Taking Feedback

Posted by Lynne Griffin

I've been doing some manuscript consultation through Grub Street and through my own company and I'm learning a lot about how writers respond to editorial feedback. Now I'm not an agent looking to buff and polish a manuscript to get it ready for submission. And I'm not an editor at a publishing house. I'm reading like a writer and giving honest development feedback on stories and nonfiction book proposals. There are a number of myths out there about editorial feedback, some I admit to grappling with in my writing career. I'm going to attempt to bust a few.

Myth 1
If your work needs editing, it isn't very good.

Every writer needs a good editor, or two! From developmental edits about structure and voice to copy edits for consistent grammar, open your mind to this: you will be edited. Before any kind of submission, be sure to find smart, savvy readers. Your work will absolutely be better as a result of constructive feedback.

Myth 2
If you accept the editorial feedback, then the story isn't yours.

You are in the driver's seat making the final choices about what stays and goes, and what is deepened and strengthened. If you write with the hopes of being published, then get set to embrace a team mentality when it comes to fine-tuning your work.

Myth 3
If there is too much editorial feedback, then the story probably isn't worth revising.

Feedback on a first draft may well be overwhelming, but keep in mind most writers believe it is in revision that the real writing begins. I doubt Arthur Golden or Wally Lamb would show you first drafts of Memoirs of a Geisha or She's Come Undone.

Myth 4
If an editor suggests that an aspect of your work is confusing, he or she just doesn't get what you were trying to do.

When one trusted reader says he doesn't get, and then another says the same, it's time to listen. If sophisticated readers don't understand something, likely readers won't either. There's an art and a science to listening to feedback, and of course then to taking it.

Myth 5
If your editor gives you feedback, that means he or she doesn't like the work.

Often editors can be more objective about your work than you can. Simply because he or she points out flaws in argument or weak plot lines doesn't mean he or she doesn't like your overall effort. It's all too easy to take feedback personally. This business requires you to know when to put on your armor or when to close the office door.

Like anything in this journey toward living a literary life, it's important to learn where you are in accepting honest, constructive feedback. Perspective taking is hard work, but I will say it's important to do it. If you're able to let go of mythical thinking and really sort through the feedback you've received, only then will you be able to see what rings true and what doesn't. You'll be in a better position to execute changes that deepen the piece, and in the process become a better writer.

Working through my own feelings about accepting feedback is it's own work-in-progress. I'm willing but not always able to challenge my thinking about accepting feedback, but when I can, my writing is stronger for it. I'm truly grateful for the cadre of trusted readers who've challenged me to reach for a new personal best when it comes to story telling.

The first step in debunking myths related to accepting editorial feedback is to be open to what gets in the way of seeing it's validity. What gets in your way? And how do you attempt to overcome it?

A Fool's Gambit

By Amy MacKinnon
Don't mess with success. Write what you know. Stay within your genre. Focus on one project at a time.

I am a fool. I'm a scared fool. A bit of a wreck even. I'm doing everything wrong, I know this, and yet I keep doing it.

Right now, I'm writing two books. One is so dark, I'm not sure there's a market for it, though Jon Clinch assures me there is, right there alongside him and Cormac McCarthy. Have you read Finn, Blood Meridian? Brilliant books written by brilliant writers. Already I'm being warned not to go too dark, to be careful.

The other I have no business writing at all. None. It is an homage to a classic, one I've read countless times over the years, a story I know in my bones because I've lived it firsthand. But the author of the classic is a literary titan. When I told a close friend what I was attempting, he was aghast. Be careful, he said.

But it's not my job to be careful, to play it safe and write the same book over and over again. It's my duty to myself and my writing to reach beyond whatever skillset I have today, to stretch, and then follow my instincts.

Last week at Writers Read for Twain, I was talking to one of my favorites, Stewart O'Nan. He's the author of many, many books including the little gem Last Night at the Lobster. I say little, not because of the story, it's bigger than the jacket can contain, but because I doubt it's more than 40,000 words. I asked if his publisher worried that it was too short, if people along the way urged him to flesh it out. He nodded vigorously.

But you refused, I said.

Yes, he said (and I'm paraphrasing here), I believed in it.

He was right to do so. Lobster represents a return to simple elegance in storytelling. Stewart O'Nan broke all the rules and won; his book was both a commercial and literary success. He took a magnificent risk.

I hope I'll be able to say the same some day.

A Group Grows Up

by Hannah Roveto

What does a writers' group offer to writers who are not just starting out? How is someone who has a full WIP or even experience in the wild world of publishing supposed to use a writers' group?

A friend of mine with two books on shelves recently formed a group with two other published authors and even among the three of them, the questions arose: What do we need from each other? What are the rules and boundaries? One of the writers has a full manuscript and her first need is for a reading and critique, while my friend is in the development stages, turning a script she wrote into a novel. She asked for my thoughts, which was hugely flattering.

I outlined our group's process as established early on, noting that as we evolved, the rules have become somewhat flexible. We meet regularly, not necessarily every two weeks. We don't turn out pages "just because," and still keep the pressure on ourselves to push forward. We do read full manuscripts and here is our process for that:

* Readers follow a piece's progress in chunks. However, as we near the end (Amy or Lynne's brilliant idea) the author holds back the last three or so chapters and rewrites/completes the entire manuscript. The work is delivered as a fresh story with an ending the readers have never seen.

* A complete manuscript is usually the sole work reviewed in a meeting. Pages are delivered in advance, packaged in gray copy center boxes that to us signify excitement and accomplishment. We read and comment on the entire book, from threads to plausibility to line edits.

The value of those comments is in their service to the author, which is more significant than it sounds. As Lynne once wrote, honesty is in the details, but those details can only be processed by the author, something we all recognize fully. The author can feel free to use readers outside the group. And while the author considers any reader's critique as a flag marking something worth review, critique is recognized by the writer -- and the readers -- as opinion. Our role is to point out details that work and don't work, where the strengths are and where challenges might lie. We hope to help make the foundation strong; what the author does with our thoughts is her prerogative. We trust each other enough to know the advice is good, and we take what is needed as a gift, with deep appreciation.

In fact, The Writers Group members have never seen the final manuscripts delivered by our sisters-in-writing to an agent. (A draft once, but no finals.) We have seen only predecessors. What stayed and what went, what was deleted or added by the author -- and in turn, the agent and editor -- is a surprise. Really. And on that note, is everyone ready for a fabulous book being released on the twelfth called Tethered? I'm dying to read it!

Readers

By Amy MacKinnon

Have you heard about Book Browse? It's a web site for people who love books and want to share their thoughts -- good and bad -- with other devoted readers. People who sign-up for the program can request a free galley and then write a review of it. That's quite a bit of power in this brave, new world where publishers are beginning to focus much of their publicity budgets on Internet marketing. Pay attention, writers.

So while my publicist and marketing director were thrilled to report last week that Tethered was the most requested galley in Book Browse history, I was a little wary. What would people be saying -- for all the world to read -- about my book?

It used to be that word-of-mouth was all done over the back fence or at the local coffee shop, dropping of the kids at school or picking up a book at the library. I tend to believe, and I could be completely wrong, that professional reviews don't inspire the average reader to plunk down their money for a book, nor do ads. Maybe seeing it on the front table at Borders, Barnes & Noble, or especially a favorite indie might inspire interest, but a trusted friend's suggestion is gold, isn't it? Publishers can't buy that kind buzz.

That's what's so interesting about Book Browse. They're corralling a network of readers into an online community in order to get real feedback. This is the wave of the future. The administrators of Book Browse won't accept pitches from publishers for their book selections, though they do accept advertising, they select what books they'll offer to their readers. The want to remain independent of anyone's influence.

Well, some reviews from real, live readers are starting to trickle into the site. While I've no interest in professional reviews, I care deeply what readers have to say. They are the ones who matter.

Just Show Up

By Amy MacKinnon

Before writing fiction, I was an essayist. I was also a reporter, but I much preferred writing essays and I still seek them out. The good ones take the personal, make it universal, and somehow imbue it with a profound observation on the human condition.

Yesterday, Jezebel posted one that is all of those things. Allegedly written by an anonymous runway model, Tatiana, it's everything an essay should be. Study it for lessons in clarity and story arc, how to give an unflinching account without a hint of sentimentality.

But as a writer, as someone who's faced with rejection and criticism, conflicting advice and conditional approval, withering reviews and fickle attention, read it for the next to last graf too. Remove all references to modeling and instead insert writing:

"But there is one way in which this industry has taught me to take less of an obsessive interest in how I measure up, appearance-wise. The feedback you receive as a model is breathtaking in its contradictions, vehemence, and beside-the-point meanderings. My shoulders, too broad for one client, will be criticized for their narrowness by another. I have been told I have too many freckles, and also too few. I've been too pale, too tan, too old, too young, too brown, too red, too blonde. I'm too tall or too short. My feet are too big or not big enough. At first, this was unsettling, and kind of withering, but it soon became white noise — when a casting agent shares advice with me ("Tie your hair back for castings!" "Walk more smoothly!" "Work out so you have some arm muscle!") I thank him or her politely and do precisely nothing — because I know the next will want to see unfettered hair, a cocky swagger of a walk, and arms that aren't as "bulky" with muscle as mine. It all cancels out, and I'm left with the conclusion that the client will cast whomever they will cast and they'll know it as soon as the right model walks in the door and nothing in my power will change that. The best I can do is show up."

Familiar? There is a cacophony of opinion about what constitutes good writing, good storytelling, a good book --there is nothing harmonious about public/private/professional opinion. With few exceptions it should all be white noise.

What you must do, all you can do, is write for the story. Write what compels you, what consumes your every thought. Don't worry about producing ten pages every day or even writing every day. Write because you want to, because you have to. Write because you love to write. Do that, and you'll become the person you want to be. Really. Because no matter what, your shoulders will be too narrow, too wide; your sprinkle of freckles will be too dense, too sparse; your arms too muscular, too flabby. I don't mean to imply that a worthy critiquer doesn't exist, I give as the best example my writers' group. What I do mean to say is it's crucial to be selective about whom you choose to listen to and when. No voice should be louder than your own.

And on those days when the voices overtake you, when there's another rejection in your email and you're certain you're no writer at all, remember: the best you can do is show up.

Pondering Criticism

by Hannah Roveto

From a letter by Shelby Foote to Walker Percy:

"I think a writer's mistakes are infinitely more interesting than any editor's "corrections" (and mind you, a critic is only an editor-once-removed) -- I think no one can have the view of the book the writer himself has, the CREATIVE view... It sometimes happens that certain scenes have no evident function; the critic says, Take this out. But these very scenes work in some way to bring out the total effect, heighten the contiguous scenes, and give the whole book its peculiar individuality. Yet any smart editor would have cut them -- I'm not talking about a dummy, I mean really smart: the speed of the book would have been picked up, the reading would go better... but don't you see? It wouldn't be the same book. A man must learn from his mistakes (even granting he was wrong) -- from MAKING them, not from being saved from them."

Foote goes on to say each book has its own problems, but still, "A man must write for himself, and then he must accept the penalties -- including the possibility of damnation."

I've reread this letter several times in the past two days, thinking of it in light of our last group meeting. The first chunk of my revisions were read (positive reaction!) and we also discussed reviews. (Three votes to "read once," one vote to ignore altogether.)

Shelby Foote is onto something. The weight criticism is given must come from the writer, and nowhere else. Commentary must be screened in light of how much we trust and respect the reviewer (so pick people you trust on your journey!), and its usefulness in identifying mistakes. If in our heart of hearts what lies on the page is something we have to go forward with, then we've made our choice; no matter the reaction, it was the right choice.

My mother is an artist, a jeweler, and even pieces made as recently as a year ago are sometimes melted down. She has learned a new technique. She has changed, improved, and those pieces reflect a lesser benchmark. Some pieces she believed in, that others said weren't right for their shows, have gone on to be in museums and in gorgeous coffee table books. Some pieces she has "outgrown" but saved get rave reviews. She doesn't agree with them, either, any longer. What I see in her is that she is never her review, and she is not even her work. The work reflects a side of her at one particular point in time. She knows this, deep in her heart, and continues to learn and to evolve. As Shelby Foote notes, "Life is long and the individual facets of Art are fleeting, except of course in the long view: which no writer ever takes, being a peculiar sort of fool, and therefore wise."

Reviews

By Amy MacKinnon

I love newspapers, always have. So it probably comes as no surprise that Sunday mornings are my favorites, the day when papers are at their thickest. I pour myself a bowl of Starbucks, settle in first with the hardcopies and then I wander over to my computer to read the others online. The headlines, local news, features, advice columns, oh and the essays. My favorite pages are the book reviews.

I've been reading book reviews almost as long as I've been reading books. In an earlier freelance incarnation, I was hired to write reviews. The first book I was assigned was a memoir by a local writer. I didn't love it. In fact, I found myself judging some of the choices the author made in the course of the story (adultery) and not necessarily the story arc, the evolution of her personal growth, the writing--not that I was dazzled by those aspects either. However, as a writer myself, it was inconceivable that I could crush in black and white someone who had spent years laying bare her soul. I apologized to my editor, explained I lacked the appropriate perspective, and vowed never to review a book.

Last night at Writers' Group, they reminded me that soon my own book would be sent off to be reviewed. It caused me some distress to consider that. I won't read them, I said. But you might learn something from them, said one. They might make you feel fantastic, said another. You're going to get some good ones and some bad, said yet another. (Actually, by this point I was feeling too ill to know who was speaking so the same person may have said all of this and more, but you get the gist.)

There are many reasons for my not wanting to read reviews of my novel. Some are practical. Many years ago, I did a story for the Boston Globe about an art exhibition and the curator said something I've never forgotten: not everyone is qualified to judge art. This provoked a series of questions from me, essentially about the subjectivity of art and the entitlement of individual perspective. He said that most people are not entitled to an opinion since they hadn't the breadth of knowledge about art in general or specifically. I've tussled with this over the years and only lately have I come to understand that he didn't intend it as a slight to the masses, but that he may have been absolutely right.

Weeks ago, I read a review of Castle Freeman's Go With Me. In it, Ron Charles references no fewer than three other works for comparison sake; he understands the inspiration behind this twenty-first century fable. Having that breadth of knowledge allowed him to better understand the layering effect Mr. Freeman used in crafting his novel. Another person might have read it and thought the styling was overly simplistic or some such. This is what the NBCC means when it states reviewing is and of itself an art form that should not to be taken lightly. Based on that review, I bought the book and felt I had an overall better sense of the story, which I highly recommend by the way-- for what it's worth.

So perhaps I should listen to my friends, read the reviews as they come in. Learn from the respectable ones and somehow try to let go of the anonymous negative critiques.

I don't know. What will you do when it's your turn?

The Rules of Writing

By Amy

If you want to be a writer, a real writer, then you must write every day. You must meet a daily minimum word count. A true writer has read the classics. Before you may call yourself a writer, you must -- must! -- know proper grammar; this is non-negotiable. Writers never read within the genre they're writing while they're writing; we might fall prey to osmosis plagiarism. If you are to be published, then you will never be at a loss for ideas for the next scene, the next chapter, the next book. True writers don't write in first-person, present tense; everyone knows how much agents and editors detest this. Don't edit your work until you've written that $hi!!y first draft. If you're a short story writer, then you've heard a thousand times over the dictum of a certain editor that a short story must take place within the time-frame of a single day. You must write what you know. You must, you must, you must...

These are a few of the rules of writing I've heard over the years. I reject them all.

Writing is a personal journey. It's something that happens within each of us and is then poured out, massaged, and refined before being shared with the world. It's an explosion of passion, an obsessively controlled expression.

There are no rules for writing, though there are guidelines. I believe in certain truths: reading enriches my writing; grammar is fun; write not what I know, but what I want to know; become one with the protagonist. But these are my truths. I know if I were to write every day, the words would soon become stale, perfunctory. They would appear on the page only because they had to, not because I felt them. Perhaps you must write each day. Good on you! You know your strengths and weaknesses best. Feel confident with your choices.

My advice (not that you asked)? Know the rules, become intimate with them, and then throw them all away. When you're ready, pick and choose that which resonates with your own literary life. Trust your gut more than those books on writing you picked up at the library or bookstore. Read them, definitely do, but again, choose what is right for you.

This is your journey, navigate your own path. You may find yourself crossing trails with others along the way; enjoy the commiseration. But know that ultimately you'll find your way, on your terms. You must.

The Story

By Amy

A reader of this blog, Jack Payne, once left a comment in one of my posts:

"Only part I disagree with is, 'I write for the story.' What does that mean exactly? It's unclear.To me, that would be like the design engineer of a refrigerator saying, "I do it for the refrigerator."Don't we all write for the reader? I always did. Over my long career--55 business books--I always regarded the customer as king. Same way when I came out of retirement to write my first novel, Six Hours Past Thursday. If I couldn't create something beneficial or entertaining for the reader, I had nothing to offer. The story is automatically taken care of when you "score" with customer (reader) satisfaction.--Jack Payne"

Now finished with my edits, I haven't stopped thinking about what Mr. Payne had to say. While writing this book and then revising, I've had four readers: the three savvy women of The Writers' Group and my agent (some months ago, in a fit of panic, I asked Hank Phillippi Ryan to read the last chapter and in exchange for my undying gratitude, she dropped everything to do so). Over these many months, I've glowed under their praise and sometimes took to my bed because of their constructive criticism; their approval means so much. But never did I write for them.

The beginning and ending of the story were always clear to me. As soon as I realized I was writing a novel, I understood what my protagonist's transformation had to be, how it would be. But that wouldn't come until the end. There were many dark days slogging through the middle. I'll never forget going to a reading of Carol Goodman's The Ghost Orchid with Hannah, Lynne, and another writer, Caitlin, and telling them I had made page 100! Certainly I was elated to have reached that milestone, but stumbling around the parking lot afterward, the truth was that I was lost in the manuscript with no compass to guide me toward the end.

Part of the problem was that my story was so very dark. Bad enough to explore the life of an undertaker and her work, but now the story was pulling me toward a young girl and thrusting her in harm's way. With the exception of Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones (a novel that has a "forever spot" on my desk), I can't read books where children are threatened. If I were writing this book for the reader, the story would have been neatly told, and I could have rested well, knowing the little girl was safe. Instead, I had to give myself over to the story, trust it to reveal itself.

It was a terrifying process, one I struggled with until the very last revision. It was uncompromising, not always kind, but in the end, it was what I hoped it to be all along: unfailingly honest.

That's what I mean by writing for the story. It's the best explanation I can give you, Mr. Payne.

To Read or Not to Read

by Hannah

Lynne and I went to a revision class taught by Hallie Ephron this spring. When Hallie asked for volunteers to read first paragraphs, Lynne was one of the brave ones, rewarded by Hallie’s deserved interest. My hand stayed down because in skimming my own potential offering, I came to an undeniable conclusion.

Yuck.

How many things were wrong with it? Let me count the ways.

No surprise, then, if I tell you that feedback from the group at about the same time was unanimous. With regard to the first chapter or so, as that is the focus here, the critique was a useful and literary "nope," for all the right reasons. In fact, the question was posed, shouldn’t the story start much later, well after that first chapter?

We don’t always take suggestions, it is true, even if all three others are in agreement. On this particular subject, all four of us agreed. I sat down to cut off the offending text.

I couldn’t do it.

I knew how I wanted to change the story, and a secondary character introduced in the first chapter would show up again once revisions were made. In addition, the protagonist’s experience with this secondary character showed certain motivations, or lack thereof, and to some degree propelled him forward. All well and good at a rational level, but not enough to catch and push the reader forward.

I started to play with them, deepened their quirks. I read it aloud to myself and decided it still needed something before it was read aloud anywhere by anyone.

The trick came in setting. I maintained the storyline, but shifted the action out of a restaurant (Sit! Eat!). The chapter opens now in a beautiful place both characters love, then shifts to a location only the protagonist adores. In doing so, the protagonist and secondary character fell further into place, their personalities became more pronounced.

Bingo! A first chapter I couldn’t wait to read aloud again and to email to the others. The lesson learned has carried me through every step since. Every bit – not just most bits – revised thus far, I would be willing to read aloud in a class, any time. Aha...

Literary Lingo

Posted by Lynne

If you ask for feedback on your writing from your mother, sister or friend and you get, "It was wonderful" or "I didn't understand why your character did that," that's not difficult to interpret. If you turn to an English teacher and she says she loves how you used internal parallelism, you might have to go look that up in a dictionary of literary terms. But where do you turn when you need to understand the critique you get from an agent, editor, or reviewer?

In today's post, I'm going to take a shot at defining the latest industry buzz words, words that are nothing if not vague, often leaving a writer left scratching her head. Here's my attempt to clarify.

Literary: Literary fiction is characterized, by most, as more character-driven than plot-driven fiction. Some say it's more about the writing than the story. Others say it has a stronger social-emotional message. From a market standpoint, it's harder to sell, but gets reviewed more often.

Commercial: Commercial fiction is more often plot-driven fiction. Often it has a faster pace, a stronger hook and sells more than literary fiction.

Genre: Genre fiction is commercial fiction that fits into specific categories such as romance, mystery and science fiction, to name a few.

Upmarket: Upmarket fiction, defined by my agent, is work that bridges literary and commercial fiction. Publishers like upmarket work because novels tend to do well when they contain the best of both genres. For more on the difference between upmarket and downmarket, visit our old friend Miss Snark. She has an old post that illustrates the difference between the two, including examples.

Downmarket: Downmarket fiction usually refers to genre fiction. This is fiction with a solid fan base that tends to sell well to specific audiences.

High concept: High concept fiction is generally work with a solid hook. Agents and editors like high concept work because it's easier to sell a novel when the book can be described in a phrase or sentence.

Organic: Organic fiction (or characters) is a literary term used to describe writing that is authentic, not contrived. An organic character might also be referred to as pitch perfect, the character rings true.

Voicey: A voicey piece is writing that is voice-driven. A wonderful example of a voice-driven novel is Catcher in the Rye. Reading it, you can hear Holden talking to you, his tone, his demeanor.

Quiet: When a work is referred to as quiet, it means it's more literary than commercial, and often judged for not having a lot going on from a plot perspective. In today's marketplace, a quiet novel is harder to sell.

Compelling delivery: You are a good writer if anyone says you're novel has been delivered in a compelling way. This is a term that refers to the craft of writing.

Low impact: This term means the agent or editor wasn't left with that loving feeling. The reader must be moved by the characters, the story and of course the overall writing.

Doesn’t distinguish itself: This is a marketplace term that refers to a concern that the work isn't unique enough to stand out among the thousands of books that are published each year. These days, a novel that doesn't distinguish itself--even if the writing is gorgeous--doesn't tend to do well with readers.

No legs: This funny little phrase means much the same as "doesn't distinguish itself." The agent or editor believes it won't stand out among the competition.

Didn’t sing: First a novel must stand up and then it must sing? Yes, you must aim to wow your readers. It's a tall order for a novel, but agents, editors and reviewers know readers are first and foremost consumers. Word of mouth sales come when a novel sings.

Not fresh: Again, this means the novel doesn't bring anything new to the shelf. Readers want fresh.

If you've ever heard any of these terms from your agent or seen them written in a rejection letter, you're likely left to wonder what to do with your feedback. Sometimes an agent or editor will use these terms and it's a compliment, (Compelling delivery). Sometimes they're simply stating a fact, (Your novel is upmarket). Other times the feedback is a criticism and you'll have to mull it over and decide what you'll do with the feedback, though how in the world one sets out to make a novel sing is a mystery.

While you may define these terms differently, (and if you do, please share in the comments section) I hope my definitions help you sort through the myriad of feedback you're receiving. If you have another term you'd like defined, let me know. If I don't know, I'll ask my agent, editor, or the wonderful ladies at The Writers' Group to help me define it for you.

Making a Literary Life Friday: Perspective

Perspective isn't simply a matter of point-of-view, first or third, a way to tell a story within our writing, we must also carefully consider whose perspective matters when it's time to share pages. Whose opinion matters most: your writers' group, agent's, editor's, or do you listen to that voice that's been whispering to you all along? We'd like to hear.

Lisa
To me, what's most important is that voice inside me. Funny how outsiders are sometimes the ones to remind us to listen to that voice. This past weekend, I had the honor of interviewing Gregory Maguire, a truly brilliant but gentle and genuinely kind person. His body of work speaks for itself: Wicked, Son of a Witch, Lost, Mirror Mirror, True Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister. Fantastic children's books. The list goes on.
That writer's voice inside me was singing after I spoke with Gregory. It chimed out and for once I was listening. "Let go and write! Write Sad. Write Happy. Write Magic. Write Odd.
Write!"
The article will be published in the summer quarterly issue of The Grub Street Rag.

Amy
The most important lesson I've learned over these past months is to trust that inner voice. The part of the writing process I expected to be the most difficult has indeed turned out to be the most frustrating: revising. This week, however, a break through, thanks in large part to Scott Heim. His advice was - and I'm paraphrasing -- to revise around the original idea, not away from it. It may sound convulted, he probably said it better, but it makes perfect sense to me. Also, HH LeCraw had invaluable advice about POV: make sure your reader isn't skimming through one character's chapters to get to another's. Obvious, perhaps, but how many writers have fallen victim to choosing favorites? Thanks to both of them, and most of all my amazing Writers' Group who always have the answers, I'm no longer lost.

Hannah
The inner voice is most important. Other voices can be helpful; I find considered assessment useful because my inner voice also tends to have sudden, wonderful ideas that lead me astray. Jennifer Haigh prefers to work in solitude, she says, without a writers group's offerings. There are as many approaches as there are writers. Still, even when you produce a draft worth handing off to trusted readers or an agent, the question is whether you did stay true to that original vision. Is whatever prompted you to spend hours at the keyboard or with pen woven into the final pages? Only the inner voice can make that decision.

Lynne
I traveled to NY this week to meet with my publicity team at Penguin. Like a job interview, I had the task of shining a light on why my book would stand out among others on the bookstore shelves and why I’m the person to represent my ideas. Enthusiasm filled the room, and since Tuesday my head and heart. Looking back on this whole process, I’m so grateful that I believed in my book through the search for my brilliant agent and through the angst filled days I waited for word of the sale. It all came together on a sunny day in the city, where I sat around a conference table in a room that has heard the fate of many books, and I heard bright eager professionals discuss endless possibilities for mine. My perspective: that moment was worth waiting for.

Debuts: If you didn't pre-order, run to your nearest independent bookstore and get your copy of Tish Cohen's just released novel, "Town House." Don't wait for the movie. Did we mention rights were bought by Fox 2000 and Pulitzer-Tony-Golden Globe Award winner Doug Wright (Quills, Memoirs of a Geisha) wrote the screen play? Congratulations, Tish!

Upcoming Literary Events: Tickets are on sale now for Post Road Magazine's fundraiser. Join us on Thursday, May 17 at the Radcliffe Gymnasium in Cambridge as bestselling author Dennis Lehane reads from his latest book of short stories "Coronado." Hit the link for more information.

On Wednesday, May 23 Buttonwood Books in Cohasett is hosting New York Times bestselling author William Martin as he reads from his latest thriller, "The Lost Constitution" at the Hingham Public Library. Look for this, and the rest of the Buttonwood series, at their web site.

Irrelevant

By Amy

I was picking up my children from school last week, waiting in the cafeteria in a clutch of other mothers, when one of the women said through nearly clenched teeth, “I had fun at your party, it was really good.”

She had attended the Liar’s Party I’d hosted for Patry Francis. All who were there agreed it was something different from the usual Silpada or Tupperware. Intriguing, thought-provoking, they said. More, though. Many of the women there were astonished by Patry’s ordinariness – they spoke easily with her, dressed like her, she was someone who could have been their neighbor or another mother from the school. Not someone who’d written a book, one they saw on bookstore tables. A real, live author.

“Aren’t you writing?” I said to the woman. We'd talked before about how she someday wanted to write.

“What do I have to say?” Her face twisted in frustration, her jaw still taut.

She assumed since she was living a quiet life, a mother’s life, within the smothering confines of suburbia, her thoughts, opinions, her musings on life were irrelevant.

Shirley Jackson didn’t think so. You know Shirley Jackson, the author of the most chilling short story of all time, The Lottery. Yes, Flannery O’Connor’s A Good Man Is Hard to Find is stupendous, but it hasn’t haunted me since sixth grade the way The Lottery has. Well, Miss Jackson was first and foremost a mother. To four children who no doubt would be diagnosed with ADHD by today’s standards. That quiet life she led as a housewife in North Bennington, Vermont -- tending to cooking and cleaning, mending and PTA -- was fodder for her best writing. Her memoirs on raising children were much beloved and The Lottery is said to be based on her observations of the cruelties of small town life.

Hilma Wolitzer didn’t think so, either. She’s so predictably brilliant, yet so completely unaware. For years, she regarded herself as a housewife, content with cleaning out closets and baking over-the-top birthday cakes. She swallowed the yearning to write until she stepped outside of her mental box and tried a class. The first time she read aloud an essay, a classmate shredded it. Boring, he sneered, essentially saying her topic of hearth and home was meaningless. The instructor disagreed, passionately. He wanted her to write more.

Oh my goodness, and Carol Shields! This literary darling, Pulitzer Prize winning writer, regarded herself as a mother first, careful to check her children's homework and comb their hair before they left for school. Only then, after the breakfast dishes were washed, would she sit at her typewriter and create. At noon, when the little cherubs returned home for lunch, she’d push aside her writing again until their break was over.

So what did they have to say? They all wrote about small lives...the smallness of life. Yet each brought something fresh, an entirely tilted perspective. Their words had – no - have meaning because these women have taken the universal and made it intensely personal. It’s what a writer does.

So what does that mother, my friend, have to say? Nothing, I suppose. Or anything.

The Power of the Story

Posted by Lynne

When the playing and replaying of a story in my mind can force me to miss my exit on the expressway, or disengage me from social small talk at a party, or wake me in the middle of the night, the story has power. As the story is revealed to me through the process of researching it and writing it, I start to get a sense of the parts of the plot, and which characterizations are the truth of the story.

Even those of us fortunate enough to have a writers' group, or other trusted readers, need to have critical listening skills to trust the authenticity of the feedback. My aim when it comes to feedback is to listen for consistency in it, along with what rings true for me as the writer. When feedback resonates with me, then by all means I take it. When my readers point out inconsistencies in my character's behavior given her motivations, I take this feedback, too. When my readers feel adrift because my descriptions of setting fail to ground them, I add more setting detail.

Some find it hard to receive the gifts given by trusted readers; the gifts can be small, focused on nuance and subtlety, or they can be big, like a plot line that doesn't mesh. But these gifts have the potential to clarify, center, and add depth to the work. And these gifts can force you to really think, and make a commitment to your story. I force myself to listen.

I find it hard at times to listen to the critical, constructive feedback. I want my work, to work. Like most, I tend to focus a bit too heavily on what doesn't work, even when the good feedback outweighs the constructive. After I've sat with the feedback for a time, the question becomes what will I do with it, especially the feedback that doesn't ring true to me and my story. And what should I do with conflicting feedback from different readers?

I'm new to writing fiction, so I'm no expert here. My style is to wait a day after my work is reviewed in writers' group, then I begin by categorizing the feedback and themes. I separate the feedback; what worked, what didn't, and what feedback will require deeper reflection. When I've taken all the feedback that feels right and true, I then try to remind myself that it's impossible to make every reader happy. There will be those who don't like my protagonist's choices, or the outcome of major plot lines. In these moments, though it's certainly easier said than done, I need to trust my story. You know, the one that distracted me when my friend was talking to me at that party. The one that repeatedly woke me in the night. In those moments, I imagine the muse was there to remind me. Trust yourself. Trust the story.

Holding Fast

By Hannah

Sitting at Group, sometimes one of us will start with careful praise before coming around to something big that didn’t work. The reader was led astray, for what? The place where the story seems to lead is impossible. This is not about small edits, but major elements. The writer waits, hoping another voice will chime in to say even a bit of it worked, that a goal was met, an effect achieved. Sometimes the voice appears, sometimes it doesn't. Heavy sigh.

Having work read gives me the sensation of watching trapeze artists moving from one set of rings to another. There is the smooth arc across, the leap. Will they or won’t they make it? The apprehension is real. Even if I don't agree with the criticisms, I have let readers dangle, or worse, drop.

Most often, criticism points out ways to improve the set-up. The overall performance is fine; it's the rings that are in the wrong place. Maybe earlier details are needed, a shift in the reader's attention, a change in pace.

There are, of course, a few occasions where there are real differences in opinion. We have discovered it's okay. Really. We understand every reader has a unique history and distinct preferences. The trick is to never discount or dismiss those differences, but to hear them and consider them with care.

In doing so, we have found value not just in the feedback, but in screening work against a tiny sample of the reading population. We respect each other's opinions, take them seriously. As a result, we are more firmly grounded in what we are willing to concede, and where we must hold fast when our stories venture into the wider world. We have become better listeners and better editors, but we have also become better advocates for ourselves and the stories we have to tell.

Conflicted

By Amy

We writers are compelled by certain themes that are visited again and again in our work. For Philip Roth, it’s identity; for Mitch Albom, redemption; Curtis Sittenfeld writes about alienation. My theme is, and always will be, faith.

My faith is a tenuous thing. I had it once, and have longed for it ever since. It’s difficult to navigate the dark passages of life without believing there is some higher power at work, that there exists order where we see only randomness and chaos. My novel began with a question: How could an undertaker perform her work if she didn’t believe in God? I layered into that premise another question I struggle with daily: Why do children need to suffer, to die?

All week I’ve been revising my manuscript, refining particular details for clarity’s sake, while blurring finer points to create a sense of uncertainty. One revision I’d been considering has to do with faith. It was suggested to me by a trusted reader and I’ve struggled with his advice ever since. It went against what the members of my writers' group advised, but his was also a thoughtful critique and made me wonder if following his advice would create more depth to my story.

Yesterday when I sat down to tackle that revision, the phone rang with news that a friend’s daughter had died. She was diagnosed two years ago with a brain tumor and, until yesterday, was the epitome of a tenacious fighter. She was adorable, she was beloved, and she was only four. Why? Why did she die? The same tragedy happened to another friend four years ago when her 16-year-old son, a diabetic, went to bed one night and never woke again.

There’s no consolation to be given, none taken. How to explain the inexplicable? I suppose that’s why we write novels, so we can design worlds where we are omnipotent, where we can create our own semblance of order and write away our demons.

So, in spite of the thoughtful suggestion to make that revision, I expect to stay with what I have. I feel strongly that it works better for the story and is more satisfying for the reader. Mostly I need to create a sense of faith within myself where, for now, none exists.

Watermelon - Yuck!

Posted by Lisa

It’s mainly the taste, though the texture doesn’t help (half-slime, half-water chesnuts). And, please, please don’t post a comment saying watermelon doesn’t smell…because it does. The checkout woman who tsk-tsked me as I bought watermelon for my son already told me that. Her hair was wild for an early Monday morning. But it matched the bright blue eye shadow and glops of mascara ringing her eyes. “Everyone likes watermelon,” she told my son. She made an impression. My son asked me later if she was a mermaid. He often reminds me that “Everyone likes watermelon.”

Sometimes things are a matter of taste. I was a relatively normal child. And I’ve tried watermelon – at least once a summer. It always tastes really, really, really, really, very, very awful.

If writing were food, Amy, Hannah, Lynne, and I would generally like similar things. Just as when a pretzel is too salty, we may agree a character needs fewer blatant negative characteristics. Or when the pacing is too slow, it’s like eating a cream puff without enough flavor or zip. Ninety-five percent of the time, when three group members critique a piece of writing, we see eye-to-eye. Five percent of the time a person stands alone with her own unique criticism.

There are times we disagree, and we move forward, leaving that week’s writer to reflect. But what, I ask, does a great writer do. Lois Lowry is a many-time Newbery Medal winner for children’s fiction. In a recent (spectacular) title of hers, The Giver, twelve-year-old Jonah is singled out to receive special training to become The Giver. This challenge gives him both pleasure and pain. What if Lois Lowry had listened to someone’s suggestion that maybe the pain part should go. Then the stakes would have dropped. The reader wouldn’t have worried so much about brave Jonah who is so alone in a world of togetherness.

I suppose a great author must weigh a reader’s feedback and make her own decisions. Perhaps that’s what makes a great writer. Standing alone in a world where most people love watermelon.