i make my students spoil their novels

feedback strategies, or how i run my workshops

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Hello friends—

I spend a lot of my life giving feedback or presiding over people giving feedback. Like, actually, so much of life. I have a lot of thoughts about feedback, and I have a lot of personal…gripes that I had to cut out of an earlier draft of this essay because it would have gotten me in trouble with two friends, my literary agent, and at least one of my editors. Instead of burning personal and professional bridges, I thought I might offer some insight into how I approach helping people develop a better feedback practice.

I started thinking about this over the last year when I noticed that the conversations in my workshops were becoming increasingly theme-centered. That isn’t to say that the conversations were…bad. These were often intelligent conversations in which seven to ten smart, generous readers deployed their considerable intelligence and sensitivity to grapple with large, important themes that were, to varying degrees, present in the work of their peers. But a craft discussion group, a workshop, a crit group, is not a literature seminar, and despite the often brilliant feats of reading I was witnessing by my students, I often left class feeling like I had failed them in the critical task of helping them to develop the capacity to engage with work at the level of the page. They were very comfortable in the air and the guts of the story, but the arid and secular facts of what happened and to whom and how is this information conveyed, seemed...if not beyond them then not squarely in the seat of their interest.

This intensified over the course of the fall and culminated in a moment in the spring in which I felt like if I didn’t make a change, I was going to be responsible for sending into the world a group of writers I hadn’t taught anything. How to get them to focus on nuts and the bolts, the widgets, the humble machinery story that was responsible for their beloved themes. I had to make all of this legible to them. So I started assigning homework in the spring term.

I would ask them to make a list of events for each submission, nothing super detailed, just enough to be able to arrange the events of the story on a timeline. Then I asked them to locate the key moment of the story, the moment when the situation of the character changes or their understanding of it changes. This had the desired effect of bringing their keen and perceptive reading closer to the surface of the story, so that when we discussed scenes, we were discussing the scenes. I prodded at them to describe the narration. Was it retrospective? Was it linear? What about the emotional question of the piece? The dramatic question? Theme never went away, but we began to discuss theme as the product of the inner dramatic workings of the plot. There was also less confusion overall, I think. Everything felt less floaty and more tied to the page, to the language. We talked about the specific consequences of particular style choices, and the students had a lot to say about that, actually. We talked about the thematic consequences of structure, what it meant that a revelation had come here instead of there, how it builds, how the story’s particular evasiveness could feel earned if it developed an aspect of the character’s perspective or mode of understanding.

This summer, teaching undergraduates, I took it a step further, asking them to start each class with a synopsis and then to describe the mode of narration. At first, this was hard for them, but then as they practiced with the terms and practiced synopsizing and describing the stories, they got very deft at it, and they began to draw connections between style and theme and characterization, resulting some really wonderful and moving analyses.

Somehow, by concretizing things, the discussions around theme got even better, which was an unintended consequence. It was not my master plan, I promise. I just wanted the discussions to feel more practical.

The other thing I started doing for my MFA students was making them spoil their novels. When someone brings a novel to a discussion group or a crit group or workshop or feedback group, they are sometimes under the delusion that what they are getting is a simulation of a wild-type encounter. You should stop thinking this. A feedback group is the most extremely artificial encounter your work will ever experience. These are not eleven or however many random strangers who’ve just picked up your book. These people are writers, first of all, and second of all, they are writers who are under a social contract to offer you feedback. So, no, it’s not like a random stranger at all and should not be governed by those expectations. I think it’s insane that people will bring twenty pages from a book and show it to you and be like, “What do you think?”

Like, respectfully, what is anyone supposed to do with that? This was often how I felt receiving student work. They would just give you the twenty pages and it could have been from anywhere in the book-like object they are writing. And you’re expected to what? Exactly?

Now I make them spoil the whole book. I say, you need a preparatory note or precis must contain a plot summary of the entire novel, with particular detail about what happens just before and just after the relevant passage. You need to provide a list of characters and their relationships (people just don’t even think they need to do this when??? A book is relationships). I also ask that if they have any particular questions for the readers—are you anxious about plot? Are you anxious about characterization? Pacing? Style? Etc—then they should include those, sometimes at the end of the excerpt.

When we discuss novel excerpts, I ask that everyone prepare a list of plot events in order, a summary of the dramatic premise or situation, and what they considered to be the key moment or moments in the piece. This is to be prepared before we come to class, ideally as they read and make their marginalia.

Since I started doing this, class discussions have gotten less themey—they are still very themey, but that is just the nature of how people read now, so that’s to be expected—and we waste less time being confused about who this random person is and what’s going to happen. It turns out, it’s easier to give feedback when you have more information.

Shall we try to formalize some of this stuff? Into a…dare I say, a program?

Feedback Program

1. Read the piece. This seems obvious, but you should read the pages. Slowly, carefully. No skimming. Read it. Each word. Read it. The whole thing. Start to finish.

2. Summarize the piece (to yourself). Who is the story about. What happens in the story? Where does it take place? How much time passes in the story

3. Describe the piece (to yourself).

   1. What is the mode of narration?

      1. POV? 1^st, 2^nd, 3^rd

      2. Retrospective?

   2. Structure:

      1. Episodic or serialized?

      2. Fragmentary?

      3. Linear or nonlinear?

      4. Braided structure of past and present?

   3. Style

   4. Tone

   5. Plot

      1. Dramatic Premise or Situation

      2. Events, in particular the key event, or where dramatic and thematic elements meet?

4. Reread. Now that you have read the piece and have described it, it is time to reread the piece, this time with a pencil or pen or whatever annotation tools you prefer. I love a track changes moment, myself.

5. As you read Ask yourself:

   1. Does this sentence make good sense? Is it clear? Do I understand what they mean? Do I understand the purpose it serves in this piece? If not, why not? What is not clear? Does it sound right? Does the syntax work?

   2. Does this paragraph make good sense? Is it clear? Do I understand what they mean? Do I understand the purpose it serves in this piece? Do the sentences build to a pleasing or surprising moment? Does the idea emerge from the progression of the sentences? Is there a musicality here? How might that be enhanced? How might the idea be clarified?

   3. Does this scene make good sense? Is it clear? Do I understand what they mean? Do I understand the purpose it serves in this piece? Are there aspects of this scene which feel false or unclear? Are there moments where it feels like the writing is dead and just there to move air around? Does the scene build to a satisfying, pleasing, or surprising moment? Does the scene end in the right place? Does it open in the right place? Does the scene adequately alter the underlying situation or condition of the world, or the characters’ understandings of their situation? What do I believe is the objective of the scene? Am I moved by this? Why might I be moved by it? Was it the language? A particular detail? A particular tone? Is that the desired effect? Does that effect deepen the story? How might it be made to serve the story better?

6. As you ask those questions, Make Notes in the margins: In any of the places you observed “no” to any of the above questions, make a note of it either in the manuscript or in your written feedback. Places where the language gets in the way of meaning. Places where the writing gets strained or try-hard. Places where character actions feel false or silly. Places where the writing is particularly strong and effective. Places where you feel things and your best guess as to why you feel those things.

   Take particular note with respect to structure and form. Places where you are confused or lost. Assume that the person writing it will not have noticed it if it is not pointed out to them. Assume that you and your feedback are the first people in the history of the world to point this thing out to your friend. But be honest. About where you get confused. About where the language is weird. About where you think they are going so that they can decide if it is where they are going or not. But don’t assume they see it already and will fix it. Because that is how bad writing is propagated.

7. Compile into feedback: This will ideally contain your compressed view of what comprises the story at the level of situation, event, and character. Then, you might describe the style, mode, or tone of the piece, noting in particular things you found interesting or particularly active. Then, you might give a set of questions. I like to divide my questions into thousand-foot questions and five-foot questions:

   1. 1000-Foot Questions are big picture things. Structure or form at the global level. Overall observations about style or plot or characterization, the mode of the telling. These are the aspects of the story that function globally, broadly. The features of the thing that you can spot from an aerial view. This wouldn’t be an observation about a particular sentence or particular beat but would be more about the style of the story or the progression of a plot element.

   2. 5-Foot Questions are the more local things. Moments in scenes you found confusing. Particular passages you had questions about. Ideas for specific moments. More granular feedback. More in the weeds here. It’s that the character has a freckle on page two but not on page 16, stuff like that.

Strategies for Noticing Things In Your Work and the Work of Others

1. Print it out.

2. Read it aloud or have it read aloud with an automated voice or by a friend.

3. Isolate and break down confusing passages.

4. Scrutinize transitions: scene breaks, section breaks, transitions into flashback or backstory or exposition, register shifts, changes in point of view, time jumps, pivotal scenes or moments in the plot, etc. All transitions must be scrutinized for smoothness, clarity, energy, surprise, pleasure, pacing, and epiphany.

5. Search for dumb words (examples: headed, grabbed, could see, could hear, could smell, could feel, toward, stood, with [possessive pronoun] lips, and many more).

6. Re-type the printed manuscript (if it’s your own work).

7. Let it rest.

8. Approach the work as though you need everything explained. Write your questions down as they occur to you. Make a list of the most interesting ones and refer to them when giving feedback.

Tips for Receiving and Good Feedback Without Ruining Your Relationships

1. If you have specific questions about your work, you should share them with the people reading your work. If you are anxious about your plot, then you should tell them to focus on the plot. If you are anxious about character, then you should tell them to focus on your characterization. People are not infinite in their time and resources. So you can help them help you by focusing their attention to where you need it most.

2. Context is everything. Spoil your book. Your feedback partners are not civilian readers. Like. They aren’t reading it in a bookstore. Spoil it. Just tell them what happens. If they don’t like that, then tell them to wait until pub day. Like, be so serious.

3. Discuss timelines. If you need a quick read, let them know upfront that you’re eager for a quick read. If you are asking for a quick read, then be especially clear about the kind of feedback you want, and be reasonable. If you’re looking for a read on a whole novel, like, don’t expect it in two days with a full annotation, that’s…unreasonable. But do discuss the timeline you’re looking at. It will make both people so much happier and less stressed.

4. Be upfront about the kind of feedback you are receptive to. Do you hate being line-edited? Great. Do you hate when people ask about your character’s race? Great. Do really love when people point out inaccuracies? Phew. Likewise, ask people what kind of feedback they are receptive to before you go in and go ham on them. Literally ask, “What are kind of feedback are you looking for and what kind of feedback are you receptive to?”

5. Don’t judge. If someone says, “I really want some help with this story. I feel insecure about characterization, but I’m really not in a headspace for harsh feedback” then don’t call them a baby or make them feel judged. Find a way to give them the feedback the need that helps them feel supported. Like, you live in the world. You know how to give people rigorous feedback without being an asshole. Don’t make it about you. Be generous.

6. Don’t be a sycophant. If someone is like, please give me your honest feedback, it’s not about what you think they want to hear. It’s about giving them your honest impression of the work. Being honest. Being direct. Don’t try to socially engineer their response to you. Don’t be harsh. Don’t be needlessly cruel. But absolutely, if they are doing something you think is shit, you should tell them in a direct, clear, compassionate way. Don’t dress it up. Don’t double speak.

7. Ask questions. If you don’t feel comfortable saying, “I don’t think this is working,” then do what I do and find the question in it. If a character is not super interesting, I usually point to one of the boring moments in the scene or novel call it a missed opportunity and ask a series of questions to further clarify the character’s situation. Why are they here? Why is this the moment we linger in? Why is this the scene that gets shown? What do they want here? What do they need here? Usually, those questions provide enough grit for the author to kick back in and revisit. Questions are a great form of feedback.

8. Feedback on feedback: if something is unclear in the feedback, tell the person and ask them to clarify. If you feel like you’ve been unclear, ask the person, “Was that clear?” or “Does that make sense?” Leave nothing to chance.

9. Be polite. I don’t have this problem because I was raised by Southern black women, but some of y’all do have this problem. If someone reads your work—even if you are paying them or compensating them—thank them. Profusely. Earnestly. Respect their time. And their boundaries.
   
   If you are reading someone’s work, take it seriously. Be rigorous. Be generous. If you’ve said two weeks, but something happens and it’s going to be a little longer, let them know. I understand that email can be very overwhelming, but I like to think most people are understanding and as long as you communicate clearly, they will be grateful just for the heads up.

   
   If your friend reads your stuff, thank them. Especially if it’s a long piece, like, thank them. Or be there for them. Don’t take your friends or your readers for granted. Because that sucks. And it’s easy to do that. So don’t. Because it sucks. Ask me how I know.

10. Like. Be chill.

I might come back with a longer piece on revision strategies. Let me know how that sounds.

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