The Unprofessional Boy #34
brief guidelines for feedback
Hey, everybody, [waves cordially]
In the summer of tenth grade, I had written my first few chapters of the first draft of my first book.
(Which I do not recommend you read; see: 3x “first,” “tenth grade.” The thing needs revision.)
I workshopped the very first chapter with a few other writers my age, in a facilitated context, and this is the thing I most remember: they did want to know what happened next. They did have some negative feedback (characterization, a slow start, etc.) with the positive (my descriptions of physical action, for one.)
I took some notes; I still have them. I haven’t looked back at them in a little while, though they’ll be useful when I start editing.
For context, I sat in silence for about an hour while five or six other teenagers debated the nineteen-hundred words I had written. I couldn’t speak up to clarify anything during this time, nor could I object to any negative comments. I was focused on processing everything I heard, so that I’d get a good picture of what real readers thought of the chapter.
They wanted it to be better, of course. They’d make changes, or suggest that I should make them. But during that entire time, the most important thing was that they wanted me to write more.
This brings me to approximately the Hippocratic Oath of not only workshopping, but giving feedback on someone else’s work at all: don’t murder it. Don’t forestall someone from trying again, or trying something else. Lead them through the quicksand, where they might flinch away or bog down, but try not to make it deeper.
I don’t mean to encourage relentless positivity —negativity is just as useful a tool— but criticism is a knife. If you ask for feedback —as I did— you are vulnerable. It’s difficult to make something good, and it’s just as hard to help it get there. The recognition that trust confers power is key, on both sides.
To perform an operation is tricky. I try not to cut more than I have to, and I try to start carefully, with a sure and steady hand. Dispensing that feedback, the most important thing is to respect that trust and channel it safely; to avoid harming the author’s desire to write. (Or paint, or draw, or make movies; this probably applies widely.)
This takes a level of understanding: understand why they have written something —what makes them want to write it at all— and around these areas, take extra care to tread lightly. If something is bad, point it out with no more than it takes. If it’s good, mention that, too, but don’t dwell on it to the detriment of balance.
With that understanding, the second commandment: do not try to make [the writing] yours; by this I mean: try to make the author’s work the best version of itself. Help to bring out the positive qualities of the underlying work, rather than imposing your own impulses and suggestions.
Observing your own reactions and relaying them is always useful. Quick, general advice can help, if it’s brainstorming possibilities. The key is to double-check beforehand, to avoid copy-pasting stylistic quirks and assumptions of knowledge from your own methods. I try to highlight what’s weak, perhaps offer a few tweaks to what’s there, but not to put pressure on the specific changes. The idea of [a change,] maybe; the danger is in filling in that blank with too much force, such that I might reshape what’s there into a statue that I would have molded.
Another statement of this idea: Brandon Sanderson explains how this can happen inadvertently and one method to sidestep it (to be descriptive, not prescriptive.) His advice is meant for fiction authors; it applies just as easily to blog posts, essays, and other non-fiction.
I’ve looked at other pieces and thought “I would approach this completely differently;” I suppress the impulse to start pushing in that direction and instead simply mention the possibility. The same with the examples I’d use, the sentence structure I might employ, or the way I’d format a given paragraph.
“I had trouble here,” I’ll write. If there’s something that’s itching at me, that really jumps out as a possible solution, maybe “you could try [1,] but [2, 3] might also work, or just leave it.” It’s not mine, I try to tell myself. I don’t want to push the clay so hard it doesn’t spring back.
That’s helpful for reading line-by-line, generally, but it can create its own problem: everything is orthographic, when I get so granular. In highlighting different points, there needs to be prioritization, an ordering based on salience rather than chronological pace of the text. An executive summary, if you will.
I close my eyes, (if they were open,) I open my notes, (if they were closed,) and I write a paragraph or two that answers these questions: “What’s most important to write down in precise terms? What does the author really need to know? What can I accomplish, if I tell them?”
Things that good feedback can (and should!) do:
Remove asymptotes (ctrl-F “focus groups”) or barriers the author can’t see by identifying confusing or boring chunks that cause friction. In aggregate, answer the question “where do people stop reading?”
Prompt any revisions in a general direction by picking apart the experience that reading something causes, allowing the author to identify necessary mechanical changes.
Heighten the author’s medium specificity —the operative medium being their own brain— by driving down at the intersection of [what makes their style distinctive, what can improve this work.]
Form a motivating presence, (as in: “This is a challenge”)
I finished that book —I’m going to rewrite the hell out of it— and I’m fifteen chapters into my second.
For feedback on this newsletter, or anything else, or if you want me to look at your words for some reason: DM; email, etc.
Orion