Outside Input

           We’ve all been there.  We’re sitting in a writing class and the teacher has just read us someone’s work.  We’re now asked to analyze it and help the writer with “constructive criticism.”  Can I please say this is a monumental waste of time?  It happens in high school, college, professional writing programs, and writers’ retreats, and it’s not only a waste of time, but dangerous.  Here’s why:

            First of all, teachers who do this are lazy—let’s just get that said at the top of my list.  Any fourth grader could sit at the front of the room, read a stack of papers, and then call on various students to offer their opinions.  This is called facilitating, moderating, or being the emcee.  It contributes nothing to the writer, yet despite the fact that teachers are hired for their supposed expertise and the ability to impart it, some of them abdicate this duty to the untrained students who, by definition, are there because they don’t know enough.

            Which brings me to my second point.  Why on earth would you want the (often dead wrong) opinions of other novices who have no idea what they’re talking about?  I once wrote a piece about the irony of young moms conferring with other young moms at the park and at pre-school, trying to get ideas about teething, toilet training, discipline, etc.--- when the people they should be quizzing are older, experienced moms.  It’s the know-nothings talking to other know-nothings, or as the cliché goes, the blind leading the blind.  If you want constructive input about your writing, you need professional advice from editors and published writers, not somebody whose own paper is filled with adverbs and exclamation points.

            The third problem with this method is that hearing a work read aloud is not the same as reading it on paper.  The brain is far better able to capture the nuances of dialog and even description, than a teacher at the front of the room.  A reader, even your professor, is not a trained actor who can impart the feel and tone you were going for.  Some would argue that if it’s really good, it won’t matter how it’s delivered.  But this isn’t true.  When you’re looking at a page of print and you come across something that requires you to slow down or think a bit, your eyes can bounce back and re-read, maybe savor, maybe sort out.  But if someone is reading aloud, it moves along at a steady pace and robs you of this opportunity.  I’ve written five award-winning plays and I quickly learned that what works on paper does not always work on stage.  A subtle joke that a silent reader would get does not always penetrate an audience and occasionally you have to be a bit more obvious, a bit more blunt, or allow more time for something to sink in.  It’s a different format.  Unless you’re writing a play, in which case a staged reading is a good thing.

            Fourth on my list of why I dislike read-aloud-and-analyze sessions is that they waste time.  Even if you accept the idea of classmate input (which I reject), wouldn’t it be more efficient to pass copies out to everyone and let them read quietly to themselves at home, and then come to class prepared to discuss the work? 

            Next is my rebuttal to the notion that this is how to get honest reactions from your intended audience.  Nope.  I seriously doubt that your entire class is filled with people who read your genre.  Even if it’s a mystery writer’s class, or a romance writer’s class, there are sub-categories that your peers won’t share with you.  They might pick apart something you’re doing that’s trend-setting or beyond their scope.  The best they can do is homogenize your work into a common mush that won’t sell.  Remember: There’s a reason why everyone jokes about things that are created by a committee.

            Last, this practice is dangerous.  Let’s say you meet a hailstorm of criticism.  You forget to consider the source (inexperienced know-nothings) and you’re devastated.  You may never finish your story, you may give up writing entirely.  You’re not confident enough to weather so much rejection and you question your talent.  What a shame.  Or, the class loves it.  You’re brilliant, you’re the next best-selling novelist, you’re perfect.  This is just as damaging because it sets you up for shock and dismay when agents and publishers disagree with that finding. Instead of learning how to polish and rewrite where necessary, you’ve been sent on your way with inappropriate overconfidence.  You needed a good editor and you got a raving fan instead.

            If you find yourself in a class with this methodology, drop the class.  If you’re a teacher, go ahead and share student work, but then you be the one to point out what works--or doesn’t-- and why.  And do it with encouragement.  By listening to your analysis, your students will not only learn how to write better, but eventually how to offer similarly valid advice.  If they hear enough expert opinions, who knows?  Maybe their own will be worth something someday.