We Stand on the Shoulders of Giants? Or We Prefer Pipsqueaks?

In recent months, I've heard writers diss or dismiss these "giants":
Aristotle
Euripedes
Shakespeare
Austen
Dickens

Here I don't mean a reader expressing personal taste ("Dickens doesn't do it for me") or analyzing and finding some issue ("Dickens's plotting so often relies on ridiculous contrivances"). But rather the dissing is (I think) as much about the writer's own writing than reading: "Dickens has nothing to teach me about writing."

I keep hearing variations of this, probably because I am too much the blowhard about how great all these guys are, or because of lingering resentment of "the dead white guys" (of course, Austen isn't a guy, and they're all dead because it's been centuries ...), or because the speaker thinks I'm the elitist talking about stuff I learned in grad school (actually, I was reading most of them in middle school, but that sounds even more elitist, doesn't it? But MOST of us were reading them in middle school, because that's when they're taught).  

And you know, really, you can make a case for any of that, and if you want to make that case, go ahead, I'm listening (and my arguing back with you doesn't mean you're wrong or, conversely, that I'm stomping on your freedom of speech).  But now I'm talking as a writing teacher, and WTF?

Yes. Categorically. Every writer has something to learn from each of them. You don't HAVE to learn from them. It's entirely possible to be a great writer without ever having read any of them.  It's possible even to be a great writer in English without reading any of them.  However, that doesn't mean they've nothing to teach you, only that you might not need to learn it, and/or that learning it would cramp your own style. (And this would be a much better case if writers who dissed them were more obviously great writers on their own.:)

But the real point here is: Don't come to a writing teacher and then get all patronizing about how wrongly my advice was formed (I rely on the shoulders of giants, etc.).  For that matter, don't ask anyone for advice and then dismiss it to their faces. You don't have to take it, and you can even argue about it, but it's plain rude to be patronizing to someone that a minute ago you thought was worth asking for advice. What's a good response to advice you have no respect for?  "Thanks so much for your time. I'll definitely have to think about this!" Then don't think about it, and go ask someone else next time.

Anyway, this dismissal of my advice isn't any big deal (I give bad advice all the time, I'm sure, to judge by how many politely reply, "Thanks so much for your..." :).  But it does trouble me how frequently this dismissal is not of me (fair game, and hey, I can take it), but of the relevance of the above to writing today. Let me try to enumerate what and why--

1. Well, first, it's wrong.  Dickens has a lot to teach modern writers; so do all the others. They are by no means the ONLY ones who can show modern writers something, and definitely we can discuss what Racine might have to offer, or Zadie Smith, etc.  But yes, Shakespeare's examples of comic plotting are just as useful today as they were in his own time-- more maybe. These writers are a large part, or representative thereof, of the cultural soup that we all imbibe before writing, whether we admit it or not, and didn't just imbibe it, but contributed ingredients for it.

Even the writers (from Keats to Joyce, particularly) who consciously tried to push away, say, the overwhelming bulk of Shakespeare influence, were pushing away FROM Shakespeare. Shakespeare gave them something to rebel against; he was the big daddy who started the buggy company whose domination made you decide you had to invent the automobile just to show him.  That is, whether we admit it or not, if we write in the English language (or the large genre of fiction in almost any language), we're going to be influenced by these guys and many others. Why be so delighted to be misinformed enough to dismiss it?

2. It's a sign of limited understanding. There's a great moment in Woody Allen's Annie Hall where he suddenly produces Marshall McLuhan to wither a debater's phallus: "You know nothing of my work!" McLuhan pronounces.  And in fact, so often when I hear the sort of "nothing to learn from (name of giant guy)" it's rapidly clear that the speaker "knows nothing of the work". (Hey, I've taught college students for 20 years. I can tell when a student hasn't done the homework. :)

As I said, real disagreement is worth expressing, but you might actually have to know something better to diss it than to celebrate it. TS Eliot studied Hamlet for years and years before deciding that it was an "artistic failure," and his criticism is cogent enough that we can learn from that. (In fact, I think to some degree he's nailed it-- an essential problem with the play, and maybe a clue to the reason it's so long-- because S was aware something was wrong and kept writing hoping to figure it out.)

And it helps a diss if you're scathingly hilarious at it, like Twain on James Fennimore Cooper. Of course, that requires even more work!  It's actually a lot less work to look for and find one of the many things you can learn from Shakespeare ("You know what I just learned? Foils. Shakespeare really did a great job using foils to show character journey"). If you want to diss him, you have to maybe read a lot more of the work, and why read a whole lot of something you don't like?

3. It's pretentious. Woody Allen again-- I think probably he is a genuine enthusiast surrounded by "fashionable pessimism," as he terms it, so he keeps encountering these pretentious "Van GOCH" people most of us would avoid. But he comes across a couple -- the man is named "Yale," which just goes to show something, at least his unfortunate choice in parents-- who proudly declare that they keep track of people they think are "overrated".  And Allen is left sputtering, "Mahler??? Mahler is overrated? Bergman? Where the hell does this little Radcliffe tootsie get off spouting that Scott Fitzgerald is overrated?"

This kind of dismissal is just cheap. It's really easy to do, and when you do it without, you know, Eliot's erudition or Twain's acid pen, you might come off as, well, jealous. Heck, Eliot, erudite as he is, comes off as jealous.

4. It's narrow. "I'm sure Euripedes had lots of influence on Greek theater, but I write fiction, not drama, and anyway, I'm not Greek."  Cough. Choke. Greek theater probably has more to teach us fiction writers than ever, because fiction is getting more visual (we live in the age of cinema and TV, after all). Even if you're Italian.

I remember -- I guess I know some pretentious people myself! Hey, Woody! My bro!-- hearing some contracts lawyer say dismissively, "Clarence Darrow might have been a crackerjack defense attorney--" (I love that "might have been" :)-- "but he knew nothing about contract law!" To which I replied, "WTF?"  (Or something like that.) (In fact, the dh reminds me that Darrow started out in contracts law.)

"Michael Jordan might have been a good basketball player, but he couldn't hit a fastball!"

Greatness in any form is worth learning from, or at least acknowledging. And being great at one thing does suggest that you might have insight into other things, if only "why I'm not so great at that other thing." (I bet MJ has some good theories about fastballs.)

But more than that, the world and especially creativity are full of patterns that replicate in different media. One of the tenets of modernism (a "school" across several art forms) is that writers can learn from artists and vice versa. By narrowing the perspective so much in order to dismiss a possible influence, we have to deliberately ignore the reality of the wide scope of creativity.  Frank Lloyd Wright, for example ("just some architect" of course :), drew a lot of inspiration from Japanese woodcut artists who were in their turn influenced by, get this, Ralph Waldo Emerson. The "Greek dramatist" similarly drew widely from other influences like epic poetry and legal philosophy, which should be a lesson to us all. To create something really new in our medium, we might open our minds to another art form or genre and see what we can steal. I mean, learn.


5. It's insecure. Sometimes I get the idea that the dismisser is insecure about his or her work, and that shows in the dismissal especially of contradicting advice, wisdom, or example. Someone doing something differently from me doesn't make my own work crumble to dust, however, and I shouldn't fear that. What I might be afraid of, however, is that when someone points out, say, that Shakespeare had "negative capability" -- that is when man is capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact & reason--   I might realize that my personal need to have everything calm and complete has resulted in a sterile story... and I really don't want to realize that. I mean, what am I going to do about it, but give up writing forever, huh?

Well, I guess now I've realized it, another possible option is to explore how I could experiment with leaving something ambiguous in my story, maybe go with a bittersweet not happy ending, or quit striving for a contrivedly "perfect" match of conflict and character need and instead go into the character and see where that leads.  We might all benefit from a bit of "negative capability" about our own work, allowing ourselves to be momentarily uncertain of its universal and constant "rightness".

Something I've always noticed is that writers who are good or on the way to being good generally aren't this way. They might "protect the work" by deliberately shielding themselves from influences-- many writers won't read fiction while they're writing fiction, frex-- and they might be resistant to wasting a lot of time in cafes and blogs talking about writing rather than writing. (Harrumph.)  I get that. (I even sort of admire that, I say as I head out to hang with some other writers at the coffeehouse where we're going to totally diss JK Rowling-- wanna come?) But they aren't dismissive of the value of others' examples or advice. They just don't want, for a number of reasons, to learn that way. They learn better by doing, maybe. And some, of course, learn by learning, and like to study what others have done.  (I happen to be, I learn so late in life, more analytical than creative, and it occurs to me that there are some who are more creative than analytical, and might not benefit so much from analysis.)

Just dismissing ("Dickens has nothing to teach ME about writing") is a sign that the writer has a way to go towards confidence in his/her own work, or rather, having work good enough to legitimately inspire confidence. And often, you know, I get the idea that if Dickens agreed with this writer ("See? Dickens's narrative roamed back and forth across the continent, and if he can do that, I can do him one better-- mine zips all over the cosmos!"), the writer would not be dismissive of Dickens's relevance. Again, that's a sign of insecurity, accepting wisdom only when it correlates with what you've already thought.

(Once an attendee at one of my 8-hour workshops came up to me afterwards and said proudly, "I've already thought everything you said!" And he meant that as a compliment!  How smart I was to think the same thing he's already thought! I felt like a big rubber stamp. "Approved!" That's all I was good for to him. And I suspect-- or at least I hope-- I didn't in EIGHT HOURS -just- replicate his pre-existing brilliance, or he should be the one getting paid to share it, right?)

6.  It's short-sighted. When I started working at the writing center, we frequently observed the "varied voices" dynamic of teaching. Some student would come in and stubbornly (I'm always making personal value judgments, unwarranted no doubt, about people who don't take my advice :) resist what I had to teach about, say, topic sentences.  And then the next week she'd come in and pointedly request another tutor, often that one with the cool Aussie accent-- hey, Belinda, miss you-- and I'd overhear that tutor talking about "idea coordinates" and the student would say, "Oh! Is that like that topic thing Alicia was blathering about last week?" and go away and now happily write effective TOPIC SENTENCES only to call them "idea coordinates" forevermore.  Many voices. We can never know what voice will get through our thick skulls to the grey matter underneath, and that is quite enough of that mixed metaphor, I promise!

And I can't tell you how many students-- well, two-- came back after a semester or so to say, "Oh, Alicia, now that I am more experienced, wiser, and older, I  get what you meant about using the last sentence to make a final point about the significance of the thesis! Wow! That was brilliant! I'm glad I've lived long enough to realize just how brilliant you are!" (Okay, maybe the students said just a few of those words, and not necessarily in a row like that.)  We don't always know what insights will resonate for months, like the tune to a country song, and suddenly make perfect sense when we're presented with the right opportunity to make use of it. ("That Garth song about friends in low places! I so get it now that I've got my own favorite dive named the Oasis! It RHYMES! I can do it in karaoke!")

If we dismiss advice out of hand when we first hear it, we might never get the echo later when we need it. And now that we finally recognize the brilliance of the adviser, we might have alienated her so much by our early resistance that she won't give us any more time-release wisdom.


7. It's mean. "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach."   Okay, maybe, sometimes. Teaching is itself an skill worthy of respect, I think (I would think that, though, wouldn't I?). And sometimes brilliance in doing doesn't translate to brilliance in teaching. (I'm reminded of Larry Bird, great great player, not very good coach. Same with Bill Russell.) Vice versa too. Often the middling player is the one who studies the game most (hoping maybe to get a bit of advantage) and shares it best. (For some reason, perhaps traumatized by the prospect of an NBA lockout, I'm thinking in basketball analogies today, but really, has anyone else noticed that the championship-less Indiana Pacers-- yes, they had championships in the ABA, lest we forget, which is a lot cooler-- turn out disproportionate number of good TV basketball commentators-- Jalen Rose, Chris Mullin, Clark Kellogg, Mark Jackson-- and only one of these could be universally acclaimed a great player?  Hey, diss Shakespeare all you like, but don't you diss my Reggie! And no, Mullin wasn't better; stop smoking that funny weed and watch some highlight reels.)

After all, Aristotle didn't write great drama, but he wrote great drama commentary. Distance can help with analysis, and we can learn from that, especially when we're down there in the creative muck with no distance at all.

And and and and! You know what I really love? When someone else first makes a mistake so I don't have to make it myself! I was just noticing this in the comments to an agent's blogpost about how self-publishers need agents too. Anyway, along with all those current and would-be clients who, not being stupid like I have been in the past so they didn't have to be, averred often and enthusiastically how utterly wonderful the agent was, were a few grizzled veterans of various publishing wars who were willing , nay, eager, to share what they learned from their many wounds--loudly and obnoxiously, perhaps, but honestly. (As the proud possessor of seven count 'em seven former agents, I tend to get obstreperous on this subject myself, though not on an agent's blog. I'm not THAT helpful.) You know, some of us learn best by trial and error, emphasis on the "error," and in fact, the method of acquiring the knowledge might make it even sounder. Frex, when some guy who took his then-agent's advice and turned down a million-dollar advance for his history of the toilet because surely somewhere in publishing was an even bigger fool who will offer him two mill says now, "Don't listen to your agent! Grab that bird in hand and squeeze it till it poops!" well, I don't know about you, but I pay attention. This guy knows whence he speaks! There's something about a veteran's woulda coulda shoulda that gets me where I live. And I like the generosity here, the "I was stupid so you don't have to be," the willingness to admit mistakes and share lessons learned, like "I learned that all agents aren't all-knowing all the time."

Of course, then other commenters inevitably respond huffily, "I don't know why on the internet there are so many whiners and complainers who just want to tear everyone else down and destroy dreams and impugn the integrity of the Greatest Editor/Agent/Publisher/Human Being Evuh!"

Oh, then there's the priceless, "And notice he didn't sign his name! 'Anonymous' is a big coward! See, I signed MY name when I said proudly that (blog owner) is the greatest writer since Euripedes, no! Even better! She's not GREEK!"  Uh, yes, when we're sharing horror stories, we might be a bit less likely to use our names than when we're kissing up. Just a thought. Maybe when you're a bit older and no longer blinded by Justin Bieber's smoldering gaze, you'll understand how a writer might be disenchanted with Big Publishing and still not quite ready to destroy any potential future in it. 

Anyway, scoffing, "And what NYTimes bestsellers have YOU penned lately?" works only if you yourself have had a NYT bestseller lately.  And generally those who have had bestsellers know it's bad form to insult someone trying to help. Don't forget what that non-NYTimes bestseller John Lennon used to say, "Instant karma's going to get you, gonna knock you upside the head."

First rule of life: Don't be mean. Or rather: First rule, flush. And second rule, don't be mean.

"Thanks so much for your time. I'll definitely have to think about this!" 

Alicia

Top Ten Reasons the editor doesn't love what your critique group loves

I want to reconstruct my incredibly brilliant post that got lost when the PC crashed. You’ll have to take my word for the brilliance, because this reconstructed one won’t be as brilliant. As you read it, just think, “I bet the original was brilliant.”

Top Ten Reasons Why the Editor Doesn’t Applaud What Your Crit Group Loved:

10) The critique group knows too much-- the context of your story and how much you've improved and what this all means. But the editor knows only what you submit: “This writer never heard about killing her darlings—and she sure has a lot of darlings, all very precious and twee.” Sometimes what we love is actually a bit… self-indulgent. Once I started a mystery set in a critique group, with both the murderer and the victim as members of the group, and each fictional group member was based on a member of my then-critique group, and it was screamingly funny—to us, anyway. Actually, it’s not a bad idea, but I can certainly understand why editors weren’t rolling on the floor when “Sadie” and “Mary” once again debated semicolons and “Laura” went on a diet and the other members kept bringing chocolate to meetings, you know, exactly as happened in my critique group! (It was really funny! My critique group just howled!)

9) The critique group sees things scene by scene, by the editor sees the manuscript as a whole: “Huh? What’s this got to do with the story? Is it an outtake from some other book?” Scenes can be terrific each on their own, but not always fit into the tone or plot of the rest of the book. The crit group might see your story a scene at a time and love each individually… and never read the entire book and so not notice if one scene is out of place.

8) “Nicely written, but (insert trendy plot device) is so last year, or will be next year anyway.” From acceptance to publication is usually a year, so the editor has to scout ahead and imagine what will be appealing to readers not right now, but in 12 months. So you and the critique group might be right, that your wizard is better than Harry Potter… but the editor might be getting up-to-the-minute info from the sales force that wizards’ popularity is dropping off, and will be nil next year.

7) “Good story, but the prose is so rough—I just don’t have time to fix every sentence.” There is a minimal level of prose, and sometimes your critique group might, um, have a lower minimum than the editor does. If the overworked editor has two good stories, and one requires maybe three hours of editing, and the other twelve hours, which would you suggest she take? It’s your job, not hers, to make this story publishable. And editors are editors. We love the English language, grammar and all. When you turn in a manuscript full of errors, it’s kind of like you’re disrespecting our great love. We can’t help but take that personally!

6) Your critique group expects a rough draft, a chapter with crossouts and handwritten additions. The editor expects something else: “I can’t believe she submitted this manuscript in this condition. The paper reeks of smoke; there is a bloodstain, I’m pretty sure, on page 12. Who does she think she is? Stephen King delivers a clean manuscript — if this no-name wants to be a professional, let her get started on acting like one.” You think I’m kidding? I’m not. If the editor has an asthma attack opening your envelope, or goes looking for latex gloves so as not to encounter your bodily fluids, well, let’s just say, no matter how great the story is, it’s probably not going to be read. Print out a new manuscript for each submission. And keep your paper and your printer in a room where no one smokes.

5) “Great idea, well-executed, but, umm, we don’t publish short stories (or horror novels or non-fiction or…).” Your critique group might be right— you are the next Alice Munro. But if the editor doesn’t edit short story anthologies, you can’t count on her taking the manuscript across the hall to the appropriate colleague. I was sort of shocked, when I became an editor, how many submissions I received which had nothing to do with what I could acquire. Do your research, and don’t waste the editor’s time and your postage with the sort of book she doesn’t edit.

4) Your critique group is probably filled with experienced readers who get a kick out of something new and fresh. The editor might too… until she remembers that she’s not the target audience: “Very quirky, very cutting-edge—but our audience would never buy this.” Publishers are only as innovative as their customers. They might be wrong—publishers frequently underestimate the ability of readers to adapt quickly to what might seem experimental—but editors do have to take the attitude of the higher-ups into consideration, and the higher-ups generally think their customers are conservative and change-resistant.

3) Your critique group loves your premise and thinks it’s just the high-concept the publisher is looking for—easy to market, easy to blurb. And the crit group is right. What they don’t realize, however, is that the editor knows more: “We have another book with a similar premise coming out in three months. This is better, but that’s already paid for.” There are no unique ideas, or they’re not unique for long. I remember one editor saying she got – in one week-- three manuscripts using the premise of Jesus being cloned from the blood on the Shroud of Turin, and each of the authors arrived at that premise independently. Only one book got bought, probably the first to hit the desk. You and the critique group might be exactly right, that you came up with this on your own, but so apparently did someone else-- earlier.

2) Your critique group probably loves you no matter what. And heck, you might be a prince in F2F personal relationships. You remember birthdays, and you’re always there with an encouraging word, and they have a history with you, so even if you’re grumpy one day, they’ll forgive you. The editor, however, might think, “In the dictionary, next to the word ‘difficult,’ is a photo of this writer. Depending on the time of day he calls (and he’s called every day since he submitted), he seems to think that I am either his enemy or his therapist. I cannot, cannot, cannot deal with him for the next year. Maybe he’s the next Dean Koontz and I’ll get fired for rejecting him… but so what? No job and no author is worth this increase of stomach acid.” An editor has to do more than acquire a manuscript. She has to edit it and shepherd it through, which means continued contact. How much do you want her to dread that? Think of that before you pick up that phone or hit “send”.
1) Your critique group is right. It’s really that good a book. And seriously, if there was any justice in the world, it would sell at auction and the advance pay for two kids in private college. However: “I love it, but my boss will hate it.” No accounting for tastes. I remember an editor-in-chief refusing a book because the heroine had the name of an ex-girlfriend. The author offered to change the name… no go. Lesson—sometimes it doesn’t make any sense. Great books get rejected all the time, for good reasons and bad. The market is fickle, and so are bosses. And the trouble is, you might never know whether your book was rejected “for cause,” or if it really is as great as your critique group says, and some factor completely beyond your control interferes.

So keep writing, keep critiquing, keep growing, keep trying. And make sure your critique group knows you want absolute honesty, and reward them with openness and gratitude. They might not have the editor’s perspective, but they’ll be the best readers you will ever have, and they can help you hone the manuscript to its best form. Then, well, then luck, timing, all that uncontrollable stuff, will factor in. But you will know you’ve done everything you can!

Big Bird Says...

Today's post is brought to you by the letters R and U.

Come on over to Romance University, where we're talking about how to deliver bad news to your writing partners. It's not easy, but that doesn't mean we have to make it hard.

We'll also be talking some more about our friend Johnny, the status-seeking pre-med student, over the weekend. Johnny needs a few more layers, don't you think? :)

Theresa

A Question: Critiquing What You Hate

Tonight we'll pull a question from the mailbag. One of our readers asks,

What do you do when you critique a story, and you hate it? The writing is good, not great, but good, but you just can't get past the first chapter?

I'm going to assume we're talking about writers (rather than acquisitions editors) offering comments on the work of other writers. There are a lot of "almost there" writers, those who have a grasp of most of the basics but haven't quite reached publishable levels. There are several common reasons those "almost, but not quite" pieces tend to fail. Just off the top of my head, I would list those reasons as ~~

~~ POV is too objective/protagonist is too remote
~~ lack of tension and drama/nothing is at stake
~~ characters are bland/motivations are unclear
~~ protagonist is unlikeable/nobody to cheer for
~~ writing style is too academic
~~ writing style is underdeveloped or flabby

If you are critiquing a work that is not hideous but leaves you with a blah feeling, check if one of these things might be the problem. I tend to think of these stories as "workmanlike." That is, they plod on and avoid most of the glaring technical errors common to new writers, but they don't quite rise to the level of entertainment. If you can link the story's missing elements to one of the common problems on the list, you will be doing a service to the other writer to help them understand why you're not connecting with their characters or plots.

It will help you in your own writing if you take the time to analyze why this other piece failed. If you can learn to see pov gaps or dull exposition or clunky phrases in another's work, it will make you more sensitive to it in your own. So, even if you hate something, try to step back from the emotional reaction to it and analyze it as an intellectual exercise. It will make you a better writer in the end.

And then you have to talk to the other writer about it. It's tempting to treat this as an issue of manners, but rather than getting into all that, let's just assume that you will keep focused on the pages. Pick a couple, maybe three, technique messages to present, because any more than that might be overwhelming. Pick the ones you expect will have the biggest impact on the prose when corrected.

It's probably fair to tell another writer, "This is not to my tastes."
It's probably not fair to say, "This sucks."

The first admits a subjective response, while the second is a categorical insult. Try to avoid making broad judgment statements and focus instead on concrete ways to improve the writing.

Fair: "Try raising the stakes."
Unfair: "It's boring."

Fair: "You might want to brush up on punctuation rules."
Unfair: "Is your comma key broken?"

Of course, all of this assumes that the person receiving your commentary is of average sensitivity and doesn't need to get beat over the head with a grammar primer in order to understand basic points. Make sure there aren't any interpersonal issues feeding into your emotional reaction -- that's for your peace of mind rather than for the benefit of the other writer.

Good luck! I hope that helps. This can be a knotty problem to solve.

Theresa

Top Ten Reasons Why Editors Are So Mean

Alicia says--

I’m behind on posts, so am still working on Theresa’s post about critique groups. I want to reconstruct my incredibly brilliant post that got lost when the PC crashed. You’ll have to take my word for the brilliance, because this reconstructed one won’t be as brilliant. As you read it, just think, “I bet the original was brilliant.” J

I am going to do this in Word (thanks for the suggestion!) and in pieces. So here’s the first piece:

Top Ten Reasons Why the Editor Doesn’t Applaud What Your Crit Group Loved:

10) “This writer never heard about killing her darlings—and she sure has a lot of darlings, all very precious and twee.” Sometimes what we love is actually a bit… self-indulgent. Once I started a mystery set in a critique group, with both the murderer and the victim as members of the group, and each fictional group member was based on a member of my then-critique group, and it was screamingly funny—to us, anyway. Actually, it’s not a bad idea, but I can certainly understand why editors weren’t rolling on the floor when “Sadie” and “Mary” once again debated semicolons and “Laura” went on a diet and the other members kept bringing chocolate to meetings, you know, exactly as happened in my critique group! (It was really funny! My critique group just howled!)

9) “Huh? What’s this got to do with the story? Is it an outtake from some other book?” Scenes can be terrific each on their own, but not always fit into the tone or plot of the rest of the book. The crit group might see your story a scene at a time and love each individually… and never read the entire book and so not notice if one scene is out of place.

8) “Nicely written, but (insert trendy plot device) is so last year, or will be next year anyway.” From acceptance to publication is usually a year, so the editor has to scout ahead and imagine what will be appealing to readers not right now, but in 12 months. So you and the critique group might be right, that your wizard is better than Harry Potter… but the editor getting up-to-the-minute info from the sales force that wizards’ popularity is dropping off, and will be nil next year.

7) “Good story, but the prose is so rough—I just don’t have time to fix every sentence.” There is a minimal acceptable level of prose, and sometimes your critique group might, um, have a lower minimum than the editor does. If the overworked editor has two good stories, and one requires maybe three hours of editing, and the other twelve hours, which would you suggest she take? It’s your job, not hers, to make this story publishable. And editors are editors. We love the English language, grammar and all. When you turn in a manuscript full of errors, it’s kind of like you’re disrespecting our great love. We can’t help but take that personally!

6) “I can’t believe she submitted this manuscript in this condition. The paper reeks of smoke; there is a bloodstain, I’m pretty sure, on page 12. Who does she think she is? Stephen King delivers a clean manuscript — if this no-name wants to be a professional, let her get started on acting like one.” You think I’m kidding? I’m not. If the editor has an asthma attack opening your envelope, or goes looking for latex gloves so as not to encounter your bodily fluids, well, let’s just say, no matter how great the story is, it’s probably not going to be read. Print out a new manuscript for each submission, and keep your paper and your printer in a room where no one smokes.

5) “Great idea, well-executed, but, umm, we don’t publish short stories (or horror novels or non-fiction or…).” Your critique group might be right— you are the next Alice Munro. But if the editor doesn’t edit short story anthologies, you can’t count on her taking the manuscript across the hall to the appropriate colleague. I was sort of shocked, when I became an editor, how many submissions I received which had nothing to do with what I could acquire. Do your research, and don’t waste the editor’s time and your postage with the sort of book she doesn’t edit.

4) “Very quirky, very cutting-edge—but our audience would never buy this.” Publishers are only as innovative as their customers. They might be wrong—publishers frequently underestimate the ability of readers to adapt quickly to what might seem experimental—but editors do have to take the attitude of the higher-ups into consideration.

3) “We have another book with a similar premise coming out in three months. This is better, but that’s already paid for.” There are no unique ideas, or they’re not unique for long. I remember one editor saying she got – in one week-- three manuscripts using the premise of Jesus being cloned from the blood on the Shroud of Turin, and each of the authors arrived at that premise independently. Only one book got bought. You and the critique group might be exactly right, that you came up with this on your own, but so apparently did someone else-- earlier.

2) “In the dictionary, next to the word ‘difficult,’ is a photo of this writer. Depending on the time of day he calls (and he’s called every day since he submitted), he seems to think that I am either his enemy or his therapist. I cannot, cannot, cannot deal with him for the next year. Maybe he’s the next Dean Koontz and I’ll get fired for rejecting him… but so what? No job and no author is worth this level of increase of stomach acid.” Your critique group probably loves you no matter what. And heck, you might be a prince in F2F personal relationships. But an editor has to do more than acquire a manuscript. She has to edit it and shepherd it through, which means continued contact. How much do you want her to dread that? Think of that before you pick up that phone or hit “send”.

1) “I love it, but my boss will hate it.” No accounting for tastes. I remember an editor-in-chief refusing a book because the heroine had the name of an ex-girlfriend. The author offered to change the name… no go. Lesson—sometimes it doesn’t make any sense. Great books get rejected all the time, for good reasons and bad. The market is fickle, and so are bosses. And the trouble is, you might never know whether your book was rejected “for cause,” or if it really is as great as your critique group says, and some factor completely beyond your control interferes.

Alicia

On Critique Groups and Editors

Here I go again, saying ditto to what Alicia said. Critique groups tend to clean up a lot of errors before the manuscripts land on my desk, which makes my job easier. Writers can learn a lot from a solid critique and from thinking through someone else's raw work. These types of partnerships can ease the isolation of writing and provide some validation for lifestyle choices.

These are all good things.

Alicia, how many times has a writer told you her critiquing partners love her work? I suppose it's a step up from, "My mother loves this!" Critiquers are presumably more adept at evaluating raw work, and they don't have that umbilical -- and wholly subjective -- bond with the writer.

But you know, when I'm making revision notes for a writer, they're usually not optional. There are times I'll toss out a suggestion -- an idea, really, or a brainstormed note -- to see what the writer thinks. In those cases, I usually let them know it's an idea rather than a revision note. And I usually ask for their opinions on those ideas, and maybe we'll chat about the idea a bit. We both have the same goal, to strengthen the manuscript, so this type of exchange can sometimes be quite fruitful.

That's not the same as a revision note. A revision note details something that must be changed in order to bring the manuscript up to standards. I don't mind discussing revision notes because, frankly, there's usually more than one way to peel a potato. Maybe I provide an idea for fixing something, and maybe the writer will have a different idea that accomplishes the same goal. Or maybe, together, we hit on yet another solution that's better than anything we could come up with alone. That's all fine, as long as the underlying problem in the manuscript is resolved.

But when a writer responds to my revision notes with something like, "I won't change that because my critique group liked it," then we have a problem. Your critique group never trumps your editor.

I'm happy to report that few writers make comments like this. That makes it all the more surprising when it does happen. These comments can take many forms -- my best friend says that's her favorite part of the story; my writers' group says I'm a natural storyteller; my high school English teacher never would have marked that -- but they really mean the same thing: there's a problem.

And the solution to that problem, more often than not, is a politely worded rejection letter.

Critique groups -- Alicia

Supposedly, editors don't like critique groups, because they "mess up your voice" or something. Well, I like critique groups, or at least good ones. (If yours does mess up your voice-- well, 1) Maybe your voice isn't as great as you hoped, and you should listen to them, or 2) Maybe you should get a better critique group.)

What I like is manuscripts that someone else has already read. They're usually more readable. Manuscripts that have been critiqued seldom come to me all in italics, for example. And critique groups do tend to point out the glaring plot flaw in the first chapter, and probably a lot of typos too. So I actually prefer manuscripts that have been through the critique wringer.

I am in a critique group myself, though I'm not writing much. (It's a great group, and I don't want to drop out and lose my place. :) What I've learned is that crit groups are like marriages-- some are bad and some are good, and you'd really rather be in the good one.

The critique group will be most helpful if you know what you need. For example, I'm an editor. I really don't need much in the way of "late concern assessment," as the writing teachers say. I better be able to edit my own stuff, since I edit the work of others. So I never bring an "almost-final" draft to critique group. My need is much earlier, in the plotting and fleshing out characters part. I don't have much of an imagination (cue all those editor jokes, you know, about how we wouldn't know creative if it bit us :), and have to be prompted to move out of the conventional. My crit groupers are always saying, "You know, it would be more fun if...." when they read my scene outlines.

But others might want help achieving more power in their scenes, or smoothing out the ragged edges of their voice, or discovering when they've drifted out of point of view or forced a character to do something out of character.

I think critique groups are most useful when you know what lack they'll fill in your writing process-- and when you find the group that fills it.

How big should a group be? Again, that's a matter of preference. I hate large group critiques, you know, when you read your scene and 15 people tell you what's wrong with it. That makes me feel very bad. But others love getting many different perspectives. Personally, I go for a 5-7 person group. That's enough that someone always has something to present, and yet it's not so much that you spent 50 hours a week critiquing. But I think it might take some experimenting to find the size and composition that suits you.

I do know this much-- if a group makes you feel bad, if you leave the meeting thinking you should just quit writing, it's not the group for you. Not that groups should be mindlessly supportive, but they should "critique, not criticize"-- pointing out what's good and great as well as what needs work.

In my other life, I tutor in a writing center at a university, and I keep realizing one truth over and over: Few of us can absorb more than 4 suggestions at a sitting. (I don't mean 4 pointing out of misspellings, but 4 separate and distinct suggestions.) So don't be scared if you find yourself shutting down after a few comments. Take notes-- don't protest. Later you can go over your notes and pick out the three or four things you want to work on in your revision.


Some writers don't want critique groups-- they don't want the hassle or don't have the time. That's fine-- in that case, I suggest that you find a friend who is a reader, not a writer, and ask that person to read your proposal IN YOUR PRESENCE, and do a running commentary as she reads, while you take notes.


But yes, I believe in critique groups. The editor shouldn't be the first non-you to see your proposal, and you shouldn't rely on editors to critique your work. First, that is not what we're paid for. Second, the pleasant (I hope :) rejection letter you receive from an editor very often doesn't comment much at all-- the editor isn't going to list all seven things that she didn't like. So editors aren't going to do a useful critique. Third, who wants to get a reputation for submitting less than the best work possible?

Theresa, what do you say? Pro or con crit groups?

Alicia