by Theresa Garee | Nov 3, 2017 | Blog
“Criticism may not be agreeable, but it is necessary. It fulfills the same function as pain in the human body. It calls attention to an unhealthy state of things.” – Winston Churchill
I’ve spent the past two years collecting rejection letters from agents and publishers. If I were to print them, I’d have a fistful.
The generic “this isn’t right for our list” letters don’t bother me. Even the ones that say “memoirs don’t sell” don’t get under my skin. But when a letter is more specific and there’s some possibility the agent or editor could be on the right track, I get twitchy. And that’s what I need to attend to. The more twitchy I get, the more likely they are on to something.
I choose to believe that the vast majority of people in the publishing industry work there because they love the written word. But they are also bombarded by so many submissions that they have to make a quick decision based on their gut and their experience in the market. Do they miss from time to time? Of course! Remember Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance? It received 121 rejections before going on to become a best-seller. But more often than not, since editors and agents work in the field, they know what they are talking about.
My job is to not let this feedback derail me. My biggest critic is myself. As a child, I may have internalized my perfectionist father or a teacher with biting words, but now that I’m an adult, it’s my voice I have to deal with. My job is to listen, thank the voice for trying to help me, because that’s what it thinks it is doing, and figure out if there’s any truth it it.
It’s very similar to what I do with an agent or editor’s specific response. I thank the person for the feedback and for taking time to respond. Few editors and agents reply at all. When one takes the time to write something more than “it’s not what we’re looking for,” I thank them. Then I let my emotions simmer and let the feedback sit.
While I’m waiting for my jets to cool, I do something else. I might read someone else’s work and offer feedback. I might submit to other agents or publishers who only want a proposal, a query, or a few chapters. That way, if I decide to revise, I’m sending parts that won’t be changed later. Or I enter contests that have upcoming deadlines so I won’t miss an opportunity. I stay busy.
Once I’m calmer, I look again. Is there truth in the feedback? If so, how can I incorporate it? I try to see the critic as a friend. I’m not alone in this endeavor. There are helpers all along the way.
by Theresa Garee | Sep 4, 2017 | Blog
“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.
by Theresa Garee | Mar 3, 2015 | Blog
“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.
