Critique Group: How Mine Works

A popular post from April 2012

by Annette Lyon

Some time ago, I addressed this topic (you can read that post HERE), but things have changed, and the question has popped up a few times recently, so I thought it worth addressing again.

My critique group currently has seven members, but rarely can all of us meet at the same time. So we typically have weekly meetings, rotating between three member homes in three cities, if at least three of us can attend. We usually get four or five. We try to arrange weekly meetings, so if (or, rather, when) some can't attend, it's okay; another meeting is coming around the corner.


Everyone brings a scene or chapter (6-8 pages typically, but sometimes more or less) and a copy for everyone. Each writer reads their pages aloud while we all take notes on our copies. Then each person goes around the table with 2-3 minutes of their critique. Sometimes we end up with discussions where we figure out how to fix something, disagree on a point, whatever. Normally, one person's piece takes about 30 minutes.

Some groups are really strict with "shop talk," but we know that that's a big part of getting together—no one gets this weird writing thing like other writers. So we let ourselves have about 30 minutes upfront for chit chat before buckling down. (Not that we don't get silly and chatty in between . . .)

We meet at 7:00 or 7:30, depending on schedules, and try to be done around 10:30 or so.

Treats are optional, but welcome.

Before we were all published and had deadlines, we read entire manuscripts this way, but times have changed. No way can we get through entire manuscripts before submission. Now we skip around, bringing parts we're struggling with or want to be sure we're getting right. Beginnings almost always show up. Sometimes, when we're getting ready to submit something, members will swap full manuscripts for critiques.

We all started out as newbies but with serious dedication. As a few dropped off or moved out, we brought in people who already had higher skill levels, since we'd grown as well.

In my opinion, a group works best if the members are roughly on the same skill level. If they aren't, those behind can't really contribute in a way that's valuable (their feedback isn't helpful, as they don't know enough). On the flip side, a member way ahead of others won't get value from those who aren't as far along the writing path. Plus, their feedback may be more than those starting out are ready for; it could be too harsh or simply not understandable. The way I see it, a slight variation is skill level is fine, but not a big one.

You'll likely find members who have varying strengths, which I've found useful. One person may be extra good at character motivation, another at showing, another at pacing, and yet another at conflict. A spectrum of strengths will raise everyone's game.

When looking for people to create a group, you'll want personality compatibility as well as dedication. If someone is a killer writer but never shows up (or regularly comes an hour late), doesn't write (so their skills lag behind everyone else's), and so on, there's not much point in having them in the group.

Some groups are big with sticking with a single genre, but we're all over the place, from middle grade to women's fiction, romance to horror, memoir to dystopian. As long as everyone is well-read and has a clue about how other genres work, having many shouldn't be a problem. I do know of some groups that specialize in specific genres, and imagine that may have its own advantages, but mixing genres has never been an issue for us.

Have critique group tips of your own? Share them in the comments!

"I'm a Bit Stubborn"

A popular post from October 2011

by Annette Lyon

Writing, whether it's your occupation, hobby, or passion, brings with it challenges that I believe are unique to the creative arts.

Among them is an intense connection to your work, almost as if your words are an extension of yourself, your heart, your very being.

That can pose a huge problem, but here are two of the most common ways:

1) You are too afraid to get feedback.

It's very hard to put your work out there for other people to see, then ask them for an opinion, especially since writing can be so subjective. It's like someone telling you your baby is ugly, and it's all your fault.

2) You refuse to accept feedback.

Yes, writing is subjective . . . to a point. But when alpha/beta readers, critique partners, and editors continue to return with similar feedback (this is confusing, show this, the pace is lagging, whatever), maybe there's really a problem.

Maybe you can really improve.

A truth for success in writing: being pig-headed gets you absolutely nowhere.

Those writers who seek help, who are open to suggestion and change, who recognize that maybe they aren't yet ready to put up a shelf for their incoming Pulitzer, who continually strive to improve: those are the writers who will eventually succeed.

I recently met a man who is an aspiring writer and actor. As we talked, it became clear that the main reason he hasn't found any success in either endeavor is that he refuses to seek or accept feedback.

With his writing, he simply will not let others so much as suggest he add a comma. No one is allowed to give criticism of any kind (editors and writing teachers are "full of themselves," you see). He has no industry connections at all, and therefore doesn't understand how the industry works. He doesn't take time for his craft. He simply expects success to land in his lap.

As we talked, he explained that he can't stand being told what to do. "I'm a bit stubborn," he admitted, as if that's an admirable quality.

Stubbornness can be a good thing; to some extent, it's what helped me get as far as I have in my career. I'm stubborn enough to not give up.

But that's not the kind of stubborn he was talking about. He refuses feedback, suggestions, change, and any hint that he maybe he'd get further by going about doing things differently.

Yet he asked my advice about how to improve, succeed, and find industry connections. I had a sneaking suspicion that he didn't really want to hear what I was going to say.

First I asked, "Have you been to any writing conferences?"

"Oh, no. I don't have time for conferences or any of that stuff."

Since we'd met all of ten minutes earlier, I might have been too bold in my response, but it slipped out anyway: "Then you don't have time to be a writer."

After a slightly awkward pause, he said, "Yeah, I hear that. But . . ."

And he kept going on about how he's such a great writer and doesn't want (or need) to be told what to do.

When he heard about how many books I've published, he asked if I could connect him with friends in the industry to get him published.

My first reaction (which I didn't verbalize), was to list all the work I've done to reach the point I'm at. We're talking about close to two decades of hard, consistent work. Work I'm still doing. Success doesn't just happen.

I tried to explain that no one can help him in the way he wants. Even if I handed him my editor's cell phone number, it would do him no good. I can make suggestions and recommendations to industry friends (and I have).

Every so often the recommendation leads to a contract. In one case, the writer I passed the information on about had been actively working, hard, for years. It was a good fit, and I could whole-heartedly recommend them to my editor. It worked out only because the writer's skill, work ethic, and professionalism were already in place. They likely would have made it eventually without my putting a finger into the situation.

But I've made other recommendations that haven't ended up in a contract. I can suggest all I want, but in the end, I have zero control over what an editor or publisher does. I've been recommended by others too, but that guarantees nothing.

As the conversation went on, it became quite clear that he didn't know some of the most basic things about writing or publishing, things he could have picked up and learned with a simple Google search (or heck, by reading the archives right here).

I left the conversation guessing that whatever dreams he has will never become a reality because he refuses to be teachable.

If you hope to be published and have success, you need outside feedback (good luck ever publishing a novel if you refuse to be edited; your publisher will drop you like a hot potato).

I don't care if you think you're the best gift to literature since Shakespeare; you need to improve and learn what that means for your work.

You need to reach out and make the connections. Don't isolate yourself in a tower and think you know best when others can support you and help you thrive.

Don't think you have all the answers. I can guarantee that whoever you are, you don't.

Learn the ins and outs and expectations of what a writer does, how publishing works, and what that means for you personally.

If you're serious about writing, you'll never be in a place to sit on your laurels.

Don't look down your nose at someone who is suggesting that maybe this part of your story might work better if you revised. They just might know what they're talking about. And remember: they're trying to help you, not pull you down.

Bottom line: Learn what it means to be a professional. And then behave like one.

Extra Eyes

A popular post from August 2011

by Annette Lyon

Last Saturday was the first ever Precision Editing Group live critique workshop. Each of the five senior editors had a table of writers, and we spent the day reading pages aloud and helping one another improve.

(We also got a picture taken of the five of us, which you can see in the sidebar. Left to right: Lu Ann Staheli, Heather Moore, Julie Wright, me, and Josi Kilpack.)

I had a great group of writers at my table. Here we are (I'm third from the left):

We had a great time. By the end of the day, I felt that everyone at my table had a solid direction to go with their books. They knew what worked (our table was great at pointing out strengths!), what didn't quite hit the mark, and best of all, they came away know knowing why certain parts didn't land and they knew how to make their work better.

I led the discussion, but I wasn't the only one talking. Everyone got to comment on everyone else's work, and I believe they all learned something from the three elements of the day:

1) Taking a critique from others.

Learning to accept a critique helps a writer build a thicker skin and lets you view your work more objectively. It's easy to get so close to your story that you can't see what's good and what's not so good without stepping back. The best way I've found to get that distance is through receiving outside feedback.

2) Giving a critique to others.

When you put on the editor hat and must actively look at someone else's work through that lens, you're working a different creative muscle. If you're like me, you'll discover things about writing that you didn't know before. You'll see something that works well (or doesn't), and then you have to articulate why. Also, sometimes I'll see a problem in someone's work, and only then do I realize that I do the very same thing.

3) Watching other people critique a third person's work.

When different perspectives and different skill sets are put into action in front of you, you may get some of the best writing education of your life. I've had more light-bulb moments watching members of my critique group help each other than in almost any other way.

I've learned huge amounts from all three critique ways, and I believe that my table did, too, even though we had just one day together.

Kudos to the five writers at my table. Your willingness to both learn and give was inspiring, and I was impressed with your work. Keep at it!

If you haven't had this type of critique experience, find one. Joining my critique group in January of 2000 was the single best thing I did for my writing. My skills jumped ahead light years in a matter of months.

I'm sure we'll have more writing workshops in the future. Be sure to watch for any announcements, because you won't want to miss out.

How to GIVE a Critique

A popular post from Feb. 2012

by Annette Lyon

Some time ago, I did a two-part series on how to take and use a critique. Find part I here and part II here.

I got a lot of great feedback from those posts, after which Precision Editing reader (and personal friend) DeNae suggested I address the opposite side of the fence, which is today's topic:

How do you GIVE a critique?

I admit that I've meant to write about this topic for months, but I had a hard time grabbing hold of how to approach it. I finally realized why, and the reason is simple:

Not all critiques are created equal.

I've known the writers in my critique group for over a decade. I trust them with my work. They trust me with theirs. They can totally rip my chapter to shreds, and I'll walk away liking them just as much as before (or maybe more, because they're helping me grow). I can do the same to them.

But what if a brand new writer comes to me asking for feedback, and I give the same type of brutal honesty to them?

I'm guessing emotional implosion, or something close to it.

One reason is that a brand new writer likely hasn't developed a thick skin yet.

Another reason is that I'm a perfect stranger. Even for me, it's far easier for me to take a harsh critique from a member of our group than a mild edit from an anonymous editor.

Before you give someone a critique, you'll need to address the following issues:

How experienced is this writer?

If they're just starting out, you could squelch their enthusiasm pretty easily, even if their work is relatively good. Be gentle.

I've often heard that a good critique will have at least 2 positive comments for each negative one. Trust me; my group doesn't work that way. Not even almost. But we don't need to, either. We have history together, trust and respect as colleagues.

But the 2/1 method probably does work well when someone is starting out. Don't stress over getting the perfect ratio of positive and negative, but do make sure to point out what the new writer is doing well.

If, on the other hand, the writer is seasoned, you probably don't need to include everything you liked, and you can likely be more direct about what you think needs fixing.

Find out what Kind of Feedback Is Wanted

Sometimes a writer may want big picture feedback, things like whether the conflict is engaging, the pacing tight, the characters and motivations believable, if you spot any plot holes, and the like.

Other times, they want a closer read, more like a line edit, where you catch repeated words, typos, and awkward writing on line-by-line level.

Knowing what kind of feedback you're giving will influence how you read the work (On the computer? On your e-reader?), what you'll focus on, and even how much time you'll spend on it.

Say What, Where and Why

And be specific doing so.

If you can, target specific issues and then explain, in detail, how to improve in those areas. Few things frustrate a writer more than generic feedback. "Loved it" and "Hated it" are both useless, because we don't know where or (more importantly) why. Be specific.

Examples of targeted positive feedback:

"Great use of point of view here."

"Love how well you showed the emotion this paragraph."

"Great description. I could totally see and smell the forest."

"This conversation has excellent dialog—each character has a unique voice."

"This part is so creepy . . . excellent tension!"

Examples of targeted critical feedback:

"I'm unsure whose point of view we're in here. I think we've hopped heads since the last page."

"Could you show her crying instead of telling us she's sad?"

"This scene could use a few more details about the setting. I can't see where they are."

"This conversation feels like nothing but voices. I can't follow who's saying what."

"The pace lags a bit on this page. Tighten it a bit."

Be Open to Questions

If something you mentioned in your critique is unclear, the writer should be able to approach you for clarification without any worry.

Know When to Say No

Writers who are serious are teachable. Pretend you've helped Writer A with a critique. They've supposedly revised, and they want you to read more of their work. You open the new file, only to see the exact same issues you pointed out before.

Maybe the writer didn't understand your suggestions.

Maybe they aren't ready for a real critique and would rather be ego-stroked.

Maybe they want to hurry up and put their work up as an e-book without putting in the apprenticeship work required to become a true wordsmith and storyteller.

In those cases, it's best to politely walk away. Any critique you'll give at that point is a waste of everyone's time.

You'll know you did a great job when the writer comes back to you and says that you helped them make their work so much better, and thank you!

That's a huge reward all by itself.

Dear Author . . .

A popular post from October 2011

By Julie Wright

“I spent a bit of time perusing the Dear Author for the romance category boards over on Amazon. It was hilarious . . . until it wasn't.

I'm in the process of editing one of my earlier manuscripts that I've received my rights back from the publisher. I knew the writing was rough because I was young when I wrote the book and inexperienced as a writer. I had no idea how bad it truly was until I got two sentences into the edit.

Sad that it only took two sentences for me to start rolling my eyes. I actually would have been eye-rolling at the first four words except I was too shocked to be capable of the eye-roll.

I made a lot of mistakes in those first books, mistakes that would instigate the words, "Dear author . . . Please don't . . ."

It's important to remember your audience and to read enough in the genre in which you're writing so you understand the cliche's and sand-traps of that genre. Basically, what I'm saying is . . . learn your craft.

I was so glad to have been published with those first couple of books, so excited to be an "author," that I jumped in before I was ready. Was it a mistake? Maybe. Maybe I never would have published and worked to get better if I hadn't had those first books come out the way they did. Or maybe I would have kept writing until I grew in my craft and had a first book release that would have stunned the world. Who knows? Twelve novels later, I am a much different writer today than I was ten years ago. I hope to keep improving and growing and BECOMING.  For now, I am editing and eye-rolling. And paying close attention to notes like, "dear author . . ."

Feel free to peruse the Dear Author board on Amazon for yourself:

Dear Author . . .

And do you have any memos you wish you could say to authors in general? Things you wish they'd stop doing or do more of?                   

How to Take a Critique

A popular post from June 2011. 

by Annette Lyon

As many of our regular readers know, I've been part of a great critique group for a long time (since January of 2000). I've been published for 9 of those years, and I've been editing professionally for at least five of those. It's safe to say I've been on both sides of the "get your work torn apart" process.

With that in mind, here are a few guidelines for when you get feedback, whether it's from a beta reader, a critique group member, or an editor.

1) No matter what anyone says, it's still your book.

No one's opinion is law. Therefore: you don't have to change anything you don't want to.

Sometimes that realization is rather freeing.

It's also a pain in the neck, because things are so subjective in the arts. At times it would be nice to have a formula: X + Y = success! It's not quite like that.

That said:

2) Consider each piece of feedback seriously.

Even if you totally disagree with someone's suggestion about changing a section, don't dismiss the idea out of hand. Think about whether they have a valid point. Maybe their fix isn't the best idea, but their diagnosis is right on: something is indeed wrong with the section.

So maybe Mark wouldn't say what the editor suggested, but is there a chance his original dialog was flat or unmotivated? Is pace sagging here? Is that chapter confusing? Sometimes editors are great at spotting problems and suggesting solutions, but it's your job as the writer to figure out the best fix.

3) Don't argue, debate, or defend.

You've asked for (maybe even paid for!) an opinion. If you don't agree with it, fine. But insisting that your reader misread or misinterpreted your work, or insisting it must be this way or the reader is an idiot and missed this or that and here is why? That's not useful. (And it can be insulting; you asked for an opinion and got one.)

Okay, maybe the person is an idiot.

Or . . . maybe your reader missed a big point because you didn't write it effectively.

Figure out which it is, and, if necessary, get back to work. If getting an honest critique or edit stings too much and/or makes you want to whip out your defensive karate moves, there's a chance you're not ready for outside feedback quite yet.

4) A corollary: Just because something "really" is a certain way or "really" happened that way, doesn't mean it'll be believable.

For example: Some time ago, as I prepared to write a scene where a character dies, I read several first-person accounts from people who had loved ones die in similar circumstances. In my scene, I added the kinds of details that really happened to real people.

My critique group got hung up on a few of them because they didn't feel real.

What did I do? I could have insisted that "Some people really do go through it just like this." (And I could have proved it.)

Instead, I recognized that if those details pulled them out of the scene, if the moment didn't ring true, I needed to revise. I found other details (also real) that felt more true and familiar. The result was a much more powerful scene.

5) Don't go back to your editor to answer their "questions."

I put that in quotation marks, because if an editor writes notes like "Where are they?" or "What's the name of that museum?" or "I don't think such a building on that street exists, does it?" the editor is not really asking because they want an answer.

They're asking for the reader's benefit.

The editor is merely pointing out an issue for you as the writer to address: something is confusing, telly, unclear, or unbelievable. The question is a way for the editor to tell you that something isn't working. Questions give you, the writer, a direction to go.

I don't know of a single editor who ever waits for a client to send an email with, "Oh, by the way, the building you asked about is two blocks west of the City Bank on Main Street. It really exists. Here's a Google Map link to prove it."

(Thanks . . . that was totally keeping me up at night . . .)

In my experience, most editors are happy to clarify what they meant by a certain question if you aren't sure what the underlying issue is. But trust me; they aren't expecting you to answer those questions in any place except the actual manuscript, which the editor may never see again.

Answering a question (especially if it's one of those "See? I was right," issues) can rub the wrong way. Which leads to:

5) Resist correcting your editor.

We're human, so yes, we make mistakes, no matter how perfect we try to be. Whether it's a typo or fact we're off on . . . let it go. (Even if the mistake is phrased as a question, as in #4.)

Imagine this scenario (this exact situation hasn't happened, but it hearkens to real events): Your historical novel has a World War I battle and lists it as taking place in 1920. Your editor points out that the war had already ended by that point, with a note along the lines of, "WWI was over by then. I think the final battle was in 1919."

You recheck your facts and realize that whoops, the war was indeed over before 1920. But check it! The war ended in 1918, although the Treaty of Versailles wasn't signed until 1919.

Hah! Your editor was WRONG!

Sure, technically. But here's the deal: Your editor was correct in spotting your error. That's all that matters here. You were saved from looking bad. Returning with "Well, you were wrong too," won't elicit a thank you or warm fuzzies.

6) Have Reasonable Expectations. Or: Apply what you've learned. THEN come back.

Often, we editors get e-mails from clients saying that they learned so much from the 50 pages they had edited, whether it's about showing, exposition, dialog, or something else, and thank you!

We love that kind of feedback; helping writers to improve their work is what we're after.

Next step: apply what you've learned to the rest of the manuscript! Then ask for more editing.

Sometimes a writer wants to hand over 300 pages of a draft, pay for an edit, and end up with gold. That doesn't work. A single edit can take a manuscript only so many steps up. The better a piece is before an editor gets their hands on it, the higher level it'll be at the end of the edit. No matter how great the editor, coal cannot be turned into a diamond. Create a diamond, even in the rough, and the editor may be able to find the right cut and shape for it to sparkle!

This is, as we've mentioned on this blog before, why we often do manuscripts in chunks: it gives the writer the chance to learn from the edits of the early pages and apply those lessons so that later edits will be even more effective.

And finally, because it bears repeating:

No matter what anyone says, it's still your book.