Lilith Saintcrow

This post is from the old Midnight Hour writing blog, where I used to do Friday posts. The Midnight Hour is defunct now–sad because I liked it so much. But I managed to get my entries off before it went bust, which means I can offer you this one. This is from November 23, 2007, and I think it’s still timely. Another note: this is crossposted to the Deadline Dames, where there is all sorts of great advice and giveaways.

Critique is like marriage counseling. One does not want to admit that one has done something that matters so much less than perfectly. Critique in a workshop/convention setting is even more dangerous, because there is the added fun of exhaustion, convention emotion, and fluid interpersonal rules.

I very rarely do critique sessions, mostly because I have beta readers I’m comfortable with. And I hate having to pick apart a stranger’s work, unless it’s in the comfort of my home where I can read a book and bitch in peace. Plus, in a group, there’s the whole group dynamic to worry about, and I’m usually far more concerned with people getting along than with the work at hand. Which is why I work alone, I reckon.

But I realize other people feel differently about it. So, in the interests of making things easier (always one of my favorite things to do) I’m going to offer some thoughts and tips about critique sessions.

Recently I participated in a Clarion-style critique session, where the more experienced critiquer goes first, everyone gets five minutes, and the writer is only allowed to respond during the brainstorming session. A fellow published author and I** were critiquing two unpublished authors, and the two unpubs were critiquing each other too. Which is a good way to get a range of advice.

One critique session went smoothly, the other not so smoothly. The one that went smoothly had an author who managed to keep his mouth shut and really listen to the advice being offered despite it being about one of his babies. He held his peace and during the brainstorming mentioned that he had majored in drama, so he could understand our concerns about dialogue. He asked our advice about specific ways to solve the problems inherent in the stories and took notes. Not only did the story impress me, but (and this is critical) the author’s taking of the critique impressed the editor in me. The guy seemed like he would be easy to work with, and that leads me to the first major thing critique sessions should never be used for.

Pitching. Please, dear God, DO NOT pitch your story to a published author or an editor during the critique session. It’s in bad form, especially to the others being critiqued. If they like your story, they may give you submissions tips, but that’s as far as it goes. Critique is supposed to make you a better writer, not sell your fantasy epic.

It is vital as well that you not seek to explain your story. If you have to explain your story during a critique session, you haven’t done your job as a writer. The story needs to stand without explanation, and most critique sessions will show you where the weak spots are that keep a story from doing so.

I don’t think any writer really loves to critique. We understand how dreadful a feeling it is to have one’s baby flayed and pinned to the wall, the flaws on open display. (Note: there are some toxic critiquers who delight in emotional banditry, insulting others’ stories. This post isn’t about them.) We don’t want to tell someone else what is wrong with their story–but we will in a critique session, because the information is valuable. It could be the difference between the slush pile and a contract. Try to remember that the critiquers by and large are overcoming their own natural reticence to help your story.

Above all, don’t get loud. If you disagree, wait for your turn and say, “I disagree.” But come on–if two of your critique partners agree on something, it’s something you need to seriously take a look at, not disagree with. At the very least there is a problem that might need tweaking in your text. But do not get loud. Do not blame your editor, or say that your story is for a small select audience who will Understand.

Because that sort of shit means you’ll never get published. An editor sees that sort of behavior and thinks, thank God I don’t have to work with that. You’re in the slush pile regardless of the quality of your work, and that is something no writer needs. Conversely, you can never tell when an editor will recognize your name and associate it with the great way you took a critique. Remember, editors are people too…and if they have to make a choice between 1. moderate quality and a person who’s easy to work with, and 2. higher quality but an a$$hole to work with, guess what they will choose most of the time? (Hint: it isn’t #2.)

Critiquers understand this is a delicate and explosive situation***. That’s why there are Rules. The Rules are there to take the emotion out or at least tone it down, to mitigate the hurt, and give a framework that makes it easier for us to be human beings instead of screaming emotion-driven banshees. Of course, Rules are only as good as the people playing by them or breaking them…but that’s beside the point.

So, things not to do during a critique:

* Don’t try to explain your story.
* Don’t get loud or combative, or distraught.
* Do not blame your editor, your beta reader, the sad state of literacy in America, the stupidity of readers, etc., for the fact that your story is inoperable.
* Do not talk when you’re not supposed to.
* Do not take the critique as a personal attack.
* Don’t try to sell or pitch the story.
* Above all, do not be rude.

Things to do during a critique:

* Take notes. You won’t remember everything without help.
* Keep your trap shut when you’re supposed to.
* Try to divorce yourself from the story for an hour. The clearer and more dispassionate you can be, the better.
* Be polite. Be polite, be polite, be polite.
* Thank the critiquers.
* Don’t ask how you can sell the story. Ask how you can make the story better.
* It is perfectly acceptable to ask for clarification. Use this with caution, though, as it is easy to slide down the rabbit hole into Defending Yer Story.

As usual, thy mileage will vary, my ducks. Take all my advice with a grain of salt, since this is only my personal perception, etc., etc., ad nauseum, ad infinitum.

Disclaimer done. Good luck out there.

* Heh. I make this joke only because I saw “kretek” on every packet of clove cigarettes I ever smoked.
**Not that I believe published authors are “higher” on the food chain. It’s just that they found something that worked and so, are uniquely placed to give advice.
***At least, the good ones do. There are still those emotional bandits, who are still another post.

There’s an interview with me up over at Publishers Weekly’s Genreville. They asked me all sorts of questions about urban fantasy.

And, yesterday, guess what happened? I was just hanging out on my front step, minding my own business, when FedEx dropped off a box. Guess what was in it. NO, GUESS! Okay, I’ll tell you.

Copies of Betrayals, that’s what!

Isn’t the new cover gorgeous? I really like this one. It’s due out November 17th, and I’m so glad to get a few of them early.

Of course, the Princess screamed in anticipation and grabbed one, and last night retired to bed with it. “I can’t wait to find out what happens to Dru!” she told me at least five times during dinner.

It’s nice to please even one reader.

So, I’ll be running giveaways, I guess. Stay tuned–I’ll probably give one away this Friday on my regular writing post. And of course readers of my newsletter, The Dark Side, get special giveaways just for them. I’m just sayin’.

I do not like American football^[1]. For a long time I have considered it a shameful waste–a waste of young men, a waste of tax revenue for the stadiums, a waste of energy and enthusiasm. I realize not many people share my views. That’s OK. I’m used to that.

When I was running at the track over at the middle school, I would always dread this time of year. Because American football tryouts and practices would be going on in the field inside the track. I hated the aura of effort and misery over the young kids. I hated how the parents would yell from the sidelines, looking to live vicariously through their poor kids instead of working to live as adults. I absolutely loathed how the “coaches” would yell abuse at the kids. If someone talked to my kid that way, there would be consequences. Someone would lose their job and I’d make a lot of trouble for the school. I realize I am an administrator’s worst nightmare. So be it. Nobody verbally abuses my children, thank you.

Sometimes, when the wind is right this time of year, I can hear the whistle blowing and yelling from the middle school. I’m glad I have the treadmill and I do my running in the morning now. My heart would ache for the poor kids every time I went running over there during American football season.

This little trip down Memory Lane was spurred by this Malcolm Gladwell article in the New Yorker, titled Football, Dogfighting, and Brain Damage. Go read it. (Seriously, go. I’ll wait here.)

Catchy title, isn’t it? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

The first brain McKee received was from a man in his mid-forties who had played as a linebacker in the N.F.L. for ten years. He accidentally shot himself while cleaning a gun. He had at least three concussions in college, and eight in the pros. In the years before his death, he’d had memory lapses, and had become more volatile. McKee immunostained samples of his brain tissue, and saw big splotches of tau all over the frontal and temporal lobes. If he hadn’t had the accident, he would almost certainly have ended up in a dementia ward. (Malcolm Gladwell)

Ten years, okay. But surely if a kid stops early they don’t get as damaged. Right? You think it’s okay for a kid to play this “sport”? Really?

McKee got up and walked across the corridor, back to her office. “There’s one last thing,” she said. She pulled out a large photographic blowup of a brain-tissue sample. “This is a kid. I’m not allowed to talk about how he died. He was a good student. This is his brain. He’s eighteen years old. He played football. He’d been playing football for a couple of years.” She pointed to a series of dark spots on the image, where the stain had marked the presence of something abnormal. “He’s got all this tau. This is frontal and this is insular. Very close to insular. Those same vulnerable regions.” This was a teen-ager, and already his brain showed the kind of decay that is usually associated with old age. “This is completely inappropriate,” she said. “You don’t see tau like this in an eighteen-year-old. You don’t see tau like this in a fifty-year-old.” (Malcolm Gladwell)

Yeah. Harmless, aggressive fun. Well, what about those super helmets that are supposed to be coming out now, that are supposed to cut down on brain trauma?

“People love technological solutions,” Nowinski went on. “When I give speeches, the first question is always: ‘What about these new helmets I hear about?’ What most people don’t realize is that we are decades, if not forever, from having a helmet that would fix the problem. I mean, you have two men running into each other at full speed and you think a little bit of plastic and padding could absorb that 150 gs of force?” (Malcolm Gladwell)

The most maddening part of the Gladwell article comes when he’s interviewing Ira Casson, who “co-chairs an N.F.L. committee on brain injury.” Casson is careful to engage in lawyerly doublespeak, and avoid all real responsibility.

“We certainly know from boxers that the incidence of C.T.E. is related to the length of your career,” he went on. “So if you want to apply that to football—and I’m not saying it does apply—then you’d have to let people play six years and then stop. If it comes to that, maybe we’ll have to think about that. On the other hand, nobody’s willing to do this in boxing. Why would a boxer at the height of his career, six or seven years in, stop fighting, just when he’s making million-dollar paydays?” He shrugged. “It’s a violent game. I suppose if you want to you could play touch football or flag football. For me, as a Jewish kid from Long Island, I’d be just as happy if we did that. But I don’t know if the fans would be happy with that. So what else do you do?” (Malcolm Gladwell)

In other words, as long as there’s money to be squeezed out of the public’s hunger to see men beat the shit out of each other, people like Casson will be all too willing to profit. The fact that it’s killing people, driving them to dementia and scarring their brains, doesn’t matter. There’s cash to be had. As long as people will pay, hey, people will play. And that’s it.

The problem is that this breaks the implicit contract between players of American football and the “managers” and “coaches” who push them to give their all. If you are going to push a dog, a child, or a man to give you their best effort, their everything, it is incumbent upon you, as Gladwell points out, not to march them off the end of a cliff. It is not enough to “lead.” One must lead responsibly. Why is this simple fact not taken into account? Oh, yeah. That little thing called profit.

Now, when I hear the whistles floating over from the middle school and the sound of kids flinging themselves at each other, I am going to be even more disgusted. If I’m ever over at the track while “practice” is going on, Jesus, I don’t know. It’s going to be difficult to watch. There are those kids, thinking that their parents and coaches know best. They wouldn’t ask us to do this, or let us do this, if it was dangerous, right?

Right?

Right?

^[1] To me, real football is what Yanks call soccer. American football is something different. YMMV

Cotton wool stuffing my skull. Stuffed nose. At least the cold doesn’t seem to be getting any worse. I can still hit the treadmill in the mornings, which is a step up from the last round–that was the Travel Cold From Hell. *shivers* Ugh.

I am in the stage of writing a Kismet book where I have an acute attack of nerves. Nobody’s going to like it, I don’t know what I’m doing, who do I think I am… The usual. The good thing is that I’ve done this so many times by now that I’m prepared for the emotional upheaval. The bad news is…emotional upheaval. And I’ve been writing this book under acid-test conditions, as it were.

I just keep reminding myself: if I could go through pregnancy, 11+ years of being a mother, and getting published in the first place, this is small potatoes. Well, maybe small yams. Or something. I’ve done this before, I can do it again.

Last night I did some yoga on the Wii. It was actually really cool. I’m avoiding Downward Dog (the trainer tells you to put half the weight on your arms, instead of keeping most of it in your legs) and the shoulderstand (what, do I look like I shoulderstand? Not on your life, buddy). But the Palm Tree, Sun Salutation, Grounded V, Chair Pose? Oh yeah. Those I can do. And I feel so good after it’s finished–I think it’s the deep breathing.

Of course, doing yoga with a head cold is hilarious. If only because of the noises one’s nose makes during the deep breathing section of the festivities.

And now, because I’m sure you’re bored of hearing about All That, a link!

Very short stories, courtesy of Wired. com. I love these, especially Margaret Atwood’s. I found a book of 50-word stories once, including one (maybe by Chekhov?) about a woman named for a wolf. When you have so few words, each one counts for more than itself.

And with that, I’m taking myself off to a lunch of tomato soup and yesterday’s bread. Yum. I just wish I could taste it through this damn cold.

Yesterday my friend MakeMe took me to the mall. We ended up going down to the Hawthorne district in Portland too, to visit Chopsticks and the Gold Door. It was good to get out of the house, and even better to spend some time with a good friend. Unfortunately, I caught a cold somewhere in the crowds of Sunday browsers.

So this morning I’m logy. Enjoying the rain coming down outside, it’s starring the puddles over and over again. It makes me feel all nice and cozy, nevermind sniffles or the mud that’s sure to be tracked in.

I’ve finished reading Kage Baker‘s Company novels (at least, I think Sons of Heaven is the last one) and a couple books of short stories in the Company universe. I think Baker really got her feet under her with Mendoza In Hollywood , and after reading the anthologies I’ve found the immortal I identify closest with is Lewis. Though I’d probably get stuck with Joseph’s job.

Anyway, I’ve moved on to Arthur Conan Doyle’s A Study In Scarlet and finally managed to get past the slog in the early part of The Talented Mr. Ripley. I couldn’t watch the Ripley movie, it was just too slow for me.

So today is for light exercise, wordcount (I’ve reached the point where I have to read the beginning of the current book so I can pick up the threads and start tying them off) and a little bit of reading. And chicken soup with tons of garlic. Thank goodness I’m feeling more like cooking again.

But more about that tomorrow.