by Riley Redgate
I am studying for a degree in Economics. I am the type of person that economists call, kindly, "risk-averse." This is a much more forgiving term than "a large wimp," but in my mind, they're synonyms. I admit it! I am a large wimp. This is objectively true. I hate roller-coasters because of the panic centers in my brain that helpfully supply scenarios in which I fly, screaming, off roller-coasters and to my doom. I hate walking home alone at night because of an overactive imagination, which plants serial killers behind every ominous-looking dumpster, and also because I am a human female. And I hate deep water because Jesus, have you guys seen The Perfect Storm?
I'm getting published next year, and it's surreal and wonderful, and part of me is still expecting to wake up from what is clearly a fever dream. People understand those emotions, those of disbelief and excitement, which I've been experiencing ever since the sale. I haven't spoken nearly as much about the fear.
It's kind of a mood-killer. What If, the fear helpfully supplies, every review for the book is filled with the most vitriolic hatred imaginable? What If the general reader response doesn't even merit hatred, and is a resounding 'meh'? What If you sell exactly two copies, and they are to your parents and your sister? What If your words are lost within this wash of human noise in a virtual instant, and ground down to nothingness by the inevitable progression of time? (That last one will certainly happen, which is rough.)
Most of my fears terrify me because they are unanswerable. What if I fall overboard in deep water? I don't know. I could get eaten by a shark (which would be sad, because I love sharks). I could do the boring thing and drown. The difference between that sort of fear and writing fears are twofold: 1) I'm not going to die from bad reviews. I'm just not. And more importantly, 2) with writing, I have an answer to all the horrible hypotheticals in my head.
So, What If every terrible thing I'm imagining does in fact come to fruition after I'm published? What if it's all exactly as horrible as my pessimist side imagines?
Well, too bad. I guess I'll keep writing, because it's a compulsion.
Whether you're just starting to draft that first novel or on the road to your eighth publication, if you're afraid, that's all right. The only question that matters is this one: do you need to write? If the answer's yes, then the fears don't matter. Which isn't to say they're not valid. Just that they can be beaten by sheer stubbornness.
I need to write. This is the only thing that calms my nerves, because nobody can stop me from continuing, no matter what happens. Unless, of course, we become subjected to an Orwellian dystopia, and an overreaching governmental hand snatches all writing materials from my grasp. In which case I will move to Canada.
Cheers!
Riley
Riley Redgate, enthusiast of all things YA, is a senior at Kenyon College represented by Caryn Wiseman. Her debut novel, Seven Ways We Lie, will be released by Abrams/Amulet in Spring 2016. Her site is here, and she Tweets here.
Showing posts with label criticism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label criticism. Show all posts
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Monday, November 4, 2013
Cruelty in Critique
by Charlee Vale
In September of 2012 I turned in the first draft of the play that would become my master's thesis in to my advisor, and I also gave copies to my two thesis partners so that they could read and have an idea how my part of the project was coming along.
The first words out of my advisor's mouth in that meeting was forbidding my partners to say anything about the play to me. It didn't matter if they loved it, hated it, or had constructive criticism. Not one. Single. Word.
In retrospect, this is the best thing he ever could have done for me. When someone says something about your work—especially in it's infancy—it can creep inside you like a little time bomb, and you'll never feel the same.
Recently I wrote a post called 'More Than Words,' which discusses the innate power that words have. Along the same line, this is a little discussion of that same topic, but in regards to critique.
I wanted to write this post because recently I've noticed a trend on public critique websites which I frequent. That trend is people using cruelty in their critique. People being mean-spirited and rude and disguising it in 'I just want to help! An agent is going to do the same thing!'
Well, no. First of all, the odds of an agent being cruel of rude to you regarding your work is minimal. They want your work to be good. So why would they go out of their way to be mean about it, when the writing can be fixed with practice and experience? They won't. Agents are busy people, they have better things to do.
Secondly, Being rude to someone in a critique is not constructive. It is DEstructive. We writers are putting ourselves out there when we ask for critique. You're baring a little piece of your soul, and because of that cruel words have a tendency to cut us deeper than we'll let on.
Imagine you put your query up for critique, and the first feedback you get is: "I can't believe you started with this. That is SO cliche. I basically stopped reading here, and I bet an agent is going to do the same thing."* —I'm guessing that not only would you shut down from hearing good advice, but also not want to put up anything for critique ever again, and possibly want to stop writing.
Keeping with the example, if someone does start with a cliche, maybe try a different approach. "Hey, I've heard that agents get a lot of these openings. Is there maybe somewhere else you can start your story so you stand out more?" —A response like this not only preserves the writer's dignity, but allows them to approach the solution with an open mind because you're allowing them to come up with it.
I'm not saying that you should sugar coat things, or not tell people what they need to hear, but phrasing can make a world of difference, and could be the difference between a learning moment and a meltdown.
So critique on, and use the golden rule: Don't say anything to anyone you wouldn't want someone to say to you.
*Example Hypothetical
Charlee Vale is a Young Adult writer, agency intern, photographer, and tea lover living in New York City. You can also find her at her website, and on Twitter, and using the golden rule.
In September of 2012 I turned in the first draft of the play that would become my master's thesis in to my advisor, and I also gave copies to my two thesis partners so that they could read and have an idea how my part of the project was coming along.
The first words out of my advisor's mouth in that meeting was forbidding my partners to say anything about the play to me. It didn't matter if they loved it, hated it, or had constructive criticism. Not one. Single. Word.
In retrospect, this is the best thing he ever could have done for me. When someone says something about your work—especially in it's infancy—it can creep inside you like a little time bomb, and you'll never feel the same.
Recently I wrote a post called 'More Than Words,' which discusses the innate power that words have. Along the same line, this is a little discussion of that same topic, but in regards to critique.
I wanted to write this post because recently I've noticed a trend on public critique websites which I frequent. That trend is people using cruelty in their critique. People being mean-spirited and rude and disguising it in 'I just want to help! An agent is going to do the same thing!'
Well, no. First of all, the odds of an agent being cruel of rude to you regarding your work is minimal. They want your work to be good. So why would they go out of their way to be mean about it, when the writing can be fixed with practice and experience? They won't. Agents are busy people, they have better things to do.
Secondly, Being rude to someone in a critique is not constructive. It is DEstructive. We writers are putting ourselves out there when we ask for critique. You're baring a little piece of your soul, and because of that cruel words have a tendency to cut us deeper than we'll let on.
Imagine you put your query up for critique, and the first feedback you get is: "I can't believe you started with this. That is SO cliche. I basically stopped reading here, and I bet an agent is going to do the same thing."* —I'm guessing that not only would you shut down from hearing good advice, but also not want to put up anything for critique ever again, and possibly want to stop writing.
Keeping with the example, if someone does start with a cliche, maybe try a different approach. "Hey, I've heard that agents get a lot of these openings. Is there maybe somewhere else you can start your story so you stand out more?" —A response like this not only preserves the writer's dignity, but allows them to approach the solution with an open mind because you're allowing them to come up with it.
I'm not saying that you should sugar coat things, or not tell people what they need to hear, but phrasing can make a world of difference, and could be the difference between a learning moment and a meltdown.
So critique on, and use the golden rule: Don't say anything to anyone you wouldn't want someone to say to you.
*Example Hypothetical
Charlee Vale is a Young Adult writer, agency intern, photographer, and tea lover living in New York City. You can also find her at her website, and on Twitter, and using the golden rule.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Why Writers Should Be Masochists
by R.C. Lewis
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 skills take 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 (except maybe toward our characters, a little). 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.
R.C. Lewis teaches math to deaf teenagers by day and writes YA fiction by every other time. You can find her at Crossing the Helix and Twitter (@RC_Lewis).
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 skills take 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 (except maybe toward our characters, a little). 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.
R.C. Lewis teaches math to deaf teenagers by day and writes YA fiction by every other time. You can find her at Crossing the Helix and Twitter (@RC_Lewis).
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
So, What Did You Think?
By Matt Sinclair
We writers can be a funny bunch. We all want an honest, no-holds-barred critique of our work. "Come on," we say, "I'm an adult. I can handle it." What is it about masochism that's so darned appealing?
But what about the manuscript that makes a reader want to say "This is the most God awful bit of tripe I've ever wasted my time reading! Kill it! Burn it! Do anything to destroy it and the synapses that fired these thoughts through your mind to begin with!"
I'm glad that I've never been on the receiving end of such a diatribe, and I don't know anyone who has been—or at least has admitted it. But we probably have all read works we thought were terrible—and we were right. It's also possible such pieces were written by people we know and respect.
The challenge is offering the asked-for "honest" criticism. Make no mistake, this is a delicate situation. I suspect the vast majority of FTWA readers understand that there's a difference between "honest" and "constructive" critisism, and just because a writer might make the wrong word choice in the type of criticism he asks for, we as early readers should err on the side of being constructive—even when it really is God awful tripe. It's fine to tell writers the writing misses the mark, but it's more helpful to show how far off the mark they are. Did it at least hit the target or did the dart get stuck in the wall a foot and a half away? Was the humor so sophomoric that you wouldn't share it with a high school junior? Show where, where, and where the story derailed.
Being an early reader for a writer is not for the faint of heart. As much fun as it might be to discover an unpolished jewel, it's quite possible what you hold in your hands is a clod of coprolite that needs to be in a pressure cooker for another millennium or so. Indeed, I'd argue it is more important today than it was even a year ago to quell an eager writer's willingness to share the work with everyone. The world of readers is at risk of terrible "books" in the guise of poorly-if-at-all-edited manuscripts with undeveloped characters and unexplored worlds, hackneyed themes, and language that would offend the ears of a Neanderthal. Make no mistake, the emergence of e-publishing is an important turning point in the careers of talented authors whose backlist was lost, forgotten, or unnoticed. But not all authors meet that "talented" level.
(Then again, American Idol reject William Hung released not one but three albums.)
Jokes and snarky remarks aside, being asked to read and critique a colleague's early version is truly an honor, and it's important to respect the person and the work. Writers who have not shared their work with others before are nervous and are looking not only for honesty but validation that their efforts have not been in vain. But if you accept the responsibility and find the work wanting, it is not only appropriate to say so, I'd argue it is imperative. How you do so, however, requires some tact.
So the basics: Is the manuscript riddled with spelling errors? Say so. If you find them pockmarking the manuscript for the first five pages, it's ok to put it aside and tell the person, "I'll read it after you've fixed the spelling mistakes. This isn't close to ready to being sent to an agent."
"Oh, but I'm a terrible speller," says the wannabe writer. That excuse is no more acceptable than a mechanic saying his hands sweat too much to use tools.
Is the grammatical structure more flimsy than a sand castle? Show your friend what needs to be done or where he can find out how to write properly. "But I thought that's what an editor is for," he says. This person has no idea what an editor does and is incapable of learning it yet. Perhaps he will in time. Be careful but firm. Some people will never get it. But these people typically are not readers much less writers.
What about those manuscripts that were readable but required you to sift through random point-of-view shifts and waffling tenses to find a story worth exploring? There's hope for this colleague. He might not be quite ready yet, but if he keeps putting the time in, he might get to the point where the work can be shared with an agent.
In the meantime, share what you know to help this friend understand that there are no guarantees in writing. Finishing a first draft does not mean you have a best-seller on your hands. Gaining representation does not mean your work will find a publisher, and being published does not equal fame much less fortune.
But developing a thick skin and open ears helps dedicated writers make a living doing what they love. If you ask me, that's what it's really all about.
We writers can be a funny bunch. We all want an honest, no-holds-barred critique of our work. "Come on," we say, "I'm an adult. I can handle it." What is it about masochism that's so darned appealing?
But what about the manuscript that makes a reader want to say "This is the most God awful bit of tripe I've ever wasted my time reading! Kill it! Burn it! Do anything to destroy it and the synapses that fired these thoughts through your mind to begin with!"
I'm glad that I've never been on the receiving end of such a diatribe, and I don't know anyone who has been—or at least has admitted it. But we probably have all read works we thought were terrible—and we were right. It's also possible such pieces were written by people we know and respect.
The challenge is offering the asked-for "honest" criticism. Make no mistake, this is a delicate situation. I suspect the vast majority of FTWA readers understand that there's a difference between "honest" and "constructive" critisism, and just because a writer might make the wrong word choice in the type of criticism he asks for, we as early readers should err on the side of being constructive—even when it really is God awful tripe. It's fine to tell writers the writing misses the mark, but it's more helpful to show how far off the mark they are. Did it at least hit the target or did the dart get stuck in the wall a foot and a half away? Was the humor so sophomoric that you wouldn't share it with a high school junior? Show where, where, and where the story derailed.
Being an early reader for a writer is not for the faint of heart. As much fun as it might be to discover an unpolished jewel, it's quite possible what you hold in your hands is a clod of coprolite that needs to be in a pressure cooker for another millennium or so. Indeed, I'd argue it is more important today than it was even a year ago to quell an eager writer's willingness to share the work with everyone. The world of readers is at risk of terrible "books" in the guise of poorly-if-at-all-edited manuscripts with undeveloped characters and unexplored worlds, hackneyed themes, and language that would offend the ears of a Neanderthal. Make no mistake, the emergence of e-publishing is an important turning point in the careers of talented authors whose backlist was lost, forgotten, or unnoticed. But not all authors meet that "talented" level.
(Then again, American Idol reject William Hung released not one but three albums.)
Jokes and snarky remarks aside, being asked to read and critique a colleague's early version is truly an honor, and it's important to respect the person and the work. Writers who have not shared their work with others before are nervous and are looking not only for honesty but validation that their efforts have not been in vain. But if you accept the responsibility and find the work wanting, it is not only appropriate to say so, I'd argue it is imperative. How you do so, however, requires some tact.
So the basics: Is the manuscript riddled with spelling errors? Say so. If you find them pockmarking the manuscript for the first five pages, it's ok to put it aside and tell the person, "I'll read it after you've fixed the spelling mistakes. This isn't close to ready to being sent to an agent."
"Oh, but I'm a terrible speller," says the wannabe writer. That excuse is no more acceptable than a mechanic saying his hands sweat too much to use tools.
Is the grammatical structure more flimsy than a sand castle? Show your friend what needs to be done or where he can find out how to write properly. "But I thought that's what an editor is for," he says. This person has no idea what an editor does and is incapable of learning it yet. Perhaps he will in time. Be careful but firm. Some people will never get it. But these people typically are not readers much less writers.
What about those manuscripts that were readable but required you to sift through random point-of-view shifts and waffling tenses to find a story worth exploring? There's hope for this colleague. He might not be quite ready yet, but if he keeps putting the time in, he might get to the point where the work can be shared with an agent.
In the meantime, share what you know to help this friend understand that there are no guarantees in writing. Finishing a first draft does not mean you have a best-seller on your hands. Gaining representation does not mean your work will find a publisher, and being published does not equal fame much less fortune.
But developing a thick skin and open ears helps dedicated writers make a living doing what they love. If you ask me, that's what it's really all about.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Tough Love and Tough Skin
by R.C. Lewis
Receiving criticism—if it's not in the first paragraph of a writer's job description, it should be. Handling it with professionalism and grace is a must-have skill.
Cat Woods recently discussed the basics of critique partners/groups and several real-life examples of changes made due to critter input. Some feedback resonates right away. (Yes, why didn't I think of that myself?) Some leaves you on the fence. (It could work, but the way I have it might be better, or maybe Door #3 ...) And some is immediately dismissed. (I write for teens and about teens, so while it might be grammatically correct, I'm not using "whom" in that dialogue.)
Those are the rational, I'm-the-writer-so-I-make-decisions-for-my-story reactions.
What about the emotional reactions? How do we react to "mean" critiques and reviews?
I'm not referring to an out-and-out bashing that says you have no business writing and calls into question the quality of your parentage. I'm not talking about reviews that turn out to be written by the guy/gal who stalked you in eighth grade and didn't take it well when you had to shoot him/her down. In fact, the feedback I'm talking about usually isn't "mean" at all.
It's honest. When in a pre-published critique situation, the critiquer usually intends to help. They tell you what works and what doesn't—for them. In a post-published review situation, they're doing what they're supposed to do—give their opinion of the book.
That doesn't mean it won't hurt, although some will deliver their criticism with more "cushioning" than others.
Should we hope for the "extra cushy" kind? Personally, I don't think so. Too much padding, and I might not realize how potentially serious an issue is. Tact is certainly appreciated, but not sugar-coating, at least for me.
Either way, still hurts.
So how do we handle it? Here's some un-cushioned advice, which I direct to myself as well: Suck it up.
When I'm working with my long-term critique partners, we know we're in each others' corner, so we can be blunt with both "Love it!" and "For the love of Neal Shusterman, R.C., what's with the eyebrow-raising?" Dialogue about feedback is useful, because it can help clarify both the writer's intention and the reader's perception.
In other situations, though, particularly if you're feeling hurt or have an urge to get defensive, here's my recommended response, in its entirety:
Thank you for taking the time. You've given me a lot to think about.
If you've already been published and it's a matter of negative reviews, I'll say it again: Suck it up. Moreover, ignore it. Don't respond. Stop looking at your Amazon or Goodreads page(s) if necessary.
And if you don't know why I recommend that so strongly, perhaps you missed the episode earlier this year involving the author of a book about a Mediterranean mariner.
How do you keep your ego in check when receiving criticism? What influence does the writer's possible reaction have when you offer feedback?
Receiving criticism—if it's not in the first paragraph of a writer's job description, it should be. Handling it with professionalism and grace is a must-have skill.
Cat Woods recently discussed the basics of critique partners/groups and several real-life examples of changes made due to critter input. Some feedback resonates right away. (Yes, why didn't I think of that myself?) Some leaves you on the fence. (It could work, but the way I have it might be better, or maybe Door #3 ...) And some is immediately dismissed. (I write for teens and about teens, so while it might be grammatically correct, I'm not using "whom" in that dialogue.)
Those are the rational, I'm-the-writer-so-I-make-decisions-for-my-story reactions.
What about the emotional reactions? How do we react to "mean" critiques and reviews?
I'm not referring to an out-and-out bashing that says you have no business writing and calls into question the quality of your parentage. I'm not talking about reviews that turn out to be written by the guy/gal who stalked you in eighth grade and didn't take it well when you had to shoot him/her down. In fact, the feedback I'm talking about usually isn't "mean" at all.
It's honest. When in a pre-published critique situation, the critiquer usually intends to help. They tell you what works and what doesn't—for them. In a post-published review situation, they're doing what they're supposed to do—give their opinion of the book.
That doesn't mean it won't hurt, although some will deliver their criticism with more "cushioning" than others.
Should we hope for the "extra cushy" kind? Personally, I don't think so. Too much padding, and I might not realize how potentially serious an issue is. Tact is certainly appreciated, but not sugar-coating, at least for me.
Either way, still hurts.
So how do we handle it? Here's some un-cushioned advice, which I direct to myself as well: Suck it up.
When I'm working with my long-term critique partners, we know we're in each others' corner, so we can be blunt with both "Love it!" and "For the love of Neal Shusterman, R.C., what's with the eyebrow-raising?" Dialogue about feedback is useful, because it can help clarify both the writer's intention and the reader's perception.
In other situations, though, particularly if you're feeling hurt or have an urge to get defensive, here's my recommended response, in its entirety:
Thank you for taking the time. You've given me a lot to think about.
If you've already been published and it's a matter of negative reviews, I'll say it again: Suck it up. Moreover, ignore it. Don't respond. Stop looking at your Amazon or Goodreads page(s) if necessary.
And if you don't know why I recommend that so strongly, perhaps you missed the episode earlier this year involving the author of a book about a Mediterranean mariner.
How do you keep your ego in check when receiving criticism? What influence does the writer's possible reaction have when you offer feedback?
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