To Critter or Not To Critter, Part 3

Last time, we talked a lot about how to critique someone else’s work; this time, let’s talk about some caveats to apply to subjecting yourself to the critting experience. If you’ve already decided that the tactics of the first author we talked about won’t work for you—that you do, in fact, want another pair (or many pairs) of eyes looking at your stuff—then what should you expect out of the critique? Or do you have a right to expect anything in particular? That question may seem a little odd. After all, you’re not just picking any civilian off the street to read this material. Ideally, you have some relationship or other with the person who’s about to read and comment on what you’ve done. Ideally, you have some reciprocal respect for one another. It can be assumed, then, that you have a right to ask for certain things from the critique and get them. Right? Maybe. Maybe not. We don’t live in an ideal world, writing-wise or otherwise. And if there’s one complaint that arises out of critique groups more than any other, it’s the lament from the author who didn’t get what she wanted or needed from the critiquing experience. Either the group or the partner “didn’t get” what she was trying to do, ignored her requests entirely/gave her feedback on peripherals without touching the “big stuff,” or trashed her work and basically told her not to quit the day job. None of these things, obviously, is particularly helpful on the surface…but they may in the long run help this author way more than she suspects. How? 1) If a reader doesn’t “get” what you’re trying to do in the work, 99% of the time, the fault is not the reader’s but the author’s. Sound harsh? It’s not. It’s plain reality. We’re in this thing to communicate, and if that communication fails…guess who’s responsible? Yes, there are critiquers who are obtuse, and who “won’t get” something that’s plain on the page. There are readers whose vocabulary level isn’t up to ours, and they’ll flinch at words our kids knew in seventh grade. There are people who just plain don’t read very well, and they’ll miss things. There are people for whom subtlety is a waste of time; if it’s not as clear as being hit by a two-by-four, they won’t understand it. But that, ladies and gentlemen, is our public. That’s who we’re asking to plunk down hard cash money for what we’ve put on the page. So we owe it to them to, as much as is in our power, reassure them that they didn’t waste that money. Which means that, in the end, what matters isn’t so much our lofty vision as whether we can actually convey that vision clearly enough for someone else to catch it. When we do, magic happens. If a critiquer indicates that we fell short of that clarity—no matter how stupid the comment seems to be—we’d do well to at least consider it. I personally know authors who say, “If one person tells me to change something, no matter how wrong I think they are, I owe it to both of us to give it a second look.” That person who “doesn’t get it” is a reader, too. A reader you’ll want as a fan, if you’re in this to make any money. (!) So if you can make changes that help more readers “get it,” it’s no crime to consider doing so. That’s not “dumbing down” your work unless you’re deliberately choosing elementary words when better ones would do, or something else that makes you cringe in the doing. But be aware that some things that might feel like “dumbing down” are actually things that increase the clarity, the sharpness, and the vividness of what you’re portraying, and you’ll be happier with the end product in the long run for having done them. 2) If a critique group ignores what you’ve asked for—and gives you feedback on little nitpicky things instead of looking at the “big picture”—it’s frustrating. It’s maddening. It feels unhelpful. It’s not. Once again, it pays to step back from the “Well, that was a waste of time!” sputtering and consider what this group of people is actually telling you. Usually, it’s “I’m not advanced enough to give you what you’re asking for…but I’ll give you what I can.” I distinctly remember, about a year or so into belonging to my RWA chapter, thinking that something someone read was just fine…then, hearing more experienced authors take some aspects of it apart, and as they did so, I’d think, “Well, yeah, that could have been better.” At that point in my life, I wasn’t advanced enough as a writer to know that what they were pointing out were various storytelling or craft weaknesses; just the fact that they could see them, and I couldn’t, started to educate me. A year or so after that, someone read something, and all of a sudden I could feel “holes” in it. Things nagged at me. Things bothered me. Things didn’t make sense. And I’d been stopped, as a reader, by those things. That’s how I knew I’d come a little further along the path: I could tell something was wrong. But what to tell the author to do? I was at a loss. Fortunately, once again, more experienced authors’ comments became valuable, because they saw the same things I did, but they could offer advice on what those “trouble spots” meant, and some possible solutions to them. I’ll tell you honestly, I was in awe of them at that point. I didn’t know how they did that…! …until one night when all the pieces fell into place. That night, someone read a piece in the group, and as usual, I made note of the places where things didn’t seem to ring true, or go correctly, or stuff seemed out of order somehow. But then, even as I marked the things in the margins, I found myself scribbling questions. Suggestions. “I’d like your heroine better if she______”. And I knew a miracle had occurred. Because not only was I picking up on craft things…but I actually had some clue how to fix them! Yes, it was an epiphany. But it took me several years to learn enough about the writing craft so I could adequately give that author helpful information, rather than just vague generalities about “For some reason, this isn’t working for me.” This is the place in the craft continuum where critiquers give you line edits when you’re looking for story arc (they don’t even know what a story arc is); mark where they think you misused a comma but have no comments on character depth (they’re out of theirs); or who tell you your characters are “getting along too well” and “there’s no conflict” because the characters aren’t spitting at each other. On one level, their “help” isn’t doing you any good. On another, though, it’s a gentle reminder that we’re all on a very, v-e-r-y wide spectrum of ability, recognition, and articulation when it comes to finding the trouble spots in a work, much less knowing how to fix them. Remembering that—as well as keeping in mind that, once again, they may not have “gotten” it because you didn’t put it there clearly enough in the first place—will help keep the frustration in perspective. Six months from now, those same people may give you something so sparkling and insightful you’ll wonder who replaced them with more intelligent clones. The answer is, no one did; if you’re lucky, they replaced themselves. :-) And if you remember to keep your humility in place, you’ll often get an unexpected and very pleasant surprise; a critiquer won’t give you what you ask for, she’ll give you what you actually need. Serendipity, in that case, is a wonderful thing. However, there’s one thing none of us needs, either on the giving or receiving end… 3) Trash talk. Now, let’s get something straight right away: I’m not averse to trash talk per se, in its proper context, and all done in fun. Heck, I think I’ve made an AOL buddy for life out of some guy in Lansing, Michigan, through nothing but a trash talk session back and forth about Big Ten football. :-) (I sometimes wonder if this guy really realized he was talking “smack” with a gray-haired middle-aged lady.) And any football fan of any stripe would have just loved to be in my office during the last week before Super Bowl last year, where trash talk reached absolutely poetic heights. (!) There’s nothing wrong with making “dumb blonde” jokes about the other side, bragging on one’s own team and disparaging another’s, or poking fun around any subject or event as long as it’s something considered fair game and OK to play with. People’s work, however, is not and should not be in this category. Unfortunately, you may find yourself in a situation where someone in your critique circle thinks it’s funny or “smart” to sharpen a rapier wit on other writers’ egos; you'll be able to tell when this is happening, because the comments aren’t craft-specific, they’re personal. They’re personal slams about your genre, your treatment of the work, or your talent level. And that, in what’s supposed to be a relationship contributing to your professional growth, is out of line. Should you find yourself in this scenario, run, do not walk, away from that group. This kind of thing will not help you. It will not make you “strong.” It’s not a good test of how “professional” you are to ascertain how much cruelty you can stand. It’s just plain mean, there’s no place for it, and if you are in a group that allows for it, they’re not going anywhere you want to be, either. Sometimes it can be tricky to find a good critiquer or good group to share your work with. So what to do? Look everywhere, in a wide variety of spots and sources, for people with whom to share work: writers’ groups you belong to, online workshops, writers’ web sites…there are a zillion routes to take; sometimes, all you’ll need is one trusted person to look things over, and other times, you’ll want a lot of feedback from a lot of varied personalities. Some groups have critique-partner matching services; sometimes the best recommendation simply comes to you by word of mouth. But when you find a good critique situation, one that makes you do your best work and still enables you to rejoice in the process…it’s worth its weight in gold many times over. I’ve tried to be that for other writers; I hope I can continue to do so. Which is a subtle way of saying I’m almost always available for critiquing…so feel free to ask! Thoughts? Janny

To Crit or Not To Crit…That Is the Question

It’s been suggested of late that I take some time to wax poetic (since it’s lousy weather for waxing a car) about how to find a good critique partner. (Like I know?) :-) But, since I can never resist a challenge—with the caveat that YMMV—let’s explore this question. First, it’s worth mulling for a moment over the value of critique sessions, by anyone, to anyone. I’ve been in multiple writers’ workshops on critiquing where, inevitably, a multi-pubbed (and practically canonized) author stands up and blows everyone out of the water by saying, “Nobody sees my work but my editor. I write it, and she looks at it, and that’s it.” To which the room oohs and aahs and thinks, “Well, when I get to be as good a writer as she is, that’ll be all I’ll need, too.” If you look at this through the jaded glasses of those of us who’ve been at this for awhile, you figure that that’s what the multi-pubbed author wants you to think—both about her and about yourself. It both keeps you down in those trenches with the unwashed multitude (thereby reinforcing her exalted status) and—sometimes with malice aforethought—practically guarantees that you’ll never move beyond said unwashed multitude. It paints a rosy picture of a future in which every word from your keyboard will be so anointed, so ding-dang perfect, that the most your breathless editor will want to change may be a comma placement or three before sending it right on to glory, fame, honor, and great reviews (not to mention vast riches). It’d be great if things actually worked that way. (!) Too bad they don’t. Unfortunately, to the extent that you believe in and act on—or maybe more accurately, fail to act on—that rosy picture the author paints, it can stall you out for years…which is good for aforementioned author (because it removes her competition), but not so good for you. On the other hand, most of us know of at least one instance when a critique did almost irreparable harm; it was malicious, or sarcastic, or “witty” at the expense of our stories or even ourselves, and it left us thinking that that author’s secretiveness was actually the beginning of wisdom. But even if our experiences have fallen on the middle of the continuum, the question can still touch a nerve. Maybe we haven’t been fatally wounded by a critique, but we’ve been bruised, frustrated, annoyed, or ignored—the classic example is an author asking for one or two specific things from a critique, and getting everything but what she asked for. These kinds of time-wasters aren’t fatal, but, like a million tiny mosquitoes, each takes a little writer’s blood out of us. At best, they make us wonder if anyone really knows how to help us, and at worst, they make us doubt our own talent. So what’s the answer? From my side of the fence, the first author’s lucky. If she truly has never had to subject her work to any critiquing other than an editor’s or maybe an agent’s, she’s hit a rare combination of elements that few of us achieve. Some of the authors who operated this way in the past were just horking good writers; most came into their editors’ offices when editors still edited work, were able and willing to develop authors, and therefore could take the time to file all the rough edges off work that “wasn’t quite there yet.” Now, with editors being stripped of most of that ability by the constraints of “lean” industry and marketing mania, most of us—even if we’re horking good writers—can and will benefit from a “third eye”(or lots of them!) before we send things to an editor’s desk. But what kind of eye, or collection of eyes, will do us the most good? Years ago, I treasured the input of my RWA chapter, which critiqued as a whole, and as part of every meeting—something that few RWA chapters, much less other writers’ groups, did. When I described our procedure, however, most people outside our group were horrified by it. The thought of reading your own stuff, out loud, on the spot, to live people—at least a dozen of them at a time, and sometimes as many as thirty—struck them as needless torture, not to mention opening an author up to potentially hopeless confusion. “How do you know who to believe?” they’d wail. “How do you know what suggestions to take? Doesn’t everyone have a different opinion? How do you know which is right?” Well, of course everyone has a different opinion…but that’s part of the value of it. You get a wide spectrum from lots of different perspectives. And that’s why you ask them to write on the manuscript, and that’s why you take all that feedback home and look it over when you’re calmed down and can weigh each comment for its value. Let me also add that this process wasn’t a free-for-all: we had rules of critiquing, which a good manuscript chairperson insisted on enforcing; we had time limits; and we always went in with the idea that a writer was free to take any feedback or leave it. So it was not nearly the bloodbath that these people apparently pictured when I said “group critique.” I found it especially ironic that some of the same people who were put off by the notion of what we did had their own (tiny) groups where things were much closer to a free-for-all or bloodbath than our structured system…and where they got personal to boot. I’ll never forget the way one person in a small group put it: “We can say to each other, ‘This stuff sucks,’ and it’s okay, because we all know each other.” To which I said, “Saying ‘This stuff sucks’ is never okay. I don’t care how well you know each other. And I wouldn’t be a part of any group that allowed that kind of thing.” The bottom line? For whatever reasons, our system worked extraordinarily well. Our RWA chapter had so many members sell their first books after running them through our process that we gained an excellent reputation in the business. At one point, mentioning that you were a member of RWA Chapter #14—and that parts of your book had been vetted by the group—in your query letter was almost as good as having an agent vouch for your work. Valuable? You bet. So, understandably, over the years, I’ve come down on the side of “Yes, be a member of a critiquing group if you can, and the larger, the better. It will make you a better writer faster than anything else you can imagine.” But then, a weird turn in the road happened—both philosophically and geographically—and I ended up leaving RWA entirely…which meant that for all practical purposes, I no longer had a steady critique group source. Now, I’ve shifted paradigms and gone to the other extreme: one crit partner who basically is the only person who sees my work. I’m uneasy about this on one level, since I have notoriously bad luck with writer friendships…but it seems to be working so far. Knock on any wood you have available. So what makes a good critiquing situation? Having run the gamut, I can think of a number of factors that contribute to a profitable endeavor—and some “red flags” to note, and deal with, lest they sabotage your work, your self-esteem, or your relationships with other writers. We’ll talk specifics in our next post… Stay tuned! Janny