Taking

The importance of listening when receiving a critique cannot be overstated. Coupled with this is the difficult task of not taking a critique personally. When a trusted commenter says, “This scene doesn’t work for me,” or “I really don’t think you need this paragraph here,” (and be forewarned! it will almost always be your very favorite paragraph!!) s/he is NOT saying, “You are a terrible writer.” Good critiques focus on the writing, not the writer.

Let’s assume that the commenters have finished their ‘sandwiches,’ and the writer is now allowed to join in the discussion. Where possible, the writer should pose his/her response as a question. Example: “Ann, you said this scene on page four is unclear to you. Would you say that’s due to characterization or scene-setting?” The writer should avoid making statements: “The scene on page four is a continuation of what happened on page two, but I had to stop there to explain Grandma’s will.” As a writer who presumably wants comments on your work, your job now is to receive responses and information—not to give them.

Once the writer is back home with a stack of scribbled-on manuscripts and perhaps a pad of notes, the real work begins. People differ greatly on how they work with critique comments, but here is the method I like best.

First, I sort the comments. I suppose this could be done in your head, but I actually make a list. Three columns at the top of a page: Yes / Maybe / No No No! I put brief notes under each heading based on the comments I received. Then I start revising.

I start with the Yes column—the comments I love. You know what I mean—when someone says something and you think, “Eureka! That’s perfect—why didn’t I think of that? Thankyou thankyouthankyou!” I make those changes first.

Then I stop and think. A lot. This phase takes the longest. I think about the other two columns—especially about the items under No No No! If enough time goes by, my wounded feelings about those negative comments subside and I’m able to be much more objective about them, rather than dismissing them emotionally.

Here are a couple of examples of how helpful this can be—one from each side of the fence. In one of my middle grade novels, a character dies at the end. My critique partner thought the way he died didn’t work at all. She told me so, and made an alternative suggestion. I was utterly dismayed. This was my ending—the climax of the book! How could she say such a thing!?

I let a few days go by and I decided to prove her wrong. I would write the scene her way just to show her how it couldn’t possibly work.

I’m sure you can guess what happened. The scene ended up being similar to what she had suggested, although not exactly the same, because in trying to work out her suggestion, I stumbled onto something even better. This never would have happened had I dismissed her suggestion outright.

In another instance, my partner gave me a middle grade novel of about 25,000 words to read. I read it and loved it—but I told her that it was not complete. Where she had ended the book was not the end of the story.

I can well imagine her dismay in this case—here she thought she had finally finished and now I was telling her no? She thought about it for a while, then wrote a little more just to see where it would take her. She ended up with 37,000 words—and a beautiful story that feels truly complete. Now she finds it hard to believe she ever thought it ‘finished’ initially.

I won’t deny that it’s a real balancing act, trying to decide which suggestions to heed and which to ignore, but believe me, it gets easier as you learn to trust your partners and gain confidence in your writing.