When recently I told a neighbor that I was a writer, her eyes lit up. \”I am too! I just sent a manuscript to an agent. Do you belong to a group?”
I told her no. I could have said why, but I decided to keep my thoughts to myself.
“Well, I go to a group where we critique each other. We help each other, tell each other what we are doing right or wrong.”
She was not telling me anything new. I had been to critique groups. My first critique experience had been dispiriting. I was in college and had just become a member of a local group that met on weekends.
Not wanting an ego throttling on my first critique, I wanted to present a proven success. I selected a humorous essay I was proud of. I wanted to see how the critique process worked before I entrusted a vulnerable work-in-progress to strangers. Two college professors had already raved over the piece I had chosen. It had received an “A” grade and I was confident in it.
The critique group was made mostly of retired senior citizens who sat around in a prim circle. When it came to be my turn, I read my piece aloud. I looked up expecting, if not applause, at least amused smiles.
Instead, I met silence. Frowns had appeared, foreheads had furrowed. Finally one lady spoke. “What is your point?” she said. “Does the story have a moral?”
Her question confused me. Moral? The stories I read had not had morals since my introduction to Aesop at age 6. My essay had been a simple narrative describing a childhood experience. It had a humorous satiric edge; at least, so I had been told.
Another lady pitched in. “Maybe it would have been better if you had started your story with a date, said something like, in 1972 I was on the playground at my school.”
A date? I could not imagine anything more boring as a hook to entice readers. I had begun my story in mid-action, a time-honored technique called “in medias res.”
More group members chimed in, throwing out advice for what I could have done differently to make my story “work” better. The lady who had suggested I begin my story with a date said, “The story may have some potential.” Afterward, the group moved on to other readings, and the rest of the session was group members gushing over each other, regular attendees, for their W.I.P.s.
Had I not gotten such glowing responses from my college professors, I am sure I would have gone home thinking that my essay was tripe. It might never have occurred to me that the elderly critique members were simply not my audience.
I never went back to the critique sessions, but I continued to go to the non-critique meetings, which often featured speakers who wrote professionally. I entered some of the contests, which were judged by outsiders like college professors and professional journalists. I won many of them and felt vindicated. But, other than some ego boosts from winning contests, how much did I really learn or benefit from being a member of a group? Not enough to continue.
I later discovered that critique groups are not necessary for becoming a better writer, but writing a lot is. I found that I could learn far more through my own experiences than from people telling me what to do or not to do.
After moving to Florida a couple of years ago someone persuaded me to attend a writing group as a way to meet other writers or “network.” But I soon learned that the local group was a critique group only.
Reluctantly I attended but this time I did not bring a written piece to share. I wanted to gauge the group dynamic before paying my dues to join. It turned out that the new group was not much different than the other one. In general, the critics focused on the trivial. Much of the advice they gave was useless and some of it harmful.
One woman shared a humorous crime story. Her fresh and lively writing style was enviable. Her humorous voice, with its subtly ironic undertone, was her strength. The biggest problem with the story was that the motive for the murder seemed insufficiently compelling.
But to my surprise, group members went after her writing style, telling her that she should “tone it down.” Other group members chorused agreement. The writer did not argue but accepted the criticism as mature people are expected to do.
I had seen enough. I did not go back.
Despite my personal dislike of critique groups, some people find them helpful. Some acclaimed writers swear by them. The popular science fiction writer Brandon Sanderson uses group critiques as a routine part of his editing process. Before becoming famous, Anne Rice also attended critique groups even though group members panned her stories.
After the meetings, she would go home and cry. Then she would do what she wanted to do anyway, which is no doubt is why she was so successful. I admire her for staying true to her vision despite majority opposition, but I wonder why she continued to go back to critics that had made her cry.
Many writers see critique groups as a way to get honest feedback for their work. I completely understand that. I treasure criticism that sheds light on a way to make my writing clearer or more engaging.
I always have someone read my blog posts before I publish them, someone I trust to be honest, who will tell me when something is truly wrong, unclear, or untrue but will not make criticisms just for the sake of them. Not everyone has someone to do that, so critique groups may be a solution for some feedback seekers.
Although my personal experiences with critique groups have led me to shun them, I imagine they could be useful if the writer has clear criteria for knowing what kind of criticism to listen to and what kind to disregard.
Some professional writers have advised that if only one person makes a criticism, it is okay to ignore it, but if a lot of people are saying the same thing, you should probably make changes.
But art is not created by consensus. Besides, even assuming the majority is always right, which majority? The critics consulted might all be part of the same demographic, such as those who dislike a particular genre or the elderly group who snubbed my essay at my first critique. In that situation they were the “majority,” yet my professors who were outside it had loved my story.
So how can you tell good criticism from bad? For me, good criticism is the kind that comes with an “aha” moment. When criticism is useful, I am able to look at my text and see that, yes, my writing is more vivid when I use more active verbs; or yes, I can see how that passage might be confusing; a clearer image would make my prose easier to follow.
The advice that I should begin my essay with a date was arbitrary. There was no intelligence behind it. No reason was given. Following the advice would have hurt my writing.
I have had more “aha” moments from individual rather than group responses. Group critiques are a game in which a main objective is to find fault with writing, while also supplying praise to soften the blows. A passage of Moby Dick could be submitted to a critique group, and if no one knew where it came from, the darts of criticism would still be thrown because the game is to throw them. To say that any work presented is fine the way it is would be heresy. But sometimes it really is.
When I apply the “aha” test to criticism, the decision to modify my own artistic expressions remains where it belongs: with me. Ultimately writing has to be about what the artists envisions and likes or the writing will be indecisive and lacking in authority. It will not be art but a production job.
The ultimate goal for any writer should not be an improved ability to please and obey rules. The true goal is mastery. A unique, fresh, and coherent vision comes from the stubborn ability to say “I like this better than that,” whether anyone else does or not.
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