Writing Groups and Critique Vocabulary

“I feel like I’ve been dragged around by a puppy on a leash.” That’s what I popped into Bob’s office to say about an article we were both reviewing for publication.

He looked at me for a few seconds then set down his coffee. “Her theme is clear. She needs to rearrange a few paragraphs for flow. Some of the sentences are run-ons. Easy fix. And she needs to develop some solid transitions and pay attention to topic sentences.”

Yeah. Like I said. You know. The puppy.

Listening to Bob’s calm editorial assessment made me realize I needed critique vocabulary. I needed to be a member of a writing group.

I had heard writers rave about the trust and faith and good work developed because of groups. Sure, it’s a task to find the one that works for you, but once you’re in, the magic happens. I just had to find a group that would have me.

As kismet conspired, a friend soon approached me and said, “We’re always talking about our writing, why don’t we devote some time, say, once a month?” Amen.

We didn’t have any rules. We could bring to each other whatever we were working on. We commented on content, impact, line breaks, sentence structure, showing not telling, our preferences and the rules about punctuation, and how fiction builds truth. Virginia was patient with me. Our writing chops grew.

And our group grew as well. Everyone is patient with me when I say stuff like, “Are you devoted to the word hemorrhage? It seems too . . . too . . . solid. Too scientific for the rest of the poem. It’s heavy where it is.” Or “Kick butt last line. Pow!” And the writer gets it—or doesn’t and asks me to explain.

But because I’m in groups (did you notice the plural?) whose members are smart, talented, gracious, and caring people, I’ve picked up critique vocabulary. The following sound like questions and comments Bob might employ.

What would happen if you cut the last sentence? The last paragraph?
I think your poem starts in the second stanza. Tell us about the first stanza. 
Would you entertain a line break here?
Some punctuation other than the semicolon might work. Em dash gives you more impact?
I don’t understand all of this poem, but it doesn’t matter. You’ve infused it with immense emotion. Sheer genius.

I have written very few pieces by myself. Sometimes my poems are seen by members of three groups. My output and understanding of craft would be paltry without the people who keep me writing—the people who share with me their time and brains and hearts. And vocabulary. I’m a better writer and editor for their efforts.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart Beth, Bob, Carol, Frank, Keren, Klecko, Laura, Mary, Matt, Paulette, and Virginia. Your grateful groupie, Dara

Please leave a comment about your writing groups and critique vocabulary. Thanks, and happy writing. 
 

From May to October I have dirty fingernails. I'm a gardener. I'm a guerrilla weeder. I get grimy. 

As I met an acquaintance for coffee, I gave myself a final once-over to see what kind of impression I might make. Not too many wrinkles in my trousers. Cool blue shoes. Earrings in place. Gads. These fingernails. I'm a dirt magnet, I thought.

"I'm a dirt magnet," I said to my new friend. "I must have put my mom through hell." 

"I'm the same way," she said. "I was doing a service project and each evening I was the dirtiest one on the team. I figured it was because I'm short."

"Maybe." I let the idea percolate. "I'd like to think we're enmeshed, ready for the grime of the work, committed, rooted in the earth."

"I'll buy that," she said.

Made me think of all creative work. You hang your creativity on a framework and abide by some rules--a trellis and The Chicago Manual of Style--but the rest of the process is seeds and sweat, soil and trowels.

We need not be afraid of the grime. We have the luxury of sowing and plowing under. Walking away to see what sprouts and coming back to yank the weeds, cut out the suckers, and harvest ripeness. 

Your writing group and editor will help. Give them loppers and your blessing.

Here's to the dirty work. Dig in. 

Please leave a comment below. How does digging play out in your life? 

I have tremendous respect and admiration for Naomi Shihab Nye's poetry, warmth, and eloquence. How do you feel about this take on creativity? Please leave a comment below about your definitions. 

Women trundled down Amy’s stairs with old, new, inherited, and borrowed sewing machines. Stacey simply showed up with some material she’d purchased at a yard sale. Creamy yellow textured sateen curtains. Long curtains. She could picture the living room they came out of, lovingly tended by an auntie who had her friends over for coffee and cards. Maybe crumb cake served on china with tiny yellow flowers. Stacey hoped the transformation of the cloth would do justice to their former life. 

Amy had cofounded a group of artists, Chicks on Sticks, a troupe of creative women who walked on stilts. They gathered to create art, camaraderie, theater, and joy. 

A natural part of being a stiltwalker is the creation of costumes. One would be hard-pressed to find trousers with that kind of inseam. So prior to their inaugural appearance as a group, a bunch of Chicks convened at Amy’s house.

The basement came alive with scissors, measuring tapes, large hunks of material full of possibility, scraps of myriad hues and patterns saved from other projects, and the hum of small talk and well-oiled machines. Stacey could turn to any number of women for answers. “How do I make the waist?” “Do you cut the fringe before or after you attach the material to the pant legs?” “May I borrow that tool to rip out some stitches?” 

Stacey hadn’t known if she could walk on stilts. With encouragement and care from Amy and other mentors, she learned to fall safely and had conquered the short training stilts. Then she built a pair of three-footers. Tall enough to make ducking through doorways a necessity. Tall enough to need really long trousers to disguise the wooden workings attached to her legs. Tall enough to create spectacle.

And costume is part of spectacle. Now was the moment.