m doing.
I came into NaNoWriMo a little bit of a cheat. I had a novel that I’d already spent a lot of time on, and I wanted to finish it, so I used NaNo to do so. Since then, I’ve been letting it cool. I am a big believer in the advice that after completing a manuscript you should get a little distance from it before you dive back into editing.
The idea is you’re trying to see your story with fresh eyes. If you’re like me, the time away also gives you the opportunity to stop hating your characters. By the end of my novel, I was barreling toward the finish line because I didn’t want to spend one more day with those people in my head. I loved them when I created them, but familiarity does indeed breed contempt, and the gang and I had spent far too much time together.
Since completing the manuscript, I’ve sent it out to some beta readers, and I’m just now beginning to get some notes. They’ve been mainly positive, but there are also a lot of good suggestions for improvement.
I had never heard of the concept of a zero draft before I started hanging out with The Confabulators. It is a nice idea. The zero draft gives you permission to write garbage and worry about sorting it into recyclable materials later. However, I’ve never had an issue with my willingness to write garbage. The term isn’t that helpful, and honestly, I find it to be a bit cutesy.
Personally, I don’t ascribe numbers to drafts. There is no first, second, third, fourth, etc. There is only “in-progress” and “completed.” Think of it long the lines of a Claude Levi-Strauss binary opposition (come on, linguists, I know you are out there). How do I know it is in-progress? Because, it isn’t completed. But, how will I know when it is completed? Because, it won’t be in-progress anymore. Numbering drafts just makes me self-conscious if the number is too small or two large. I don’t like giving my writing a stigma just because one story took me twelve drafts and another was finished with a spelling check. The journey determines the road. Sometimes you are just going out for a drive. Sometimes, you pack a lunch. (more…)
We think it was William Faulkner who first said that a writer must “kill your darlings” but it’s been repeated endlessly ever since so that may be apocrypha. But any time there’s a discussion of the mechanics of a writer’s process, there should be some mention of David Mamet. He’s never visited the Cafe (at least as far as we know) but he’s influenced every storyteller out there today in some way, large or small, whether it’s realized or not. Mamet’s famous memo to the writers of The Unit is worth a read, at the very least.
The Cafe regulars this week discuss our particular processes in approaching a zero draft (or first draft or sixth as the case may be) and turning it into something readable. We are forced to confront our worst writing, thankfully before anyone else sees it, and thus our own weaknesses. It can be painful but it’s certainly necessary. Like hernia surgery.
We’ve got your table over here. Our servers are on the ball and ready to attend to whatever you need. Just flag ’em down. You don’t need a red pencil.
I don’t want you to be in the middle of the road, I want you to be on one side or the other.
I’m open to people reading my works and telling me exactly what they think. After all, I wouldn’t be sharing my writing if I didn’t want a reaction.
When I finished my novel in December of 2011, I was tired and proud. Nervous, too, because it was the longest sustained work I’d ever written. Nervous because the protagonist is female and I’m not and by daring to write her the way I did I’m opening myself up to criticism that I don’t know how women behave.
Worse, still, I was worried that I would be revealed to be a fraud as a writer, too. That my skill at turns of phrase and world-building and simple sentence construction were terrible, awful, and not deserving of anyone’s time to read was perhaps my biggest fear. (Run-on, overly complicated sentences notwithstanding.)
So I really, really thought hard about what I wanted from a critique of my work.
Honesty, more than anything else.
If my writing can’t elicit any kind of reaction from a reader, I don’t deserve to have my work read. It’s one thing to just spew words on a page or a screen and hope for the best but once a story is written, I want you to feel something. Anything. Revulsion is fine but in general not the reaction I write for. Sadness is better. Shock. Any kind of reaction. Happiness is best.
The best stories move the reader. If I can do that I’m better at this than I thought.
So when I get notes back from editors or first readers, that’s what I’m looking for.
Now, that said, I will read through the comments and then put them aside for a while. I’ve been infuriated at a couple of comments because it was obvious that the reader just didn’t get it. As recently as a couple of years ago I would be upset with the reader who told me what I didn’t want to hear. But since I’ve asked for honesty, I have to admit that if the reader didn’t get what I was going for it was because I didn’t do my job as a storyteller.
Dammit.
That meant I had more work ahead of me. It meant more time in a world I thought I was already beyond. It meant I didn’t know enough. It meant more revision, more re-writing, and more work.
In general, the feedback I’ve received has pushed me to become better, to tell the stories more clearly, to WRITE. But that dissatisfaction with my skills can overwhelm me and I will set aside a work that doesn’t fire back with the reaction I hoped for.
But worse, it’s no reaction at all that’s so discouraging.
I won’t go all knee-jerk and fire up inflammatory responses because that’s unprofessional. But what I say in the privacy of my own writing space… Well, let’s just say that I’ve been harder on myself than on anyone I’ve asked to read my stuff.
When it’s said and done, critiques are difficult for me but they spur me to work harder. What I have to avoid are the shortcuts that put me in the wrong place to start with.
As I was thinking about this week’s topic, I was going to be all smug and smarmy and more-mature-than-thou about how much I love criticism and look at it as a chance to learn and improve my skills [0].
Then I got reminded that some critiques really are just petty, nit-picky, bullshit.
I try to come at critique with a humble mind aimed toward learning how to avoid mistakes in the future [1]. Is there a better approach for this audience? Is there another aspect of the issue that should be emphasized? Where was my writing unclear? How well did the structure work to guide and inform the reader? Are there any suggestions for improving my writing process? In that framework, the worst critique you can give me is, “I loved it! It’s super! You’re the best!” [2]
The best critiques, on the other hand, turn into conversations about process and document design and information management theory. Every document I write I’ve usually done some pretty deep thinking about how the information should be gathered, curated, and packaged, and I’m perfectly happy to explain and defend my choices.
Yeah. I sound like I’m polishing my halo a bit. But this is how professionals work. You put your ego away and get the job done, on time, within budget. That’s how to do a job well done, for which the reward is another (paid) job.
[0] I’m sorry.
[1] In real life, my reaction may involve going away for few minutes to curse the multiverse for putting such obvious idiots in my path. That out of my system, I can them come back and actually look for room for improvement.
[2] Often followed by, “Just one little thing….” Just give it to me straight.
Did I ask for your opinion? No? Then why the hell are you giving it to me?
I handle unwanted critiques very poorly. I take them as personal attacks on my person. It doesn’t matter what the critique is about, if I didn’t ask for your opinion, don’t share it with me. Unless you’re telling me that I’m awesome, then by all means, please continue.
“I’m sorry that you feel that way,” is my frequent response when somebody criticizes one of my creative endeavors, especially when it’s in the early phases and I didn’t ask for an opinion.
I’m a bit more gracious–with most people–when it comes to critiques that I’ve asked for. Usually with my writing if it is being critiqued it’s because I sent it to somebody and asked for their opinions. I want them to tell me what they liked. But even more importantly I want them to tell me what they didn’t like. But don’t tell me you didn’t like something if you’re not prepared to tell me why it didn’t work for you. Because otherwise it will go right back to feeling like an attack on my baby and therefore also on me. (more…)
Disclaimer: all of these statements are based on my own experience. Not everyone will experience all of these phases (although I’m guessing most people will or have experienced at least one or two of them!)
The Phases of Critique
Too shy to ask. You want desperately for people to read your work and praise it, but on the off chance it actually sucks, you keep it close to your chest and only share with people like your mom, who has to say she likes it even if she doesn’t. You can’t handle critique or rejection at this stage. (more…)
There’s no doubt that criticism is important. It’s how we improve ourselves. And while it sucks, dealing with rejection is something that everyone will have to deal with at some point. How I respond to these things depends on one very important thing: do I agree with what I’m being told?
No one is harder on me then myself. Chances are, any criticism someone has of me or my work has already been considered, gone over four times, and either accepted or rejected. When someone poses a criticism that I agree with, I will kindly listen and nod my head in assent. In my mind I have already acknowledged the criticism, and am working on ways to fix it. (more…)
Critique and rejection are two entirely different things, though one can sometimes accompany the other. If you’re broadcasting your work in any sort of way, you’ll inevitably encounter both. As you do, it’s important to consider both the message (the reason behind the critique or rejection) and the messenger (the person providing the feedback).
Not all critiques are created equal. Sometimes you will find yourself in a group with writers of varying skill levels, and there may be times when you are encouraged to swap pages with people whom you know you can flat out write circles around. That’s not arrogance. That’s honesty.
As I mentioned in a previous post, if you’re the one providing feedback, you should take into account the abilities of the author of the work you’re critiquing. Not everyone is ready for the same level of discourse.
The same goes when you’re the one receiving the critique. Sometimes an author who is early in his or her writing journey will not be very good at assessing another person’s work. Inevitably there are long discussions about word choice or the comma police have made your manuscript look like a crime scene. Sometimes the inexperienced author “just didn’t get” what you were trying to do or say and they will be inadvertently harsh in their criticisms, without any specific reasons for why they didn’t like it.
By this point in your life, you know that rejection hurts. Criticism hurts. No matter how tough you are or how much you try to shrug it off, it is going to hurt. Everyone will say it isn’t personal. But it is your writing. You created it, a product of your conscious and subconscious. What could be more personal, short of someone calling your baby ugly?
It is going to hurt. But that is okay. Rejection and criticism are just pain. If you workout or practice any sport, you know that pain makes you stronger. It makes you better. You learn from it. Pain teaches you quickly and efficiently. When you get rejected, when you feel the bite of criticism, just remember “pain is weakness leaving the body.”
That cliché, used in a variety of sports, is a good thing to remember when you are submitting your writing for critique or publication. Building a tolerance to rejection and criticism allows you to create a distance between you and your writing. Don’t get me wrong, it is a small distance, similar to sitting on opposite ends of the couch with your writing rather than whispering sweet nothings to it just prior to copping a feel. It is a healthy distance, one that allows you to think of the work rather than yourself. (more…)
