critique
One of the great pleasures of spring and summer is cleaning up the garden and planting new things. At the end of a vigorous session in the backyard I look at the big tub of weeds—or the overflowing bed of the pickup truck if I’ve been really busy—and gauge my progress. At this point, one might admire one’s flowerbeds or vegetable patch and say to oneself, Hey, super good work, woman! This looks fabulous. You definitely deserve a chilled beverage. Aperol spritz?
I don’t do that.
I mean, I do drink the Aperol Spritz, but I don’t allow myself that positive self-feedback.
I only see the weeds.
Progress, for me, is gauged on the pile of ugly, invasive, stubborn weeds I’ve removed. Instead of admiring the beautiful plants that remain, or patting myself on the back for blending shades of purple and synchronizing bloom times, I immediately look for more weeds.
So, it has occurred to me that although it is important to control the weeds, it might be equally important to control one’s focus on the weeds.
When we’re writing a draft, it’s easy to get stuck in that overgrown, weedy place. Sometimes we’re overwhelmed, unable to see the beautiful blossoms or wildflowers mixed in with the bad stuff. Sometimes, when we’ve pulled the metaphorical weeds from a draft or else heard constructive criticism about what might get chucked out, we don’t stop to appreciate the work we’ve accomplished—that really good idea that inspired us and got us started. Don’t get me wrong, it’s helpful to self-edit and not just plow ahead like one is the greatest thing since the power lawn mower, but sometimes we don’t see the garden for the weeds.
I asked two questions of four fellow novelists. Here’s what they had to say:
What are your writing weeds, and how do you deal with them?
“Oh, how many writing weeds there are in the novel garden! Self-doubt. Scenes written into corners. Characters who don’t behave and go so far off track you wonder what story they’re trying to crawl to. Impostor syndrome (My God! I have no idea how to write a book!) The blank page. The anxiety and dread that THIS story will be the one that well and truly stinks. For me, the only way through all this is through. Figure out the word count you need to meet for each week. Visualize the consequences of not making your deadline, because that’s enough to keep your seat in a chair, I think. A good word count day is a positive day. There will be something that blooms in what you wrote. And PS – I love to kill my darlings! In fact, if I find myself with chest puffed out because I’ve just written a beautiful or clever line of dialogue or prose, I know it needs to be snipped out immediately.”
—Kim Taylor Blakemore, author of the recent novels The Companion ( Lake Union, 2020) and After Alice Fell ( Lake Union, 2021)
“My personal writing weed is overwriting. In particular, I’ve never met a prepositional phrase I didn’t like. While drafting, I often use prepositional phrases throughout. In editing, they magically disappear. The reason for this is that I […]
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Flickr:brianjobson
We’re so pleased to announce Liza Nash Taylor as a regular WU contributor! You may remember Liza from her guest post, On Being a Debut Novelist at Sixty. From her bio:
Liza was a 2018 Hawthornden International Fellow and received an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts the same year. Her work has appeared in Gargoyle Magazine; Deep South, and others. Her debut novel, ETIQUETTE FOR RUNAWAYS (Blackstone Publishing, 2020) is listed in Parade Magazine’s 30 Best Beach Reads of 2020 and Frolic’s 20 Best Books of Summer 2020. Her second novel, IN ALL GOOD FAITH, will be published in August.
We love this first official post from Liza, which takes the long view of her journey and highlights the importance of perseverance (WU’s Official Favorite Word!). Welcome, Liza!
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Adapted from a series of blog posts on one writer’s path to becoming a late-blooming novelist.
It’s late February in Virginia, and freezing rain has been falling on and off for several days. This morning, the birds huddle in and beneath the boxwood bushes near the feeders, feathers puffed, waiting it out. The openings in the feeder tubes are clogged with ice, and loose seed in the trays has frozen. A lone dove basks in the steam of the heated birdbath, but for the most part, today is not a good day to be a bird. I wonder, do they think of spring? Of plump larvae and juicy worms ahead? Getting published, I’ve learned, is like waiting for worms. Waiting being the key word here.
Seven years ago, I was in my early fifties and a fledgling writer. Having embraced a new passion I was taking every writing class I could find and I had “finished” (ha! Finished! [snort]) my first historical novel manuscript. I wanted to see where this writing thing would go.
I wanted to soar, but first I needed to hatch.
In an attempt to make up for lost time I applied to a semester-long course through Queens University in Charlotte, called One Book. I was fortunate to be paired with an experienced New York editor from a major publishing house. She read seventy-five pages of my manuscript before our first workshop. After friendly introductions among our group, she said, “Now then. We’re going to start with Liza’s submission, because we can cover a LOT of ground here.” My antennae went up. She went on the elucidate, “…because a lot of these mistakes will apply to everyone’s work.”
I wanted to lock myself in the bathroom and sob. But no, after my work was chuckled over, mocked, and dissected by said editor, our group had to go out to lunch together. Over salads, I looked across the table at the woman who had just flayed my submission and I said, “Wow. I feel like I’ve just been on an intervention on What Not To Wear.” She smiled.
This was my first exposure to eviscerating criticism of my writing. I deserved it. I needed it. I was crushed, then defensive, then humbled/weepy/tremulous, and finally, determined to do better, dammit. It had been a long time since I’d felt this sort of life-changing inspiration and a long time since […]
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Please welcome guest Kristin Owens to Writer Unboxed today! Kristin grew up in Buffalo, NY and moved immediately after the Bill’s fourth Super Bowl loss for better odds. After a two-decade stint in higher education, she’s now a full-time writer in Colorado and a contributor for many magazines and blog posts. Topics range from wine to cruise ships to kvetching. She provides high-energy classes motivating new writers to stick with it. She’s represented by Madelyn Burt at Stonesong Literary. Check out her published articles, essays, and videos on her website, and follow her on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram!
You Asked for It
Ahhh… feedback. It’s inevitable.
After scribbling incoherent thoughts to paper, massaging into shape, and polishing for maximum gleam, my writing demands outside validation. My own self-critique is never enough. I need a small trophy. A little love. Or at least a kick in the shins. But asking for constructive criticism is fraught with multiple emotional layers, all anxiety-producing. And I need less rather than more to fret about. You too? So why do we ask outsiders to read our work? There must be good reasons.
Self-Sabotage or Self-Delusion
Basically, we either enjoy masochistic levels of apprehension or want to improve our writing craft. Possibly both. Personally, after completing a novel, I celebrate: Whoopee! Then after the last drop of prosecco is drunk, my ego immediately requires confirmation of one of the following:
Gird Your Loins
Recently, I developed a seven-step drafting process for my novels. It covers everything from inserting backstory appropriately to deleting crutch words. It takes about a year from beginning to end, yet it isn’t foolproof. So besides running chapters through my weekly critique group (who know all my quirks), I enlist the help of beta readers (who don’t spell my name correctly).
Beta readers. They should be spelled Betta after the Siamese Fighting Fish.
Let’s take a pause here. For as many reasons you send out work, a cataclysmic span of responses will be returned because beta readers can run the gamut from helpful to hurtful. I’m sure you’ve experienced the same.
For instance, betas can point out glaringly awful inconsistencies – which […]
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