Every Critique Circle member has been there. You get a notification about a new critique on your story, and a little bubble forms in your belly filled with hope, excitement, fear, anxiety—a real Schrodinger's Cat scenario. You click the icon and find yourself awash in glowing praise about your genius, your wordsmithing, your unexpected twists, your clever phrasing and interesting characters. That bubble in your belly swells into a star-spangled hot air balloon on a clear July morning, and you’re floating on cloud nine.
Hey, look! Another crit!
Still light-headed from your sky-high ego trip, you eagerly delve into this new wave of insight, anticipating another fresh gust of wind for your sails, or some smoke blown up your…
Oh.
A needle is cruelly thrust into your bubble of joy. You’re not brilliant after all. That plot twist was just a gimmicky “gotcha” moment. Also, what’s with your main character’s stupid name? And why would you use a word like simmer when you should have said seethe? More importantly, how dare you describe a character experiencing a “gut feeling?” The word “gut” is abhorrent and vulgar and totally unnecessary! Gross! Story ruined!
“Thanks for your helpful insight. I will certainly consider your suggestions.” Even as you type out the obligatory Thank You note, that little bubble in your belly simmers. Or seethes. Whatever.
So what is a writer to do with contrasting critiques? Who is right? The friend who made you feel so giddy you were about to float off your chair, or the foe who cruelly yanked you back to earth?
Honestly? It’s probably some of both.
On a good week, crits seem to range from useless praise with little insight to pointless criticism from someone who took offense to my use of a word they had to Google. But there are often dense, meaty crits in between these two extremes which help me take my work to the next level. Though each critter comes from their own perspective, likes things others hated, hates things others liked, patterns often emerge that echo in a resounding consensus. Five of six critters said my ending was abrupt? My ending is probably abrupt. Three thought I was too wordy? I’ll make a point to trim the fat. One demands to know why I referred to the Man in the Moon as a he when the moon is obviously a she? Yeah, probably gonna ignore that one.
Yet once the crit week wraps up, we might be juggling piles of suggestions for changes that cannot all be applied. Contradictory advice aside, you can’t—and shouldn’t—try to please everyone. You’ll end up with a proverbial “camel,” spliced together into a Frankenstein-ish nightmare—hacked apart and clumsily stitched back together into a monster you cannot recognize as your creation. In the end, your work isn’t made for everyone. It’s made for you. Take the advice that makes you like your story better. And as much as I hate to admit it, this often ends up being the advice that hurts the most. No, I’m not talking about advice from those who obviously hated the story and want it fundamentally changed to suit their tastes—it wasn’t written for them. Neither am I editing out the phrase “gut feeling.” That comment didn’t hurt me since, frankly, I found it a silly thing to be offended by. But the disparaging remarks about the gimmicky plot twist did hurt. That’s because, deep down in my wounded soul, I knew they were right.
However, when it comes to the core of the story—what gives it its identity and heart—that’s where I defer to the praise. Sure, those critters might’ve been so carried away by the story they missed countless glaring errors. But their lack of distraction with the narrative foibles allowed them to clearly see what the story was about—what I intended it to be. And, even throughout all the painful cuts and changes, that’s worth keeping intact.