Surviving Feedback

Learn to trust your gut.

The first feedback I ever received from a writers group was a single sentence: I hope you know what a cliché is, because your piece is loaded with them.

My first novel! My maiden voyage into a group of people who didn’t love me.

I reread the chapter and saw that the nasty woman (may she perish, unpublished, in purgatory) was right. My heart sank one last time. I was mortified, and retreated into my cave for another year or so.

A new year, a second book. I dealt with the cliché problem and joined a new group. They were nicer. They had rules of engagement: Say something positive first. And they did. There’s a spark of something interesting here, even though the piece as a whole sucks. (Okay, they didn’t use those words, exactly.)

“Can you be a bit more specific about what doesn’t work?” I asked.

Well, for starters, the protagonist is too nice. Make her more edgy. So I added some sarcasm and a curse or two.

The setting is too bland—meeting in a restaurant is so bor-ing. So I put them on a mountain slope, hiking through rough terrain.

Your dialogue is too formal—people don’t speak like that anymore. So I added a few Hey Dudes.

The end result was miles away from my original concept and made no sense. I had started with a quiet novel about two ordinary nondescript people finding each other in extraordinary circumstances. They ended up as two antagonistic cartoon characters scrambling up a mountain in Peru.

By the time the third book rolled around, I was well and truly burned, and ignored all serious criticism of my writing, especially the Suggestions for improvement. I was willing to replace the odd phrase or two, but petrified in the face of major changes. The suggestions threatened my self-esteem.

Change the ordering of the chapters. Eek! How would I keep track without making my head explode? Were these people right? Did I have the writing chops?

Having two pets is excessive. Get rid of the cat.  Kill me now.

Sometimes I felt wounded by other writers attacking my words—my babies—and I held them close to my chest. One day, a member of my group went off the rails. This piece makes me so angry! You have no right to have a transgender murderer! Or a Black sidekick! Or a male protagonist! I became a delicate petal, fearful of my writing pals. My identity as a writer was bloodied, since critical feedback sent me into existential crisis. Book 3 joined the first two on the shelf.

It was sometime during Book 4 that I started growing some buffalo hide and listening to voices of reason. I became more adventurous with my changes. When someone said Fix this, instead of throwing up, I gave it another look. Sometimes I rewrote, but more often than not, I left the piece as it was.  If more than one person commented on a given spot, I paid attention. Often I made changes that were different from what had been suggested. If a criticism resonated with me, I went with it.

I learned to trust my gut.

Eventually, as a writer, you have to gin up the courage to judge your own work. It’s hard, in the face of detractors, to stand your ground. You must figure out which parts of your piece are good, and don’t change those segments just because someone says so. Always pay attention, however, to those whose feedback you trust. Eventually, you learn who “gets” your writing and who totally doesn’t. Be polite and grateful to everyone. But ultimately, you’re the mother of those words, and touching them is your call.

If someone gives you just one sentence, You’re the next coming of Tana French, discard it. You need tough love, not lazy adulation. (Joke. Frame it.)

Learn to ignore those hyper-energetic writers who hijack your book: This would be so good if you added a supernatural element. Listen only to those who are critiquing your actual novel, which happens to be based in this world not the next.

When someone says There’s a plot hole you can drive a truck through, grit your teeth and plaster over the hole.

When they tell you Rethink your protagonist because readers will hate her, it’s no use tearing your hair out and yelling “But she’s not meant to be likeable!” Smile and say thank you. Pay attention when they say She’s not relatable, even though you know that the worst word in the English language is relatable.

When some low-IQ new member says This part isn’t believable, don’t tell them you read it in the New York Times. Just add a sentence or three to that scene, to clarify.

When more than one beta reader says Sorry, I couldn’t finish your novel because my life suddenly became impossible, don’t tell them to get a life. Rewrite the second half.

Understand that there’s a special place in heaven for people who read your unpublished work. When those saints give you their pages (and pages) of feedback, bow down in the glow of their generosity. Don’t enumerate for them the many ways in which they haven’t comprehended your concept. Avoid grinding your teeth in their presence.

Don’t plunge into the abyss of writer depression.

Don’t throw yourself off a building.

Do give it a few days to settle, and take what they say with a bucket of salt.

Then pull up your tattered sleeves and start the next rewrite.