How to Accept Critique (with poise)

Originally posted on May 13, 2010 at 6:29 PM

Disclaimer: Everyone is different, and every group is different. Do what works for you. Here’s what works for me.

This is a sister post to my blog, How to Give Critique (with poise).

Finding, joining, and attending a writers’ critique group can be tricky. There’s a delicate balance between helping and hurting, and sometimes that balance is tipped. How do you know that you’ve found the right group? How do you know that you’re getting everything you can from it?

I’m the president of the North Branch Writers’ Critique Group in Denton, Texas, and I’ve been attending that group (mostly fiction) for over a year and another (poetry) critique group for three years. I would love to share my advice and insights with you.

First of all, you have to decide if you are ready for a critique group. The number one reason that feelings get hurt is actually not due to the other members and their feedback, but due to our own unreadiness. Critique groups are usually not for brand-spanking-new writers. This is not to say that you need to be published to join, just that you need to have been writing on your own for at least a few years, maybe longer. Likewise, sometimes a hot-off-the-printer story is too new to bring.

If what you’re looking for is support and confidence-building, don’t join a critique group; join a writers’ group. Before you can feel secure enough in your work to put it out there for critique, build up your confidence by becoming used to simply sharing your writing with others. Read out loud, hear other people read it, meet other writers, and become involved in the industry so that you know where you and your writing belong. Only then, once you’ve found your own style and voice, should you join a critique group.

Let me stress that again: a critique group is not for sharing your work, padding your résumé, boosting your self-esteem, or hearing people reassure you of your genius. It is for suggestive feedback. If you do not want feedback (that may conflict with your own opinions), do not join a critique group. It only wastes your time and the group’s time, and no one benefits.

Okay, so you’ve made it this far. You really are ready to hear people tear apart your baby. Go to a meeting or two without bringing anything (if they allow it). Observe. Do you like the way the group works? Are there members who are too harsh? Would you have your feelings hurt if someone said to you what you hear them say to someone else? Do their suggestions seem useful? If you don’t like the answers to these questions, keep looking. A negative critique group can really hurt a budding writer.

So the group seems good. You’ve gone once or twice now, and agree with what most people said about members’ works. This means you have at least some degree of trust in their abilities and opinions, and that you should indeed listen when they give you critique. This can be difficult.

Perhaps you’ve done something with your story that no one seems to understand but you know is brilliant. Well, for one thing, don’t argue. If you argue with their suggestions, it does three things:

  1. It wastes time, which ultimately means you get less different suggestions and just the one that you disagreed with.
  2.  It annoys people. If you don’t want to listen, why are you here? Tempers can rise and words become sharp which leads to hurt feelings.
  3. It makes people hesitant to give you legitimate suggestions in the future, which you might actually have agreed with and benefited from.

A better solution to arguing with someone’s critique? Hold it inside. I know, I know, your mother told you to never hold in emotions because they’ll eat a hole in you—but I only mean until you get home. Allow everyone to have their opinion expressed, and silently nod along. Ask questions if you don’t understand, but not because you disagree. Write down what they didn’t jot on your copies so you can refer to it later. When you get home, cry and vent to your roommate, cat, or lover. Call your mom; she will always agree with you. Then let it sit.

Several days later, come back to it. How many people said this same thing? Did some members disagree amongst themselves? Did they all suggest related problem areas? Perhaps you should let down your defenses and consider their suggestions. Fear is the main motivator, but there’s nothing to be afraid of. Even if you put their critiques into effect and hate them, you can always go back to your original piece. No harm, no foul.

But generally speaking—if you’ve found a good group—these people want to help you. It is in your best interest to allow their critiques fair play in the old noggin. Still disagree? Well, then don’t change it. It’s as simple as that. Ultimately, it’s your work. If you know what you’re doing and why, and someone else disagrees, that’s okay. You’re the writer.

Finally, there are a few ways to prevent these issues in the first place. A disclaimer! (Disclaimers are always the way to go!) If you know that a piece is just bizarre subject matter that members of your group won’t like, preface your time with something like, “And this is a space-punk cyber story done in 4th person plural, so I know it might not be your cup of tea. But what I’m really looking for help on is writing style, not content.” Or vice-versa. If you know that your lengthy sentences are your signature and will eventually rock the publishing world, put out the disclaimer: “I know you guys don’t like my super-long sentences, but I really do. So instead of focusing on that, I’d really love help with the flow of the plot.” Get the idea?

Good luck, happy writing, and peaceful critiques to you all.

Posted in Advice for Writers | Tagged , | 1 Comment

The Twilight Controversy

Originally posted on April 15, 2010 at 6:09 PM

*spoiler alert*

I am quite astounded by the current hoopla over Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series. Apparently, parents are outraged. They have recently complained so much as to merit the books a number 5 rank on the “challenged books” list. I must say, these parents are clueless.

I personally have read all four books in the Twilight series. I have said before, and I will say again, that I think what Stephanie Meyer did here was incredibly smart, intended or not. Essentially what she’s created is the ultimate female fantasy. Edward is a handsome, mysterious guy who becomes instantly, passionately, and entirely devoted to Bella—the every-girl. Not only that, but their love has the true potential of forever. He is her protector, her supporter, her dream man. He is incredibly cool and suave… the guy every sane high school boy is now trying to be.

And even though he’s over seventy years old, he’s still a virgin, in spite of the fact that he’s eternally good-looking and sexy. And he insists that the sexually-charged Bella marry him before they have sex. They do not have sexual contact until book four, after they’re legally, properly married. And it’s scarcely described. Parents, are you insane? What more do you want?

Mrs. Meyer has created the coolest, most desirable role model in the world right now for teenagers. And she’s given him an extremely high set of morals. (I mean, he’s a freakin’ vampire and he refuses to drink human blood. All the other vamps are rolling their eyes.) This is perfect. Stop your bitching! I mean, this is almost as good as if Jesus were incredibly cool and current, walking around in the very-now flannel shirt and making teenage girls swoon so boys want to be like him. Saving yourself for marriage is cool! That’s the banner. Seriously, read the books. They’re Lilly-white.

In spite of the target age, I enjoyed the series. I thought they were a fairly nice fast, easy read for fun entertainment. But I also felt like they were an extremely watered-down version of Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake series. Agenda-pushing, the wait-until-marriage aspect was so strong. Almost nauseating, when I thought about how many teenage girls were going to eat this up, clueless as to what the message was, but absorbing it anyway. (This is good for the complaining parents.) There is less sex in this series than in the Bible. So a little message to the outraged ‘rents: take a deep breath, read the books, and be thankful your kids aren’t reading about the much cooler, adult, ass-kicking Anita Blake. It could be much, much worse.

Posted in Books & Movies | Tagged | 4 Comments

To name is to acknowledge existence.

Originally posted on March 13, 2010 at 3:47 AM

My main character is becoming real.

The word “creative” has two kin: create and creator. We don’t always associate these with each other, but the fact is, my creativity means I am a creator, creating. Right now, I do feel like one, drawing a living being from nothingness… or rather from the gray matter that is my mind.

She’s like a sculpture. She started as a block of clay, wood, marble, and I started cutting. I carved away until I could see her form. In the darkness of the car on my four hour drive to CS, (in which I stupidly forgot to pack my CDs) I suddenly saw her hair. Then I saw her form, in action, pressed against a wall hiding in one of my scenes. That one action tells me who she is. I know her. She is sculpted, suddenly and fully—even her clothes.

But she is gray, like my brain, and I paint her. Her skin, her markings, her eyes. Her eyes are part of the spark. Like in a painting how the eyes are dead until you add the gleam, and suddenly the portrait is looking at you wherever you go. She’s like that, now, a sculpture almost alive in my mind, watching me, waiting to live.

She needs the breath of life. The final touch. The flame that lights her.

She needs a name.

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book learnin’

Originally posted on March 10, 2010 at 8:11 PM

I’m sending queries off like little, benign doves in hopes that none come back the same. In the meantime, I’m starting my next novel with the idea that creating something new might take some of the pressure off of something old. I already have the idea, the basic plot, the genre and concepts. But I need to flesh it out with places, names, dates, etc. Whether or not they go into the book, I like to know every last detail about my settings and characters. I think it shows in the end result—a sort of underlying depth that implies there’s more. That the characters live off stage. (And they do… in my mind.) Which means: I’m researching.

So I went to the library today with the hub-a-dub. He brought his laptop and played computer games to keep me company. It was very nice of him. It also makes it a lot easier to search out and lug around stacks of books if I don’t have to carry my bag too. Plus, it’s so much more pleasant to be able to look up and point out a picture to him, or read a quote in that library whisper. It’s like swishing the wine before you swallow. It aids the taste process.

We were there for several hours, and I got some good stuff, but today wasn’t the golden day. I didn’t hit the jackpot. The research jackpot? Yeah. I’m really that dorky. So here’s how I do it.

First, I search Wikipedia and the like to narrow down my frames of reference. Then I take those basic concepts to the library (I’m partial to the 3rd floor of Willis Library on UNT campus with that big arched window) and keyword search them in the catalog. I write down any and all books that look like they might have good concepts, facts, or pictures. Then I go hunting.

For a while it’s usually an Easter egg hunt. I find one book at a time, hoping to see it nestled in with a half-dozen other, similar books that would be equally if not more useful. Today, I pulled one-by-one. The jackpot is when you find a whole shelf dedicated to exactly the part of the subject you’re looking for. A dozen or more relevant books that will give you ideas, images, and knowledge. But the Easter egg style is okay until then. Just slower.

Also, don’t you just love the smell of old, hardback books? Mmmm.

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dream poetry

Originally posted on February 6, 2010 at 5:11 PM

I’ve blogged before about thinking of poem ideas as I’m falling asleep. But last night, for the first time, I realized that I actually write poetry in my sleep. No kidding.

When Kyle got up this morning at 5, it was still midnight-dark outside. The soft sounds of his getting dressed woke me directly from a dream… about which I was composing poetry in my head… while still asleep. This is hard to believe even as I write it, even though it happened to me. I’ve never experienced anything like it in my life.

I was sort of composing as the dream progressed, being inspired by the things happening to me in my mind. Either that or I was writing in my head and dreaming images to go along with it. But I think it was the first one, because I have the impression of searching for phrasing that would match perfectly.

I was dreaming about a close friend from high school that I eventually had to give up to loss. She was giving me a necklace that my brother actually gave me when I was little: a gold chain with a little ballerina on it. This girl was in dance with me, so it makes sense. We were under this enormous oak tree in a field I didn’t recognize, lying on our sides together on the old sleeping bag/blanket that my parents used to use for stuff like that.

The field was the most amazing shade of green, the exact color in my favorite bridal picture. The whole scene was green and gold from the sun, the leaves of the tree were a deep, rich burgundy. She was behind me with her skeletal-thin arms wrapped around me, the one beneath me coming up under my armpit and the one above me wrapping to clasp her other around my neck.

The leaves from the tree started to fall, detaching loudly and scattering softly. I knew it was time to leave. When she felt me start to sit up, she wouldn’t let go of me; her arms tightened too much. The weight of her on my shoulders became lighter. She started to dissolve a little while she grabbed me, like some profane swamp thing trying to suck me down.

I remember this wording so vividly: She was like an old house that I used to inhabit, but it was time to move. I stood in the overgrown yard and looked up at the windows, like black, vacant eyes, and knew if I didn’t leave I would never be happy. I made the choice. I turned and ran from that house, and I never looked back.

When I woke up, I jumped up and wrote it all down, thinking it was so amazing. But the poem is useless; it makes no sense. It’s a misguided brain jumble with beautiful phrasing… a disjointed creation of my uninhibited mind. But it wasn’t a totally lost cause, because waking up brought me to conscious awareness of my mind’s poetic mood. Before I went back to sleep I wrote a real poem (about something else) that I love.

How many other poems have I created in my dreams that never got written down? I remember when I started taking German in high school, my Grandma said that you know you’re really fluent when you starting thinking in German. Does dreaming in poems mean I’m fluent in poetry now? Have I crossed some barrier that I never would have realized if Kyle hadn’t woken me up? Cool.

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