My critique journey began in college, where I majored in English literature and spent years dissecting novels and drafting essays about their relevance, themes, history, and meaning. I was a freelance editor, helping emerging writers find their voice, create compelling characters, and keep their ideal reader turning the page. Becoming a contest judge was a whole other beast made even more daunting because it’s done anonymously and doesn’t come with a list of acceptable feedback. I can be more direct with a client because there’s a two-way line of communication. With contests, you have to be direct without being cruel. I’ve had many judges leave rude, cruel, and downright unhelpful feedback that I had to edit and report before it made it back to the author. This job isn’t for everyone.
So, how do you tell an author their “lovable” character is a vindictive witch, or their story doesn’t reel you in, without being insensitive? I’ve asked myself these questions, among many others, in the nine years I’ve volunteered as a captain judge for the Colorado Gold Rush Contest. Keeping the following lessons in mind has kept me honest but kind.
The Golden Rule: Don’t be horrible.
This first one’s simple. Be critical, not cruel. Leave feedback you would appreciate receiving, even if it points to large-scale revisions down the line. Good feedback equips a writer with tools to polish, flesh out, and trim. Poor feedback, and sometimes feedback stemming from the wrong reader, can annihilate the writer’s desire to create. Be kind but constructive in your suggestions.
A story’s greatness is subjective.
No two judges will read your submission the same way. We all come to a text with our experiences, traumas, assumptions, and flawed interpretations. While one judge might focus on the strengths of a submission, another might attack it because they’ve always abhorred blond male leads. One reader could appreciate the nuance and complexity of a scene where another deems it convoluted and unnecessary. It’s all up to chance.
Not every reader is your reader—even if they read the same genre you’re publishing under.
The reader assigned to your pages might not be your reader, your intended audience. This is, unfortunately, a typical dilemma in both the judging and critiquing space. Knowing the difference between who doesn’t understand your genre or manuscript and who aims to lend a firm but loving hand is essential when accepting feedback. If it’s coming from someone who voraciously reads your genre, or who always provides constructive and specific feedback, chances are their feedback should be explored.
All writers have weaknesses.
Whether it be descriptions, worldbuilding, character arcs, or grammar, everyone has room for growth. The day you receive clean pages is the day you become an anomaly.
Your feedback should be specific.
If you’re telling someone to revise a section, explain why the current construction isn’t working. To take it a step further, ask them questions to get to the heart of the issue. We don’t want to be prescriptive and tell a writer how to resolve a problem; instead, we want to encourage exploration that tackles the problem area. Nothing’s worse than vague or shallow feedback. Spend a moment and determine why something isn’t working for you without saying “You should…” or “I would rewrite it like this...”.
Don’t rewrite the author’s story.
Much of an author’s voice stems from their prose, and no two people will tell the same story. Avoid rephrasing unless the original is confusing or a more apt word suits them better. Don’t restructure sentences or mess around with formatting unless you can back up your reasoning in the comments.
Critiquing or reading critically makes you a stronger writer.
By dissecting and critiquing fiction, you exercise your ability to find faults and points of weakness in your own work. This adapted skill is vital for revisions, and you’ll find that your eye for story, character, and plot are improved by the mere art of reviewing and providing suggestions for someone else.
Don’t put too much stock in craft books.
More common among emerging writers, the need to fully adopt a craft book’s “lessons” often hinders your style and writing skills. While Stephen King believes adjectives are the devil, and he makes a point that overuse is often a detriment, conservative use of adjectives—or anything you’re told not to use EVER—adds style and context. Craft books are meant to be referenced, to either give you prose pointers or provide a single writer’s experience and craft habits. Take them as options, not gospel.
Some rules should be broken.
Writing “rules” are meant to guide you, not cripple you. Understand what’s expected before breaking convention. Some rules will inevitably be broken in a fit of creative expression or experimentation. As a judge or reader, it’s your job to know what’s purposely on the page and what could use more finesse. Don’t be the judge who spouts “rules” even when what they’re pointing out isn’t getting in the way of the story. Learn to grow, as a writer and a reader.
[Photo by Unseen Studio on Unsplash]
Amber Herbert is a (mostly) speculative fiction writer living in Colorado Springs, CO with her husband and their two gremlins. Lipstick Covered Magnet was her first novel. With a BA in English literature and a decade of experience as an editor, she’s a sucker for poignant, evocative prose and phenomenal character arcs. Her favorite genres are high fantasy with complex worlds and magic systems, heady sci-fi, and atmospheric or psychological horror. When she’s not writing or critiquing literature, TV, and film, she enjoys baking, finding new midwest emo/pop punk bands, playing tabletop games, learning a new song on the drums, and snapping photos. You can find her at https://amberherbert.com.