Tag Archives: critique group

Writing

Elements of Critique: Repetition

Leave a comment

While going through this A to Z challenge, I’ve had to check my list often to make sure I haven’t written about something too similar to each new day’s post. When I originally organized the list, I ran into a couple topics that were almost repeats of another day. No reader is going to want to read the same thing a week later. We pick up on overused words and subjects. We notice when the writer is saying something they’ve already said.

That’s why I look for repetition when critiquing a piece of writing.

Repetition and overuse draw attention to the writing instead of keeping it on the story. Our writing is like a camera lens by which the reader can see the world we set before them. Repetition (like many other mistakes) is a smudge on the lens itself. We fix our eyes on the dirt as we read, and the image of the story behind it is obscured.

Consider these fairly egregious examples, and note that rarely is this issue so obvious:

He faced her and she noted his long face with a nose that jutted out of his face.

Flaming arrows rained down like flaming shooting stars, blanketing the area with flames.

Any time the same word is used twice in the same sentence, I want to rewrite it. With certain nouns (names, terms related to the topic at hand), this might be unavoidable. But when a descriptor is given twice in a paragraph, it feels like too much to me.

Sometimes the repetition is a character’s action or response to a situation:

“She cocked her head” (after having done so twice in as many pages).
“He furrowed his brow” (again, for the fifth time this chapter).
“She bit her lip” (as she always does in literally every tense situation in the book).

Reading out loud helps me catch some of these in my own work. “She cocked her head… wait, I just read that a few lines ago…”

The thesaurus can help here, so long as the selected replacements fit.

There’s one more area to watch out for, especially for fiction: the start of paragraphs. When a section involves a lot of action on the part of a character, the proper name or appropriate pronoun may find its way to the beginning of several sentences and paragraphs without the writer’s notice.

Lyllithe turned and faced her accuser… followed by a few sentences showing impending conflict.
Lyllithe ducked under his attack and sprang for the door… then some fight scene excitement for a couple lines.
Lyllithe slammed the crossbar down and felt the thump of his body when it hit… and this would make three in a row.

“She she she” can happen just as easily, and also occurs within individual paragraphs. For first person, the danger is compounded since there’s no real need for the POV character’s name. Thus we might see, “I this, I that, I some other thing.”

In writing clear, active sentences, we’ll see a lot of them start with a character’s name or a pronoun. That’s unavoidable.

The only cure for this I am aware of is rewriting to mix in description, dialogue, or POV character thoughts. Try anything to break up the monotony.

The one feeling we’re not trying to create in the reader is a sense of déjà vu.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Originality

1 Comment

I recall a few conversations with friends that took place after I first started plotting out the idea for my novel. “I have this idea for a character whose nemesis is actually herself, like a split personality.”

“Oh, like in Fight Club?”

I hadn’t seen Fight Club yet.

“Because that’s what they do in Fight Club. You should probably watch or read that.”

I did. I was both entertained and frustrated. I’m a copycat before I’ve even started!

Later, I turned some of my ideas into a story for a role-playing game. When one of the big secrets came to light, one of my players burst out, “Oh! I get it! We’re playing the Serenity campaign now, aren’t we?” Then he laid out the similarities between my story and Whedon’s space-cowboy movie.

“No…” I said defensively.

“Nah, man, it’s cool. I love it. I just realized where I think you got the idea.”

So today, I’m thinking about originality and how it factors into the critique process.

After millennia of human history, there are no truly “new” stories. Look at Campbell’s work with the Monomyth as an example of how often the same elements pop up in the tales we tell. We’re all copycats, to some (significant) degree. So what’s a writer to do?

Develop new takes on old stories.

We borrow from past experiences and insights all the time. These “Elements of Critique” posts, for example, are nothing new. They’re only recounting stuff I’ve read or been told along the way. This stuff is all out there on the Internet or in any of the great books on the craft of writing. There’s nothing original about these topics I’m writing on.

Most sermons on Sunday aren’t anything new either. (The Christian in me says if you’re hearing something truly “new” from the pulpit then maybe that’s a big warning sign that you’re not hearing something true.)

But what preachers do is similar to what I look for when critiquing. They take a point that has been made hundreds of times in the past, and they find a unique way of restating it to catch the audience’s attention.

This is especially true for non-fiction writing pieces. The writer has to find a way to make telling already-known information interesting and original.

In fiction writing, on the other hand, the originality is found in the details, the setting, the ways that common concepts are juxtaposed.

When critiquing fiction, I ask “Is this a new take? Is it stated well enough that it’s unique?” Or more important, if this is the “same-old” coming of age story, is the setting original? What sets this fiction apart from the next book of the same genre?

If I see similarities to something else, it might be helpful to point out, either for comparison or for writer adjustment. If I write a fantasy with dwarves, elves, and Hobbits, someone better let me know that Tolkien already did that, he did it very well thank you, and maybe I should change my project in some significant ways.

The Fight Club reference did that for me.

There’s another aspect of originality to consider. Thanks go out to my wife for pointing this out when we were chatting about what stories catch her attention.

Originality also means it’s not predictable. The actions of the lead character should be creative. The conflicts might be similar to any number of stories, but something about them should stand out as fresh and new to the reader. The resolution or solution to the mystery has to surprise. If the reader sees it coming a mile away, that might put them off.

This is especially true and important to look for in fiction pieces.

In a non-fiction writing, if we’re dealing with common knowledge, it’s going to be difficult to make some dramatically new or surprising point. At best, the analogies and examples might be where a writer can bring out originality in their work.

One of my church’s pastors made the point in a recent sermon that so often what he needs is not new information but reminders of information he already knows.
No one really needs a fitness blog to tell them “eat less, work out more, and you’ll generally see good results.” People in church shouldn’t need a sermon to tell them “Jesus says love one another” as if that’s a new concept. College professors aren’t giving lectures about exciting new concepts; they’re presenting established facts and widely accepted thought about their particular field.

The good ones do it in a way that sticks with us, not because the point is something new, but the presentation is original. That’s what to look for and encourage in someone’s writing.

If we’re all going to be copycats on some level, let’s at least be original about it.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Nuance

Leave a comment

My eight year old is in a phase where he starts every story with “It’s funny because…”

He loves to make us laugh, and I wonder if he thinks that warning us like a verbal cue card will elicit the reaction he seeks.

On one of my deployments, I worked with a Lieutenant who did the same thing. After someone made a joke, he would frequently say, “See, it’s funny, because you’re old” or whatever explanation fit. The ridiculousness of him needlessly explaining the jokes was almost as funny as the jokes themselves.

This is something to avoid in writing. In one way, it’s emotional “telling,” flashing cue cards to the reader. In another way, it doesn’t trust the reader to grasp the underlying meaning or humor… or perhaps it doesn’t trust that the writer did a good enough job communicating that meaning.

Therefore, when critiquing, I look for Nuance.

If I have to explain a joke, it’s not funny. If I have to explain my subtlety, it’s no longer subtle.
The power of a good twist of phrase is lost when we unpack it all in the next sentence. I have to trust the reader to figure some things out.

So I look for instances where the writer beats the reader over the head stating the obvious.

I’m reading a book aloud with my wife and kids each night as a family activity. There’s a character named the Wit who is sort of the court jester, and his job is to ridicule the nobility in the King’s court. Some of the best lines are the ones with a subtle or clever twist. My teenagers hear them and think through what’s actually being said. Then they laugh, and it’s genuine.

If each of those lines ended calling attention to how clever the Wit was, the nuance and humor would be lost.

In a non-fiction piece, like a self-help or lifestyle article, this issue of nuance can reveal itself in its opposite: a preachy tone that sets readers off. I could write down a lot of facts and a coherent, logical argument telling my reader directly to cut down the fat in their diet and get to the gym. I could list all the benefits they’ll see. But in most cases, when I club the reader over the head with my point, they lose interest.

Consider why we see so many articles where someone relates their success along the lines of “This is what worked for me.” This subtle change of relationship between writer and reader gets us out of preacher-sinner territory and brings us into a sort of collaboration. The writer is now a friend coming alongside, offering indirect advice, using their own life experience as a parable, letting the reader take from it the meaning they need.

If I am critiquing such a piece, I look for the tone. Am I being preached at? Or am I reading an encouraging “I’ve been there” note from a friend?

Finally, there are some cases where nuance should be avoided. If I am writing a research paper or academic project, laying out a case using factual evidence, then nuance and subtlety obscure my point.

In a recent post, I used the example from World War II of the 82nd Airborne preparing the way for the Normandy invasion on D-Day. If I’m critiquing a paper or article recounting their exploits, I want to see the details and facts laid out plain. I want to be persuaded of the importance of their actions by the true accounts. The point of the paper in this case is to make its case. Nuance gets in the way of that.

Overall, nuance is another example like a spice in cooking where – if we use it at all – we sprinkle, not pour. With light seasoning, the reader will catch the subtle flavors and enjoy the meal. And if they don’t, the meal is not ruined. But if I dump out a bottle of minced garlic into the pan, the spice overwhelms the enjoyment one might get from the meal.

Now that I think of it, my wife would probably accuse me of doing that very thing: pouring on the minced garlic when I cook.

“It’s funny, because” in this case, it’s true.

Today marks over halfway through the A to Z blogging challenge. Judging by the feedback, people are enjoying these Elements of Critique posts. If you have time and inclination, that link will lead to the list of other bloggers participating this year. There’s a wide variety (about 2000 last time I checked), so I bet there’s a unique title or original topic that might pique anyone’s interest. Take a look. Maybe you’ll find a new voice worthy of your “Follow.”

And speaking of originality, that will be the topic for tomorrow. Thanks for reading!

Writing

Elements of Critique: Meaning

1 Comment

In my work community, The Princess Bride holds an honored place in our geeky hearts. This often results in quotes at best, and renditions of entire scenes at worst.

One of my favorite lines comes from Inigo Montoya: “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Yes, when critiquing someone else’s writing, I do look closely at meaning.

That may be as simple as a word used in the wrong way. When someone types “their” instead of “they’re,” it’s what the Air Force calls a word choice error. The word is not misspelled, but misused. It doesn’t mean what the writer thinks it means.

I saw this CNN quote in an article today: “…the horrors that fundamentalism can wrought on an individual.” In this tight job market, it’s good to know some editor positions should be opening up soon. Spell check won’t catch that error. ‘Wrought’ is a word, but it’s the wrong word. That’s an example of what I’m looking for when I critique.

Mistaken words are frequent because the rules of use can be complex and confusing. The judgmental grammar Nazi in me says “No, they’re not.” But there are different applications of intelligence in life that each require some study to get right.

The reason I go to a mechanic is because I barely know how to put oil into a car. In the same way I know very little about car engines, some people don’t have to worry about whether to use “effect” or “affect” in a sentence.

There are great resources online that explain the use of commonly mistaken words. And as mentioned before, if ever there is a doubt about how a word should be used, research it or reword it.

That said, I realize that probably all of us will use whatever word, right or wrong, with full confidence. We don’t use words when we are unsure about them. Our certainty creates blind spots, which is why we’re surprised when someone points out, like Inigo Montoya, that what we’re saying doesn’t mean what we think.

That outside objective viewpoint is critical, to help us see past our blind spots. (Obligatory “join a critique group” plug complete!)

And the outside view helps identify a bigger problem of meaning that might come up in our writing.

Meaning becomes a problem when what we’re writing doesn’t fit. When critiquing, I look for anything that doesn’t support or match up with the greater whole: sentences that don’t fit paragraphs, and paragraphs that don’t fit the point of the piece. (Think useless scenes in fiction, useless facts in non-fiction.)

For example:

The seasons on Okinawa are not the same four seasons as in the temperate climate of the United States. When the US Government turned Okinawa over to Japan in 1972, the action upset many of the residents. Okinawa, like most tropical islands, has two seasons: the rainy season and typhoon season. Typhoon season lasts from about April through October, and the rainy season occupies the other months.

That second sentence takes me right out of the paragraph wondering why it’s even there. It doesn’t support anything related to the meaning of the paragraph. If this piece is about weather on Okinawa, that sentence doesn’t even relate to the whole article.

Writing well is about economy of words (though you wouldn’t know it from my lengthy diatribes). We can’t afford to include something that ignores, or worse, contradicts the main point of our piece.

Failing to consider meaning in writing will have a drastic negative effect on how our writing affects our readers. Before our writing gets put out there for readers to set before their eyes, we want to make sure they’re going to get the meaning we intend.

Otherwise, I fear I’ll hear that thickly-accented voice say: “Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my language. Prepare to die.”

Writing

Elements of Critique: Keep

6 Comments

When my daughter was about 3, she came up with a phrase she’d say whenever she hugged me tight and refused to let go:

“You are my keep!”

It’s a special memory. Sure, I might not remember the day of the week, or what I was wearing, or when the last time was that she said it. (Our wily teenage daughter refuses to let me know that I am still her ‘keep,’ at least not overtly.)

But I cherish those moments forever.

Where critiquing another writer’s work is concerned, proposing cuts or changes is fairly easy. “That sounds weak.” “Fix the spelling.” “Why would the villain do that?”

But in order to improve, writers also need to know what hits home. We have to remember to point out what to keep.

When an analogy paints the perfect picture, or a scene tugs at my heart just so… when I learn something unexpected and interesting, or when a character’s reaction shocks me… when the chapter ends and I absolutely must know whether the hero survives…

That’s when I need to highlight, insert comment, and find a way to tell the writer, “This is my keep!”

I have to remember: To be as useful as possible, critique must be constructive.

The end result may look like a failed exam in grade school, red ink or yellow word-processor highlight all over the place. That can be overwhelming, especially if someone’s new to receiving real critique on their pet projects.

A “keep” here or there with an encouraging comment about why that part works well can be a positive form of teaching or guiding a fellow writer. “Man, that phrase was inspired.” “That’s an awesome word picture; I can see that like a movie in my head.” “Ouch, her words were harsh! Great job with that argument.”

In other words, Keep on doing that. You’re doing well. That’s a memory that will stay with me as a reader.

Even more than the positive reinforcement of good writing habits, there’s another reason to include “keeps” in a critique.

Just like my teenage daughter is not very obvious or communicative about her affection, a writer may not be very obvious about the powerful internal struggle battering their wavering confidence. A well-timed “You are my keep” might make a big difference between them giving it up and them giving it another shot.

Speaking of which…

To my readers, thank you so much for coming back for more. To those who commented or shared these A to Z posts, you spur me on to keep going. I’ve received more positive feedback on this series than I ever expected possible.

And most of all, my deepest thanks to the members of my critique group, who have taught me so much by word and example. Though obligation forces me to move away soon, you all are truly my keeps, and I’ll cherish those moments always.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Hooks

Leave a comment

“It’s only 3 AM. Just one more chapter…”

I can’t count how many times I’ve looked at my watch or the clock in the middle of the night and justified reading the next chapter of a good book. What is it that sucks me in, holding me captive to the storyline?

Or how about the books I pick up at the store? I flip through the first few pages to check them out. What moves me from “Hmm, interesting” to a purchase?

The powerful concept that manages both these experiences is the Hook. And since most of us hope to do more with our writing than file it away in a desk drawer or folder on the computer’s drive, the hook is something I look for when I critique other writing.

A piece should start with a hook. “Why should I read this thing? Why should I care? Get my attention.” I say that, because that’s what an editor is going to be wondering. So if a fiction scene starts off with a long peaceful account of John and Mary’s mundane dinner conversation, or a description of the magnificent table and the sweetness of Grandma Myrtle’s special meatloaf recipe, no one cares.

Ok, the writer obviously cares, and maybe the critique group cares, because we’re friends helping each other out. So I might read that thing.

When daughter Sarah bursts into the dinner screaming “Help! Timmy’s bleeding all over the place. The neighbor’s dog did it!” – well, now it has my attention.

A hook creates questions that demand answers.

How bad is Timmy bleeding?
Was it his fault?
What’s the deal with the neighbor’s dog?
Do these families get along?

Better yet, consider the difference between “It was the neighbor’s dog” and “It was the neighbor’s dog again.” One added word tells some interesting backstory right at the start, creating more questions.

Conflict arises. Curiosity follows.

So the hook belongs as close to the beginning as possible. Depending on the length of a piece, it might go right at the start. A personal story would begin with Sarah’s outburst, then describe the disruption to a peaceful dinner as John and Mary scramble to Timmy’s aid.

The principle is still true even if the subject is nonfiction. A nonfiction article might pose a question or make a statement about the importance of the subject–better yet, suggest what life would be like if things were different. “Were it not for the heroic actions of the 82nd Airborne leading up to Normandy, D-Day might have been the greatest Allied loss of World War II.”

What did the 82nd do?
How did they impact the success of the Normandy invasion?
What might have happened if the Allies failed at Normandy?

Hooks are all about creating and keeping reader interest from the start. The work has to stand out in a heap of other submissions, blog posts, and manuscripts in someone’s inbox. So I look for something that grabs my attention near the beginning. Because if I’m not that interested when I’m reading something for a friend, no one will pay attention when it’s merely a matter of impersonal business.

In my post on “endings” I mentioned chapters in a novel needing some resolution to the scene they present. Sometimes a break from the urgency of events in the story might be nice, so there are certainly places where a calm ending is appropriate.

However, chapters should rarely end with a sense of satisfaction that lets a reader put in a bookmark for later. When dealing with longer works, a hook usually belongs at the end, in addition to the resolution of that scene.

The hook serves the same function here: it creates questions that have to be answered. But in this case, the answer is in the next chapter, and the reader dutifully turns the page, ignoring the clock.

When the hero develops an unspecified plan to defeat the villain, or when a third mysterious party arrives in the middle of a pitched battle, that’s a hook. When a character makes a decision to interfere in an upcoming event, or someone receives tragic news that makes them scream or clutch at the letter, that creates questions. The hero leaps into the fray even though he knows he cannot possibly win the battle. The heroine torn between two mutually exclusive choices realizes which one means the most to her, and moves into action to save that part of her life, at the cost of the other.

These questions have to remain largely unanswered at the end of a chapter, to create a demand for “What’s going to happen next?”

If I’m critiquing a chapter of someone’s project, if I don’t feel that drive, then I’ve identified a potential problem they’ll want to address before their work gets to the hands of an editor.

Otherwise what happens next is potentially a rejection slip.

What happens next on this A to Z? I’ll describe looking for writing that creates and maintains intensity. The first page and the last page matter, but so do the pages in the middle.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Ending

1 Comment

During our time on Okinawa, my wife and I had a favorite date-night restaurant. Palm Springs was situated in a large round ring on the seventh floor of a building overlooking a nearby Marine Corps camp. They served French cuisine, or at least said they did. We didn’t know any better. On our first visit, we weren’t sure what to expect.

The meal came out in courses. Tiny little plates with a sprinkle of food on them. My American desire for a giant pile of delicious food protested this obvious mockery they called a “meal.”

But the first course and second were both stunning. Perfect. My wife looked at me with eyes wide, reflecting the surprise I’m sure my face revealed. Subsequent courses did not disappoint, packing absolute satisfaction into each plate that seemed too small to hold such taste.

The meal ended. We sat back, and considered how we felt. No overstuffed “loosen the belt” sensation. No desire for another bite. The gas tank gauge in our stomachs hit right on the “F” with no need for more.

That’s what the ending of a piece of writing is designed to do. That’s what I’m looking for, if applicable, when I critique.

Now I know, some of you are probably saying, “No it’s not! Are you kidding? What about hooks? How do I get the reader to keep reading?”

Well, SPOILERS: hooks are for H, not E, so bear with me a moment while I make my case.

First, if an ending is appropriate for the piece of writing, then it had better be there. In a nonfiction article or a personal account, I want to know how the story of that event ended or what point the writer is making. In a fiction piece, the conflict has to be resolved. If it’s a chapter in a longer work, at least the conflict in the scene should be completed (before the hook that makes the reader start the next chapter to see what happens).

Maybe there’s a longer background battle taking place, which spans two or more chapters. That’s great.

But within that one chapter, I need to see the character make a decision, resolve an internal struggle, or accomplish an important goal. Otherwise, what’s the point of including the scene?

In works of fiction, we don’t include scenes and interactions to show how cool we can write or what mastery of dialogue we possess. We include them because they advance the overall story. They lead up to an ending of some kind, even if it’s part of a larger whole.

But with endings, the biggest danger is not failure to include one. That’s easily caught and corrected.

The biggest danger is that it falls flat. In a short story, or in a nonfiction article, no reader wants to get to the end and be shocked that it’s the end. I don’t mean shocking endings and surprise twists are bad. No, they’re great. I mean if I turn the page expecting more and find out “Oh, that was the last line” then I’m disappointed.

Not the kind we're going for in writing.
Not the kind we’re going for in writing.

After three pages of short story about the main character searching for a solution, once the problem is solved, the next line is not “And they lived happily ever after.”

Bam. Dead end. Brick wall out of nowhere.

Endings usually have some kind of impact. But not that kind.

A piece of writing, fiction or non, deserves a conclusion. This is something we build toward. When conflict is resolved (at least for the present), we know this scene, article, account, or story is coming to a close. We can take the time to let that sink in as we approach it.

Where abrupt or weak endings feel like a dead end, a proper conclusion feels like pulling into the driveway at home.

Conclusions often recap or summarize the main point. In a non-fiction piece or personal article, that might be the lesson learned, or the end result of the experience or event. In fiction, that might be a clever way of showing the moral of the story without preaching it to the reader.

If nothing else, they wind the piece down and offer a witty or memorable line to give closure. (You’ll note I’ve attempted to do this on each of these A to Z posts, with debatable success as far as wit is concerned.)

Now the reader knows the tale is finished, and they can move on. Or leave a comment. hint hint

Consider The Lord of the Rings. The Ring is destroyed, the Dark Lord defeated. The King sits on the throne of Gondor once again. And for a few chapters, the Hobbits still have to return home, reconnecting with old friends and saying their goodbyes. Then they have to fix the mess waiting in the Shire. And even then, they realize that the Shire is no longer home for Frodo. The heroic Hobbit departs for the West, and Sam makes the journey back to Bag End. He stands at the gate in a bittersweet scene, delighting in his children and wife while grieving the loss of his friend and Master. And almost with a sigh, he declares, “Well, I’m home.”

The gauge in the reader’s mind hits “F.” He or she sits back, sets the book down, and sighs with Sam.

The end.

Speaking of “F,” that’s what’s next on the A to Z of Elements of Critique, of course. It’s a fact. And that’s what I’m going to write about – including (and checking) the facts in a written work.

Writing

Elements of Critique: Constructive

3 Comments

It’s every creator’s not-so-hidden fear. Someone is going to see, hear, or read their work and walk away saying, “It sucked. I hated it.”

Many of us struggle to put our precious babies out there to an audience, because we fear the reception they’ll receive.

That’s part of why critiques are so important. They’re not just a corrective measure to help identify flaws and strengths in a work. They’re also about building confidence…

So long as everyone agrees to provide constructive criticism.

It’s great to hear good things about one’s efforts. For me, there’s nothing quite so delightful as seeing how others receive something creative of mine, whether a song or drawing or piece of writing. Critique groups can help point out the good stuff in our writing. “Sad scene, but well written.” “I thought that was a nice touch that communicated that character’s voice well.” “That’s a strong, descriptive verb. Good choice!”

Now I have to be clear: Constructive criticism is not warm fuzzy accolades and blowing smoke to make someone feel good. “Oh it’s so delightful, I love the way you came up with sentence structures no one has ever used before! I really felt like I knew your cardboard cutout supporting characters by the way they had no redeemable virtues! You don’t even need to build a believable conflict into your story. It’ll be published for sure!”

Even though a critique group often includes friends, we don’t gather to puff each other up and gloss over weaknesses.

Constructive means we’re building something, and many building projects start by tearing down what presently stands in a given place. So it might feel painful to see all one’s flaws exposed and highlighted, but a good critique does just that…

In order to build on the strengths that remain once the flaws are removed.

In the military, we have an unwritten rule that certainly applies elsewhere. “Don’t just tell me the problem. Come with a solution.” Constructive critiques are like that.

“I didn’t like this part” gives the writer an indication of where to look for a problem, but it doesn’t capture what the problem actually is. “The grammar here is wrong. ‘The display of colors capture my attention.’ should read ‘the display of colors captures’ because it’s the display we’re talking about.”

“I didn’t like the way this solution presented itself in the story because it felt too much like a deus ex machina – in swoops the hero who happens to have just the device needed to stop the villain and save the damsel in distress with 3 seconds left on the timer of the bomb.” The next part is the most important. “Could you try… (potential fix) instead?”

A constructive critique doesn’t just point out flaws and present fixes for each error. The goal is to make the writer stronger, more skillful. So why not present an explanation that helps them identify similar problems elsewhere in their work?

I mentioned I joined Scribophile recently. It’s an online critique community where you earn points to post your own works by giving constructive critique to others. I’ve got a chapter up for critique, and I got thoughtful feedback from one of my followers on the site.

Warning: Work in Progress
Warning: Work in Progress

Take a look at some of these examples:
“I think this disrupts the flow here, I’d try to integrate it with the above” – along with a suggested cut of a clunky phrase and a reworded sentence to include the important elements.
“I would keep with the slow soothing dialogue, rather than the command. It seems a bit out of character.”
“How does this growing power make Lyllithe feel internally? Is her head buzzing? Or does she start to feel exceptionally warm? Perhaps more and more confidence is welling up as the doubts recede?”
“Hmmm, I find this draws me away from Lyllithe too much, and right now I am fully invested in her.”
“Since you used ‘focused’ in the sentence, there’s no need to say ‘attention.'”

Problem, explanation, solution.

This gives me feedback I can build on.

If you’re stopping by for the A to Z Blog Challenge, thanks! Tomorrow I’ll be looking at Dialogue. Maybe I’ll have something constructive to say.

Writing

April Already?

5 Comments

An e-mail in my inbox today reminded me that April is the month for the famed A to Z Blog Challenge, and for a moment I thought, “Not again…”

Last year I tried doing A to Z on two different blogs, with completely different themes… in addition to posting on two other blogs with still completely separate themes.

It was a challenge, yes. One I’m glad I accomplshed, and one I never want to repeat.

But one blog is easy (or so I tell myself now).

I recently joined Scribophile, an online writing community that operates based on mutual constructive critique. It’s a give and take system where you can only post your work by earning points through giving thoughtful critique to work done by others. Want to post your next chapter or article? Get critiquing!

On top of that, I have become a vocal advocate for participation in a critique group because of the benefits I’ve received from my local group of “critters.”

One of the subjects I saw discussed on Scribophile is, “What makes a good critique?” Isn’t that subjective? What sorts of things should one look for when reading someone’s creative work?

Bam. A to Z topic selected!

This I can do, because it’s something I’m passionate about.

There will be some other posts, but there shall be A to Z posts every day throughout April (with the exception of Sundays) related to facets of writing I look for when I critique a piece.

You have been warned.

20140331-194837.jpg

Writing

Critique Group on Steroids

Leave a comment

There’s a special moment coming today that both excites me and fills me with dread.

It’s not tonight’s special date with the wifey – we’re going to the symphony, something she’s been wanting to do since we came to Omaha.

It’s not our 2nd annual Christian Writers’ conference today, with a special guest couple who are going to talk about songwriting (a passion of mine). I’m looking forward to hearing what all the speakers have to say.

It’s not even the silly skit we’re going to perform for the writers in the audience. I can handle getting up and saying a few lines in public without heart palpitations.

So what has me all a-flutter?

The first two chapters of my main writing project are going to get professionally critiqued during a 20-minute sit-down with an editor.

I belong to a critique group with at least a few folk who can be “mean enough” to tell me when something I write just doesn’t work for them. But we’re all encouraging with one another, and so it can sometimes feel like we’re all patting each other on the back.

This editor has no reason to waste his time and mine by sticking to niceties and compliments. In fact, I imagine he’ll pull no punches precisely because that’s what he’s there for.

So I’m cringing a bit, but I’m giddy at the prospect too.

We’ll see if I’m singing the same tune in a few hours.