I Don't Want an Honest Critique
Excerpt from Tell Better Stories
Once upon a time, I wrote a story for kids. I asked friends to read it and give me feedback. And I wasn’t happy. Why? Because I realized, I don’t want an honest critique.
The essay below is what I wrote that day. It’s an appendix in Tell Better Stories (originally published as Novel Metamorphosis: Uncommon Ways to Revise) , which is part of the Write a Book for Kids series.
Here on Indie Kids, I mostly write about the publishing process for children’s books. But I’ve also extensively taught how to write children’s books. I can and do talk about techniques of writing. But I think one aspect that is woefully ignored is the emotional strains of writing, getting critiques, and revising. It can be a deadly process that cuts down your self confidence. This is my reaction to that process!
Why post this today? Because I’m feeling the same insecurities about some business situations which required me to make decisions. I don’t want anyone to give me business advice right now, either!
I DON’T WANT AN HONEST CRITIQUE
No, don’t tell me what’s wrong with this novel. I don’t want to hear it. Minor problems? OK, I’ll !x those. But major structural, plot or character problems—don’t tell me.
Cynthia Ozynick says, “Writing is essentially an act of courage.”
When I get an honest critique, my courage fails me. I fear the revision needed: I won’t ever be able to “get it right.” Obviously, I thought that I had communicated my intentions well in the first draft, or I would have changed it before you read it. But you say that you don’t understand, or that I’m inconsistent, or that I’m unfocused. How could that be? I see it so clearly. And if my vision of my story is so skewed, then how will I ever get it right?
I fear that you’re right and I’m wrong. But how can I be sure? This is my story and it comes from my psychological leanings, my background, my research. How can you tell me what is right for my story? If the story doesn’t communicate what I want, then, yes, I need to revise. I repeat: Obviously, I thought it did communicate what I wanted, or I would have revised it before you saw it. Do you just have a different vision of the story because of your psychological leanings, your background? Are you trying to envision what I intended, or are you envisioning what you would have written? Where does your ego slam up against my ego? And where does your objective appraisal need to push my ego back into line with what it really wants to do anyway? Perspective is hard to achieve.
I fear that all my hard work—all the months spent thinking and rewriting—will be wasted. As a novelist, time haunts me. To write a novel isn’t the work of a week or a month. It takes many months, a year, a year and a half. More. It’s a long, long process. Your revision notes mean that the time is extended, and that without any guarantee of being finished even then. Meanwhile, that means that I’m a year older, that it’s a year in which I couldn’t write anything new (even if I could find the courage to begin again). I fear your honesty; I need your approval (or someone’s approval; if not yours, then whose?). Will it crush me emotionally if you don’t “like” my story? I gloss over the approval part of critiques and agonize over the “needs work” assessment. Is there a way for you to only show approval, yet open my eyes, so that I recognize what needs work? I’d rather recognize it for myself than have it pointed out.
I fear that my standards are too lax. I want to be finished, I want to have this story “out there.” I want to have written, but in the throes of writing, I want the end of the process long before the story is really finished. Submission comes too early and then I get rejections. Then, it’s harder than ever to revise. But waiting is excruciating. Typical advice: Put the manuscript in a drawer for three months and then pull it out and read it with a fresh eye. What? Waste three more months? Never. It’s done and ready to send out. (Ok, maybe it isn’t, but I can’t stand looking at it one more time and in three months, my editor could read it and buy it. OK, maybe they won’t buy it until I revise, but three months? Isn’t there any other way?)
Critiques, especially honest and on-target critiques, are fearful things. I know that I need them; but they are painful, emotionally draining, and confidence shaking. But I need them. OK, can you give me a minute? Let me find my mask of courage. There. I have it on. Now bring on your best critique!
Top 10 Ways to Stop the Sting of Critiques
1. Avoidance. Have someone else read the critique for you and only highlight the good comments. Read only the highlighted comments.
2. Revenge. Give the creep back an even harsher critique than you just got.
3. Denial. Write out the reasons why the critiquer is totally off base. Ignore all suggestions.
4. Excitement. Fake excitement about the critique and tell everyone you know exactly what’s wrong with the story and how you plan to fix it.
5. Suspicion. Read each comment with the suspicion that the critiquer is trying to get your manuscript out of the running, so their own manuscript will do well. Therefore, you can safely ignore any comments you want to.
6. Surprise. Allow each comment to be a revelation at how far off base this critiquer is.
7. Pride. Take pride in your ability to “take it” from the tough ones.
8. Loneliness. Understand that you and you alone are in the situation of receiving harsh critiques; such things have never been written about any manuscript and will never be written again.
9. Forgiveness. Realize that the critiquer has sinned by so harshly criticizing your story and at some point they will have to come and ask for forgiveness; be ready to give it gracefully.
10. Hope. Find hope in the good things the critiquer noticed, and hope in the process of revision.