What Not To Ask

How To Be A Good Critique Partner

This may have to be a series.

You know, first of all, I think “critique partner” is probably a terrible term for what most intuitive writers need in a writing partner relationship. And yet, it feels like all the other terms I think of imply co-writing in the sense of working on a shared project.

Most intuitive writers do not need to invite critique in the drafting process.

Author, writer coach, and Gallup CliftonStrengths coach Terry Schott tells a story about working in a restaurant in which servers offered a bin of small toys to children to keep them occupied at the table. Most children took a while to decide but, every now and then, there would be a child who would reach, most decisively, and grab up a particular toy. Without exception, Terry tells us, the child’s parent would stop them with:

Are you sure?

Are you sure? Did you look at all the toys? Is that the best one?

And after that, it seemed it was impossible for the kid to make a decision.

I remember being sure. Not that I was a good writer or that anyone would buy the story I was working on. But I remember being sure that what I wrote was what I wanted for the story, at least as far as I knew at the time when I wrote it. By which I mean that it could change, later, as the story and my understanding of it took shape, but I would be on a path, a path with many stretches that were foggy AF, but in those days I trusted that it was going somewhere.

And if I found that it wasn’t, I would go back and rewrite it.

So in those days, anything that sounded like…

Are you sure?
Did you think about this?
What does that have to do with the story?
Have you thought about this market trend?

…didn’t phase me. I could hand wave that shit right off and keep going.

And then I “went pro.” I was a writer with readers and an agent. I was part of a writing community. People expected me to do this right.

You know… I think there was a stretch of time where I was absolutely ready, as far as quality of writing goes, to query traditional publishing, but I held back. Part of that was not being certain about my talent (and reading too much “you can’t do it” stuff from published authors, and “so you shouldn’t bother us” stuff from editors and agents), but a large part was being uncertain about things like my ability to write to deadline or to write according to someone else’s demand.

Which is why I didn’t get serious about putting my work out there until indie publishing came along.

And then, somehow, I fell right into the deadlines and demands anyway.

It seems like I’ve gone off track, but now I’ve come to the point. Because this is the part of the story where Are you sure? messages became deadly for my creativity. Suddenly I was no longer governed by that internal compass, but by external expectations (or my perception of them), and I was no longer sure about anything.

And like the kids in Terry’s story, the self doubt engendered by the question—really, any questioning of my creative impulses these days—makes me unable to find the certainty to move forward.

Because what certainty does an intuitive writer have beyond what feels right in the moment?

It’s important to say that the primary responsibility here lies with the writer. It’s for each of us to say what we need and what we don’t need. And that’s difficult when we don’t know what we need, when we can’t figure out why we’re suddenly unable to move forward. But I’m going to encourage you, if you’re in that boat, to ask for “good vibes only” in the drafting process. The more sensitive you’ve become to any suggestion of criticism or “you might be wrong” messages, the active you need to be about protecting yourself.

The sort of irony here is that so many intuitive writers are also externally motivated. We stumble or grind to a halt when we bring others into our creative process at the wrong time, and yet we need to share, to be fed by someone’s excitement and encouragement to continue. For so many of us, hiding alone in the writer cave is cutting ourselves off from motivational fuel.

And then the whole business feels like double-edged sword.

The secondary responsibility is to the writing partner. To listen. To respect the boundary. Even if it’s not what you need to move forward. Even if you believe in your heart that your friend is doing it wrong, going in the wrong direction. If you’ve been asked to stay out of someone else’s creative garden and to admire from the fence line, that’s truly the best way to help. Only when you’re invited in to give your expert opinion on why something isn’t growing should you cross that line. (Anyone feel really awkward about garden metaphors after watching Queen Charlotte?) Most writers do have a stage (or stages) of the process where they start making changes and improving their stories. Trust and wait for it.

And back to the writer: an unspoken, undefended boundary is not a boundary. (How many of you knew I would say that?) We all want to get along with others—some of us want it a little too much. Most of us want to seem open to criticism, because to not be has been painted as immature, unteachable. But if the wrong teaching moment at the wrong time kills your story…

Dude, it’s not worth it. You have to protect that story baby, even from those who “just want what’s best for it.” It is Oh-Kay for you to decide at what stage your process is able to tolerate outside voices. It is necessary.

And that might mean you no longer share early-stages work with dear friends who are unable to keep their questions or criticisms or ideas to themselves when asked. You don’t have to make a big deal about that. You can quietly stop sharing early work and quietly find a friend or group who believes in “good vibes only,” without labels of “too sensitive,” “immature,” and “unteachable.” If these are hard to find, it’s partly because we’ve been shamed into silence and aren’t asking.

Start asking. Start owning what you need.

Because one of the best ways to be a good partner—at anything—is the practice of figuring out what you need and asking for it.