Thank you, George. While this wasn’t the question I sent to you, it’s close, so this was very helpful. (My question concerned ways of critiquing others’ stories, but not as part of a workshop.) I do appreciate the idea of not making any immediate comments, and about marking places where more specificity would help. What this method doesn’t take into account, however, is reading a story that just does not work. (Dealing with specificity is more a question of style--word choice, sentence structure, rhythm, tone, being too wordy, etc,, while dealing with a story that doesn't "work" is a question of story in its purest sense.) I think, George (and I could of course be very wrong), that perhaps you are used to critiquing stories by only the best new writers, those who have shown their writing chops, those who have studied writing. I don’t know the last time you critiqued a story by a new writer. Commenting on the work of a new writer--someone who may not be used to getting critiques--can really be a minefield. (My question was about making comments for these types of writers.) It’s hard, sometimes, to know where to start. I understand “meeting a writer where they are,” but that can be hard, too. I have to remind myself that someone who wrote a story isn’t expecting it to run in the New Yorker. But I also have to respect their wish to write a story—something that works as a story. I find this very, very hard, and actually no longer teach fiction classes/workshops because I felt I sucked at this part of teaching. Which is a crucial part of teaching!
Let’s say someone (a new-ish writer) asks you to read a story and tell them what you think. Usually, that person wants you to say, wow, you can really write. Also, they want to hear that their story worked for you, that it moved you, that it’s ready to be sent out. When you can’t say any of these things, it’s painful. I don’t want to patronize others. I don’t want to pretend that they are onto something. I want to be kind and give them something to work with, something helpful. But, oh, man. Again—I may just not be cut out for this sort of thing.
I had a teacher once who suggested that we tell each other first what ‘worked for us,’ and then ‘what wasn’t working so well.’ At times I couldn’t find one thing that ‘worked’ for me. At times, I actually heard myself saying well you got it all down on paper and that’s a lot more than most people. New writers are so tender. I’ve had people cry in my workshops. I’ve been, basically, yelled at. (I have also been praised, I will admit to that—I’m not always terrible.)
All of it makes me lose sleep.
My son is a writer. He send me his stories. I use “insert comments” and just tell him exactly what I think needs to go, stay, change. I ask questions. I’m completely honest. He appreciates all of it. But he knows me, trusts me, and knows that I believe in him. Also, he can write. I love doing this for him. He’s one of the few people I can do this for successfully. My younger brother (also a writer) often sends me work in process. He only wants to know one thing: when did the story “drop” for me? Where did I feel myself pull way, get bored, feel like skimming? He very clearly does not want other comments. So I can do this successfully for him as well and enjoy it.
I’d love to know your advice as to what, exactly, to look for and comment on with a new writer and a story that is not very advanced. I hope this doesn’t sound terrible of me—it’s not like I’m an excellent writer who doesn’t need comments myself. But the beginning writer—this gives me trouble. I want to be kind and sometimes it is hard.
As far as writers groups and workshops—I do not like them at all. If people ask me (they really don’t very often), I tell them to look for two things: comments from the instructor. And comments that are repeated—such as if four people all say the ending didn’t work. That’s a pattern to pay attention to. Also, don’t bring in a new story or a work in progress. That’s a sure way to destroy your story. Really, don’t show anyone a work in progress ever.
The meta-specificity of this post is so helpful I'll want to share it in workshops going forward before diving in again. In the past, I've experienced workshops akin to some of the psych or spiritual groups in which I've participated: a real (hazardarous/helpful) opportunity for me to view myself and my writing voice from a distance, as well as to view the experience of story––feeling it, thinking it, writing it, reading it, hearing it reflected through others' experiences––as an opportunity to dig deeper into myself and also into bigger questions and issues. It's easy, then, to dig so deep soometimes that I lose the story which drove and delighted me in the first place.
This post causes me, though, to want to join up with others again in an authentic, intentional group with current work. Specifically, though, I'm carrying out these two lines in my brain folds now: "So: the more specific the critique, the less empty, hurtful judgment there will be in it", and "The main thing, in my view, is to continually be introducing the limitations of the format as part of the class itself."
The thing that often breaks my heart is to hear how dependent others are on any analysis from others, and I just want to rush to them/you/my younger self and say, "Be fierce! Your story needs your courage." We can always change our minds about a thing, but now I try to be tougher to move than that origin of my story is, the tender thing.
I don't get it about the workshops. Kafka said this about writing, “You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.” In other words, you need a good intercourse with the muse, how can it happen in front of ten people and a father-instructor??
I love this post as it shows what real beauty can come out of a workshop - and it really emphasizes that a workshop should be about the writing and discovering what the writing can do/is doing. This post also sees the nuances of the workshop environment just as one would try to see the nuances of a story.
One of the most useful phrases a colleague used in our workshop was "Here's what I think the story is trying to do...", as well as "Here's what I think the character is trying to do..." This wording gave the writer a sense that the commentary was absolutely about the writing, not the writer. This wording also gave perspective: the reader is providing an impression, not a fact. The writer can then decide if what the reader saw was what they were trying to achieve.
That all said, thank you for such an inspiring post, yet again, George. It is so very generous to everyone under the sometimes "hot lights" of the workshop setting.
Really enjoyed this post. Read it in my lunch break today, in a coffee shop in London's Square Mile. Stepped out into the sun feeling thoughtful and empathic, as George's posts often make me feel, and immediately saw a woman sitting on a low wall, eating lunch on her own. Nothing remarkable at all, but the slightly lonely image of it has (I think) removed a blockage that was stopping me progressing with my current story.
Openness to the world, learning how to work with one's thoughts. Huh.
This was both a great question and a great answer. Every workshop should start with this advice. It applies to editing too.
I always try to be a teaching editor: these are my suggested changes and why. But I always say - especially with creative work (but also academic) - that it’s *their* work and in the end, they need to go with their gut. I won’t be offended if they ignore my suggested edits or comments.
One thing I love about this story club is that many of George’s answers, teaching and commentary feel like they could just be applied to life in general. I felt this a lot in today’s office hours. That and the kind, insightful group of participants. Turns out virtual discourse among strangers doesn’t have to be toxic. Who knew?!
I've been a professional writer (news, white papers, speeches, marketing) for many years. I view myself as hardened against criticism. And I am. I've participated in 8 class/workshops in the past 3 years and I find that I'm more sensitive about my fiction writing than other projects. In workshops, I'm grateful for useful suggestions and dismissive of the others with nary a qualm.
One experience, however, caused me to withdraw from the group. An informal leader didn't like the novel I'm writing, almost from the beginning. The third time I submitted part of it, she raved about her dislike. After that, a few others piled on, echoing her response in the same harsh terms. Except one: He gave me a valuable tip about how putting the end of the scene in the beginning would solve the problems he saw. He was exactly right! I still email him because he has such a sharp eye for structure.
But I left that group because, for me, it's all about the writing. I do not hang with people who attack me like that. It's demeaning and disrespectful, and it forced me to recover personally and emotionally, rather than allowing me to focus on the writing. So that's the line I draw: When a workshop helps my writing, green light; when it inhibits or harms my writing, red, red, red.
I spent the past hour watching five ravens busy in the yard. The four juveniles pick up random bits of leaf and seeds and seem to show them to the workshop leader/ uh, sorry, the parent raven for approval. He nods, or not, and hops away and they all hop after him. One raven in particular wants his attention always. Periodically, parent raven pounces on him/her and she rolls on her side and submits to a pecking. Parent hops away, juvenile gets up and gathers her papers/I mean leaf, and follows. Yes, they are learning, but, oh my, at what cost?
Back in 1972 :-), my first writing assignment for a Structure and Style workshop class was
to write a page of dialog based on reading stories from "In Our Time" by Ernest Hemmingway
and "Red Calvary" by Isaac Babel.
On the back of the typed page I was handing in, I quickly added a hand-written note saying
that my writing seemed stale and unoriginal, like something out of a dime-store novel.
When I got my paper back, the instructor had written: ‘Pay attention to the voice you used in your note. It sounds genuine.’ Her insight stayed with me and I still remember how I felt
when I wrote my note – wanting to give expression to something that I didn’t fully understand.
This is off-topic, but I was hoping that since it is "Office Hours" day that people might be willing to share their thoughts. This morning I got a rejection letter. I believe the story came into existence about a year ago, maybe over a year ago. I revised it, sent it to an online critique group, despaired over the critiques and let it sit for months, then pulled it back out and worked on it some more. It was at the magazine for two days (not even, really. I think I emailed it to them Tuesday night). So getting rejected so quickly was quite disappointing.
The rejection was not all bad. The editor said she enjoyed my imagery and worldbuilding and "graceful use of point of view and voice" (no editor has ever said anything complementary about my voice before), but wanted a stronger character arc. So I suppose I do need to look at the positives. Here's my question for George and everyone else though: what's your next action step after rejection? My gut says revise before sending it out to a new magazine, but my gut also says the rejection hurts more because this is all I've got that was even close to ready to go out the door. I also have belonged to writers communities where the attitude is that all editors have different tastes so there's no need to fix a story before sending it out again. On the one hand, that feels like a cop out, but on the other hand it feels exhausting to have poured so much love into this one piece. I suppose I need to really work on something else before coming back to this one, but I would really love to hear what George and everyone else does when faced with rejection.
What workshop is best for, in my opinion, is tricking you into learning how to better read and edit your own writing, by first doing it for your peers who, at the end of the day, act as reflections of your own writing.
I've been in one weekend workshop and I came out of it completely flattened, as by a steamroller equipped with spikes. I'm sure nobody intended that outcome for me.
It was the first airing of my first novel beyond my cosy critique group. It was... July 2017. The critiques were given by young and polished publishers' editors and agents and they were dismissive. Also maybe hungry.
Or maybe more honestly - I *felt* dismissed. I also I felt ageism in the room. Also my draft was not good.
It took me a long time to unsplat. Being hit upside the head (as I think Americans say) can be a wakeup call or it can send you spinning -- or both. Fortunately for me, it was both.
I like everything George says about specificity and useful feedback - he says it so goshdarn well. I can say in all modesty that I've given useful feedback to other writers for many years now, in that mode, and been acknowledged for same. It might be suggested that editing / critiquing is more my metiér than creative writing. But I'm not ready to go there, at least not yet--though I do find it a fruitful and enjoyable practice. Because if I don't finish this damn novel, I'll never see the end of it!
Back in my book editor days, we had a fairly uniform way of writing editorial letters to our authors after they submitted the first draft of their books. First, we read, almost as if we had picked up the book at a store and were just going to devour the pages (sometimes this was easier than other times). Then we wait, as George mentioned, and stew and finally reread. Only afterward came the letter.
Without fail, we would always begin our editorial opus, which usually ran from 7-10 pages in total, on what we liked about the book. Specifically. Not, "that was a great read, I tore through the pages," but rather, "I loved how you introduced Sally on page ten with her just coming into the room like a tornado and blathering away." This "good news" was usually a fairly long paragraph or two. We're a soft bunch, us writers, and it's important for editors (or workshop members) to convey what worked in order to ease the blows of what is to follow....
The criticism--or, more generously, how to make this book great. We almost always started with a whole section focused strictly on the narrative. What kept it moving, where did it get hitched up, were there holes in the plot, etc. Then we moved onto the main characters: who was believable, who not, who was fully crafted, who basically a cardboard stand, and how/if the dynamics with the other principals felt real. Next came the writing itself: too much imagery, not enough, cadence of the sentences was too clipped or not varied enough, overwhelming description or dearth of it. And finally, we bore down on the page-by-page comments: (p. 18 - "we don't have a sense of place here"; p. 87, "this dialogue feels stilted.")...until we reached the end of the manuscript.
Now, not every workshop read can offer such detail, but proximity can be reached. When criticism was given with such specificity and thoughtfulness, a writer will typically appreciate it, and the work will be better for it. The intention was never for them to agree with every one of our points, but rather to urge them to consider giving certain parts of their work reconsideration--to make sure they intended what came off on the page.
That's my two cents as a new member here at The Story Club!
Reading a story I've written aloud will always be a terrifying experience for me, so even the beginning of this question scared me haha I love George's process for reviewing a piece. That initial reaction may prove to be true, but sitting with it for a week and allowing your thoughts to process before giving feedback would absolutely help me to critique things and give solid, thoughtful advice to other writers. This made me want to sign up for another writing workshop immediately.
Poorly led writing workshops can be difficult for someone whose precious story was essentially dismissed or railed on by a snotty fellow student.
I’ve attended over a dozen WWs while in a MFA program and at summer conferences. At one of these summer workshops the teacher, Bob Shacochis, left the room as I was in mid air, explaining why this woman’s story needed to lose the first page and a half which listed the names of all the dogs of all the people in a small apartment complex. The story only had three pages for chrisakes. He came back with a shot of vodka for me. He said it’s good to relax.
Indeed.
Since then, I’m happy to say I’ve become quite good at leading workshops which pretty much follow George’s and Bob’s approach. The comments must be aimed at being helpful. I’ll take a pedantic bore aside at a break to give her a verbal shot of vodka. Relax, this is not a Mensa meeting, it’s a conversation, a helpful conversation among fellow writers…etc. etc.
On another note…
I’m convinced many classic short stories would not be highly appreciated in a WW. For example - from A Swim in the Pond in the Rain - Turgenev’s The Singers, would be criticized for taking so long describing the people at the pub. Pages and pages of what these men wore and not one of them seemed to matter to the story. As I read your after thoughts I went into recalcitrant snit mode. How can George tout this story as a masterpiece? What the hell?
I need a workshop. And since the topic this week is workshops, would anyone like to dip into the conversation about The Singers ?
George - if this story is one you will ask us to read, then just say so and we won’t go into it.
I'm fairly new to the craft of creative writing, and joined a workshop at A Public Space (apublicspace.org) in Brooklyn, right before lockdown. It went to zoom after about three in person sessions. I have to say how grateful I was to have had that group of writers (each of us submitting early drafts of a novel for critique) to hang out with virtually on those Wednesday nights when you could hear the ambulance sirens wailing all day and night, and were still afraid to go out, even to walk the dog. Since then I've joined a few other writing groups and read a bit more on the art of the writing and workshop (Ursula K. Le Guin's Steering the Craft was memorable) and my takeaway has been: "The reader is always right (even when they're wrong)" Which is to say, that I'm looking for honest responses to my work - and those responses can guide me in any number of ways (They hated a character (YAY!) or They hated a character (Oh NO!!).
One thing that drives me totally berserk is when a critique begins with a preamble stating all the wonderful things they say they saw in my writing. It usually sounds like, "You have such a marvelous facility with language and your writing is so compelling, blah blah blah...." Maybe I'm just lucky that the groups I've been in favor complements over criticisms, but this sort of thing absolutely makes my skin crawl (can you see the smile frozen on my face as I listen patiently and try to look appreciative). I'd just rather get down to business, please give me something useful I can write down for later.
I re-read it often, because I find my tendency as a critic is to try to re-write another persons work, which while being amusing for me, is not at all helpful to the person being critiqued. Elizabeth's idea of radical empathy is actually very commonsensical. Give feedback to help someone write the book *they* want to write, not the one you think *you* would write if it were your book.
I'm still reading all the responses here. So much to take in!
Thank you, George. While this wasn’t the question I sent to you, it’s close, so this was very helpful. (My question concerned ways of critiquing others’ stories, but not as part of a workshop.) I do appreciate the idea of not making any immediate comments, and about marking places where more specificity would help. What this method doesn’t take into account, however, is reading a story that just does not work. (Dealing with specificity is more a question of style--word choice, sentence structure, rhythm, tone, being too wordy, etc,, while dealing with a story that doesn't "work" is a question of story in its purest sense.) I think, George (and I could of course be very wrong), that perhaps you are used to critiquing stories by only the best new writers, those who have shown their writing chops, those who have studied writing. I don’t know the last time you critiqued a story by a new writer. Commenting on the work of a new writer--someone who may not be used to getting critiques--can really be a minefield. (My question was about making comments for these types of writers.) It’s hard, sometimes, to know where to start. I understand “meeting a writer where they are,” but that can be hard, too. I have to remind myself that someone who wrote a story isn’t expecting it to run in the New Yorker. But I also have to respect their wish to write a story—something that works as a story. I find this very, very hard, and actually no longer teach fiction classes/workshops because I felt I sucked at this part of teaching. Which is a crucial part of teaching!
Let’s say someone (a new-ish writer) asks you to read a story and tell them what you think. Usually, that person wants you to say, wow, you can really write. Also, they want to hear that their story worked for you, that it moved you, that it’s ready to be sent out. When you can’t say any of these things, it’s painful. I don’t want to patronize others. I don’t want to pretend that they are onto something. I want to be kind and give them something to work with, something helpful. But, oh, man. Again—I may just not be cut out for this sort of thing.
I had a teacher once who suggested that we tell each other first what ‘worked for us,’ and then ‘what wasn’t working so well.’ At times I couldn’t find one thing that ‘worked’ for me. At times, I actually heard myself saying well you got it all down on paper and that’s a lot more than most people. New writers are so tender. I’ve had people cry in my workshops. I’ve been, basically, yelled at. (I have also been praised, I will admit to that—I’m not always terrible.)
All of it makes me lose sleep.
My son is a writer. He send me his stories. I use “insert comments” and just tell him exactly what I think needs to go, stay, change. I ask questions. I’m completely honest. He appreciates all of it. But he knows me, trusts me, and knows that I believe in him. Also, he can write. I love doing this for him. He’s one of the few people I can do this for successfully. My younger brother (also a writer) often sends me work in process. He only wants to know one thing: when did the story “drop” for me? Where did I feel myself pull way, get bored, feel like skimming? He very clearly does not want other comments. So I can do this successfully for him as well and enjoy it.
I’d love to know your advice as to what, exactly, to look for and comment on with a new writer and a story that is not very advanced. I hope this doesn’t sound terrible of me—it’s not like I’m an excellent writer who doesn’t need comments myself. But the beginning writer—this gives me trouble. I want to be kind and sometimes it is hard.
As far as writers groups and workshops—I do not like them at all. If people ask me (they really don’t very often), I tell them to look for two things: comments from the instructor. And comments that are repeated—such as if four people all say the ending didn’t work. That’s a pattern to pay attention to. Also, don’t bring in a new story or a work in progress. That’s a sure way to destroy your story. Really, don’t show anyone a work in progress ever.
Sorry so long. Thanks for reading.
The meta-specificity of this post is so helpful I'll want to share it in workshops going forward before diving in again. In the past, I've experienced workshops akin to some of the psych or spiritual groups in which I've participated: a real (hazardarous/helpful) opportunity for me to view myself and my writing voice from a distance, as well as to view the experience of story––feeling it, thinking it, writing it, reading it, hearing it reflected through others' experiences––as an opportunity to dig deeper into myself and also into bigger questions and issues. It's easy, then, to dig so deep soometimes that I lose the story which drove and delighted me in the first place.
This post causes me, though, to want to join up with others again in an authentic, intentional group with current work. Specifically, though, I'm carrying out these two lines in my brain folds now: "So: the more specific the critique, the less empty, hurtful judgment there will be in it", and "The main thing, in my view, is to continually be introducing the limitations of the format as part of the class itself."
The thing that often breaks my heart is to hear how dependent others are on any analysis from others, and I just want to rush to them/you/my younger self and say, "Be fierce! Your story needs your courage." We can always change our minds about a thing, but now I try to be tougher to move than that origin of my story is, the tender thing.
I don't get it about the workshops. Kafka said this about writing, “You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.” In other words, you need a good intercourse with the muse, how can it happen in front of ten people and a father-instructor??
I love this post as it shows what real beauty can come out of a workshop - and it really emphasizes that a workshop should be about the writing and discovering what the writing can do/is doing. This post also sees the nuances of the workshop environment just as one would try to see the nuances of a story.
One of the most useful phrases a colleague used in our workshop was "Here's what I think the story is trying to do...", as well as "Here's what I think the character is trying to do..." This wording gave the writer a sense that the commentary was absolutely about the writing, not the writer. This wording also gave perspective: the reader is providing an impression, not a fact. The writer can then decide if what the reader saw was what they were trying to achieve.
That all said, thank you for such an inspiring post, yet again, George. It is so very generous to everyone under the sometimes "hot lights" of the workshop setting.
Really enjoyed this post. Read it in my lunch break today, in a coffee shop in London's Square Mile. Stepped out into the sun feeling thoughtful and empathic, as George's posts often make me feel, and immediately saw a woman sitting on a low wall, eating lunch on her own. Nothing remarkable at all, but the slightly lonely image of it has (I think) removed a blockage that was stopping me progressing with my current story.
Openness to the world, learning how to work with one's thoughts. Huh.
This was both a great question and a great answer. Every workshop should start with this advice. It applies to editing too.
I always try to be a teaching editor: these are my suggested changes and why. But I always say - especially with creative work (but also academic) - that it’s *their* work and in the end, they need to go with their gut. I won’t be offended if they ignore my suggested edits or comments.
One thing I love about this story club is that many of George’s answers, teaching and commentary feel like they could just be applied to life in general. I felt this a lot in today’s office hours. That and the kind, insightful group of participants. Turns out virtual discourse among strangers doesn’t have to be toxic. Who knew?!
I've been a professional writer (news, white papers, speeches, marketing) for many years. I view myself as hardened against criticism. And I am. I've participated in 8 class/workshops in the past 3 years and I find that I'm more sensitive about my fiction writing than other projects. In workshops, I'm grateful for useful suggestions and dismissive of the others with nary a qualm.
One experience, however, caused me to withdraw from the group. An informal leader didn't like the novel I'm writing, almost from the beginning. The third time I submitted part of it, she raved about her dislike. After that, a few others piled on, echoing her response in the same harsh terms. Except one: He gave me a valuable tip about how putting the end of the scene in the beginning would solve the problems he saw. He was exactly right! I still email him because he has such a sharp eye for structure.
But I left that group because, for me, it's all about the writing. I do not hang with people who attack me like that. It's demeaning and disrespectful, and it forced me to recover personally and emotionally, rather than allowing me to focus on the writing. So that's the line I draw: When a workshop helps my writing, green light; when it inhibits or harms my writing, red, red, red.
I spent the past hour watching five ravens busy in the yard. The four juveniles pick up random bits of leaf and seeds and seem to show them to the workshop leader/ uh, sorry, the parent raven for approval. He nods, or not, and hops away and they all hop after him. One raven in particular wants his attention always. Periodically, parent raven pounces on him/her and she rolls on her side and submits to a pecking. Parent hops away, juvenile gets up and gathers her papers/I mean leaf, and follows. Yes, they are learning, but, oh my, at what cost?
Back in 1972 :-), my first writing assignment for a Structure and Style workshop class was
to write a page of dialog based on reading stories from "In Our Time" by Ernest Hemmingway
and "Red Calvary" by Isaac Babel.
On the back of the typed page I was handing in, I quickly added a hand-written note saying
that my writing seemed stale and unoriginal, like something out of a dime-store novel.
When I got my paper back, the instructor had written: ‘Pay attention to the voice you used in your note. It sounds genuine.’ Her insight stayed with me and I still remember how I felt
when I wrote my note – wanting to give expression to something that I didn’t fully understand.
This is off-topic, but I was hoping that since it is "Office Hours" day that people might be willing to share their thoughts. This morning I got a rejection letter. I believe the story came into existence about a year ago, maybe over a year ago. I revised it, sent it to an online critique group, despaired over the critiques and let it sit for months, then pulled it back out and worked on it some more. It was at the magazine for two days (not even, really. I think I emailed it to them Tuesday night). So getting rejected so quickly was quite disappointing.
The rejection was not all bad. The editor said she enjoyed my imagery and worldbuilding and "graceful use of point of view and voice" (no editor has ever said anything complementary about my voice before), but wanted a stronger character arc. So I suppose I do need to look at the positives. Here's my question for George and everyone else though: what's your next action step after rejection? My gut says revise before sending it out to a new magazine, but my gut also says the rejection hurts more because this is all I've got that was even close to ready to go out the door. I also have belonged to writers communities where the attitude is that all editors have different tastes so there's no need to fix a story before sending it out again. On the one hand, that feels like a cop out, but on the other hand it feels exhausting to have poured so much love into this one piece. I suppose I need to really work on something else before coming back to this one, but I would really love to hear what George and everyone else does when faced with rejection.
What workshop is best for, in my opinion, is tricking you into learning how to better read and edit your own writing, by first doing it for your peers who, at the end of the day, act as reflections of your own writing.
I've been in one weekend workshop and I came out of it completely flattened, as by a steamroller equipped with spikes. I'm sure nobody intended that outcome for me.
It was the first airing of my first novel beyond my cosy critique group. It was... July 2017. The critiques were given by young and polished publishers' editors and agents and they were dismissive. Also maybe hungry.
Or maybe more honestly - I *felt* dismissed. I also I felt ageism in the room. Also my draft was not good.
It took me a long time to unsplat. Being hit upside the head (as I think Americans say) can be a wakeup call or it can send you spinning -- or both. Fortunately for me, it was both.
I like everything George says about specificity and useful feedback - he says it so goshdarn well. I can say in all modesty that I've given useful feedback to other writers for many years now, in that mode, and been acknowledged for same. It might be suggested that editing / critiquing is more my metiér than creative writing. But I'm not ready to go there, at least not yet--though I do find it a fruitful and enjoyable practice. Because if I don't finish this damn novel, I'll never see the end of it!
Back in my book editor days, we had a fairly uniform way of writing editorial letters to our authors after they submitted the first draft of their books. First, we read, almost as if we had picked up the book at a store and were just going to devour the pages (sometimes this was easier than other times). Then we wait, as George mentioned, and stew and finally reread. Only afterward came the letter.
Without fail, we would always begin our editorial opus, which usually ran from 7-10 pages in total, on what we liked about the book. Specifically. Not, "that was a great read, I tore through the pages," but rather, "I loved how you introduced Sally on page ten with her just coming into the room like a tornado and blathering away." This "good news" was usually a fairly long paragraph or two. We're a soft bunch, us writers, and it's important for editors (or workshop members) to convey what worked in order to ease the blows of what is to follow....
The criticism--or, more generously, how to make this book great. We almost always started with a whole section focused strictly on the narrative. What kept it moving, where did it get hitched up, were there holes in the plot, etc. Then we moved onto the main characters: who was believable, who not, who was fully crafted, who basically a cardboard stand, and how/if the dynamics with the other principals felt real. Next came the writing itself: too much imagery, not enough, cadence of the sentences was too clipped or not varied enough, overwhelming description or dearth of it. And finally, we bore down on the page-by-page comments: (p. 18 - "we don't have a sense of place here"; p. 87, "this dialogue feels stilted.")...until we reached the end of the manuscript.
Now, not every workshop read can offer such detail, but proximity can be reached. When criticism was given with such specificity and thoughtfulness, a writer will typically appreciate it, and the work will be better for it. The intention was never for them to agree with every one of our points, but rather to urge them to consider giving certain parts of their work reconsideration--to make sure they intended what came off on the page.
That's my two cents as a new member here at The Story Club!
Neal
Reading a story I've written aloud will always be a terrifying experience for me, so even the beginning of this question scared me haha I love George's process for reviewing a piece. That initial reaction may prove to be true, but sitting with it for a week and allowing your thoughts to process before giving feedback would absolutely help me to critique things and give solid, thoughtful advice to other writers. This made me want to sign up for another writing workshop immediately.
Poorly led writing workshops can be difficult for someone whose precious story was essentially dismissed or railed on by a snotty fellow student.
I’ve attended over a dozen WWs while in a MFA program and at summer conferences. At one of these summer workshops the teacher, Bob Shacochis, left the room as I was in mid air, explaining why this woman’s story needed to lose the first page and a half which listed the names of all the dogs of all the people in a small apartment complex. The story only had three pages for chrisakes. He came back with a shot of vodka for me. He said it’s good to relax.
Indeed.
Since then, I’m happy to say I’ve become quite good at leading workshops which pretty much follow George’s and Bob’s approach. The comments must be aimed at being helpful. I’ll take a pedantic bore aside at a break to give her a verbal shot of vodka. Relax, this is not a Mensa meeting, it’s a conversation, a helpful conversation among fellow writers…etc. etc.
On another note…
I’m convinced many classic short stories would not be highly appreciated in a WW. For example - from A Swim in the Pond in the Rain - Turgenev’s The Singers, would be criticized for taking so long describing the people at the pub. Pages and pages of what these men wore and not one of them seemed to matter to the story. As I read your after thoughts I went into recalcitrant snit mode. How can George tout this story as a masterpiece? What the hell?
I need a workshop. And since the topic this week is workshops, would anyone like to dip into the conversation about The Singers ?
George - if this story is one you will ask us to read, then just say so and we won’t go into it.
I'm fairly new to the craft of creative writing, and joined a workshop at A Public Space (apublicspace.org) in Brooklyn, right before lockdown. It went to zoom after about three in person sessions. I have to say how grateful I was to have had that group of writers (each of us submitting early drafts of a novel for critique) to hang out with virtually on those Wednesday nights when you could hear the ambulance sirens wailing all day and night, and were still afraid to go out, even to walk the dog. Since then I've joined a few other writing groups and read a bit more on the art of the writing and workshop (Ursula K. Le Guin's Steering the Craft was memorable) and my takeaway has been: "The reader is always right (even when they're wrong)" Which is to say, that I'm looking for honest responses to my work - and those responses can guide me in any number of ways (They hated a character (YAY!) or They hated a character (Oh NO!!).
One thing that drives me totally berserk is when a critique begins with a preamble stating all the wonderful things they say they saw in my writing. It usually sounds like, "You have such a marvelous facility with language and your writing is so compelling, blah blah blah...." Maybe I'm just lucky that the groups I've been in favor complements over criticisms, but this sort of thing absolutely makes my skin crawl (can you see the smile frozen on my face as I listen patiently and try to look appreciative). I'd just rather get down to business, please give me something useful I can write down for later.
Elizabeth Gaffney, the writer and teacher who leads the workshop at apublicspace.org now has her own free space for writers and she has a nice little essay on critiques posted there: https://sites.google.com/view/24hourroom/craft/groups/radical-editorial-empathy?authuser=0
I re-read it often, because I find my tendency as a critic is to try to re-write another persons work, which while being amusing for me, is not at all helpful to the person being critiqued. Elizabeth's idea of radical empathy is actually very commonsensical. Give feedback to help someone write the book *they* want to write, not the one you think *you* would write if it were your book.
I'm still reading all the responses here. So much to take in!