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Obviously, nobody else knows our story and our characters like we, the authors, do. While critique partners are absolutely invaluable in telling whether a scene or even the whole plot works, they don’t have to be the be-all and end-all when it comes to determining what, exactly, goes into your story. As I said yesterday, immediately changing your work based on one person’s opinion is a knee-jerk reaction means you’re writing to an audience of one.

This is exactly why we need more than one critique partner. In fact, it’s why we need even that first critique partner. When one person has read your story (i.e. you), you have the feedback from one person. When you get feedback from one other person (who, let’s face it, may be just as blind as we are when it comes to storytelling, craft, publishing or what have you), now you have two people’s opinions. What if there’s a tie? What if one of you is dead wrong and cannot see it? What if you both missed something?

We need several pairs of eyes to look over our work, to catch our mistakes, to offer different points of view, to get as broad a range of opinions before we start trying to get our books out there and published. (Oy—do you know what it feels like to get feedback in a rejection that you’ve already gotten from a critique partner?)

Take your time in getting critiques (the hard part for me!) and in applying them. Let the feedback set in for a few days, and see if your critique partners all or mostly agree on those points.

Several of Rick Daley’s rules for taking critiques hearken back to this principle:

Rule # 3: Seriously contemplate your changes. Take time. Work through it. You never microwave a roast. Slow cooking always turns out better. (NOTE: what’s with all the food references?)

Rule # 4: Look for common threads in the feedback and start there. The advice of the many outweighs the advice of the few. . .

Rule #7: Be ready to disregard any feedback that doesn’t make sense. Sometimes people will tell you to say something different, but that does not always equate to better. Some people may give ill-advised feedback. If it doesn’t make sense and if clarification [rule #6] seems unnecessary, just disregard it.

The majority doesn’t have to rule, of course—it’s still your story. You can do what you want, what you feel is right. But if some advice is truly wrong for your story (because, say, your CP hasn’t read the whole thing yet and couldn’t possibly know that person is the murderer), still look to see if there’s an underlying issue prompting this advice that needs to be resolved. Maybe that character’s behavior in this scene is too strange or leaves too big a clue.

And what if they tell you to cut your favorite part of the story?

The fact that it’s your favorite may be a bad sign in and of itself. We all have our “darlings,” and yes, some of them must be killed. Give the advice some time. Weigh it out. Contemplate how cutting or changing that element would change your story. Could you take it in new directions? Would it deepen the characters? Make the plot stronger? Or just plain be more interesting?

I’ve mentioned this before, but even if we’re initially opposed to some advice, sometimes thinking it through makes a huge difference:

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.)

And, as always, remember to thank your critique partners!

What do you think? How do you know when (and when not to) take advice from critiques?

Photo by Casey Smith

We’ve talked about receiving bad advice before. And sometimes, recognizing bad advice is as easy as reading it, like when I received a suggestion that would kill all the tension in a story—or kill the murderer in the opening scene.

But not all advice we have an adverse reaction to is bad. Sometimes it just hurts us on an emotional level, and we react from that place instead of really listening to the ideas in the critique.

Rick Daley, who runs the Public Query Slushpile, offered this advice on receiving critiques:

Rule # 1: Don’t pout if you hear something negative. Remember that you asked for the feedback in the first place. Don’t get defensive and don’t argue.

What’s the best thing to do if the advice hurts? Do. Not. Engage. If you respond emotionally to something a critique partner said analytically, first of all, the CP’s entire frame of reference is off. This can escalate very quickly into emotional and even personal attacks—when really, your CP (probably) wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings. (This assumes your CP wasn’t unnecessarily harsh or otherwise insane critique partner.)

If you find the critique painful, simply thank your critique partner and put the critique away for a while—however long it takes to take the edge off, and then some. (It might also be a good idea to take a step back from your work for a while, too, if you’re still that emotionally invested. Critique partners are only the first of many people who will respond to your work!)

Critiques can be a good way to work on developing that “thick skin” that you’ll need when you face rejection after rejection, endless rounds of editorial revisions, or harsh reviews.

Of course, just because some feedback hurts doesn’t automatically mean you should follow it. Immediately changing your work based on one person’s opinion is another knee-jerk reaction that may not be helpful either. We’ll look at how to determine whether to follow hard advice tomorrow.

What do you think? What do you do when a critique hurts?

Photo by Paul Iddon

After I’ve written an entire series on bad advice, and a fairly long guide to being completely unhelpful as a critique partner, you may think I haven’t had any good experiences with writing friends. This is not true. (Contest judges are another story.)

I actually have several people (mostly writers, but a few nonwriters) who read my writing and consistently offer excellent analysis, insight and advice. (And, oddly enough, almost none of them actually read this blog. But thank you anyway!)

Their advice has pointed out weaknesses in my writing from phrasing to pacing—and not in the “oh, you suck” way, but in a “Hey, I think you can do this better” way. They’ve helped me see issues that I knew my story had—and find solutions to make my work stronger. They’re more than just fresh eyes to give me perspective—they’ve been a wealth of ideas and insight to improve my story on so many levels.

Each of my critiquers/beta readers is good at spotting different things. Each of them has different strengths—one may be really good at helping me to deepen characterization while another is good at seeing . . . “opportunities” for more suspense. Even nonwriters—i.e. people like your target audience—can offer valuable insight (though they may not phrase it quite the same way a writer would ).

But I’m sure we all have at least one story. How have writing friends and critique partners helped your writing? (Feel free to share specific examples if you like!)

Photo by Art G.

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

I’m actually not looking for an assessment of your critique partners’ weaknesses and strengths . I’m wondering about the mechanics of critique groups. I recently joined a second online critique group, a brand new one just getting off the ground. We’ve kind of struggled to figure out how our new group was going to work.

The other group I’m a part of is well-established. Their mechanics were in place long before I joined. In fact, I didn’t join—I was admitted. You had to submit a sample chapter, a sample critique and a bio. If two or more members wanted to exchange critiques with you, you were in. Then, you exchanged critiques with the members who’d voted for your admittance, and any prospective members you voted for (if they got enough votes). So while we have some 20+ members (I think?), most people have only 2-4 others they’re actively critiquing.

That’s a good number—we’re never overwhelmed by how much work we have to do (even with four partners, I went weeks or months without having to crit or post anything), but we also get several sets of eyes to look at our work—but not so many that we get a lot of conflicting opinions. We also have access to lots of other writers for good advice, congratulations, and commiserating.

However, this established group, with its high entry requirements, requires that members have a certain level of expertise/experience/know-how. The new group is welcome to all comers (well, it was; we’re full now with around 10 active members). And as such, we were posting 30 pages each on the 5th and the 20th of each month (not everyone has posted every time).

That was kind of a lot—especially considering we’re all at different experience levels, and all needed different levels of critiques. So we’ve been searching for another method. We’ve settled on cutting back to 20 pages (or so) each, twice a month. On the one hand, that’s a little frustrating for me, because a 300-page book is going to take probably six months or more to critique. On the other hand, with so many people in the group, I don’t know that I could handle any more than that (especially since I’m still in the other group and behind there, too).

So I’ve been wondering—how does your critique group work? How often do you meet? How much do you critique at a time? How many members do you have?

And would you be interested in a series on critiquing? (At some point.)

On an unrelated note, if you’d like to win a free Kindle, you can check out this contest. But, um, don’t enter, so I can win, mmkay?

Picture by Nic McPhee