Ruthless Revision

Part One: The Big Picture

“No child could ever be happy about her father moving out; that’s impossible!”

The woman across from me nearly shouted the above at me as we discussed my then-unpublished novel (which eventually became The Murderer’s Daughters) in our writer workshop.

The ‘child’ (a character) lived with a selfish, sarcastic, angry mother and an oft-drunk “mooning around” father. In the questioned scene, the 10-year-old protagonist voices guilty relief at finding a less troubling atmosphere after her father moved out.

The workshop member, adamant in their belief that no child would ever feel relief at her father leaving the house, expressed insistence bordering on disbelief (that I would write such an emotion) and edging into disdain that I would be able to dredge up such an emotion for anyone.

Really?

Precious minutes slipped away as the group debated this point. The workshop operated under the “in-the-box” silenced writer rule, so I could only listen as time ticked by and the debate raged.

Should this point have been up for grabs? (And should anyone wag their finger when giving critique?)

Head-shaking thin-lipped judgment can be a problem in writing workshops. Let’s call it the ‘scrim’ factor. Aside from the craft of the work — the plotting, the plausibility, believable motives, and the ability of the writer to engender suspension-of-disbelief — when (if ever) is a character’s ‘belief system’ up for judgment, especially if the judgment is made based on the belief system of a fellow workshop member?

Never. They are there using the scrim factor — wanting your characters to act in accordance with their beliefs.

Writer’s workshop members shouldn’t tell you your character should be a secretary, not a doctor. They can (and should) let you know if you need to write a more believable doctor.

Sure, they can say they didn’t believe someone with an IQ of ninety could become a doctor, but you don’t have to let go of your conviction — but you must make the reader believe.

Don’t let a committee write your book. When stuck in the ‘scrim’ factor,’ fellow-workshop members try to revise your manuscript to live within parameters in which they are comfortable.

When workshopping The Comfort of Lies, a few members of my then-writers group were shocked (shocked, I tell you!) at one of my female characters, when out of town at a conference, told a stranger that her husband and child were dead. (They weren’t.) The words fell out of her mouth like sour pebbles — surprising her (surprising me) and telling her how bad her life had become.

Would I be shocked if one of my friends did the above?

Absolutely.

Would I take it as a cry for deeply needed help?

Yup.

I intended to show a woman on the edge, but some found it unbelievable that someone could do this, no matter how I wrote it. Stuck in the scrim factor, they couldn’t imagine themselves declaring their spouse/child dead.

But I wasn’t writing a novel about them; I wasn’t writing about a perfect Betty Crocker of a woman — she was far more Betty of Mad Men.

If no one believes your character-the-vegan cook a roast chicken, you need to fix your work, not give up on your scene. Work shoppers are there to let you know if they believe your vegan character roasted the chicken — not to forbid any roasting.

Beware workshops that become arbiters of morality and comfort levels rather than sharp-eyed watchers of motive, plotting, and plodding prose. One wants a workshop that scrawls MEGO (my eyes glaze over) on the page, not one that says, “Women don’t usually change the oil in the car.”

And if they mention the oil, your writerly job is to discern whether your workshop buddy meant that women don’t change every oil or they didn’t believe your particular woman character would change her oil.

In one workshop many years ago, the teacher (making this problem more egregious for me — a neophyte) ranted about my character’s non-political nature. Why wasn’t she out making the world a better place rather than worrying about having sex with her neighbor?

Did she mean I wasn’t writing the book she wanted to read?

I’ve been in workshops where women lectured men about how disrespectful their characters were to women. Truthfully? I got heated enough to agree and join in.

“Yeah! He was awful!”

We forgot the author was building a character, not our new boyfriend.

The thing is this: to write well, you must write terribly. You need that awful draft — otherwise, what would you have to revise and, eventually, make wonderful? The danger in writer’s workshops is writing for the others, writing for the workshop, rather than writing for your eventual audience:

I believe in writer’s workshops and groups. Without the great ones, I’d have written weaker novels. The group I’ve been in for many years is phenomenal, and I rely on those women to keep me honest.

But without the early worst of them, I might have built that better novel faster.

Use workshops wisely, taking the best and leaving the rest. Take off blinders and examine your motives and those of members. The purity of members’ motives can never be guaranteed. Some are angels leading to Pulitzers — some are devils sent to torture us. Use guidelines:

1. Are you coming with the secret belief that you will be the one “perfect nothing-needs-changing” writer? They will be astonished by my piece! Not going to happen, my friend. Not to you. Not to me.

Send your story to your family if you seek pure approbation and amazement at your genius.

2. Beware of hardening yourself to protect your ego. Even the smartest critique stings. It is common to hate, really hate, someone who points out that five backslashes in a row might confuse the reader. I make a deal with myself when I’m ‘up’ in my writer group. I am allowed to think everyone is stupid for 10 minutes. Then I must consider their ideas. I don’t have to buy them, but I must rent them.

3. Beware of drinking the Kool-Aid of love. Or the river of hate.

My first time at a writer’s group was at a local adult education venue. “Brilliant!” the teacher told me. (It wasn’t.) A few years later (at another early venue), a teacher declared my character worthless. (She wasn’t.)

Teachers and groups often have cultures that overshadow reason. Listen hard to what members say about others’ books. If the consensus of those your respect (there are always outliers) makes sense for those books, take what they say about your book (good and bad) seriously.

4. Critique benefits from compassion. At an education conference, an expert (whose opinion I value) said: “Why do we get mad at students for not knowing the answers? Isn’t that why we’re there? To teach them?” Those who sneer at your work are not helping. Don’t fall under the sway of a writer-bully.

5. Yes, Virginia, there is jealousy in groups, which can be poisonous. Sometimes it comes from the leader, and sometimes, it comes from members, and sometimes it comes from our very own gnarled little hearts. Accept it, don’t act on it, and move on.

When talking about the parts she didn’t get, Carol Burnett summed the situation up well: “It wasn’t my turn.”

6. Don’t let the group write your book. Look around the room. Does one choose Jasmine Guillory as their favorite writer, another Ian Rankin, and a third Virginia Woolf? Will they subconsciously push your romantic comedy towards the twisted or encourage your historical fiction to become a ghost story?

Listen for majority opinions (if everyone found those back flashes unintelligible, perhaps they are. If the person who only likes terse experimental fiction work harps on it, consider the source.)

Your book needs your passion — and the help of smart readers

7. Be cautious of the five-page-a-week workshops. A group that looks at a large chunk of one (or two) writer’s work per night benefits more than those that read a few pages of all members. Reasons? Reading weekly installments of five pages a week leaves the group more likely to want to be in on writing the next scene — thus making writing by committee more likely as they miss the sweep of your vision.

8. Consider an entire book group if you are an advanced writer. My current (and perfect) group will read the whole book. We meet less often (sometimes once a month, sometimes far less often) and read more. Our goals are getting reads on the entire arc of the novel, and it’s been invaluable.

9. Be careful presenting fresh work to critique groups. Let your work cool down before sending it to anyone’s eyes. Going through at least one revision is helpful — this allows you to hear yourself before the committee voice rushes in.

10. Don’t drink.

Alcohol engenders stupidity in all things. Wine is for partying, relaxing, or watching television. Not for helping each other reach their full writing potential.

11. And again, consider every critique. Gems abound.

Like spaghetti, your prose can end up al-dente or limp. Caveat emptor!