The Pen And The Tuning Fork

At one time at a MileHi con (in Denver) Connie Willis said something that has haunted me ever since. And probably not in the way she meant it to haunt people. She was talking about shameless self-promoters – I think Diana Wynne Jones called them “God or Shakespeare” in Deep Secret – and said that they had to know what they said wasn’t true because in the dark of night, in the solitude of our own souls, we knew exactly how good or bad we were.

Since then I’ve been praying she’s wrong, because in the dark of night, or the light of day about the most confident I ever get about my books is “they might, possibly, perhaps be pretty good.”

Mind you, ten years after writing a book – which is about the soonest I can stand to open it – I’ve been known to open it and go “Oh, wow, I wrote this?” And there was of course the experience of hitting my head and getting a last minute request for a couple of short stories while recovering. The resulting stories were news to me when I got the contributor’s copy and other than one factual mistake on guns (which I might have made while I was well, writing under pressure) I can say they are pretty good stories. I can say so because I don’t remember writing them.

However, we can’t go on hitting our heads all the time – at least I hope not – so how can we tell when our stories are good? How can we tell we’ve hit what we’re aiming for?

I bring you bad tidings. I think Connie Willis was wrong. You can’t. And I can’t. At least, in the secret recesses of the night, no angel has ever come down (or up) to tell me the true worth of my life’s work.

If you’re doing any art (yes, I’m cringing, since really, I’d prefer to be considered a master craftswoman) properly, you’re wrapping so much of yourself in it that you cannot step back and see it objectively – unless you wait ten years or so. (It’s sort of like seeing your home objectively. At least I can’t. It’s only when I’ve been away for a month or so, that I can come back and go “this kitchen needs SOMETHING on that wall.”)

Oh, there are circumstances under which you have some idea that what you’ve written is a step up or a new technique for you. This is usually while you’re learning it. You can feel yourself straining to weave it in. This happened to me (still does somewhat) for years and years as I struggled with plot. Or as I tried to weave in background fleshing with action.

These were techniques I’d realized I needed while reading other books (that’s one way to tell what you’re missing, though not necessarily the relative worth of what you have) and which I’d studied and applied, consciously. (I think this accounts for new artists/writers thinking their stuff is great. It’s the “wow, I can’t believe I can do this at all.)

There is only one problem with that. Once you master a technique, it becomes part of you. And then you don’t notice you’re doing it – until ten years later. Or until you go back and try to analyze your book (though this is an imperfect and difficult ability.) Or – and this is important – until someone tells you that you managed it – particularly if they didn’t know what you were trying for.

And here we hit upon the only “tuning fork” you can use to evaluate your work. The eyes of others.

The problem is that others are not objective, just as you aren’t. When selecting first readers, you must take the following into account: their feelings towards you; their feelings towards your writing (if your mom hates the idea of your writing, she’s not going to be objective); their experience with the field/reading in general; their ATTITUDE towards what you’re writing, in general (for instance, it would be foolhardy to give my boys erotic romance to read. Not that I’ve ever written that.)

Two general guidelines – if someone always tells you he loves your writing, he might make a great spouse (probably not. It would be very bad for your character) but he is not good first readers. And if someone always tells you he hates your writing, it’s just the same thing (only please, don’t marry him.)

If you don’t have time to carefully vet one first reader, get ten volunteers. If all of them point to the same problem, you probably have it. If three of them point to the same problem, there’s a good chance you have it. Most of the time you’ll find they don’t agree, but when they do it’s time to pay attention. (And by problem I don’t mean typos. We all make typos, and you’ll usually have only one or two readers who find them – out of any group. I mean problems in characterization, action, world building, dialogue, etc. The difficult stuff.)

This doesn’t mean you know how to revise – remember my article on that? – but it means you can read books with an eye to stealing techniques and know how to do it right next time.

So – who is your first reader? Do you have first readers? How many? What has your experience been like? And do you know exactly how good or bad a writer you are – in the middle of the night? (It’s entirely possible I’m odd. It wouldn’t be the first time.)

UPDATE Tangentially related and something I can't speak to but the author of this post can:

http://www.kjablog.com./

Critics

Various trivia has set me thinking about critics. I upset one recently by critiquing their critique, if you see what I mean. Apparently the biter does not like to be bit.

I can across an interesting story on the London site – another nickel in the machine:
http://www.nickelinthemachine.com/2010/01/hampstead-heath-and-the-rise-and-fall-of-the-author-colin-wilson/

It concerns a rather arrogant young man called Colin Wilson. He was a 24 year old working class boy from the Midlands who turned up in London in 1956 and who wrote a book. He had no education, having left school at 16 and was living rough on Hampstead Heath while writing each day in the British Museum. In short, he was the perfect working class hero to be taken up by the upper class London glitterati who liked to think that this was the new age of the common man. This was the era of ‘The Angry Young Man’.

The book was 'The Outsider', a collection of essays that explored the concept of alienation in literature (with a capital L). I always associate this with Camus. The book was a sensation, selling out on the first day of publication. It did not just receive critical acclaim; it was elevated to the highest levels, as possibly the most important book of the decade.

Wilson was lionised with lots of moody B&W pics taken of him on Hampstead Heath and living with his girlfriend Joy in Notting Hill – so wonderfully Bohemian – and Wilson revelled in it. Quote: 'I had taken it for granted that I was a man of genius since I was about 13'.

But those who live by the sword tend to die by it, and that goes double for the press. It was not long before the tabloid reptiles discovered that Wilson lived rough on Hampstead Heath to avoid paying maintenance to his wife and child. Then Joy’s parents turned up to rescue their daughter from a life of sin........

What is interesting is to track the written opinion of a literary critic, Philip Toynbee, son of the famous historian and father to Princess Polly, the Queen of political correctness.

He originally described “The Outsider” as “luminously intelligent” but within months was writing “I doubt whether this interesting and extremely promising book quite deserved the furore which it seems to have caused.' Toynbee reviewed Wilson’s second book in ’57, ‘Religion and the Rebel’ as ‘a vulgarising rubbish bin’ and noted that ‘The Outsider’ had been 'clumsily written and still more clumsily composed.' Ho hum.

Wilson made around £1m (in modern money) from 'The Outsider'and went off to live in the Westcountry where he wrote New Age conspiracy and horror books and married Joy.

But what are we to make of critics with such flexible memories? Well, they must be appeased if you write literary novels where fashion seems to be almost everything. But if you write commercial novels then just snap your fingers and ignore them. Your work either sells or not.

So here’s a challenge. What was the most ludicrous/pompous/vicious review that you ever read?


NEWS

1) I am now on Twitter under the name 'johnlambshead'.

2) An eArc of my novelette, Storming Venus, can be viewed for free at Baen's Universe:

http://www.baens-universe.com/articles/Storming_Venus

This story is a sequel to Storming Hell.

I will not read your effing script!

Josh Olson, writing in the Village Blog, has produced a wonderful rant called "I will not read your effing script".

He tells the story of a friend whose boyfriend has written a screenplay. This friend, who is clearly female, persuaded him to agree to review it. Worse still, he was persuaded to be honest, the dreadful things women persuade us to do.

Apparently, it was dire.

Olsen sat down and wrote three pages of critique of the first few paragraphs. He tossed that away as he rightly felt that it would not help. Instead he composed a tactful over view pointing out that the story was incoherent, badly paced, and was badly written in a technical sense (grammar, spelling etc).

He received one line back from the would-be writer "Thanks for your opinion." Later he discovered that the couple were rubbishing him to anyone who would listen.

I have been extremely fortunate in having a truly successful professional author give an honest critique of my work. Without this person, and others like him, I would be nowhere.

My friend says that the reason he is willing to squander his valuable time reading my work is because (i) I listen to his comments AND ACCEPT THEM, (ii) I go away and think about them carefully and (iii) I do my incompetent best to follow his advice.

What really puzzles me is that this response should be considered unusual. I am a professional academic and I have published more than seventy five papers through the peer review system. Taking criticism constructively is an essential component of the academic's tool box if one proposes to have a career. Most would-be writers have not benefited from this discipline.

So, here are my pointers from my own experience.

1. A professional writer's professional time is valuable. When you ask one to criticise your draft you are asking him or her to work at his craft for you for nothing. If by some miracle, a professional agrees to advise you then for God's sake be very grateful. You are entitled to nothing.
2. Learn to write a decent sentence. You do not to need to be an engineer to drive a car but you had better bloody well have engineering skills if you intend to design one. Your creative teacher at school was talking bollocks when she said that technical writing skills were irrelevant to art.
3. Have you a story to tell? No, be honest.
4. Do the very best job on the manuscript you can before you send it anywhere near a professional. Anything less is an insult.
5. Do not bother to tell the professional why his criticism is invalid. If he does not understand why your draft is near perfect then neither will anyone else. Don’t waste his time with your amateur ideas about story construction, writing styles or characterisation. If you want encouragement and praise then show it to your mates who can be guaranteed to tell you sweet little lies.

And I wish you good luck because you will need it.

John


PS The pic is from a production of Romeo & Juliet acted on a mat on the dockside outside HMS Gannet at Chatham. Minimal props, no special effects, just a fine bunch of actors and a bloody good script.

Criticism

I have been very fortunate to have received criticism from some excellent writers who have improved my technique exponentially. A repeated comment from them to my expressions of gratitude is that I always listen to their suggestions and try to grasp how they can raise my skills. This has always struck me as an odd remark. I go to the doctor for medical advice. The final decision is always mine but I would be a fool to ignore his observations. Yet I have it on good authority that most wannabe writers flatly refuse to listen to professional advice. They explain why the professional is wrong in his opinion, why their masterpiece is perfect in every way and is unalterable and incapable of improvement. In short, they do not want criticism but praise.

To improve as a writer, one must be able to accept and digest constructive criticism. By that, I do not mean the drivel pumped out by critics. Most critics are not writers and simply promote their own prejudices. They would be writers if they were any good.

I mean criticism by people with a proven track record. People who have been there, done that, and have the holiday snaps to prove it. I guess one reason that I am open to advice is because I have spent most of my life as a professional academic. A science research paper is circulated to colleagues for criticism before it even leaves the Department. Only after it is edited in the light of their comments is it sent to a Journal. There an editor reads it and may bounce it straight back with an instruction to rewrite. Once it passes the editorial filter it is sent out to at least two referees who have track records in the field. They criticise the paper and make recommendation, which can include ‘Reject’. The Journal editor digests these and returns the whole lot to the author with an instruction to make changes, assuming it is not rejected. This loop may be repeated two or even three times.

All being well, publication follows.

So my advice to new writers is try to get professional criticism of your work, read the comments carefully, and then rewrite. Repeat as many times as is necessary.