I’ve got a feeling!
In the continuum between objective and subjective, fiction writing tends toward the subjective. Sure, there’s been a recent proliferation of AI/software that claims to analyze and quantify story arcs, strategies, and syntax, but in the grand scheme of things, writing is subjective.
That includes critiques and feedback. In a recent edition of EasternPennPoints, author Lauren Ranalli discussed the tension between input and instinct. “Seeking input is an incredibly important part of the writing process. You should never write your book in a vacuum,” she wrote. But, she added, “You know your book better than anyone else, so trust your instincts!”
Instincts can be unreliable narrators, though, so how do you know what and who to trust? How do you filter the subjective from the objective? Here are a few suggestions:
Look for experience. Whenever I read a novel, I check the copyright page and the acknowledgements to see who the author includes on their team. If I liked the book, I’ll make note of the editorial team. They’re folks I might be interested in working with at some point. Or maybe I’ll refer other authors to them. If I think they’ve helped the author produce a good book, I’ll be more likely to recognize their advice as wisdom.
Ask your target audience. If you’re writing a children’s book, read it to a kid. If you’re writing a steamy novel, ask readers of steamy novels to read yours. Note their reactions. If your book grabs the kid’s attention, you might be on to something, but if you don’t hear back from your adult alpha reader for weeks, it might be a sign they’re struggling to finish it or to figure out how to give you negative feedback.
Identify the facts. In her article, Ranalli noted that she received feedback that included information about a missing syllable in her rhyme scheme. That’s factual. It’s measurable. It’s verifiable. Compare that with the statement “Your girl character should be a boy.” My first reaction is “why?” The word “should” implies someone has made a rule and is trying to hold this character to that rule. But who made that rule, and why should I follow it? How will my story and my readers benefit from obeying that rule?
Dig into the opinions. Young children make great investigative journalists, as they’re frequently asking why. They want to know how their world works, often to the exasperation of their older siblings and their caregivers. That same inquisitiveness can be applied to feedback. Ranalli shared that one piece of feedback was “Your book needs to feel more fun. You should change the ending.” Ouch! It would be interesting to know how Ranalli handled that piece of information. Why did the reader think the book was lacking in fun? Why did the ending not work for them? What specific elements would they suggest changing, and what impact do they imagine those changes would have on the book? By asking those questions, she might have found out that the book just wasn’t telling the story she wanted it to, or she might have learned about a typo that changed the entire meaning of the piece. She might have also learned that her sense of humor didn’t jibe with the reader’s, which might have necessitated a change in marketing, subtitle, or, yes, even the ending.
If you’re like me, receiving feedback is anxiety-inducing. The adrenaline rush of receiving comments can be overwhelming. It’s tempting to defend yourself and your manuscript as an extension of yourself. My strategy is to have my spouse read through feedback that I imagine might be painful, or I wait a while (sometimes months!) to read the feedback. It’s much easier to process the information when I’m not having an emotional reaction to it. It’s easier to be calm and rational, to recognize the subjective where it pops up, when I’m not in the midst of an adrenaline flood.
What strategies work for you, and how do you determine whether to trust input or your instincts?
