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We've had a recent discussion over on a writers forum I visit concerning critiques. While many of the writers in the discussion desired honest critiques of their work, they mentioned some that not only didn't want such comments, but were offended that anyone would suggest possible improvements to the piece.
Last month, we were out at the Arizona Renaissance Festival and saw Adam Crack, the bullwhip performance artist whom you might have seen on a recent episode of "Time Warp" demonstrating firewhip techniques. After the show, one young lady asked Adam how long it had taken him to learn the whip. He replied, "I'm still learning." This was from a man who holds several Guinness Book records for various skills on the whip, and who makes his living performing with whips. He's not an "up and coming wannabe" hoping to someday be good enough to earn a living at what he loves; he is a professional. Yet, he's "still learning."
Learning is the whole point of receiving a critique on our writing. We're asking other people to help us see the things we overlooked, and by so doing, know what to watch out for either in revision, or in the next piece we write. If we think about it, editors are something of a step-beyond critique, because not only are they commenting on the strengths and weaknesses of a composition, they're actively involved in the revision process.
It's easy to understand, though, why some people don't like critiques. For many people, a critique is an opportunity to criticize, and they seem to embrace that aspect of it with cruel glee. They rip the piece to shreds with all the tact of a pack of hyenas tearing into the carcass of a gnu, and if they offer any encouragement at all, it's precious little.
It's funny, though, that we often are far more open to constructive criticism of other endeavors than we are of artistic ones. If, for example, you were in a parking lot, working to change a flat tire and were struggling with getting that first lug-nut loose, you would probably appreciate someone mentioning that you were pulling the wrench in the direction that tightens the lug nut, particularly if they mentioned it in manner that was kind and not insulting. You probably wouldn't appreciate it much if, after fifteen minutes of pulling, sweating, and swearing, you finally figured out the problem and the person said, "I thought about telling you that ten minutes ago, but was afraid of hurting your feelings."
Writing has mechanics and technique, just as changing a tire does. While there are stylistic aspects that vary according to personal preferences, it is still important to entertain perspectives on our styles from other readers. If eighty percent of readers find some aspect of my style confusing, then it stands to reason that maybe I should refine my style in order to not potentially alienate such a large segment of the audience. It might be a bit ego-satisfying to think our work only appeals to the "upper" twenty percent, but the writers we see making a living with the art are the ones that can appeal to a wider audience. Critical acclaim by the intelligentsia is nice, but bill collectors aren't terribly impressed by the raving reviews.
For that matter, most submissions editors aren't concerned with how many glowing comments our manuscripts have received from college writing professors. They're concerned with whether a composition is going to earn more than they will invest in it. Very few romance novels would ever be considered literary masterpieces, yet publishers pay for the rights to hundreds - perhaps thousands - of such titles every year, because readers will buy them. Fluff that sells is better for a publisher than art that doesn't, and a good critique can tell us whether we've written something that people are going to want to read.
It can also help us hold onto that submissions editor's attention for more than a few seconds. If the editor looks at our sample chapter, and within the first paragraph finds copious errors, he's not likely to read beyond that opening. The critique can tell us if we have a strong opener, and help us refine it so that it doesn't look like we banged out a fast first-draft and fired it right off to Random House.
There is another thing the critique shows us, though, that has nothing to do with the manuscript itself. It reveals to us how we're likely to react when that day comes that we have to work with a professional editor. If we cannot objectively accept the observations and suggestions of a critique, how are we going to accept the requirements of an editor? If we're one of the fortunate few that get a publishing contract, and our editor tells us that this particular content is not suitable for their audience, are we going to argue that we won't compromise our art, or are we going to accept the help of the editor to bring the manuscript into compliance and fulfill our contract?
Writing the critique can be a learning experience. Being able to write an evaluation in such a way that honestly highlights both the strengths and weaknesses of a work is an art unto itself, and one that is frankly underappreciated. Part of the difficulty is balancing the two sides. If the critique is "too kind" and focuses only on the strengths, the writer may not learn what weaknesses need to be worked on, and proceed forward with a composition that isn't ready for publication. If, on the other hand, the critique is "too stern" and focuses solely on the weaknesses, the writer may become either defensive or discouraged, and either reject the input altogether, and abandon a potentially worthwhile project.
A good critique should offer both encouragement and suggestion, and should direct the attention to the manuscript, not the writer. The idea is not to insult the writer, but rather to evaluate the writing. It should not be dismissive and condescending, but respectful and insightful. If something seems wrong, suggest why it seems wrong and suggest techniques to improve it. Above all, remember that there is a person receiving the critique, and that the writing is intensely personal. Honesty and kindness are not mutually exclusive, and cruelty beneath a banner of honesty is still cruelty. Don't presume to use a hammer on someone when a gentle nudge will suffice.
Finally, please don't assume a gentle nudge is a hammer. Maybe, just maybe, the critique writer truly just wants to help you.
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