Criticism is an Anal Probe. (Writing Workshop)
Into the Digital Catacombs We Go
I went full Indiana Jones on my writing hard drive this morning. Plumbing the depths of your old content never fails to enlighten. It’s also good if you’re in need of a good cringefest (gotta keep those facial muscles nice and tone, after-all).
Don’t feel bad. Even Harrison Ford puts out crap every now and again.
They say good writing is good rewriting, which is true, but one of the things that doesn’t mean is: Delete all previous drafts. I’m a firm believer that, just like the embarrassing photos your parents took of you in the bathtub with your brother when you were 8 years old, you should keep that shit for later. It never hurts to have some good blackmail in your back pocket.
Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re probably not going to blackmail yourself with your own shoddy writing/thought experiments gone awry because that would be some bat-shit crazy level stuff right there. Then again, we are our own worst enemies, so it never hurts to have some ammunition for when things start getting a little crowded up in your dome-piece.
Wait, where’s this going? Not a clue. I’m hardcore derailed at this point. I legitimately spent too long in my computer’s digital catacombs today.
Let’s pull this back to center and focus.
One article I jotted down many, many moons ago stood out to me as particularly interesting. It reads a bit like a whiny, prepubescent teenager’s glitter-bombed diary, but that’s okay. I find the content still relevant after all these years, despite the fact that I’ve put out many, many, many stories in the interim.
The moral of the story: Some things never change. In this case, criticism always sucks.
With the release of Mind Breach looming only 33 days away (available for preorder on Amazon in exactly 2 days!), I’m reminded of all the convoluted twists and turns this story has taken over the last 2 years. Mind Breach legitimately pushed me to my literary breaking point. The scope and complexity required by the story were beyond my skill to create at the time I first started the project.
Now, after nearly 200 individual days working on this thing, I’m still not sure the requisite skill is there, but at some point you gotta kick your baby out of the nest and see if it can fly. ‘Cause if your baby can fly, you like, really don’t want to have anything to do with it. I’m 92% sure that thing is definitely not human.
So, here ya go. I’m opening up and giving you a little insight into the neuroticism younger me felt all those many moons ago when I was still pecking away at Time Heist.
Criticism is an Anal Probe
I got bent over the other day. Time Snatch (holy crap, this is back when Time Heist was still tentatively named Time Snatch) is my debut novel, and hands down the longest project I’ve ever tried to beat into submission by way of repeatedly headbutting my keyboard. As of yet the headbutting has paid no noticeable dividends, though my computer looks at me these days with those “I thought you love me” eyes
I do. I swear, baby. I do it cause I love you.
I imagine it’s akin to having a child grow up to be the playground bully. Or maybe you’re just glad little Billy isn’t coming home with his own blood on his t-shirt. Good parenting, guys.
Aces.
The thing with the critiques, though, is that they bug me because a lot of them are things I kind of already knew. They’ve been sitting out there like an overfed hydra (<—See, I’ve always been bad at similes). Part of me prayed on a hobo’s stone heart— which I extracted with my trusty Swiss Army knife– (<–guess I’ve always sucked at metaphor, too. Jesus) that nobody would notice them. Ya know, enough fluff and clouds and lasers and maybe they wouldn’t notice my main character switching from male to female to octopus throughout the story.
No, this isn’t a story about animorphs. Yes, that makes it weird for my main character to change into an octopus.
On the whole these critiques are going to make the story stronger. I know that. I feel that. I agree with that.
But I’d hoped I was closer to done. I wanted to put my steaming pile of word vomit out into the world and I wanted people to see what I’ve been doing.
It’s not about being the next big thing. Not about being the next anything really. I’ve been couped up with this story for so long, sacrificing so much time and energy to pump out word-babies. I want something tangible I can point too and say “See, that story goblin right there is what I’ve been doing.”
Okay, I know that’s super self-indulgent, but after a point I think we earn that as writers. Right?
So, I guess the question is how do we look that hydra right in its unthinkable eye and herd it into something less contemptible (<– younger me had a hydra fetish, I guess)? We take it on the chin, listen to the feedback, divide the tweaks worth making from the ones that are just twerky. There is a difference after-all and it’s important to remember that your beta readers will not always be right, but they are almost never wrong.
Buck up and face your problems. Slay those sentences that make no sense. Get your word usage right. Fix those story holes staring back at you like the gaping maw of hell itself.
It’s scary, it’s hard, and sure as shit nobody wants to do it. But this is what it means to be a writer. To be a creative type means pouring yourself into a thing. You pull apart your rib cage with nipple clamps and a hammer, you get all up in there to surgically remove a chunk of your heart and then smear it across the page (<–what in the unholy fuck, younger me?).
But be careful and disinfect that shit, maybe with that bottle of Jack Daniels sitting there beside the computer. Yeah, you thought we didn’t notice. We did.
Taking feedback is hard and I’m not sure it’ll ever get easier. I’m not sure it should (first not stupid thing younger me has said in years). Once you stop accepting that feedback, you stop striving to make your work the best possible iteration of itself, I think that’s when you need to step back and question why you’re doing what you’re doing.
Ultimately when I look at that sour puss in the mirror I realize that I don’t wake up everyday at the buttcrack of dawn because I want to write a story the world is going to love me for.
I do it because I have a story to tell, and it won’t leave me alone until I tell it.
But what’s more important than just telling this story?
Telling this story right. Now quit whining and go write.
Submitted a piece to the ‘Writers of the Future’ competition. Feedback was ‘Writing was excellent, but it was bypassed in favor of other stories that were more profound’. How did I take that? Curl up into a ball and not submit anything for a long time. I still have no idea how to ‘fix’ profundity. Write other stories I suppose. Glad you’re back BTW.
That’s fantastic you made it to “receive personal feedback” round in the competition, Kathy! I’ve submitted two stories to WotF. One made it really deep into the competition, the other was rejected straight away. All you can do is, as you say, write other stories. Have you gotten back on that pony and submitted again, Kathy?
No, I haven’t sent anything back to WotF. However, like the 17-year cicada, I shall return. Just in my own glacial time scale.
Yikes! A 17-year cicada? I’ve never heard of such a thing? Is it exactly what it sounds like? I truly hope it doesn’t take you 17 years to throw out your next story, but if that’s the case, then put me on the calendar and let me know when it comes out. I’d love to read a story 17 years in the making!
Just keep your balance and treat criticized and praise equally. Remember, both of them are put forth by people with perhaps different perspectives. Keep your balance and you’ll be ok.