Lisa's Value to Critique
September 18, 1998
6:10 a.m.
Lisa and I had a long discussion last night. Among other things we talked about story critiques and how our process works. As we talked, I realized that Lisa brings to me a perspective that is both vital, and extremely rare: that of a reader who understands writing and storytelling. Lisa is, in general, my last reader. By that I mean I work with a few other writes as my stories are being put together, then Lisa sees them in the end. This has always worked well because Lisa is a copy editor at heart, and theoretically that's all my tales needed at that point. I woke up late this morning. We were up past usual last night, and I really haven't been getting enough sleep the past couple days anyway. I've been writing for maybe seven years now, and in the first few years that's really all she did--copy edit. But we've grown up together in this little world. I've learned how to tell stories. And Lisa's learned how to analyze them for structure and content. It's really that simple. And now I realize that I get a different type of critique from her than I used to. More imprtant, I get a different type of critique from her than I get from any writer on the block. Writers, you see, critique by trying to get into the author's head, determine where the author was trying to go, and helping him pave the way there. In fact, that's kind of the point of a writer's critique. How many times have you heard "Don't write the story for someone else." Coffee on. Brain rousted. The basement quiet hung over me like a cloak of prying eyes. I know what I want to accompish this morning. I want to write an outline of my next story. Just that. Just flesh out an idea. A simple task. But my brain doesn't seem to want to participate. It cranks, but sputters to a stop like an old lawn mower. The entire basement is alive, the books staring at me, the computer monitors glaring impassively, the printers sitting with judgement in their faces. And that's valid. Comments from a writer carry baggage. You can take every comment and add on the front, "If I were writing this, I would fix . . ." At some base level, a writer's critique is meant to say if you're telling your story right. But, despite a little arm twisting on my part and the little blurb she put on this page, Lisa's not a writer. And occasionally she gives me a critique where suddenly, right in the middle of it, I'll realize she's telling me that I'm not writing the right story. It's just a damned outline, I think. But I know better, and I can't lie to myself. It's going to be a story about dreams, the lifelong kinds, you know? It's a story about people. It should be quirky funny, and it should be tender, and it should be real. I'm afraid I won't get it right. It's a precious gift, the insight it takes to do that. And it's a gift that both of us have to have for it to work. I mean, she never sits down and directly says "Your telling the wrong story." But she does talk about how the story made her feel, and how she wanted to feel. She relates those feeling to plot points, which she now understands quite well. She tells me why she likes characters or doesn't. I search for a character, first. I pick something about him that doesn't obviously touch upon the basic premise of the story, thinking I can work from the outside in this time. I plink a few keys, then delete what I've done. I plink a few more, and I get an idea on top of my original one. I think about this character, this man with no name. What do I like about him? Why do I like it? How does he feel about what he does when he leaves work? When does he leave work? Writing has given quite a bit to us. Lisa, of course, makes her living working in the field. And I've managed to have some little success, as well as feel the intangible rush of the process. But more important than all these, I think, is the fact that it's deepend our bond. We see each other through different eyes than we would if I didn't write. And that makes every trip to the basement in the early hours of the morning that much easier. Suddenly, it's an hour later. The outline is done. And it's exactly what I wanted it to be.  Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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