Check Your Ego at the Door
By Guest | September 11, 2016 |
By Amanda Steggell via Flickr’s CC
Our guest today is Carol Dougherty, also known as Doc, director of Wake Up and Write Writer’s Retreat Workshop (an offshoot of Writers Retreat Workshop), where she teaches writing practice and much of the curriculum developed by the late Gary Provost. She is ordained as a Zen Buddhist priest in the lineage of Shunryu Suzuki-roshi, and spent more than 10 years at San Francisco Zen Center and Tassajara Zen Mountain Center. Carol worked extensively in professional theatre early in her career, culminating in a stint as Managing Director of the Berkshire Theatre Festival, where she had a chance to meet lifelong hero, Julie Andrews, and work with Marge Champion and Julie Harris, among others. Her all-time favorite book is not a novel, it is Virginia Axline’s Dibs: In Search of Self, which she first read as a Reader’s Digest Condensed book when in grade school and has re-read many times since. She is an avid reader, writer, and student, with a penchant for horse racing, Shakespeare, and the Pittsburgh Steelers.
Being a novelist looking for feedback puts you in a vulnerable position. And it’s the only way to find out how your work-in-progress stacks up. It helps if you know you aren’t alone in your vulnerability, that you won’t die if your work needs some work, and that you can take criticism of your writing without taking it personally.
Carol is the author of The Santiago Inheritance (novel), How Full of Briers: The Organizational Structure of the Non-Profit Theatre Corporation (non-fiction). Connect with Carol on her blog.
You are attending your first writing workshop, a major investment of time and money, which you feel sure will pay off big-time. After all, you have in your work-in-progress the next Beloved, The Hunt for Red October, or Me Before You. You are certain that before dinner is over, everyone will know, without having read a word, that you will be the new David Baldacci or JK Rowling.
At the same time, you are thrilled to be at this workshop, with an opportunity to get feedback (which you are sure will be wonderful) from a writing teacher whose work you respect, and whose books have helped many an aspiring novelist. You want to bask in the opportunity to spend this time completely focused on your own work-in-progress and not have to worry about cooking your own meals and then doing the dishes. Here, you are a writer.
Without any maneuvering, the workshop leader sits next to you at dinner, and appears to be amused by your witty repartee. Everything seems to be working as planned.
A funny thing happens after dinner. The group gathers for the opening session, and lo and behold, you are the first one to share your book title and the hook you have crafted. Suddenly you discover that you don’t have a protagonist, you have a victim. To be a protagonist the main character has to act, rather than simply be acted upon. Yours doesn’t act, she reacts.
You also find out that your book title, which is your protagonist/victim’s first name (evocative, you felt), tells the reader nothing. And you realize that if all of this is true, you have to throw out everything you’ve written to date and start over.
After the session is over, you realize you have a choice to make. You can crawl into bed, pull the covers over your head, and wail that everyone is just jealous of your talents and it isn’t fair. Or you can face the fact that you are here to learn, and the first lesson was a tough one to swallow. You came to see what the experts could teach you, and now you have to decide if you are willing to be taught.
Feedback is one of the most difficult things to accept as a writer. It’s easy to convince yourself that the person questioning your choice of word, or character, or storyline, doesn’t understand your intention. And if they don’t, it isn’t your fault they’re dense. You’ve labored over this work for years, and you know you’ve honed it brilliantly.
Or have you?
It can be enormously confusing to go to a workshop, sit through classes with one or more instructors, meet one-on-one with several mentors/editors, and have critique sessions with your peers, with everyone telling you something different. After a few days you are reeling from the contradictory suggestions, and it’s tempting to ignore all of it and go your own way.
However…
…if you put aside your bruised ego long enough to look at it clearly, you might realize several different people all seemed to be asking what your main character wants, what her story arc is. And almost everyone commented on how they wanted to know more about your villain, but didn’t seem enthusiastic about your protagonist. So perhaps there are a few things that keep cropping up that might be worth your attention.
Those first paragraphs were my experience at Writers Retreat Workshop with the late Gary Provost. Once I was able to let go of my disappointed expectations of glory, it turned out to be one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. I learned more about writing a novel in that first 10-day workshop than I had in the 30+ years of my life to that point. In the years since, I have found enormous joy in being a student, learning from those who offer their expertise to my hungry mind and heart.
One of the greatest experiences I’ve had in a classroom, was coming back to Writers Retreat Workshop as a scholarship student in 2012 (having taught the workshop from 1998-2000) and having as instructors some of the same students I taught at earlier workshops. Not only were they terrific teachers, I learned a great deal from them and my writing improved. None of that would have been possible, had I not been willing to let go of my ego, my cherished identity as a smart, talented person and a good writer.
Whatever story you have about yourself and your work, leave it at home when you head to a workshop, conference, or seminar. It is an opportunity to step away from the solitude of your desk and into the community of other writers. It is an opportunity to listen to the teaching and feedback of others, sift through the myriad viewpoints and techniques to discover what works for you, and put it into practice. It is an opportunity to check your ego at the door, and give yourself the freedom to grow. Have fun!
Have you found it difficult to accept and use suggestions from teachers/agents/editors/peers? What has been the hardest thing to hear? How was your first workshop experience?
Many thanks to today’s guest.
You can read more WU guest posts by visiting this link.
Ha! My first experience at a writer’s conference was humbling, to say the least. The conference offered paid critiques with professional editors and published authors. I figured this was one more opportunity to get my brilliant novel in front of a publisher, so I chose an editor from a major publishing house, who would surely have little to critique but fall in love with my manuscript.
I strolled into the room set up for the critique feedback people and sat across from a young lady who looked as if she’d just graduated high school (she was probaby mid 20s). It took her all of ten seconds to tell me she had no idea what my novel was about based on the opening pages. The pages themselves were bleeding so badly that I feared they’d leave a blood trail as I exited the room. I couldn’t believe it. My crit partners loved my opening chapters. How could this twerp of an editor’s assistant make such a quck judgment?
It took me most of that day and about half of the next to stuff my pride back where it belonged (which is saying a lot, since it was the American Christian Fiction Writers conference…we’re not supposed to flash a lot of pride). And when I finally re-read my colorful prose for those opening chapters, I knew the editor’s assistant was right. No one would be able to tell what my story was about based on the first chapter. I think we call that
Dead. On. Arrival.
I hope this post reaches every new writer out there. Your brilliant work will get shredded. But that doesn’t make it less brilliant. It just needs work.
Thanks for a wonderful post!
Thanks Ron! I was pretty sure mine wasn’t the only experience like that, though it sounds like Gary was pretty gentle compared your critic. I’m glad you were able to keep moving forward…
Learn to keep your mouth closed and listen. A
Amen…
There are two responses possible to critique: you’re (possibly) right or – you’re not my tribe.
Since I don’t share unfinished work, I tend to the last response, as egotistical as that sounds.
I’m happy with being my own worst critic – and have an eagle-eyed beta reader to tell me when I’ve been unclear in something I chose to do.
I know that sounds horrible to most writers, and to almost all editors, but it’s as much my choice – and I stand by it – as everything else.
I didn’t start that way initially, but it’s where I stand now after twenty years of writing and studying (and not publishing). With a tiny tribe of happy people waiting for the next book, and a much larger bunch standing around saying, Huh?
Not recommended – but I don’t have a choice.
That makes sense, since you aren’t sharing unfinished work. Unfortunately, I was sharing unfinished work not realizing it wasn’t. We all have a different experience with this kind of thing, that’s for sure…
You have that exactly right: when I shared unfinished work (in the dark ages), I wasn’t happy with the responses – and being profoundly isolated encouraged me to learn from books and websites when I did have a question on how to make something work.
By the time I was sharing finished writing, I wasn’t in the market for advice.
I’m aware that’s not how the world usually works, but I have no capacity for adaptation – I’m already at the very edge of my capabilities, and can just manage from here.
You make do with what you have.
The first time I got a paid critique was brutal, and I was really glad it wasn’t face to face. I thought I was all prepared to be reasonable because I, myself, was an editor; I knew how to write an editorial letter, so I must know how to receive one. Not so much. The critiquer nailed on the head all of the problems with my manuscript, even down to the writing not sounding like my authentic voice, even though she didn’t know me. It was amazing. But hard. And I needed to know it all.
Since then, the attitude that has made me more open to feedback is to see myself as a servant of the story. Yes, I came up with it and made it come alive, but once it’s in a state to be shared, I serve the story. So I can take feedback and not be too upset by it, because my purpose isn’t to prove my awesomeness, but to serve this story and make it as compelling as I can.
It’s never perfect. It may still take me a day or so to really read a feedback note, but once I do, I can take in the feedback and address it without a lot of angst. It also helps me sift the feedback without a lot of heat, because I really want to know what didn’t work for someone — I can better serve the story that way.
Great piece! Thanks for joining us here :-)
Thanks Natalie. It’s tough not to take it personally, to stay open to what is helpful. And you have to be able to sift through and recognize what is not helpful as well.
It is amazing to realize how someone who doesn’t know you or your story can get to the heart of things so easily…
Hi Carol, Your post resonated with me this morning. I have been attending Free Expressions workshops once or twice a year. The first one was a shock. I wasn’t the best writer there! Not all of the teachers recognized my abilities and in fact some of them didn’t even like me! The harshest criticism was that one of the assistant editors didn’t like my protagonist. He thought she was self-centered and not really a very nice person. Of course, since she was one aspect of my own personality, I was very hurt.
I also fell in love that week. The learning environment was what I was longing for. The instructor is a genius and my work keeps improving. If anyone is considering a writers workshop, I say GO!
I agree, Gretchen. And the Free Expressions group is terrific – some wonderful folks there, including the best editor I know (who is also an amazing writer).
You also touched on something interesting – a reader who doesn’t like a character you love (who may or may not be based on yourself). What I’ve found when that happens is that generally, there’s something I’m assuming is coming across in the character. Problem is, it may be in my head, even in my heart, but it isn’t on the page. Result? The reader doesn’t love him or her like I do. Ouch.
Oh Carol, this is a brilliant piece — and as true in the nonfiction world as in the world of fiction. I’ve been there myself a LOT, and it can be almost surreal when someone you trust as a developmental editor says, “um, this doesn’t actually make sense, what the heck were you trying to say, anyway?” especially when — at least a minute ago — you were sure it not only made sense but you were kind of proud of it. It’s a gut punch. And then, a revelation. I wouldn’t want to write any other way — getting continual feedback as I write forward is what helps keep me on track. And it’s what lets me know when I did nail it — it does happen sometimes — right out of the starting gate. (And yes, my own developmental editor, my nonfiction book coach, is the brilliant Jennie Nash.)
But can I also say from the other point of view — as someone who gives feedback to writers — delivering that bad news can be hard. When you know that the writer believes that their manuscript is completely finished (the exact situation you describe), but you’ve pinpointed why it pretty much needs a page one rewrite, and you have to deliver that news? It’s not fun. Because you know that you’re about to ruin someone’s day. You’re about to deliver that gut punch. Sometimes I sit there at the laptop, eyes closed, my finger hovering over the “send” button, steeling myself to hit it, because I imagine how I’d feel if I got the email I’m sending. But — and this is what always awes me — I’ve found that (after the gut punch) most writers are eager to jump back in, they’re amazingly, inspiringly, humblingly, resilient. Plus there’s something about realizing what wasn’t working that gives us the fresh eyes to begin to zeroing on what will work. That part is exhilarating.
Thanks for this Carol — again, brilliant piece!
Thanks, Lisa. What you say about having to be the one to give the news reminded me of what it felt like having to fire someone. With one person, I ended up in tears – not exactly professional.
Speaking from being on the receiving end, as I started to work my way through your new book, Story Genius, for the second time and use it to do my second draft, I became aware that what I’d thought was my plot problem, wasn’t. My whole first draft was written just missing the key element. Daunting though it was to accept that, it was also thrilling to feel the difference after literally spending days with your tests and questions. Now that I’m well into the rewrite, it is compelling in a visceral way that it was not before. Feedback, even though it’s through your book and not direct, is such a gift. In the end, it will be a much better story, and that’s what I want.
Thanks!
Story Genius showed me what was missing in a book I’ve been working on for 5 years! Sometimes, it takes a village.
Thanks, Carol, and thanks Gretchen! It sure does take a village, and that’s what’s so wonderful about writers retreats — we get to be in an actual “pop up” analog village with other actual people. Then again, here at Writer Unboxed the digital community of writers is pretty amazing, too — plus, you can be in it in your PJs with bed head and no one is the wiser. Oops, did I say that out loud? ;- )