Jon Franklin

One of the first, most difficult, and at the same time most important things an apprentice journalist must learn is how to deal with expert criticism. How rapidly you learn, in fact, will depend largely on your ability to really hear such criticism, and to think about it, and profit from it.

Partly to develop those skills, this class will rely heavily on open classroom critiques of students’ work.

There are many reasons why absorbing critical feedback is difficult and painful, but chief among them is the writer’s feeling that the writing and the writer are identical – that to criticize the words is, in effect, to criticize the person who wrote them.

To a large degree, this inseparability of writer and writing is just part of the artistic myth. The professional writer, like the professional physician, pilot, or athlete, understands that performance is to a large degree dependent on the mastery of technique – and that technique can most effectively be learned via critique. Thus surgeons have grand rounds, pilots have debriefings, and athletes have instant replays. It is important that the writer, when facing criticism, adopts a professional attitude that puts as much distance as possible between himself and the work under scrutiny.

That said, it’s nonetheless true that there is, in writing, an irreducible connection between performance and performer. Writing is in part a growth process, which is a way of saying that technical problems often have, at their core, an embarrassing kernel of immaturity. Consequently, even under the best of circumstances, criticism almost always evokes a certain amount of red-faced chagrin. Unless the writer learns to manage this pain, and see beyond it, he or she will not hear the content of the criticism. The end result is that the misery will have been for nothing … little is learned, and the mistakes are repeated.

Each writer, having a unique psychological set, must learn to deal with this problem his or her own way – just so long as it is dealt with. However, the agonies of generations of writers have yielded some very helpful rules. Among them are:

Do take notes: It is easy to lose the gist of criticism in the emotional white noise that accompanies it. Many writers tape record critiques by editors and then listen to the tapes over and over, until they have exhausted their emotional response and can hear the technical message clearly.

Admit your fears to yourself: The pain of being criticized is closely related to stage fright. If admitted, it can be faced squarely and, if not entirely overcome, at least managed. But if you deny the pain is there, it may do dominate you. Fear of criticism has been known, for instance, to masquerade as illness that strikes just before class. The writer who admits the fear will recognize such an illness for what it is; the one who tries to play stoic may simply become phobic.

Don’t take it personally: Ideally, criticism is directed at the writing and not at the writer. We will enforce this convention in this class. However, in the world of publishing such niceties are frequently not observed. It is important to remember that even if an editor despises you, and you him, he may still know what he’s talking about. Learn to listen around your emotions. You can beat your head against the wall later, in private.

Don’t invite criticism from friends and family: In the first place, they rarely have the technical ability to give such criticism. Even if they might be helpful to a stranger, they will tend to see your work through rose-colored glasses, and even if they see problems, their desire not to alienate you will lead them to sugar-coat it [After all, they will love you even if you never learn to write a coherent sentence.] Worse, all this makes it much more likely that you’ll take it personally when your professional coach is less circumspect. The rule is that he who seeks criticism from amateurs will remain one.

Resist the urge to explain yourself: When you are being told that a certain maneuver or technique doesn’t work, don’t interrupt to explain why you did it that way. Nothing is more disruptive. Besides, it rarely matters why you did what you did; what matters is that it didn’t work and that you understand why. Explanations, in this context, are a form of denial.

Avoid telling yourself that ‘it’s a matter of opinion’: It’s true that there are serious differences of opinions among professional writers, as there are among professional mathematicians and brain surgeons. It is also true that there is often more than one way to do things. But just as often, there’s not, and in any event professionals tend to agree on the many, many, many things that don’t work. In the complex field of endeavor, there are many more ways of failing than there are of succeeding. What’s important in the beginning is that you learn one way that does work reliably; later, once your feet are on the ground, you can carefully explore the alternatives … and maybe figure out why your approach didn’t work, and try again. Thus you will one day shape your own techniques. In the meantime, however, if you don’t feel you can trust your coach, you must find one you can.

Understand that criticism is by definition negative: Writing is a “sudden death” performance, which is a way of saying that one mistake can totally ruin an otherwise nice piece. Every writer does many things right; the objective is to get the average up, which means focusing on the things done not so right. Fully 90 percent of writing is knowing what doesn’t work. Thus, while helpful criticism may mention a positive aspect in passing, most of the effort will be spent on homing in on problems.