Show your pretty necklace.
Just look at those beautifully dropped shoulders!
By Allison K Williams
A writer asked,
I wrote a short story recently, which wasn’t very good, and some people left comments complimenting it, but they were being nice, instead of telling me how they really felt. How do I politely ask them not to spare my feelings? While I appreciate the kindness, I wrote the thing as practice and would appreciate criticism, since I want to become a better writer.
There’s a two-part challenge here. First, most of our readers do want to be kind. If they’re writers, they understand how much a negative comment can interrupt or even squash the creative process. Second, if the commentariat are primarily readers, or early-career writers, they may honestly not know how to identify what’s not working, much less how to phrase that constructively, so they put away the unease and say something nice—or, as our mothers taught, they don’t say anything at all.
Direct, specific critique is a kindness in itself. When I started as an editor, I read ads in the back of writing magazines promoting “gentle, nurturing feedback” from “kind, supportive” editors. But my writer friends were asking, “Just tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it!” Yet, not everyone is ready for full-on directness. Even in my twenty-year relationship with the (wonderful! insightful!) editor of my plays, a brusque rejection of a new manuscript turned me off writing another script for nearly three years. Pathetic? Silly? Overdramatic? Yes—but feelings are facts.
How can we get the feedback we need from readers who don’t want to hurt us? How can we help our writer friends improve without damping their creative joy?
Coaching circus in schools developed the foundation of my teaching style and pedagogy. When I started, I worried about “moving too slowly” and boring the students, but breaking skills into smaller steps at that grueling residency in Alaska (70 elementary kids! Total darkness!) actually led to faster learning, and starting with components before sweeping ideas serves my teaching still. One of my fellow coaches in Utah discovered the power of a positive focus instead of a negative correction. For a particular aerial position, where students were shrugging up to their ears, we all stopped saying “Put your shoulders down!” and started calling out, “Show your pretty necklace!” The imaginary jewelry, and lifting the sternum to “show it” helped students from preschool to adulthood correct their form.
Part of our coaching process was having students show work-in-progress, anywhere from 30 seconds to 5 minutes of a group acrobatic or aerial routine, at the end of each rehearsal. With mixed age levels K-12, the feedback needed careful guidance to stay helpful and encouraging, yet offering critical insights to their peers helped the students improve their own work—just as identifying the challenges in someone else’s writing helps us see those same issues in our own. We started with “What do you see that’s working? What should they make sure they keep doing?”
Then came the magic question: “As they keep working, what should they keep working on?”
Try to stay in unison more—Jenny’s calling the moves at the right time, so can she be louder?
Point their toes harder, it looked really good when they did.
Even more of the funny moments, we liked the characters!
Not “you guys were out of sync” or “sloppy feet” or “undeveloped characters.” Positive focus, instead of negative correction.
The Magic Question is a very simplified version of Liz Lerman’s Critical Response Process , a more elaborate method that also controls what feedback is received and how it’s given. By identifying what the artists are doing well, we set our critical eyes to what we’re actually seeing/reading/hearing, rather than what we wish we had experienced. By focusing the feedback on what to do more or better rather than instead , we affirm the creators’ goals and respond within the framework of their creation.
As I keep working, what should I keep working on? enlists our readers as collaborative partners and colleagues, rather than elevating them to be our critics. The answers are a lot easier to receive, and the feedback becomes part of our own work plan. We’re not being told, “do this” or “don’t do that.” We’re being affirmed for the work we’re doing, and encouraged to develop our own next steps to make the best parts better.
It’s entirely possible that in the pursuit of improvement, we’ll discover we were working towards the wrong thing to begin with. Maybe the key isn’t pointed feet at all, but making sure the flexed feet look intentional. But making that discovery ourselves is more powerful than being told. And helping another writer find their own path is less fraught than informing them they’ve got the wrong map.
As we develop relationships with writing friends and within peer groups, our feedback style can and will evolve. I have plenty of friends who can tell me “That’s not working the way you want it to,” and to whom I can respond in kind. But for early-draft feedback, for stranger/acquaintance critique, and for assessing our own work, the Magic Question is a powerful way to give direct and kind feedback that’s also immediately useful.
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Allison K Williams is Brevity ‘s Social Media Editor and the author of Seven Drafts: Self-Edit Like a Pro from Blank Page to Book.
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