Everyone who writes at some point has the same experience. I
finish a short story or a novel, go over it for the tenth or twentieth time,
and print out a clean copy to give a friend to read. Perhaps I’ve been reading
chapters to the members of my writing group as I go along, or perhaps I am a
solitary writer with no group and a strong reluctance to share my work till I
think it’s finished. But at some point it will be finished enough to share, and
I will have to show it to someone. What I get in return can be significant.
A recent discussion on a chat list for writers touched on
the problem of getting nothing but negative feedback from a first reader. The
reader even went so far as to tell the writer to stop writing. The reaction of
the other writers, including me, was that this negativity is not useful. It’s
destructive and there’s no point in destroying a new writer’s dreams and
determination. The discussion and comments reminded me of two things—first, how kind some of my first readers had been, and, second, a story I was asked
to read by someone who thought he was destined to write the great American
novel. In my opinion he couldn't write a grocery list. I learned
from both experiences how to make useful comments without judgment. (And I have
always been grateful to the editors who were kind. When I look back at my early
work . . .)
First, I ask the writer to describe the “aboutness” of the
story. What is the story about? Tell me in one or two sentences. Don’t give me
a plot summary—that’s different. Tell me what this story is for me as a reader.
Some writers will never have thought about this, and it helps any writer focus
on the story and what is or is not relevant in the telling of it. A first reader asked me this once after I'd finished a novel, and I couldn't tell her. Her question and my reaction forced me to rethink the story and what I wanted to do with it.
Second, I ask about the opening line (and sometimes about
the closing line). Where did it come from? What is it supposed to achieve? Is
the writer satisfied with it? I’m almost never satisfied with my opening lines,
but I sometimes am very happy with the closing lines. Are there alternatives
that were discarded? Why?
Third, I try to find a sentence with an interesting or
unusual word usage and ask about that. Why did he or she choose this word? What
is the writer trying to achieve?
Fourth, if the story is a mystery or paranormal or science
fiction, I try to ask relevant questions on structure and formula (I’m limited
to mystery fiction mostly), and how the writer understands the formula. With this question I hope to learn something about how others see the formula.
Fifth, I might ask about characters’ names if there is
anything unusual about them, or if too many characters are named Joe or Mary. I
might also point out that the ethnic identities of the characters do or do not
match the setting or story line.
I could go on, but you get the idea. There is nothing in any
of my comments that is a judgment or an evaluation. Each comment is meant to
take the reader and the writer deeper into understanding the story and the
writer’s goals. This can be edifying for both writer and reader because getting
another writer to articulate a way of viewing the world and trying to present
it means that I will learn something.
In addition, if I read something I think is awful and have
to discuss it, I am forced to dig deeper, to reach beyond my prejudices and
blinders. I have to listen to another writer’s reasons for doing something I
probably wouldn’t have done. And I have to read with possibility in mind, with
the idea that the writer is reaching for something. She may not have achieved it, but she has reached, and I should be willing to view the story within that frame. All of this makes me think
harder.
Being asked to read someone else’s work is a compliment as
well as a responsibility. Anyone who agrees to do so, therefore, is obligated to provide something useful and productive to the writer.
Offering up a visceral reaction isn’t enough, and that doesn’t count as any
kind of thoughtful reading. There is nothing to be gained by telling a
struggling writer that he can’t write. I am well aware that the one person
whom I think can’t write a phone message may turn out to be the next Scott
Turow.
