Getting feedback. Giving feedback.
by Grant Faulkner
Most people agree that you get better in any endeavor with good feedback, and that might apply especially to writing. A story is layered with so many elements, so many nuances and complexities, that it’s often difficult for a writer to truly know how everything is working—if a scene is off-key, if a character needs to be more defined, if the pacing flows or plods—without a perceptive and generous reader’s critique.
Somebody once told me feedback was the breakfast of champions, and it’s true: at its best, feedback can be energizing and nourishing, and deepen your creative experience. But feedback can also be damning. It can be laden with snarky comments that sting your spirit and paralyze your creative urges.
Every writer’s relationship to feedback is complicated. When I first decided to become a writer, I eagerly gave a draft of a story to a good friend and awaited his feedback, which I assumed would be along the lines of “genius!”
I didn’t hear from him for a while, so I called him, and when he didn’t mention the story at all, I asked him if he’d read it.
“Yes,” he said, leaving it at that.
“And what did you think?” I asked, to force the issue.
“I’m your friend,” he said, “but I didn’t ask to be your critic.”
I was taken aback at first, but as I thought about it, he was right. He didn’t ask to read my work. I’d essentially foisted it on him. Just because he was a smart person and we often talked about the novels we’d read, I shouldn’t have assumed that he’d eagerly read my work and offer to be a critic, sup- porter, and celebrant.
When to ask for feedback and how to ask for it
Still, I wanted feedback, and I didn’t know who to ask (which has been a persistent question for me since then). What I didn’t realize at the time was that I also didn’t know what to ask for—and how to receive feedback when I got it.
In this age of burgeoning MFA programs, writing communities, and online workshops, there’s an attitude that feedback goes along with writing, almost in tandem with pen and paper, but I’ve grown to realize that every writer is different and needs different types of feedback at different stages—and sometimes no feedback at all.
I’ve personally walked the gamut of feedback. I’ve received rounds of critiques from a room full of writers in a workshop; I’ve been part of writers’ groups where I had to show something to my group once a month; and I’ve worked my way through the slashing (but usually helpful) marks of an editor’s pen. It took me a long time to truly figure out what type of feedback I needed—and when.
I realized that I’m the type of person who tries to figure out the story as I write it, and if other voices intrude, it affects my vision for the story. So I don’t receive any feedback early in the process, sometimes not for several drafts, and sometimes not at all (a good writer becomes a good editor of his or her own work over time).
On the other hand, some people love showing their writing early in the process. I know one writer who likes to talk through her ideas even before she puts words on the page, and another writer friend shows his partner his writing literally as the printer prints it. They’re galvanized by others’ input, and the idea of showing their work motivates them to write.
Providing guidance for feedback
Sometimes you need a huzzah of approbation, but unless my story is a finished, published story, I want to know what’s working and what’s not working. I want a rigorous analysis, even if it might make me a little uncomfortable. I find that it can be helpful to provide a framework of questions for readers to help get the type of feedback I want. I generally just ask a few big questions:
» What things are working well and what things are not? Why is that?
» What would you cut? What would you add?
» If this was your piece, how would you revise it?
I learned another framework when I worked for the National Writing Project—the Bless, Address, Press method:
Bless: If you want your piece blessed, you’re not ready to hear criticism yet (however constructive it might be). You want only to hear about what’s working so far.
Address: If you have chosen the address option, what one problem or concern do you want your readers/audience to address? Be as specific as possible.
Press: You’re ready to hear constructive criticism and give the readers/audience the freedom to respond in any fashion. This, of course, can include “Bless” and “Address.”
Receiving feedback
The traditional writing workshop model is formed around the practice of an entire class of students giving their critiques while the writer listens in a prison of silence, and then at the end of all of the critiques the writer can ask questions or respond. This framework was developed to limit a writer’s defensiveness and to negate the influence that a writer’s explanation off the page might have.
That’s fine, but I like feedback sessions to be more of a conversation, a back-and-forth of questions. Sitting and listening with your lips zipped shut by the strictures of writerly law always felt horribly uncomfortable and stilted to me.
It definitely can be challenging to receive feedback, though, and perhaps even more challenging to interpret it. Sometimes the feedback is more about the person giving it—his or her pet peeves and obsessions—than it is about you and your story. Or sometimes it’s just downright snide. It’s easy to get defensive, but always try to view criticism as about the writing, not you the writer. Assume best intentions.
People might express their critique in a hurtful way, but they’re usually trying to help. Sometimes awkwardly, sometimes inappropriately, but they’re trying. Don’t look for the judgment part of feedback; look for the kernel of help. If you’ve given it to several people, then you can get a better handle on this: if five people say the ending doesn’t work, then you should probably reflect on the ending and decide if it needs to be changed.
Unfortunately, getting negative, misguided, spiteful, or wrong-headed criticism is practically a rite of passage. Remember that every great writer throughout history has received such criticism.
Negative criticism can make you stronger, though. Just as a fire that burns down a forest isn’t bad—the fire clears the brush for new vegetation growth—negative criticism can do the same for you. It can clear the brambles that smother an unseen sprout.
When you give your work to another, you’re making yourself vulnerable, so it’s easy to be wounded. But then the need to write returns—that passionate, deep need that can’t be denied—the need to give your story to a reader and connect in that beautiful, mysterious way.
You have to write, negative criticism or not, because that is who you are. You may not choose the feedback you get, but you do get to choose what to do with it.