Does honesty have to be brutal? How many writers say: be brutally honest. Isn’t honest enough? And what are they really saying? In many cases, I think it’s code for: be gentle. Learning how to be brutally honest and gentle at the same time is the agent’s/editor’s duty. Obviously, some are better at it than others. Of course, I’d like to think I’m good at it, but who knows? You’re better at it with some writers than others. It’s often a matter of clicking, and in the best cases you inspire each other.
For me, there are just 2-3 people from whom I can take criticism and use it constructively. They are highly critical, but they converse in a way doesn’t make me feel defensive. We’ve developed a language over time; it feels collaborative and exciting. I think of them as my cut men, giving me just what I need to get back in the ring.
When I was younger anything anyone said affected me so deeply it was ridiculous. I still don’t know how I survived the MFA workshops. (Oh, yeah, that little six month “sabbatical.” LOL) Well, my dearest darling readers, how do you like your honesty: straight up, brutal, gentle, between the eyes, poached, baked, with a side of fries? Tell me the truth.
Betsy Lerner 
“Poached, baked, with a side of fries…” reminds me of my favorite restaurant sign, “chicken, steak and chocolate cake.”
I like my criticism “big picture”, meaning—tell me what makes sense and what doesn’t. I can do the heavy lifting, a helpful reader will just tell me if the world I’ve made is more than the sum of its parts yet—or not.
I love your blog.
Brutally honest. At least if I agree with them.
And since it’s nearly impossible for a mere mortal to agree with brutal criticism? At least be as specific as possible, so I know exactly what I might attempt to fix or what I might defend to my death.
A ego numbed by rejection can take criticism however it’s dished up and put it use.
oh, i’m with you, Bill.
signed,
a fucking writer
I love honesty. And it’s so rare. Of course, with rejection letters, it’s great to hear the good stuff first…but I’m always waiting for that HOWEVER or THAT SAID. Sometimes the good stuff is so good that I can hardly believe the HOWEVER is coming. But I’m always grateful for honesty.
In my counseling work, I try to balance the honesty with kindness. But for me, the honesty always comes first. Sometimes it’s too strong, but I try to sense with each person what they’re able to hear. I know that ideally I like the perfect balance of honesty with sensitivity.
Your questions are great Betsy. I always tell myself I’m not going to comment today, I don’t want to be a pest on your blog. But, to be brutally honest, YOU DRAW IT OUT OF ME EVERY TIME!
My editors can hack away, as long as they don’t say shit like this…
This is not accessible.
I find this passage disturbing.
It’s very (SomeLitHipster)esque.
The protagonist’s arc lacks definition.
I doubt any of the above will be uttered about my next project: Employed Guys with Skanks.
I don’t like cheap shots. I think people should always be professionals with each other’s work, like I may not like sci-fi but if I’m critiquing it, guess what? I put that aside and talk about the craft.
I do believe that anything can be said with some measure of kindness. I believe that people hear what you’re saying better with kindness because when there’s too much blunt force people get defensive.
I don’t even mind “This sucks” if the critic can then tell me why. “Look, the character’s actions here make no sense, and I have no idea why those actions resolve this problem anyhow.” Or, “When she says that, I lose all respect for her.”
Of course, someone that verbal probably wouldn’t say “This sucks,” but the point is the backing. I want an example. In general, finding one problem like that illuminates five or six related problems that I can then find on my own.
With my own students, I used to try to show them a better way to accomplish something in their manuscript, or a better thing to accomplish, but I’d tell them, “The ideal response isn’t ‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ but rather, ‘No, you’re wrong. I mean, that’s a problem, but there’s a better way to solve it,’ and then solve it in a way that’s more consistent with their vision of the full piece.” That always got good responses and my students kept coming back to me, so it can’t have been too bad.
I think I like my honesty best in small doses – gives me a chance to digest/get over it before the next serving!
Give me the brutality . . . every single time. Okay, not every single time. I prefer honesty over half truths or evasions. I have one friend who tells it like it is, and, I take it every single time. She told me once – you look like crap. Personally, I thought I looked pretty dang good . . . until I saw the pictures. She was right.
As for my writing, I’ve gained a tougher shell throughout the years. Yeah, I have moments of defensiveness, sometimes I listen, sometimes I don’t, but I truly prefer someone’s honesty over their dishonesty.
S
Honesty is over-rated. If you can’t tell me you love me, don’t tell me anything!
That’s how I feel today.
This is the perfect comment.
I’ll take a Simon Cowell critique over a Paula Abdul pat-on-the-back-for-trying any day.
The only thing that makes me crazy is when I ask for an opinion on a WIP and all I get is a line edit. I don’t need a reader to spot the typos, I need a reader who’ll tell me when I’m writing too cute, too phony, too off the mark. Give me the brutal truth any day, but wait for me to ask for it.
I get discouraged by brutal honesty. Telling the truth gently works better for me, and gets better results.
I like honesty as long as I feel the critiquer respects me and my work, or at least the effort. Respect is a big deal to me. Shred me to pieces, fine, but do it for the good of the work, always.
It’s the impulse behind the criticism that I have to think twice about. If all criticism about writing is a reader’s response to something, then it’s my job as the writer to figure out if the editor has put his finger on something mechanically wrong with the work or whether the editor is mistaking my prose with his personal demons. Does she want me to cut the glove-making scene because it’s truly boring or was she molested with gloves as a child? I want the relationship between writer and editor to be brutally honest. I hope that makes sense.
It depends on who’s doing the talking. If I think you’re as smart (or hopefully smarter) than I, and if I respect you immensely, and if I’m a teeny-tiny bit intimidated by you, then you can say anything to me. My defensiveness tends to function in direct proportion to my perception of the person giving the critique. Needless to say, I don’t thrive in the workshop environment, although I was taught early on to remove myself from the conversation and write every single thing down that was said about my work, to be digested or discarded at a later date. Usually a lot of discarding happening there, although not always.
I recently got an edit from a writer whom I adore and admire, and his blunt force edits in the margins (e.g. So? Who cares?) made me laugh and think and strive to be better, and I never–not once–felt defensive about the work.
So, I guess my long-winded answer is: it depends. Wow, really could have used an editor on this comment.
I like to receive feedback the way I give it.
“This doesn’t work for me.”
“I thought (this word) meant such-and-such, you might want to check.”
“To me this sounds like a 90-year-old not a 17-year-old.”
“I think if you tightened/edited/roasted it with marshmallows it would be stronger.”
I always say what I really think – except “this sucks.” I try to figure out why something doesn’t work for me – and appreciate the same kind of criticism.
I once had an editor tell me that muffins don’t cost $3.00. Well, they did where I lived at the time, so that was my reference point. Had she written: “three dollars? Where I live muffins are $1, I wonder what the national average is” I would have taken to it more kindly. She also told me things about heritage that were not true — this was a freelance editor who I never used again and I’d never refer to her.
INTERN is intensely paranoid about anything that feels like flattery, so she likes criticism of her work to be as fierce and soul-mangling as possible, if only to be sure that the critiquer isn’t pulling her leg.
INTERN’s publisher gave only positive comments about the manuscript of her forthcoming book, and it still gives her nightmares because she feels like there must be flaws she can’t see that nobody pointed out.
Love the blog, Betsy!
Intern’s in the house? Betsy, you’re starting to gather more and more steam, just like the Beatles prior to fall of 1963.
RIght?!?
I’m just saying you’re getting a lot of fans…
I’m currently reading Philip Norman’s “John Lennon/The Life”, so I’m seeing everything through Beatles history at the moment and getting very little sleep.
I guess I was lucky. My MFA workshops were a dream come true. The school made sure of that: be honest, but be nice. Do unto others, and all that, you know? It works. As for my current work, I want that same honesty, and I need my “cut men” like you have. Right now, I just hear the yesses that don’t mean much. Maybe someday, I’ll find the dream workshop again.
I demand brutal honesty, and expect starry-eyed adoration.
I like my adoration straight up.
Je t’adore. Sorry, I couldn’t resist.
I think I have a harder time believing the praise then the criticism. I like honesty. I respect honesty. However, I don’t like non-specific honesty. I hate the words, “I don’t get it”. I think by saying “be brutally honest”, I’m asking for constructive criticism. Tell me why something doesn’t work.
A friend (a published writer and college creative writng instructor) once went over one of my pieces with me, line by line, in the kindest way possible. I had to stop him after the second paragraph to tell him, “Our friendship isn’t ready for this. Can we stop it here?” I guess I expect my friends to adore me. My teachers (and editors?) can kick my ass. And they have.
I like it to come with empathy and compassion, none of that cruelty is good for you stuff. And I like my critic to recognise his or her subjectivity, to be able to say ‘This is my opinion of your writing. It maybe well informed and based on years and years of experience but it is still my opinion and others might see it differently.
I want my critic to be able to say I have also read your work closely and I have thought about it for some time. I am not simply reacting.
These are some of the things I hope for from my literary critics, sprinkled liberally with the idea that we do unto others, that we put ourselves into their shoes, that we recognize how hard it is and how much someone has tried and that there is also some merit in this work however many difficulties might abound.
One need only peruse the 72 very evenly mixed reviews of Ayelet Waldman’s “Bad Mother”, on Amazon, to arrive at a confusing place about what all of this brutal honesty really means. I suppose it’s more complicated than people arguing their reasons for preferring one type of ice cream over another… But sometimes I wonder.
I like your criticism, Betsy, because you’re nice but direct, always prompt, gently honest and pretty much always right. The other stuff is good, but the honesty is key. Allows the recipient to trust the praise.