Reading Another’s Work

“To write is human, to edit is divine.” – Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

This month I had the honor of critiquing someone’s novel. I read carefully and with gusto. I read for pace and plot and character. I read to find holes and places where it lagged. The author had done a lot of work so my job was easy. This isn’t always the case.

What do you look for when you read another writer’s work? Even if I know the person well, I try to distance myself and forget what I know about her. I tell the truth and don’t sugar coat my responses. But it’s helpful to be kind. If something’s not working, I just point that out. And, I don’t necessarily try to fix it. People who have read my work often make suggestions as to how to fix a problem. They want to help. More often than not, however, the thing they suggest is flat out wrong. It won’t work for the story or it won’t work for me as the author. I listen and note that there is something wrong in that place or near that place, but I try to find my own fix.

So how can you be more helpful to people who want you to read their work? I always find out how far along they are in the book. Is this a first draft? Is this their thirtieth draft? How long have they been working on the book? Is this the first year or the fifteenth? This makes a difference both in what I look for and how I handle the comments. I am unlikely to agree to read a first draft unless someone is just so stuck they need help figuring out if they have a book at all. And in that case, I read with such a gentle touch that most of my comments will be about what is working. I will apply lots of praise and, instead of criticism, ask questions. “What did you mean by this?” or “What are you trying to say?”

No matter what stage a writer is at, I always ask what they want. Do they want a line edit, fixing all the punctuation, or do they just want an overview of the big picture. I have a hard time not marking spelling mistakes, but I’ll do my best to focus on the big picture if that’s what they want. If a person is in later drafts, I’ll dig deeper. By later drafts, the author has gone deeper into the work and really needs a heads up about what a reader thinks. Hopefully by then they have also developed a spine around the book. I won’t be mean, of course. That helps no one. But I’ll really focus on the honest truth.

It’s so touchy. We writers have such fragile egos. We want help, but we mostly want you to tell us our words are lovely and that we should go have a cookie then send our work to anyone who publishes. It’s hard not to take any feedback, positive or negative, personally. This is our work. Our baby. But we need to learn that feedback is not personal. It’s about the work. That’s a good rule. Take nothing personally. If only I could make that stick.

A Contact Sport

“Writing is like a contact sport, like football. You can get hurt, but you enjoy it.” – Irwin Shaw

I’m incredibly fortunate. In MFA school where critiques can be brutal, professors Aimee Liu, Diana Gould, and Victoria Nelson were gentle in their criticism of my graduate school work. Their words were sometimes difficult to hear, but they weren’t mean or bitter and I knew they wanted nothing but the best for me.

Recently a former MFA advisor from the college I attended, thankfully he never advised me, wrote an essay criticizing his students after he had resigned. In reading his essay, I’m not sure why anyone wanted to study with him anyway. He had little respect for his students except for a handful he referred to as the “real deal.” If I’d been assigned to him I would have asked for a different advisor as others did. And no, I’m not going to dignify him by linking his article or giving his name. If you must, sniff the interwebs for a recent essay by a jaded former MFA professor.

So be careful choosing who reads your work. Back in 2002, a close friend who had just begun to write made the mistake of giving her work to a former English teacher she met at yoga. There’s nothing inherently wrong with former English teachers or yoga, but my friend realized too late that this woman was angry and blocked. There’s little more effective than a blocked writer armed with the rules of grammar to kill a fledgling writer’s mojo. The teacher’s comments were petty and stung enough that my friend has written hardly a word since. Stories like this are endless. Some might say my friend wasn’t meant to write if she couldn’t withstand the criticism. I disagree. I think she subjected herself to criticism too early and trusted her work to the wrong kind of person before she’d built some resilience.

For my previous books, I hired two different editors after researching and getting references. I found their feedback genuine and helpful even though it sometimes hurt. Through the years, I’ve also carefully gathered a supportive net of what the youngsters like to call “beta readers.” I’ve met these writers through classes, groups, and happy coincidences. For the manuscript of Twenty-Six Point Freaking Two, I chose both runners and non-runners. But all were writers in some stage of an active writing process. None of them were blocked and none of them struck me as angry, bitter people. I respect each of them and will gladly read each of their work in return. Much of the feedback I’ve received is positive and the recommended changes honest and respectful. This is the kind of criticism I can hear.

How do you find critique partners for your work? How have you built a spine to help you hear criticism? I’d love to hear about it.

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