The Balancing Act of Critique

Confession: I have a dream that one day, I'll have enough money to purchase a nice, big apartment over one of the restaurants or shops in downtown Sayville, or another similar Long Island town. I would have several internet connections, sofas and comfy chairs, desks, writing supplies, and no televisions. It would be a writers' retreat, and I could give keys to students or other young writers who are looking for a place to go and meet other young writers, free of distractions. It's the sort of place I'd love to find now.

Reading:

• The Snapper, by Roddy Doyle

Writing:

• "Ferian Fetlock Cures a Horse"

Revising:

• "Dolly Hobbles"

A few days ago, I sent out a huge call for critiques on "Dolly Hobbles." I advertised on a message board I frequent, as well as on Facebook, and got about two dozen responses.

Many of the critiques are just one or two words, directly addressing the questions I asked. It's a good thing I asked them, or I might have gotten a response like "it's good" or "I liked it," or my personal favorite--"I had to read it a couple of times." (Never sure if that's a good thing or not.)

Other critiques go into detail on word choice and grammar (that's a lie, my grammar was fine), and write long paragraphs for each of my questions. I get the fact that these are the people who didn't have time to finish the second essay on their AP English exam).

Both types of critiques are useful. The short ones cut to the heart of the matter, and the long ones expand on it. My confidence is (currently) high enough so that even the negative criticisms don't wound.

Overheard in the restaurant just now: a girl in her twenties wearing a green hoodie. "Look how fun it looks!" she says, showing her Panera salad to her dining companion. "How fun! Look at all the colors!"

But that brings to mind the difficulty in giving a good critique. As anyone who has been on the receiving end of one of my critiques will know, I tend to be detail oriented... sometimes at the exclusion of the big picture. Let's just say that detail is my default, and only when I am asked do I step back and take in the whole forest.

But there is a fine line between a detailed critique and a list of nitpicks. The way I attempt to avoid this pitfall is to give justification for each comment or edit, as well as bestowing praise on those elements I like.

Because you know, it's hard to read through a critique of your work. When I'm by myself, I look at a piece and I see the glaring, obvious flaws. But let someone else lay a finger on it, and I have to restrain myself from jumping to its defense. I'm like the big brother who loves to pick on his little sister, but death to the schoolkid that tries to do the same.

But of course, we all like compliments on our work. They help soothe the itches of the criticism. And suddenly, critique becomes a balanced breakfast. There's the stuff that's good for you, and the stuff that tastes good, and it's the most important meal of the day. (Not sure where that fits into the metaphor.)

Some authors might not need the frosted side of the Mini Wheats to choke down critique. I've sat down a swallowed my share of negative comments, and once I manage to get ego out of the way, I've seen how they improved the story. (Helped build strong bones?) And other times, I have to put them away, shut the criticism away until I'm strong enough to face it.

There are few things that are so uniquely personal as writing. And until a piece is published, it has an air of impermanence, as if every single word has yet to be pinned down and formalized. The possibilities of change are infinite, and it never, never, never lives up to what it could be. Somewhere out there in the ether is the perfect word choice for every single line, and only one monkey sitting at one typewriter will ever see it.

When I look back at the writing attempts of my youth, I can barely read from embarrassment. Other people don't understand why I'm shy about showing the stories I wrote when I was ten, but they don't understand. I don't see the story of a ten-year-old writing at a high school level. I see failure, the attempt to create the perfect story that fell short because it just wasn't in me.

Yes, I know it's impossible to create the perfect story, that it's not in me, but I still can't help but feel that an imperfect story is a glimpse into my imperfect soul, and it makes me feel naked and vulnerable in the way that physical nudity never could.

And to have that imperfect work criticized... well, isn't that just a criticism of my imperfect soul? And don't I feel the need to justify at the same time that I know those criticisms are entirely correct, even mild in comparison to the truth?

But damn, dude (I say to myself), chill. Yes, a story is a glimpse into my soul, but only into a fraction of it, and to render imperfect what I feel is not the same as being faulty or worthless. After all, it's just a story.