Five Basic Critique Group Rules

Over the years I’ve taken part in a lot of critique groups. I’m a big fan of them. They provide writers of all levels with a forum for finding honest and supportive feedback, assuming everyone knows the general rules of critique group behavior. Few things are worse than getting stuck at a table with a writer who doesn’t play well with others. This is one of the reasons why I prefer open critique groups to be moderated by someone with lots of writing workshop experience.

Unfortunately that’s not always what you get. So today’s post is all about the basics of critique group etiquette. It’s a few ground rules to help everyone get what they need from the experience, regardless of whether it’s moderated.

My first critique group rule is the most important. And it’s really more of a foundation for all my others. It’s an attitude that all participants really need to adhere to in order to make a critique group function properly.

Critique Group Rule #1: Never forget you’re there to support each other.

A critique group is not a competition or a showcase. It’s a place for writers to help other writers write better. (Yeah, that last sentence was on purpose! Leave a comment and tell me how you’d handle it in a critique group.) It must start with acceptance and respect coming from all participants.

Critique Group Rule #2: Start your feedback with a compliment.

If you cannot find at least one thing good to say about the work, then don’t say anything at all. Period.

Critique Group Rule#3: Critique the work, not the writer.

Often this boils down to phrasing. For example, “Your metaphor doesn’t work” can be interpreted by the hearer as a general assessment of a writer’s ability to use metaphor in general. But if you say “That metaphor doesn’t work,” you’re just talking about the words on the page. It’s a fine distinction, but it can mean the difference between a comment being perceived as constructive or destructive.

Critique Group Rule#4: Don’t Defend Your Work. Not even a little.

This can be incredibly difficult to pull off, but you have to do it. Otherwise there’s a good chance you’ll twist the discussion into a debate about your authorial intentions. And that’s not helpful to anyone, especially you. Remember, your intentions are ultimately irrelevant because you won’t always be there to explain what you meant to your readers.

If questions or clarifications occur to you, note them as your work is being is critiqued. Then, once everyone’s given their opinions, you can ask any follow-up questions you feel you need to.

Corollary to Rule Number Four:

When you verbally justify your writing, you tend to get trapped in one-on-one discussions that usually end up wasting everyone else’s time. That’s not respectful.

Critique Group Rule#5: Don’t mess around on your phone while a writer is reading her work.

I can’t believe I even need to say this. But this very thing happened during a recent unmoderated critique group I participated in. It’s rude! There’s no excuse for it! And it sends a clear and unequivocal message that you hold those around you in contempt. If it’s an emergency, then excuse yourself and leave the room to take care of your business.

Sorry to get a little strident there, but that kind of self-absorption angers me. There is never a good excuse for it.

… Okay, I’ve taken some deep breaths, and I’m better now.

Just remember, critique groups are all different, and there are as many ways to structure them as there are writers who take part in them. But these five rules are pretty much universal. And they all grow out of what should be the basic organizing concept of any critique group:

Respect Each Other

Irony: Misunderstood and Misused

I know it’s been said, but, as this is one of the most misused words I run into, it never hurts to go over it again:

According to my forty-year-old dictionary:

Irony IS the use of words to convey the opposite of their literal meaning. It can also refer to a situation, utterance, or literary style that is marked by such a contrast between expected and perceived meanings.

Then it gets a bit muddy, because the definitions of irony also include the incongruity between expectations and results, itself, as well as any circumstance notable for such an incongruity.

Irony Is Not a funny coincidence or an interesting paradox. And it’s not necessarily the same as sarcasm. Though sarcastic statements are often ironic.

For all of my fellow geeks out there who have shouted “Aha!” and curled your fingers into typing position to begin your rebuttal: I am deliberately leaving dramatic and Socratic irony out of this discussion. But, by all means, feel free to comment with your definitions of those two specialized definitions of irony.

Jonathan Swift

One of the most famous examples of an ironic literary work isJonathan Swift‘s A Modest Proposal. If you haven’t read it then you’re missing out. Briefly, it’s a 1729 essay from an Irish writer/social commentator suggesting (ironically) that the best way to solve the problems of rampant Irish poverty and unemployment was for the upper class Irish to eat the infants of the Irish poor. Incidentally, he added that their soft skin would also “make admirable gloves for ladies, and summer boots for fine gentlemen.”

Gruesome but effective use of irony.

As Swift’s example teaches, irony rocks for pointing out the ridiculousness of a situation, even a really horrifying one.

Bob Harris

So what’s an example of the misuse of the term. Well, Alanis Morrisette‘s famous song “Ironic” is the most glaring contemporary one I can think of.  And, apparently Bob Harris agrees. In his2008 NY Times essay he sums it up beautifully, so I’ll just quote him:

Alanis Morissette

“Alanis Morissette’s song “Ironic” is equally useful.If it rains on your wedding day, that’s a coincidence, not an irony. If you win the lottery and drop dead before claiming the money, it’s good luck followed by bad luck. If you meet the man of your dreams and then meet his beautiful wife, it’s a bummer. But if a song called “Ironic” contains no irony, is that in itself ironic? Nope.”

In closing, please forgive my pedantry, but, while it’s annoying to misuse the term irony in conversation, as Harris points out when he quotes the NY Times style guide, the “use of irony and ironically, to mean an incongruous turn of events, is trite. Not every coincidence, curiosity, oddity and paradox is an irony, even loosely.”

Remember, writing ironically is difficult and, again quoting the Times manual, “where irony does exist, sophisticated writing counts on the reader to recognize it.”

So, please, for the sake of pedants like me, make sure you actually are being ironic if that’s what you’re trying to do.

Writing Advice from Elmore Leonard

Elmore Leonard counts down his top ten writing tips.

The fabulous Austin author, Lindsey Lane, brought this old NYT article to our attention, and it’s too good not to pass along. It’s a list of ten of Elmore Leonard’s rules for writing. Not surprisingly, he comes down pretty hard on adverbs and overwrought dialogue tags. But we had no idea he had such strong feelings about what Steinbeck called “hooptedoodle.” Take a look and let us know what you think!

What Makes it True?

Just got back from following a link that the folks at Hunger Mountainposted on Facebook. It’s a post from Patrick Ross‘ blog called “What Drives Some Memoirists from Truth to Fiction.” In it Ross explores the gray area between truth and truthiness. He touches on the contradictory pressures of telling a good story in the best possible way and the ethics of recreating an incident as accurately as possible.

Perhaps most useful are the three rules he advises the memoirist to follow when navigating the treacherous terrain of a personal story that might be painful to relate:

1. Believe in your story.

2. Rely on your writing to maximize its impact rather than exaggeration.

3. Write not out of revenge but out of love.

Learning to Trust the Unreliable Narrator

Ken Webster as Thom Pain

I saw a one man theater piece last night at Hyde Park Theater called Thom Pain, Based On Nothing.

Full disclosure: I’ve been a Ken Webster fan for years, and we used to work together pretty regularly.

I know playwriting is not a typical Yellow Bird topic. But I woke up today with this play still living in my head. Specifically, it left me with a really big question that I felt I needed to answer. How does one successfully write a story using an unreliable narrator?

I’m usually not much of a fan of the unreliable narrator. And, before last night I would have told you that it has no place in live theater. But I’m here to tell you this morning that I was wrong. Ken Webster’s interpretation of Will Eno’s script is a must see proof of just how wrong I was. You’ve got one more week to see what I’m talking about, but it’s selling out fast.

Don’t fret, I’m not reviewing the play. It just left me with my question about that pesky, often annoying device known as the unreliable narrator. I have a hard time empathizing with a story teller who I don’t trust. Such a device can be fun at first. It can add tension by forcing the reader (or audience) to parse the information the narrator is giving and decide what to believe or not. But that kind of exercise quickly gets old and descends into the realm of the gimmicky.

So what was it about the play I saw last night that kept that from happening? As a writer, I needed to figure out what Eno did differently when he created Thom Pain.

The Albertine Notes is part of this collection

The last unreliable narrator I remember was in Rick Moody’s novellaThe Albertine Notes. The plot of that story demands an unreliable narrator: it’s the story of a guy under the influence of a drug that alters not only his consciousness but general human history, as well. Even given those imperatives, my growing distrust for the narrator was confusing and off putting. Though, I must admit I’m glad I finished it. The story does have enough a payoff at the end to make it a worthwhile read.

So, what is it that makes an unreliable narrator palatable? I think it’s as simple as empathy. It’s that age old story telling truism. If you don’t care about the hero, then you don’t care about the story. And, somehow, despite all of Thom Pain’s attempts to push me away last night, I found myself caring about his struggles. His life – his twisted path to happiness – mattered to me. So I stood up and clapped at the end. And this morning I woke up with that character’s words still bouncing around in my head.

I’ll close with a telling moment from last night. After a particularly well written and delivered line, I heard someone sitting behind me whisper, “What a great line.” And it was, Thom Pain had just said, “I disappeared into her. And she, not knowing where I went…, left.” The narrative took on a universal dimension in that moment. All humans can relate to that feeling of being so in love with another person that you lose yourself. Just as all humans can relate to the fear inherent in such a letting go of the self.

I guess that’s what makes an unreliable narrator work: He or she speaks just enough important truth to make the audience stay with them through the preponderance of their lies.