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How to be completely unhelpful as a critique partner

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This entry is part 1 of 6 in the series bad advice

I sometimes feel like I’ve been on the receiving end of a disproportionate number (or maybe just quality) of flat-out bad critiques. In saying that, I’m not saying that I’m a better writer or smarter or prettier than these critique partners (or that I’ve never had good critique partners, because I do have several)—but I’ve come to believe it takes special talent to read, comment on and “correct” eight, eighty or eight hundred pages and do nothing to improve the story. Especially when said story is mine, and thus, far from perfect.

Don’t we all want to develop our talents?! So, with much of the following based on actual feedback (but only a couple so noted), here’s some advice on

How to be completely unhelpful as a critique partner

Deliberately try to misread or misunderstand. If there’s any possible way this writing can be misinterpreted, no matter how much of a stretch, no matter if you understood perfectly the first four times you read it, no matter what variety of garbled English you’d have to speak to understand it that way, make a big note of how lost you are.

Contradict yourself. Consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds. Or it isn’t.

Slavishly adhere to each and every rule you think you’ve ever heard or should use. Somebody once said something about never, ever, ever, ever using nouns, right?

Make an example of your critique partner. Why, just the other day, you and Completely Uninterested Party were discussing this principle. You must make DARN sure that this author knows it and knows it well after you’re through with her!

Overread. I think there really may be something more going on with this dialogue tag. “She said”? I think that must carry a lot of nuance. I don’t get it, though. Can you explain it better?

Underread. A page should take no more than 60 seconds to read and comment on. If all facts presented are not perfectly clear upon initial skim, the failing is obviously the author’s.

Take sarcastic pot shots at characters (or author). That whole too-stupid-to-live thing is so obvious it must be intentional. Maybe the writer’s equally stupid? The best way to point it out is to use “stupid” as often as possible, or whatever other word you want.

Be cruel. It’s called tough love for a reason. And who couldn’t use a thicker skin? Just wait for reviews.

Overexplain. Yeah, on all the other 25 pages the author conjugated her verbs right, but man, right here she didn’t. Let’s learn subject-verb agreement, shall we??

Highlight every instance of a mistake. There are ten sentences in the chapter where she uses “as”? Mark every single one. One author once said we can’t have anything happen simultaneously. Smiling and walking at the same time? Ridiculous! (Actual advice from a contest judge, not phrased that way.)

Assume nothing is intentional. They used the word “raven” three times in four pages? Ugh. Nobody would ever pay for such drivel. Or memorize it hundreds of years later.

Make no overall comments. She can figure out what I thought of it based on my line-by-line reactions.

Make no comments overall. Or not.

Make no comments on the text.

Make no comments in the text. And three to four sentences overall should be sufficient. For a whole manuscript. Make sure one of them was “Pretty good,” “Surprisingly competent,” or “I liked your font.”

Use your mother’s grammar rules on a deep POV passage. That character needs to go back to third grade if he says “like” instead of “as if.” (The grammar principle, not phrased this way, was advice I received in comments from a published contest judge. As. If!)

Don’t waste time thinking about your suggestions or their implications for the story. After all, what’s the writer’s job?

Don’t converse with your critique partner afterward, especially not to clarify anything you said. If they don’t get it, it’s not your problem. And if they try to contradict you under the guise of discussion? Cut all ties.

Take absolutely none of their advice on your own work. They’re coming to you for help, aren’t they? How could they possibly improve your work?

Remind them what a favor you’re doing. Make sure they’re sufficiently grateful.

Don’t give examples or explain what you mean.

Point out the obvious. It helps them see it.

Make generic comments to point out weaknesses at the end of scenes, not where the problems occur. Oh, yeah, there was a problem like two or three pages ago, but that’s just so much scrolling. I’m sure she’ll figure out where I mean.

Make sure it’s written exactly the way you’d write it. The author’s voice? Pfft. Take it upon yourself to rewrite a scene to show her how it’s done. But don’t look back at their scene–their details might contaminate your brilliance.

Take everything literally. Figurative language is for wimps.

What do you think? How else can you be a completely unhelpful critique partner?

Photo credits: sign—Eric Kilby; cats—icanhascheezburger; thumbs down—striatic

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Technique, Works

Dealing with bad advice

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This entry is part 2 of 6 in the series bad advice

When we’re first learning to write and we turn to others for feedback and guidance, we’re eager to get their help. After all, the people we turn to are knowledgeable and kind and so much better versed in the ways of publishing, right?

Right?

Well, when we’re first learning, yeah, the people we turn to will probably be more knowledgeable and their advice will help us improve our writing. And sometimes, even the good, kind things they say can be hard to hear.

But sometimes, they have no clue what they’re talking about.

Advice is one of those things it is far more blessed to give than to receive.

—Carolyn Wells

I think we’ve all been there: we get some piece of advice—from a crit partner, from an editor, from a total stranger—that just doesn’t work for our story.

Maybe I’m not unique, but I’ve gotten quite a bit of off-the-wall, mean-spirited or flat-out wrongheaded advice in the last few years. My favorite . . . well, it’s hard to choose, but I do have a special place in my heart for the “tip” to kill off my murderer in the opening scene. Or the one piece of advice designed to “solve” a problem (when really, the real problem with this section was the exact opposite), that instead destroyed the tension of the entire story and introduced a major continuity and factual issue. And then there was the person who consistently demanded I add details—ones that were already there, just a few lines before their comments.

I owe my success to having listened respectfully to the very best advice, and then going away and doing the exact opposite.

—G.K. Chesterton

I hope I don’t have to tell you I didn’t follow that advice.

So this week, we’ll talk about how to deal with all kinds of bad advice—from the ill-intentioned to the “Are we reading the same thing?” kind—and how to move past it.

What’s the worst piece of advice you’ve ever gotten?

Photo credit: Rachel Sian

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Technique

Responding to bad advice

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This entry is part 3 of 6 in the series bad advice

When we get bad advice, there’s usually some obligation to respond in some way, to acknowledge the feedback. No matter how bad the advice is, it’s important to remain professional—and not do something you’ll regret later.

Don’t react

The initial slap-in-the-face sting will fade. Okay, it may not—but the first minute you read something that’s just prima facie all wrong isn’t the best time to jump on it. Give it a few minutes; go have some chocolate if necessary.

If this is an in-person setting, now is a good time to nod. Narrow your eyes a little if you want, but anything more than that is probably a little rude. (The eye narrowing nod can look like either disbelief or sage acceptance.)

Weigh it out

This phrasing comes from Josi Kilpack. She points out that no matter how off-base a comment may seem, there may be a kernel of truth in it. Somewhere. And who knows, maybe—just maybe—they were right after all.

I should add here that fortunately I’ve been a victim of this one, too. My favorite example here is when a critique partner suggested I add a scene near the beginning of the book. I hemmed and hawed over this privately—until the scene started playing out in my mind. It was so entertaining—and just like she said, solved so many problems—that I just had to write it, just to see what it’d look like. (And when I still liked the finished product, I stuck it in there.)

Be gracious

Finally, no matter whether you got a hundred great ideas to revolutionize and revitalize your story—or just got the general idea that this person is clueless—be sure to thank them. This person didn’t have to take time out to read your work and try to help you, albeit unsuccessfully.

Thank them. If possible, tell them how their comments helped you. If that’s not possible (and sometimes it’s just not), still thank them. Sometimes, that’s all you’ll be able to do—while in some settings, it’s appropriate to discuss and clarify feedback (while not arguing), in others, that’s just not appropriate or even possible. So thank them and move on.

What’s your biggest challenge in reacting to feedback?

Photo credit: Neils van Kampenhout

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Technique

Reacting to bad advice

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This entry is part 4 of 6 in the series bad advice

I doubt any of us need to be told how to react to bad advice. But the best thing to do is ridicule it.

I’m kidding.

Kind of.

Read over your work again

Is there something there that led this person to say this? Really take a good look at just the words on the page—and try not to think about everything else you know about the story and the characters. Did you convey everything you needed to to make this clear, without the reader having to dig and read between the lines?

Of course, it’s possible that this reader just wasn’t paying attention. I’ve had (very nice!) critique partners suddenly realize a what year the story was set in chapter 7 or so, and say I should weave it in sooner—unless, of course, she’d just missed it (which, she acknowledged, was possible). (I’ve had people miss way more than that, and even start inventing stuff to fill in the blanks—to the extent where I seriously thought they were half-reading what I’d written and half-imagining something else entirely.)

Ask for feedback (from someone else)

If you think there might be some merit to some advice (somewhere), or if you’re worried you’re the one with the case of the crazies, turn to someone you trust (especially someone who’s read the story).

Failing that, look at other critiques—do they all have similar notes? Is this the only person who feels that way? Or do they all say different things? (Great . . .)

Now is a good time to remember: you can’t please everyone.

Okay, now ridicule. If you must.

And oh, I must. I’m really trying to grow out of this one, but sometimes the only thing that makes me feel better about this is to rewrite the “offending” passage in a completely ridiculous way—following their advice to its ill-fated, (il)logical conclusion.

I’ve shown you one of these before, where a contest judge marked the sentence “Sighing, Margaux pulled her hairpins from her hair” with “SHOW us the sigh.”

Sure thing:

Margaux’s thoracic diaphragm contracted, expanding her thoracic cavity and creating a vacuum in her lungs. Air at atmospheric pressure rushed in to fill her lungs. Once they were at optimal capacity, and a good proportion of the oxygen content had transpired into her bloodstream, Margaux reached the full depth of her frustration with her disheveled coif. She contracted her external intercostal muscles, audibly forcing a stream of air through her nostrils, and pulled the hairpins from her hair.

Warning: don’t do this in front of them, and don’t go back and look for an opportunity to sock it to them, or parody their writing, even if there’s a really great opening. That’s just not cool.

How do you cope with bad advice?

Photo credit: Eric Kilby

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Technique

Moving on from bad advice

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This entry is part 5 of 6 in the series bad advice

For some reason, the bad advice—from the mean-spirited to the what-the-crap?!—seems to stay with us so much longer than the good advice. It’s seldom the encouragement or praise that comes ringing back to us in the dark, still hours of the night.

Add to this the fact that I have an obsessive personality, and I’ve taken dwelling on bad advice to a whole new level. Even for stuff that’s flat-out all wrong for my story, I think about it for months on end before I can finally move on and maybe even laugh at how terrible it (and I) was.

For the stuff that’s just off-base, it’s annoying. But for the things that come with that extra note of spite, it’s even harder. This is why I’ve come up with my coping mechanisms—if two other people agree with me, if I can just laugh at it sooner (and laugh at myself), then maybe I can move on faster, right?

Yeah, it’s not so much working—though sometimes when my mind wanders back into the Forest of Remember How Much You Suck?, I can smile.

And then I read the praise-filled emails from my biggest fan/critique partner that I have taped on my wall. (No, seriously—I highly recommend doing this! It’s like getting a big hug every time you read them!)

So, in the spirit of the year dying in the night, how can we let our criticism-fed insecurities (or just the memories of the criticism) fade with it?

Photo credit: Omar

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Technique

X is for eXasperating

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This entry is part 6 of 6 in the series bad advice

Surprisingly, not that many X words occurred to me 😉 .

I sometimes feel like I’ve received more than my fair share of bad advice on my writing. (This probably isn’t true, but it still feels that way.) From people who seemed to be half-reading what I wrote, and half just making crap up, to people who were obviously trying to teach me a lesson (which no one else who’d read it seemed to see), from those who were trying to remake my writing to sound like theirs to those who could tell me I was breaking writing “rules” without apparently understanding what the rules were for in the first place—and my personal fave, the person who killed off my killer in the opening scene—sprinkled among fabulous advice from insightful readers that has and continues to help me improve my writing, I’ve gotten an awesome sample of how not to be a critique partner.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t necessarily make it easier to 1.) tell good advice from the bad, or 2.) move on from well-intentioned but wrong-headed advice. Even when I have great, enthusiastic responses from critique partners to comfort me, some words still chafe.

Even more frustrating than the feedback is my tendency to dwell on it. When I’m faced with this, I try to tell myself a couple things:

  • Does this bother me because I agree with it on some level? Then how can I fix it?
  • This person isn’t omniscient. He might not even know what he’s talking about.
  • What does the majority say? Look over the feedback I’ve received from others to see if there’s anything directly addressing this issue.
  • What does my experience say? Does this advice work for me?

And then I go to my wall o’ praise: the spot where I’ve taped up pages of nice things people have said about my writing.

What do you think? How do you handle critiques or advice that just BUGS you?

Photo by Elyce Feliz

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