Surviving Critiques—M.G. Sondraal
Don’t take it personally. Yeah, right.
Writing is personal and without filter. Alone, you nurture your latest offering. It’s fed by your imagination, sweat, and determination. It endures under the weight of your self-doubt and struggles to completion despite your insecurities and then is further beaten into shape by repeated edits. Finally, satisfied with the result, you present this precious gift to trusted friends and colleagues, hoping they will see the beauty of your creation.
This is the most difficult step of writing for me.
I absolutely loathe circulating my work to our writing group to read and critique. Friends all and kindness personified, each has something different to offer me that will strengthen my writing and improve my skills and every criticism is done out of love and appreciation for me. I know this. Still, it is excruciating to reveal my immense inadequacies as a writer to everyone. Why is that? Because their opinions matter. I know them. I respect them. Their good opinion of me matters.
Each poor word choice, awkward sentence, and misplaced comma identified is a stab through my paper-thin skin to my creative core. I have failed. I have not produced a flawless manuscript with no typos. (How many times can I go over something and still miss those?) I slipped into passive tense, enjoying the warm comfort of not being active. I have not accurately conveyed the scene in my head to the page to make that identical image shimmer in each of theirs.
Point out my grammatical errors, show me where they lose the plot and are baffled by the dialogue. Highlight the spelling errors and lousy comma usage. I don’t have a problem with that. (Actually, I do because it means I’m a terrible editor as well as a poor writer.) Those mechanics of writing and editing can be improved with due diligence.
They are confused. They are bored. They are disappointed.
The clarity isn’t there, the pacing is off, the plot needs more punch. Again, all things I can work on. If all find fault with the same thing, I’d best address it.
They have suggestions.
This is probably the most ominous declaration for me. Unless I ask the group to brainstorm with me about a WIP if I’m stuck and before I have my first “Final Draft”, I prefer problems to be identified rather than solutions offered.
Once I have a version of a final draft, and am happy with my story arc, I cannot cope with a pile-on of suggested improvements as ideas bounce from one person to another like in a pinball machine. I’m an introvert. I need time to process. Suggestions need to be provided in private verbal or written communication with me to ponder on my own or discuss individually with a DeadLie at a later date. My manuscript may be no Beauty, but it must remain my Beast, not a Frankenstein.
Like my characters who change with each outing, personal growth demands discomfort. Because writing is essential to me whether published or not, I endure the painful vulnerability of sending my new favourite to our group and wait with dread for the battered, torn remnant to return, shredded by four different perspectives. After hugging my sacrifice and snuffling into a tissue, I’ll put it on life support, review the comments, reflect, maybe for a long time, and begin the restoration process when I’m ready to try again. I know one learns from failure, not success, but I despise failing. It’s a humbling and hateful exercise and I’d rather stay holed up with my delusions of undiscovered greatness, but improvement requires the work ethic and the commitment to do what is necessary and adapt. Ultimately, becoming a better writer is the only goal of consequence for me. I’d love it to be less painful but recognize that may never be.
And so, once more I’ll return to the keyboard, armour up and produce my second “Final Draft” for critique, and my third, and the fourth, and the….