feedback

A Primer on Critique Partners … and Maybe Dating

Last Monday, we had one of our weekly chats on AgentQuery Connect (9pm Eastern, come for great writerly conversations). The topic was critique partners—choosing and using them—which seems to have been popular around the blogosphere in the last week. Nevertheless, because some AQCers missed the chat, I’m going to go ahead with a revamped recap.

Being critique partners is a lot like establishing and maintaining other relationships. In fact, it’s a lot like dating, when you think about it. Here are some Dos and Don’ts.

• Don’t commit to marriage before the first date. Swapping full manuscripts when you hardly know someone? Maybe it’ll be a match made in heaven … or maybe you’ll be stuck in a 300-page pickle. It’s not a bad idea to get to know someone and their writing before making a big commitment. Try swapping a chapter or two. See how it goes.

• Do communicate your needs/expectations. Chances are, your new critique partner isn’t a mind-reader. If you don’t mention that you don’t want grammar nits pointed out, you can’t really complain if that’s all your partner focuses on. Worried about plot holes and consistency? Character development? Historical authenticity? Say so.

• Don’t tear your partner down. This can be a tricky one, especially in conjunction with the next. The point of a critique partner is to help us improve our work. But if it’s all, “Fix this, fix that,” we can get discouraged to the point of not moving forward. When something works well, be sure to let your partner know.

• Do be honest. In my opinion (well, all of this is my opinion), if all we want is cheerleading, there are other ways to get that. Critique partners need to do more for each other. That means pointing out when we feel there may be issues in the manuscript. Pretending problems aren’t there won’t make them go away.

• Don’t feel locked in. If the relationship isn’t working, you can walk away. There’s nothing saying that great writer-friends will necessarily make great critique partners. Amicable break-ups are possible. It’s okay to play the field until you find the right match.

• Do have an open relationship. Er, I guess I could mean this in a couple of ways. It can be good to have more than one critique partner—long- or short-term. Some might be more suited to certain manuscripts. Some you might rely on for their particular strengths (which likely match up with your weaknesses). But also, within a single relationship, be open and receptive to what your partner says. If a critique is a little hard to hear, step away for a bit, then come back to it. Your partner may be right or wrong … or their feedback might trigger something entirely different in your mind that’ll make your story better.

Speak up:

Is There Such a Thing as "Bad"?

From the Department of Uncomfortable Questions:

Is there such a thing as bad writing?

Let’s assume we’re not talking about misspellings galore, egregious grammar gaffes, and other such technical things that make it about as comprehensible as the typings of Pika the kitten. Let’s say we’re talking only about manuscripts that have been through the world’s best spelling and grammar checks.

Then, is there such a thing as “bad”? When discussing things like voice, style, plotting, character, and all that makes fiction worth reading, is there a minimal level of competence? Some magic line below which is an auto-reject and above which is a “well, it depends”?

Do we do ourselves damage when we assume it’s all just subjectivity, rather than making the effort to improve our craft?

Do we do ourselves damage when we assume our writing is crap, rather than acknowledging our strengths and the fact that we can’t please everyone?

If there is a line, even a murky one, how do we find it? Our gut? Honest critique partners? I’m guessing “murky” is a key word there. Really excellent writing seems easy enough to identify, whether it’s our thing or not. I know I’ve had the experience of reading something and thinking, “Wow, this is so well-written. I’m just not into (insert genre here).” Likewise, writing that’s super-far off the mark is easy to spot.

But that pesky gray area in the middle … what about that?

Lots of questions and no real answers this time around. What are your thoughts?

Speak up:

Telling Teenagers that Revising Rocks

On Monday, I had the opportunity to talk to a writing class in my school about the feedback/revising process. I’d been talking to the English teacher at department meeting last week about some revisions I was about to get started on, and she said, “Oh, please, can you come to my Composition classes and talk about how that works for you?” (I’m talking to the second class this afternoon.)

Turns out some of the kids get very reticent, uptight, and defensive when it comes to criticism and making changes in their work. Some feel like it’s not theirs anymore if they make the changes suggested by their teacher. Some say straight-up, “But I want it to sound this way, not that way.”

It’s always fun to get out of my classroom and say, “Hey, look at me pretending I’m NOT a math teacher!” So I threw together an entertaining little PowerPoint and headed over. (It helped that with my teeny-tiny school, there were only five kids in the class—not so nervous-making.)

The kids were good and engaged, and honest about their feelings. Through the presentation and ensuing discussion, we came to two key points.

I told them about one of my critique partners (Mindy McGinnis, yo), and noted that just because she suggests something doesn’t mean I have to make that exact change. Or any change. And if I choose not to, it doesn’t mean she’s going to scream at me and stomp her feet and never ever EVER talk to me again.

Same goes for the teenagers and their English teacher. We discussed that some feedback is the Just Fix It kind—errors in spelling, grammar, punctuation, or facts. But the really valuable feedback is the Ponder and Figure It Out kind—when passages are boring, awkward, confusing, or annoying. Suggestions on how to fix those issues are just that—suggestions.

And that leads us to the second point:

This was just part of a little scenario I put together. Mindy notes something doesn’t work and offers suggestions X, Y, and Z for fixing it. I go ahead with X, work in Z-with-a-twist, and come up with Q all on my own. When I run it by Mindy, she knows I didn’t use Y, but that’s okay—she says, “Yeah, Q totally works.”

Surprisingly, the group kind of latched onto that concept (teasing me about bringing mathematical variables to English class). Some of the students had been stuck in a mindset that the teacher’s word was law, so her suggestions had to be followed to the letter. Thus their feeling that the writing wasn’t theirs anymore.

Through the discussion, we kept coming back to, “And there’s that situation where you need to find your Q—find a way to modify it to address the problem the teacher pointed out, but that still stays true to your voice and characters and story.”

These reactions and mindsets aren’t unique to teenagers, or to those who write only because they have to for school. Those of us who want to (or do) write professionally go through cycles of the same thing, I think.

I don’t care who you are—finding out something you thought was great doesn’t work can sting. I think a key part of my presentation was when I admitted to the students that I’ve gotten feedback where my initial feelings were all, “I suck! The story sucks. There’s no way I change that in a way that will work. I’m too stupid.”

Feeling that isn’t a problem—as long as we take the next step, which is rolling up our sleeves and getting to work.

Like I told them, you don’t wipe some mud off a car and call it polished. Polishing takes time and effort.

And like Mindy added, exercise doesn’t necessarily feel good (or look glamorous) while you’re doing it, but the results feel great.

Speak up:

Sleep-Deprivation of Minors

I was pondering what gives a writer the feeling of, “Hey, I’m doing all right.”  You could make a big-time best-seller list.  You could get a rave review in a major publication, or a bunch of 5-star reviews on Amazon.  Can’t say I’ve experienced any of those (yet), but still, I’ve thought about it.

My favorite?  Knowing I’m contributing to the sleep-deprivation of minors.

You know that feeling–when you start reading a book and before you know it, it’s three in the morning … then four … then the sun’s coming up.

Well, with a day job and grown-up responsibilities, I can’t indulge in that very often anymore.  Maybe on weekends.  And professionally, I can’t recommend any teenagers do so on a school night.

Still, finding out a 15-year-old started reading my story and couldn’t put it down until six in the morning (during Thanksgiving break, boss!) kind of made my day.

Another one on the self-affirmation list: Having teenagers finish reading it and immediately ask, “Where’s the next one?”

That’s when I think to myself, “It worked.”

Speak up:

Why Writers Should Be Masochists

Want to be a writer?  Prepare for pain.  The pain of sleep-deprivation, the pain of rejection, the pain of carpal tunnel syndrome, the pain of a good face-keyboard smack when things just aren’t working … all of this and more is likely in your future.

That’s not entirely why I think a touch of masochism is a prerequisite, though.  Those things all come with the package, and we have to find ways to deal with them–like power naps and ergonomic office furniture.  The masochism comes in with the pain we (should) intentionally seek: the sting of constructive criticism.

Personally, I love getting feedback specifying certain aspects that aren’t working for the reader, but that sting still pricks me now and then.  Still, I’d rather endure that minor pain than get a inbox-full of, “This is amazing and should be published right now!”  While the latter is nice for the ego, it doesn’t actually help me improve, and even if I got a publishing contract tomorrow, I would always have room to grow.

A parallel:  In my day-job, an administrator observes my class a couple of times a year for evaluation.  I’ve yet to have an administrator with a math teaching background, so the fact I can teach calculus already impresses them.  More often than not, the feedback is something like, “You’re doing great–keep it up!”  Once in a while they remark on a small item they can tell was more because they were in the room than anything else.  (My fingerspelling skill takes a nosedive when other adults are in the room … definitely gotta work on that.)

I know I’m a good math teacher, but I also know I’m not perfect.  I can identify certain areas for improvement on my own, but for others, I could really use an outside observer to tell me if something works or not, or if I’m doing things I’m not aware of.

Same thing with writing.  If a reader isn’t feeling my MC’s emotion in a certain scene, I need to know.  If a particular section is boring, I need to know.  When those are areas I’ve worked on and think are great, finding out they might not work that well can hurt.  The biggest hurt is when someone clearly doesn’t understand my intention.  Those are the moments I doubt myself, wondering if I have any idea what I’m doing, assuming my own failings led the reader to misconstrue the concept.  But I will still seek out those opinions, weigh them against each other and against my own instincts, and try to incorporate what I learn into making my writing better.

Turning it around, then, writers should not be sadists.  When we’re offering critique, it’s important to be honest–as noted above, glossing things over won’t help anyone–but not intentionally cruel or derogatory.  Telling someone, “This sucks–you’re never going to make it,” is no more helpful than gushing why-isn’t-this-published-yet praise.

Most importantly, we have to make sure we aren’t such masochists that we lock ourselves into the editing/revising phase for eternity.  At some point, you have to decide that it’s good enough to get out there and submit … and ready yourself for those darts of rejection.

Speak up: