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
I love your “sigh”, it’s hilarious!
Hmm, I can’t say I have a very high opinion of that judge (or the contest, for that matter). Or do you think it was a careless error on her part from reading too many entries?
How do I cope w/bad advice? Dismiss it. Think about it again, maybe even a second time and then, at once, and finally, dismiss it. Especially if it’s very bad advice.
When we had our twins, we got all sorts of horrid advice from well meaning people who didn’t have a clue, much less a clue about handling multiples and a toddler in tow. Years later, we laugh at the bad advice we got.
@Rachelle—Thanks; the laugh made me feel better at least.
@Livia—This was a few years ago, but I still remember very vividly how this judge (an unpublished previous contest finalist) marked pretty much every paragraph with extensive green ink, instructing me on what a sin it was to have two things happening simultaneously (walking and smiling; I guess I live in some alternate universe where that’s physically possible), showing things that don’t need any more description than that, etc.
She also gave me the highest score of any of the judges—and she was the only one who left comments in the text (the other two gave general comments on the score sheet, and one even alluded to in-text comments, but there were none to be found). I entered the same contest the next year (with a much stronger manuscript) and got conflicting responses and advice, and scores all over the map. I don’t think I’ll make that mistake again.
@T—Bad parenting advice (which is usually one of those overapplied universals that has nothing to do with my reality) is a lot easier for me to dismiss than bad advice geared specifically toward my story.
Maybe it’s the fact that it’s obvious that bad parenting advice comes from not understanding that parenting is so individual for the parent and the child—whereas bad writing advice seems to come from someone who thinks that they’re “fixing” your writing to some universal standard of “right,” whether it has anything to do with what you’re actually writing or not. (Or maybe it’s the difference of bad parenting advice vs. an unfounded criticism of your child.)
I usually grit my teeth so hard I’m sure I hear a crack in my jaw. My body temperature can go up 3-5 degrees. The strangest thing, though, is suddenly my family scatters in all directions to various hiding places in the house.
Thanks for this, Jordan. It’s important to remember this stuff, otherwise the day is ruined.
I get one a benefit from bad advice – a cleaner house. The day I start vaccuming under the carpets, you know I got a particularly idiotic critique. Besides, the sound of the sweeper hides the worst of what I’m saying.