The Wrong Writing Help
Jul. 23rd, 2012 11:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deborahjrossToday's blog post from Kay Kenyon takes on a difficult topic: how do we maintain -- safeguard -- the integrity of our creative vision and get useful feedback on the manuscript? She points out the unconscious and perhaps unavoidable tendency of a fellow writer to re-write your story in his head as part of the critique process. Saying, "This doesn't work for me" is one thing; saying, "How about --?" or "You could --" is another.
Suggestions aren't always detrimental. Sometimes they "click" by helping get you un-stuck from a particular way of looking at the problem. I sometimes joke that whatever someone suggests is the thing I won't do. (I used to mean, because I am stubborn and ornery and insist on doing things my own way, so no matter how brilliant the suggestion, it's automatically off the table. Kay's insight adds that most suggestions are not going to work because they arise from another writer's vision of this story, not mine.)
Critiques can be invaluable in pointing out weaknesses in prose style, grammatical errors, structural problems, uses of diction, that sort of thing. They can show us where we left the reader confused or lost her interest. What they should not do is mess with the story that is struggling to be born.
When we're starting out as writers, most of us are riddled with self-doubt. At least, I was. I vacillated between thinking this was the best thing ever written to the certainty that I could not write my way out of a wet paper bag. For years, it seemed my writing never improved. I was clearly a hopeless case of zero talent and even less skill. (Actually, my rough drafts did improve, but very slowly; my ability to revise, however, increased exponentially!) This left me pathetically vulnerable in those early years to being influenced by feedback from writers group members. That stubbornness proved to be my best asset, although it wasn't easy to hold out against the authority of a critique delivered with great sincerity and certainty. I learned a lot about what to listen to -- and even more, what not to listen to.
A turning point came after a number of years of this sort of struggle. I'd written a story straight from the heart, tears streaming down my face as I finished it. It was right and true and I felt it in every fiber of my being. But because I'd been trained to not trust my assessment of my work, I ran it through my group. The most influential of the members said s/he couldn't even critique it, it was such a piece of sentimental twaddle. Instead of going home and crying, which is what I would have done as a beginner, I sent it out to the most competitive, highest-prestige market that was open. I received an almost immediate acceptance.
More thoughts on sabotage.
Suggestions aren't always detrimental. Sometimes they "click" by helping get you un-stuck from a particular way of looking at the problem. I sometimes joke that whatever someone suggests is the thing I won't do. (I used to mean, because I am stubborn and ornery and insist on doing things my own way, so no matter how brilliant the suggestion, it's automatically off the table. Kay's insight adds that most suggestions are not going to work because they arise from another writer's vision of this story, not mine.)
Critiques can be invaluable in pointing out weaknesses in prose style, grammatical errors, structural problems, uses of diction, that sort of thing. They can show us where we left the reader confused or lost her interest. What they should not do is mess with the story that is struggling to be born.
When we're starting out as writers, most of us are riddled with self-doubt. At least, I was. I vacillated between thinking this was the best thing ever written to the certainty that I could not write my way out of a wet paper bag. For years, it seemed my writing never improved. I was clearly a hopeless case of zero talent and even less skill. (Actually, my rough drafts did improve, but very slowly; my ability to revise, however, increased exponentially!) This left me pathetically vulnerable in those early years to being influenced by feedback from writers group members. That stubbornness proved to be my best asset, although it wasn't easy to hold out against the authority of a critique delivered with great sincerity and certainty. I learned a lot about what to listen to -- and even more, what not to listen to.
A turning point came after a number of years of this sort of struggle. I'd written a story straight from the heart, tears streaming down my face as I finished it. It was right and true and I felt it in every fiber of my being. But because I'd been trained to not trust my assessment of my work, I ran it through my group. The most influential of the members said s/he couldn't even critique it, it was such a piece of sentimental twaddle. Instead of going home and crying, which is what I would have done as a beginner, I sent it out to the most competitive, highest-prestige market that was open. I received an almost immediate acceptance.
More thoughts on sabotage.
