RockStories
I gave myself a new life for Christmas. I was pretty excited about it, too. It was a kind of make-over, but it was completely different from those New Year's resolutions we all tend to make and break before January sees its first new moon. You see, my new life was going to be for MY benefit...not to make me a better person or to get me to do any of those things that I SHOULD BE DOING, but simply to remind myself to do what was necessary to make my life what *I* wanted it to be. Sure, sometimes that might mean doing a little work, but it wasn't because I shouldn't let papers pile up on my kitchen table...it was because I love to sit down at a clean, empty table before I go to bed at night and drink my orange spiced tea (or whatever the flavor of the moment might be) and write in my big, heavy old journal. In pencil.
I gave myself this new life, and I was excited enough about that, but an interesting thing happened. Quite by accident, I gave it to OTHER people, too. First, my friend Barb told me that she liked the idea so much that she was designing one for herself, too. Then my best friend said HE was giving himself a new life for Christmas, too...but his came with seven day free trials, because he hadn't worked out all the details yet.
I've mentioned how I love ripples, right?
Just when I was thinking how cool it was that this great feeling I had was spreading to my friends and hoping it worked for all of us, Barb emailed me and told me she wanted to use the concept in her column, which goes out to hundreds of readers--and she did. Here it is: http://www.sothethingis.com/Christmas%20Present.htm
Take a look, try on the idea...it's not too late. Some people give gifts on New Year's Day, some are after-Christmas bargain shoppers, some arrive late by mail. Give it some thought, and wrap up your own gifts to yourself. It's amazing how a simple idea like "I really need to clean that counter" looks different when it's wrapped up in shiny paper and phrased like this: "I'm really going to be a lot happier when that counter is clean."
And while you're there, browse around and read some more of Barb's columns, maybe subscribe to her newsletter. Those little monthly insights and motivations might be a great addition to your new life!
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Friday, November 26, 2004
Teaching a Man to Fish
RockStories
If you've ever been in the pages of my email address book, you've likely already read this, but I want to take a minute to encourage anyone who might happen by here to check out www.modestneeds.org
This organization provides one-time grants to WORKING people derailed by unexpected expenses like major car repairs, unexpected need for child care, illness, etc. The key factor in determining eligibility for a grant is that this one time gift will allow a household to remain (or become) self-sufficient where that might otherwise have been impossible.
The average grant from Modest Needs is only $180, but allows the recipient to obtain transportation, equipment, child care, etc. necessary to begin or continue to work. The fact that $180 can make that difference means that if you spread this message to seventeen of your friends and relatives, and each of you sends this organization a mere TEN DOLLARS, you will have single-handedly changed the course of a family's life.
It might be hard to imagine that $180 could be life altering--but aren't we LUCKY that it's hard to imagine that? In today's economy, a job lost due to loss of transportation or child care might not be replaced for months...months during which that family will be forced to subsist on public assistance. That lowered standard of living will make it even more difficult to find alternate employment, since the family will likely be unable to maintain telephone service, obtain substitute transportation, etc. In the end, the lack of that one week's child care payment or a relatively minor car repair can mean months of unemployment, the start of a vicious cycle that's difficult or impossible to break, AND thousands of your tax dollars being paid out to support someone who was willing and able to support herself.
If you've been reading the other entries here, you know how I've been thinking about ripples lately. Think about the ripples keeping just one family self-sufficient will set in motion...better lives for the adults and hope and better health and a positive work ethic for the children...and that's before we even begin to consider the ripples they might themselves set in motion, one day, because of that opportunity.
17 emails and $10 can set those ripples in motion. Don't you think it's worth it?
(if you choose to make a contribution, or to solicit your friends and family, please post a comment here and let me know...I love to watch those ripples)
If you've ever been in the pages of my email address book, you've likely already read this, but I want to take a minute to encourage anyone who might happen by here to check out www.modestneeds.org
This organization provides one-time grants to WORKING people derailed by unexpected expenses like major car repairs, unexpected need for child care, illness, etc. The key factor in determining eligibility for a grant is that this one time gift will allow a household to remain (or become) self-sufficient where that might otherwise have been impossible.
The average grant from Modest Needs is only $180, but allows the recipient to obtain transportation, equipment, child care, etc. necessary to begin or continue to work. The fact that $180 can make that difference means that if you spread this message to seventeen of your friends and relatives, and each of you sends this organization a mere TEN DOLLARS, you will have single-handedly changed the course of a family's life.
It might be hard to imagine that $180 could be life altering--but aren't we LUCKY that it's hard to imagine that? In today's economy, a job lost due to loss of transportation or child care might not be replaced for months...months during which that family will be forced to subsist on public assistance. That lowered standard of living will make it even more difficult to find alternate employment, since the family will likely be unable to maintain telephone service, obtain substitute transportation, etc. In the end, the lack of that one week's child care payment or a relatively minor car repair can mean months of unemployment, the start of a vicious cycle that's difficult or impossible to break, AND thousands of your tax dollars being paid out to support someone who was willing and able to support herself.
If you've been reading the other entries here, you know how I've been thinking about ripples lately. Think about the ripples keeping just one family self-sufficient will set in motion...better lives for the adults and hope and better health and a positive work ethic for the children...and that's before we even begin to consider the ripples they might themselves set in motion, one day, because of that opportunity.
17 emails and $10 can set those ripples in motion. Don't you think it's worth it?
(if you choose to make a contribution, or to solicit your friends and family, please post a comment here and let me know...I love to watch those ripples)
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Giving Thanks to a Stranger
RockStories: "t"
Thanksgiving has long been my favorite holiday, and taking a moment to count the blessings in my life always reminds me of how richly rewarded I've been. It isn't something, though, that I usually do in public. This post is something that, under other circumstances, I would never write in a public place. All efforts to locate--or even identify--the person it's directed to, though, have been in vain, so on the eve of Thanksgiving I've decided to send these particular thanks out into the universe and hope that somehow, someday, they find their way into the hands of the young doctor who was interning in the maternity ward at Jackson Park Hospital on the night of June 4, 1966.
The story of the night I was born probably isn't an unusual one in most ways. My mother, 21 years old and pregnant with her first child, appeared at the hospital on her due date. A jaded nurse told her that being due didn't necessarily mean the baby was coming, and largely dismissed her complaints. My mother's doctor was advised that he had plenty of time to go out to dinner before I made my way into the world. This was, remember, in the days long before cell phones and pagers.
The doctor was a warm, wonderful, conscientous man who cared for my family for decades without a glitch, but he took the nurse at her word and went out to dinner. Minutes later, my mother said that she had to go to the bathroom and the nurse lost her lackadaisical outlook. When the intern entered the room she commanded, "Try to hold her back until her doctor gets here!"
In the cold light of 2004, of course, every layperson knows what happens when a baby is deprived of oxygen in those critical moments. That intern knew it, too, whatever the nurse had said to him...he turned to my mother and said simply, "Push."
As I grow older, I find myself thinking more and more about the ripples we cause in the world and never even notice. I think about the differences I've been able to make, in volunteer work, in my law practice, with the words I've written and the students I've worked with, and the way that those contributions might carry forward, the gifts that others might one day pass along because of some small thing that I gave to them. And lately, I've been thinking about that doctor, and how all of those ripples can be traced back to him, how a moment or two of hesitation on his part would have robbed me of the gifts of language and analytical insights that have defined my life.
And so, on the eve of Thanksgiving, I want this year to give thanks to a young man who had the courage and the confidence to trust his own judgment when it counted, 38 years ago. I want him to know--and everyone who has ever made a split-second decision that made a difference and then simply gone with his life to know--that the ripples go on forever.
Thanksgiving has long been my favorite holiday, and taking a moment to count the blessings in my life always reminds me of how richly rewarded I've been. It isn't something, though, that I usually do in public. This post is something that, under other circumstances, I would never write in a public place. All efforts to locate--or even identify--the person it's directed to, though, have been in vain, so on the eve of Thanksgiving I've decided to send these particular thanks out into the universe and hope that somehow, someday, they find their way into the hands of the young doctor who was interning in the maternity ward at Jackson Park Hospital on the night of June 4, 1966.
The story of the night I was born probably isn't an unusual one in most ways. My mother, 21 years old and pregnant with her first child, appeared at the hospital on her due date. A jaded nurse told her that being due didn't necessarily mean the baby was coming, and largely dismissed her complaints. My mother's doctor was advised that he had plenty of time to go out to dinner before I made my way into the world. This was, remember, in the days long before cell phones and pagers.
The doctor was a warm, wonderful, conscientous man who cared for my family for decades without a glitch, but he took the nurse at her word and went out to dinner. Minutes later, my mother said that she had to go to the bathroom and the nurse lost her lackadaisical outlook. When the intern entered the room she commanded, "Try to hold her back until her doctor gets here!"
In the cold light of 2004, of course, every layperson knows what happens when a baby is deprived of oxygen in those critical moments. That intern knew it, too, whatever the nurse had said to him...he turned to my mother and said simply, "Push."
As I grow older, I find myself thinking more and more about the ripples we cause in the world and never even notice. I think about the differences I've been able to make, in volunteer work, in my law practice, with the words I've written and the students I've worked with, and the way that those contributions might carry forward, the gifts that others might one day pass along because of some small thing that I gave to them. And lately, I've been thinking about that doctor, and how all of those ripples can be traced back to him, how a moment or two of hesitation on his part would have robbed me of the gifts of language and analytical insights that have defined my life.
And so, on the eve of Thanksgiving, I want this year to give thanks to a young man who had the courage and the confidence to trust his own judgment when it counted, 38 years ago. I want him to know--and everyone who has ever made a split-second decision that made a difference and then simply gone with his life to know--that the ripples go on forever.
Friday, October 29, 2004
Long Before Nike, There Was Pat Clary
RockStories
I happened to share this story with my writers' group the other day, and it's one of those things that, once you bring it up again, stays on your mind although you'd long forgotten it. While I was thinking about it, I thought I'd share it here, since it fits perfectly with that repetitive (read: nagging) theme I've got going about how people who want to write should...well...WRITE.
My freshman year in college passed without my getting involved in much of anything, but in April of that year I went for a walk in the rain one night with a senior named Pat. He seemed, at the time, quite world-wise to me and I listened carefully to what he said. We were standing on a little bridge over the lagoon listening to water run over the rocks and abruptly, apropos of absolutely nothing, he said to me, "When you think you want to do something, just do it." He went on to explain that there had been a lot of things that he'd wanted to do during college, but he'd always thought he was too busy or he'd start next semester or whatever, and suddenly he was graduating and most of them remained undone. He said that later would never come, and that if I had the impulse to do something, I should get up and do it RIGHT THEN or it might pass me by forever.
This didn't seem to have a lot of application to my life because I wasn't a "get involved" kind of person, but the following September I was sitting in the snack bar of my dorm and they were collecting petitions for hall council and a casual friend came by and asked me why I wasn't running. "You only need 25 signatures," he said. "You could get them right here."
It was late and I had a calculus test the next day and I was having trouble with calculus, and I opened my mouth to say all that, to say that maybe I'd get involved later, and I literally heard Pat's voice. I got up and got the signatures. I went from floor president to executive secretary of our hall to executive secretary for the residence halls (8800 students), and it was in that position that I made my first political connections, launched my first protest, went to the state capitol to lobby, made my first public speech, did my first charity work. Literally everything I have accomplished in my multi-faceted career traces back to that one moment, when I set my foot on a path that would make an accomplished public speaker out of someone who got physically ill during speech class and a published writer out of someone who kept her best thoughts hidden in her desk drawer.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe later would have come. But I'm glad I didn't gamble on it.
I happened to share this story with my writers' group the other day, and it's one of those things that, once you bring it up again, stays on your mind although you'd long forgotten it. While I was thinking about it, I thought I'd share it here, since it fits perfectly with that repetitive (read: nagging) theme I've got going about how people who want to write should...well...WRITE.
My freshman year in college passed without my getting involved in much of anything, but in April of that year I went for a walk in the rain one night with a senior named Pat. He seemed, at the time, quite world-wise to me and I listened carefully to what he said. We were standing on a little bridge over the lagoon listening to water run over the rocks and abruptly, apropos of absolutely nothing, he said to me, "When you think you want to do something, just do it." He went on to explain that there had been a lot of things that he'd wanted to do during college, but he'd always thought he was too busy or he'd start next semester or whatever, and suddenly he was graduating and most of them remained undone. He said that later would never come, and that if I had the impulse to do something, I should get up and do it RIGHT THEN or it might pass me by forever.
This didn't seem to have a lot of application to my life because I wasn't a "get involved" kind of person, but the following September I was sitting in the snack bar of my dorm and they were collecting petitions for hall council and a casual friend came by and asked me why I wasn't running. "You only need 25 signatures," he said. "You could get them right here."
It was late and I had a calculus test the next day and I was having trouble with calculus, and I opened my mouth to say all that, to say that maybe I'd get involved later, and I literally heard Pat's voice. I got up and got the signatures. I went from floor president to executive secretary of our hall to executive secretary for the residence halls (8800 students), and it was in that position that I made my first political connections, launched my first protest, went to the state capitol to lobby, made my first public speech, did my first charity work. Literally everything I have accomplished in my multi-faceted career traces back to that one moment, when I set my foot on a path that would make an accomplished public speaker out of someone who got physically ill during speech class and a published writer out of someone who kept her best thoughts hidden in her desk drawer.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe later would have come. But I'm glad I didn't gamble on it.
Sunday, September 12, 2004
Any Old Words Will Do
RockStories
It's 1:41 a.m. and I'm hard at work on a corporate copywriting project. I have to admit that when I was a starry-eyed teenager sitting at my blue portable typewriter and dreaming of making my living as a writer, things like curriculum, press releases and advertising copy never entered my mind. For that matter, neither did newspaper stories, or even articles. Fiction loomed large in my mind, closely followed by what I did not then know were personal essays. I called them ramblings, because they were nothing more than random personal expression, and in those days no one ever dreamed that there'd one day be a market for them. At least no one I knew.
That was pretty much all there was...except of course, Rick Springfield's biography.
A funny thing happened as time went on, though. I began to realize that playing with words was...well, playing with words. Writing fiction and personal essays without restriction is great, but there's something to be said for the challenge of sculpting an interesting story out of a local business selling power washers or the ten billionth fundraiser at the local hospital. There's something to be said for being left alone in a room with nothing but words, and for having it be your job, your obligation, to focus entirely on those words. What could be better? It's like eating ice cream for a living, except that instead of getting fat and unhealthy (and eventually sick of ice cream), you just keep honing your craft and toning your mental muscles.
It doesn't get much better than that, I don't think...so I'm cheerfully back to writing teacher's manuals, with no regard for the fact that it's 1:52 a.m. Tomorrow when the alarm goes off, I'll only be ten feet away from "work."
It's 1:41 a.m. and I'm hard at work on a corporate copywriting project. I have to admit that when I was a starry-eyed teenager sitting at my blue portable typewriter and dreaming of making my living as a writer, things like curriculum, press releases and advertising copy never entered my mind. For that matter, neither did newspaper stories, or even articles. Fiction loomed large in my mind, closely followed by what I did not then know were personal essays. I called them ramblings, because they were nothing more than random personal expression, and in those days no one ever dreamed that there'd one day be a market for them. At least no one I knew.
That was pretty much all there was...except of course, Rick Springfield's biography.
A funny thing happened as time went on, though. I began to realize that playing with words was...well, playing with words. Writing fiction and personal essays without restriction is great, but there's something to be said for the challenge of sculpting an interesting story out of a local business selling power washers or the ten billionth fundraiser at the local hospital. There's something to be said for being left alone in a room with nothing but words, and for having it be your job, your obligation, to focus entirely on those words. What could be better? It's like eating ice cream for a living, except that instead of getting fat and unhealthy (and eventually sick of ice cream), you just keep honing your craft and toning your mental muscles.
It doesn't get much better than that, I don't think...so I'm cheerfully back to writing teacher's manuals, with no regard for the fact that it's 1:52 a.m. Tomorrow when the alarm goes off, I'll only be ten feet away from "work."
Friday, September 10, 2004
Setting Free the Words
RockStories: September 2004
There's a thread running on one of my online writers' groups about our "internal editors" and the potential benefits of the "Novel in a Month" challenge that runs annually in November. Some of our members have participated in the past and found it very helpful for the simple reason that the high word-count goal compelled them to just keep writing without stopping to fuss and bother and edit and agonize.
Once upon a time it would have surprised me to learn that people didn't just blow through their first drafts, worrying about the technicalities later. That's the way I've always written, and on a day when I can devote 4-6 hours to writing, I churn out several thousand words.
It was actually my "day job" that enlightened me as to what was going on. I teach, train, write curriculum and training materials, and provide law school admissions consulting services for a national test prep and admissions company. One day, I abruptly noticed a common thread between many of my writer friends and my admissions consulting clients...they thought someone was peeking over their shoulders while they were writing!
Not literally, of course, but the inhibition factor was the same. Admissions consulting clients couldn't get a draft, or even a paragraph, down on paper because "that's not what they want to hear," and "I'm not sure how that's going to sound." Well, of COURSE you're not sure how it's going to sound! How could you be, when you didn't write it down? One writer actually told me that he consciously censored what he put down on paper, thinking about how it would be received if/when it were read by his family. For most, I believe, it is not quite so conscious.
So this brings us back, I think, to the place I began. Just write. Sit down at the keyboard, take out a piece of paper...it really is that simple. And then remind yourself that you're alone in that room. Go ahead. Write it down. No one is going to see it unless you show it to them.
There's a thread running on one of my online writers' groups about our "internal editors" and the potential benefits of the "Novel in a Month" challenge that runs annually in November. Some of our members have participated in the past and found it very helpful for the simple reason that the high word-count goal compelled them to just keep writing without stopping to fuss and bother and edit and agonize.
Once upon a time it would have surprised me to learn that people didn't just blow through their first drafts, worrying about the technicalities later. That's the way I've always written, and on a day when I can devote 4-6 hours to writing, I churn out several thousand words.
It was actually my "day job" that enlightened me as to what was going on. I teach, train, write curriculum and training materials, and provide law school admissions consulting services for a national test prep and admissions company. One day, I abruptly noticed a common thread between many of my writer friends and my admissions consulting clients...they thought someone was peeking over their shoulders while they were writing!
Not literally, of course, but the inhibition factor was the same. Admissions consulting clients couldn't get a draft, or even a paragraph, down on paper because "that's not what they want to hear," and "I'm not sure how that's going to sound." Well, of COURSE you're not sure how it's going to sound! How could you be, when you didn't write it down? One writer actually told me that he consciously censored what he put down on paper, thinking about how it would be received if/when it were read by his family. For most, I believe, it is not quite so conscious.
So this brings us back, I think, to the place I began. Just write. Sit down at the keyboard, take out a piece of paper...it really is that simple. And then remind yourself that you're alone in that room. Go ahead. Write it down. No one is going to see it unless you show it to them.
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
The Danger of Positive Feedback
RockStories: September 2004
Several months ago, an acquaintance offered to do a "cold read" of the first five pages of my novel-in-progress. This came about because he'd critiqued some folks in a forum we both frequented and drawn some blood, and while everyone was up in arms about how mean he was, I found myself thinking that he'd be an ideal reader. I was always one of those annoying kids who liked the professors everyone warned you to avoid because I always learned something in their classes, and I figured the same might apply with critiques.
Thing was, he liked it. He had a few suggestions, but by his own admission they were minor ones. He said that if I'd been a paying client, he would have refunded my money. That was nice, but it wasn't what I'd come looking for. As I recently told a new writer in another forum, pats on the back are nice, but they're not constructive.
So the other day, when I was accused of writing "mindless mental floss," my feelings were mixed. That doesn't make anyone feel good, of course, especially not when it comes from someone whose posts indicate that he's pretty thoughtful and well-read. On the other hand, there was a little surge of "now we're getting somewhere." I'm a pretty good writer, but we can all get better, all the time, right? This was a pretty high-end forum I'd been posting in, and maybe the "big boys" were going to tell me why I wasn't in their league. Yet.
Well, overnight my initial critic reversed himself. Said he'd missed the point, and that I shouldn't change a thing about the story but should edit it and try to sell it forthwith.
And it was nice to hear. It really was. Anyone who writes (compulsively, not just because he's been hired to write) knows that our words are near to our hearts, and we like for people to like them. But...um...HOW IS THIS GOING TO MAKE ME A BETTER WRITER?
It's almost funny. Message boards, writers' groups, forums, etc., are full of writers defending themselves, asking for feedback and then fighting back when they get it. Still, I think there must be others like me, who aren't saying "What do you think of my story?" but "How can I make my story better?"
If the answer is, "You can't" then I'm in no position to complain...but where else do you go? Thoughts on that would be greatly appreciated, as it's my next mission (once I meet the four deadlines I have this week and finish moving): to find ways in which already-pretty-good writers can keep improving their craft and getting useful feedback.
Several months ago, an acquaintance offered to do a "cold read" of the first five pages of my novel-in-progress. This came about because he'd critiqued some folks in a forum we both frequented and drawn some blood, and while everyone was up in arms about how mean he was, I found myself thinking that he'd be an ideal reader. I was always one of those annoying kids who liked the professors everyone warned you to avoid because I always learned something in their classes, and I figured the same might apply with critiques.
Thing was, he liked it. He had a few suggestions, but by his own admission they were minor ones. He said that if I'd been a paying client, he would have refunded my money. That was nice, but it wasn't what I'd come looking for. As I recently told a new writer in another forum, pats on the back are nice, but they're not constructive.
So the other day, when I was accused of writing "mindless mental floss," my feelings were mixed. That doesn't make anyone feel good, of course, especially not when it comes from someone whose posts indicate that he's pretty thoughtful and well-read. On the other hand, there was a little surge of "now we're getting somewhere." I'm a pretty good writer, but we can all get better, all the time, right? This was a pretty high-end forum I'd been posting in, and maybe the "big boys" were going to tell me why I wasn't in their league. Yet.
Well, overnight my initial critic reversed himself. Said he'd missed the point, and that I shouldn't change a thing about the story but should edit it and try to sell it forthwith.
And it was nice to hear. It really was. Anyone who writes (compulsively, not just because he's been hired to write) knows that our words are near to our hearts, and we like for people to like them. But...um...HOW IS THIS GOING TO MAKE ME A BETTER WRITER?
It's almost funny. Message boards, writers' groups, forums, etc., are full of writers defending themselves, asking for feedback and then fighting back when they get it. Still, I think there must be others like me, who aren't saying "What do you think of my story?" but "How can I make my story better?"
If the answer is, "You can't" then I'm in no position to complain...but where else do you go? Thoughts on that would be greatly appreciated, as it's my next mission (once I meet the four deadlines I have this week and finish moving): to find ways in which already-pretty-good writers can keep improving their craft and getting useful feedback.
Sunday, September 05, 2004
The Art of Critique
RockStories
One of the things everyone in "my" new writers' group agreed on was that we should do critiques. Critiques can be tough--on both parties. In the online writers' group I've been involved with for a few years, we don't do critiques, but sometimes a member will ask on the list for feedback on a piece and then send it by email. I always let people know up front that they shouldn't ask me to critique something unless they're ready to hear the truth.
That seems fairly obvious; you wouldn't think anyone would ask for a critique unless they wanted to hear the truth. What it boils down to, I think, is that people do want the truth...but they want the truth to be positive. I think that most people, when they say, "Be honest," mean it. They think they can take a little criticism amidst the praise for the things they know they've done well. The problem, of course, is that the reviewer doesn't always agree that they've done those things as well as they thought.
Good critiques can be hurtful and require diplomacy, to be sure. On the other hand, a critique that isn't honest or that contrives praise is worthless. I've heard of writers' groups that have guidelines like, "say one positive thing for every negative thing." Forcing balance sends a false message. On the other hand, criticism should be constructive. "This sucks," isn't an especially helpful comment, even if it does. It's hurtful and, more importantly, it offers nothing in the way of direction as to how to create something that doesn't suck.
We talked about this during my first writers' group meeting, but it's a process I haven't dealt with personally in many years. I tend not to ask for critiques, simply to write and submit. I decided that it wouldn't hurt to refresh my memory on what it was like to be on the receiving end, so I posted a short story on a site I know to be frequented by critical and intelligent readers. I chose a short story because I have published very little fiction, and never a short story.
(I do, however, have some of my short fiction on my website at http://www.rockstories.net/id27.htm )
The first response I received called it "mindless mental-floss." Hm. Apparently he missed my memo. He raised a question in my mind, though, about whether I'd effectively communicated what I set out to communicate. I'm waiting to see if others pick it up.
Meanwhile, back to non-fiction.
One of the things everyone in "my" new writers' group agreed on was that we should do critiques. Critiques can be tough--on both parties. In the online writers' group I've been involved with for a few years, we don't do critiques, but sometimes a member will ask on the list for feedback on a piece and then send it by email. I always let people know up front that they shouldn't ask me to critique something unless they're ready to hear the truth.
That seems fairly obvious; you wouldn't think anyone would ask for a critique unless they wanted to hear the truth. What it boils down to, I think, is that people do want the truth...but they want the truth to be positive. I think that most people, when they say, "Be honest," mean it. They think they can take a little criticism amidst the praise for the things they know they've done well. The problem, of course, is that the reviewer doesn't always agree that they've done those things as well as they thought.
Good critiques can be hurtful and require diplomacy, to be sure. On the other hand, a critique that isn't honest or that contrives praise is worthless. I've heard of writers' groups that have guidelines like, "say one positive thing for every negative thing." Forcing balance sends a false message. On the other hand, criticism should be constructive. "This sucks," isn't an especially helpful comment, even if it does. It's hurtful and, more importantly, it offers nothing in the way of direction as to how to create something that doesn't suck.
We talked about this during my first writers' group meeting, but it's a process I haven't dealt with personally in many years. I tend not to ask for critiques, simply to write and submit. I decided that it wouldn't hurt to refresh my memory on what it was like to be on the receiving end, so I posted a short story on a site I know to be frequented by critical and intelligent readers. I chose a short story because I have published very little fiction, and never a short story.
(I do, however, have some of my short fiction on my website at http://www.rockstories.net/id27.htm )
The first response I received called it "mindless mental-floss." Hm. Apparently he missed my memo. He raised a question in my mind, though, about whether I'd effectively communicated what I set out to communicate. I'm waiting to see if others pick it up.
Meanwhile, back to non-fiction.
Saturday, September 04, 2004
RockStories
RockStories
Earlier this summer, my local library asked if I'd facilitate a writers' group. They'd had some requests for a group at the library and were willing to set it up, but didn't know how to get it rolling.
Knowing from experience that people come to writers' groups with very differing expectations, I sent out a questionnaire in advance, and I learned something very interesting--most people wanted to join a writers' group, at least in part, so that they'd write!
It shouldn't have come as a complete surprise. Several years ago, when I was just reimmersing myself into writing after many dry years and my first book was just a vague idea that had been dancing at the edges of my brain for twenty years, I joined a writers' group for almost the same purpose. It wasn't so much that I needed motivation to write as that I needed to find the right frame of mind. Creative immersion can be tough in a world that requires us to show up for work, do the grocery shopping, make dinner, answer the phone and decline to switch our long distance to AT&T every hour, clean the house, help the kids with the homework, call the plumber...
It's easy, under those circumstances, to put it off until tomorrow. The great idea that pops into your head in the shower might survive until it's quiet at the end of the day, but after putting in an eighteen hour day, the motivation to sit down and write it out might be pretty low. You might tell yourself that it will keep until tomorrow--and maybe it will. But maybe tomorrow won't be any different.
The years when I let that happen were good ones in many ways. I went to law school and practiced law, taught college, had a child. Life was good. But there's no question that I let something important slip away, something I was fortunate enough to call back and build a career on in my thirties.
I'm doing workshops, now, with teenage writers, showing them how to start publishing their work now instead of dreaming of someday. My hope is that with enough encouragement early in their lives, they'll build a place for writing in their lives that will remain impenetrable when grown-up responsibility intrudes. I know, though, that the world is full of responsible grown-ups with jobs and families who haven't quite let go of that dream. I like to think that some of them might, someday, read one of my articles or an interview I've given or listen to a talk in a library and say, "Hey, it's not too late for me, either!" That, in the end, is what this blog is all about. If you're a writer, you're a writer. It's in your blood, and it hasn't gone away just because you took a dozen or so years off to get on with your life. If you harbor secret dreams, take out a piece of paper. Sit down at the keyboard. It really is that easy.
Earlier this summer, my local library asked if I'd facilitate a writers' group. They'd had some requests for a group at the library and were willing to set it up, but didn't know how to get it rolling.
Knowing from experience that people come to writers' groups with very differing expectations, I sent out a questionnaire in advance, and I learned something very interesting--most people wanted to join a writers' group, at least in part, so that they'd write!
It shouldn't have come as a complete surprise. Several years ago, when I was just reimmersing myself into writing after many dry years and my first book was just a vague idea that had been dancing at the edges of my brain for twenty years, I joined a writers' group for almost the same purpose. It wasn't so much that I needed motivation to write as that I needed to find the right frame of mind. Creative immersion can be tough in a world that requires us to show up for work, do the grocery shopping, make dinner, answer the phone and decline to switch our long distance to AT&T every hour, clean the house, help the kids with the homework, call the plumber...
It's easy, under those circumstances, to put it off until tomorrow. The great idea that pops into your head in the shower might survive until it's quiet at the end of the day, but after putting in an eighteen hour day, the motivation to sit down and write it out might be pretty low. You might tell yourself that it will keep until tomorrow--and maybe it will. But maybe tomorrow won't be any different.
The years when I let that happen were good ones in many ways. I went to law school and practiced law, taught college, had a child. Life was good. But there's no question that I let something important slip away, something I was fortunate enough to call back and build a career on in my thirties.
I'm doing workshops, now, with teenage writers, showing them how to start publishing their work now instead of dreaming of someday. My hope is that with enough encouragement early in their lives, they'll build a place for writing in their lives that will remain impenetrable when grown-up responsibility intrudes. I know, though, that the world is full of responsible grown-ups with jobs and families who haven't quite let go of that dream. I like to think that some of them might, someday, read one of my articles or an interview I've given or listen to a talk in a library and say, "Hey, it's not too late for me, either!" That, in the end, is what this blog is all about. If you're a writer, you're a writer. It's in your blood, and it hasn't gone away just because you took a dozen or so years off to get on with your life. If you harbor secret dreams, take out a piece of paper. Sit down at the keyboard. It really is that easy.
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