Multitasking

Fall is a busy time of year for me. My day jobs pick back up (as does my pay, thankfully) and fills my schedule beyond the stereotypical nine-to-five hours. I'm querying my most recent novel--and, depending on the response to this batch of queries, seeking editorial assistance to give it another polish. This also tends to be the time of year when I get first drafts knocked out--NaNoWriMo is approaching faster than I really want to think about, and I hope to use it to get the first draft of my next project (which I expect will be between 75 and 80 thousand words) out by the end of the year. And I've taken on a couple of extra projects this year: a 5,000 work short for my writing group's anthology, and a 15 to 20 thousand word project for a publisher that I can't officially announce yet that's due in December.

For those that are keeping track, that's about 105 thousand words that I'm meant to get out before the end of the year, and about 25 thousand of those words need to be polished finals. And, again, this is aside from the work, both anticipated and not, that will come from my (three) day jobs.

So, yeah, I'm busy.

I don't mind having a lot of work to do. I get restless and anxious when my time is too empty. Having something to focus on keeps my imagination from spinning down paths that end with me imagining worst-case scenarios for literally every interaction I have with anyone and literally every action I take. But this workload is a lot, even for me, and I'm having to multitask more than I'm used to.

I've mentioned before, both on this blog and in guest posts on other blogs, that I'm on the planner side of the planner/pantser spectrum. This tendency extends beyond my writing. I like to know what I'm going to have to do ahead of time. I'm a to-do list person. I might not physically write down the list, but when I get up in the morning, I walk myself through all of the goals I need to accomplish in that day.

Some insight into planning from V.E. Schwab, whose work I enjoy more and more the longer it sits with me.

What complicates all of this is my physical and mental health. I can't predict when a blinding migraine will keep me sidelined or when my mental condition will bottom out and sap my energy, motivation, and self-worth. Sometimes what should be a doable set of tasks become impossible, and sometimes I have to decide if I'm going to be able to do work to further my writing career or if I'm going to give my limited energy to my day job.

So I try to account for this when I set my goals. I give myself ranges: "I need to add 250 to 1,000 words to this project." "I need to outline this arc or this chapter." "If there's time, I need to edit these pages." This gives me a way out when I've overestimated what I can accomplish but also keeps me doing something. It also lets me build in days when I can rest--a couple of days hitting the top range of my goals gets me ahead of where I need to be and gives me the freedom to take a break. And sometimes those breaks are the best thing I can do for my work.

All of this involves a sort of long-range planning. It's not just about knowing what I can do in a day. It's about knowing what the long-term goal is--whether that's completing a work by a deadline or marking an accomplishment off of the list.

The planning is stressful. But I knew that there would be stress--considerable stress--involved with trying to turn writing from a hobby to a career (even if, as it is now, it has to be a second career). And the stress is worth it in the moments when I'm able to track my own progress. I've taken on so much work this year, but the work is opening doors. Or at least windows. It's worth it.

First Impressions

I've been querying again lately. The whole process makes me nervous. Pitching is always an anxious process, but this project is more important to me than anything I've written so far, so the tension is higher and the rejections have a harsher sting. I'm letting this round wrap up, and if nothing comes of it, it'll be time for the next round of revision.

I've got to where I'm pretty comfortable with my query as it stands. It was the basis of the in-person pitch that got a partial request from an agent at ALAWW, and I've had it critiqued by an Writer's House agent via The Manuscript Academy (this is a great resource for authors, by the way--I really recommend checking them out). From the feedback I've had on it, it's pretty solid. And I'm proud of that. It's not easy to distill 82,000 words of novel into a compelling two-paragraph pitch.

But, of course, a good query is only part of finding representation. What I've really been thinking about recently is first pages.

Most of the agents I've got on my query list ask for sample pages. The number of pages varies. One agent asked for the first 50 pages of the manuscript. One only asks for 3. Most want the first 10 pages or the first chapter. No matter how you look at it, there's not a lot of time to make an impression.

I've poured over my first chapter dozens of times. I've moved the starting point. I've sheared description and reframed sections from the character's point of view. I've cut words that create space between the reader and the character. I've played around with starting at a different point in the story entirely to change what the reader knows at the beginning. I'm trying to find a balance between compelling reading, connection to character, and a solid establishing of the world. I've had test readers and critique partners give feedback, and I've applied it--or at least tested it to see if it would work.

The first chapter--the first page--of a book has to do so much. I know what potential the entirety of my story has. I love the narrative and the characters--I have followed them through their journeys.

But a reader doesn't. I have to earn their time. If a reader doesn't like the first page, there's no guaranteeing that they'll read the second page--let alone the second chapter.

I've been reading and listening to podcasts and researching, trying to find advice on how to craft the best first page I can. It's overwhelming. But there are a few things that are common threads in all of the information.

A first page has to introduce the main character. That seems obvious, but it can be more complicated than it sounds. You have to give a sense of who the character is and what they want, and you have to do it without relying the cliche: things like waking up in the morning or getting ready for work (there are always exceptions--some authors can make these intros work, but more often they get boring).

The first page should introduce the conflict, or at least give a sense of it. I tell my students that, by the time I read through the introduction of their papers, I should know what to expect from the rest of the work. In some ways, this same principle applies to a first page. You don't have to telegraph the ending, but there should be something of a feeling that "oh, hey, this thing is probably going to be a problem."

On top of this, the first page should give a sense of the world. What is the structure and how does it inform people's actions and reactions? What are the rules? What is the character's place in all of it?

When you consider that a single page in the standard format-- Times New Roman 12 pt., double spaced, one-inch margins--is only about 250-300 words, you get a sense of what a tall order all of this is.

I've been trying to find ways to be more precise with my language. Some of this is dropping crutch words (the word "that" is a big one for me--also "had"). Some of it is finding ways for sentences to do double duty: to reveal something about the character while simultaneously introducing the conflict or building the world. It's improved my writing overall from where it was when I wrote my first book--even from the way I was writing at the beginning of the year. I don't know that I've "cracked the code," but I certainly have more tools in the toolbox than I did before.

There's still a lot of the process that's out of my control. I have no say over what editors are interested in. I can't control agents' personal preferences. Even an excellent first page won't excite someone who's not into the story idea. But I keep working on the things that I can address, and I'll do what I have to to make my work the best I can.

Switching Gears

I did more or less what I predicted I would do last week. I took some time off. I played some games and read some books.

But I also spent a lot of time with Project 2016, going over it just one more time before I put it away (for now).

I'm trying to ease back into a normal schedule by doing some day job work today. This hasn't been fun, exactly, but the transition has been smooth. What's weird is the shift I'm having to manage in my writing work.

I made it through the draft of Project 2016. It's time to let it sit and to work on something different. And it's not like I'm lacking other things to work on: a part from two more books set in the same universe as Project 2016, I've got a short story with an April deadline that's only about halfway done.

I've got a pretty clear plan of what I've got to do. The story has to come next. I've done the outline and some of the work. Also, you know, there's an actual deadline by which a publisher wants it. It's super clear what I need to do.

But I'm having a hard time pulling myself out of the world of Project 2016 to focus on a different world and a different set of characters. It's not that I don't like the story--I was jazzed enough about it to successfully pitch it, and I wrote the first half of it pretty quickly. It's a good story. Or it has the potential to be, at least.

The problem--such as it is; I imagine I'll work my way out of this funk soon enough--might be that I've spent so much time in the Project 2016 universe. It's been more than a year since I started revamping the project. I've taken breaks here and there, but it's been most of what I've written in the past year. And that universe and those characters are going to be at the center of my next two major projects. Project 2016 lives in every crevice of my brain all of the time. Shifting my focus, even for a month, to work on something totally unrelated is daunting.

I can do it. I've done it before. And, to be fair, I need to shake things up--to get away from the big project for a while so that I can come back to it with fresh eyes.

It's always rough to move to something new after so much time devoted to a project. I'm not so good at making the shift, but I'll manage.

Lazy

This week, I plan to be lazy.

Lazy is relative. I'll still be working--both paid labor at the day job and the unpaid (and seemingly unending) labor of polishing the manuscript. But I'm going to take it easier than usual.

Two of the three schools that I work for are on Spring Break this week. I have maybe two hours worth of prep work to do, rather than the usual five or six. There's no writers' group meeting this week. My spouse doesn't have a show this coming weekend. In comparison to my usual schedule, this week is practically a vacation. I plan to make the most of it.

I'm not very good at the whole work-life balance thing. When I'm describing this characteristic of mine in job interviews, I usually call it "being self-motivated." In the middle of the week, when I'm lamenting the fact that I have to teach a six-class course load to live comfortably, I call it "desperation." I don't mind work. I understand that achieving goals requires a combination of sweat and kismet. But it's hard to keep the pace that I have to.

So, I'm trying to actually take some time from working this week. I've set aside two books that I want to read (I'm about a quarter of the way through the first). I'm checking out times for movie showings. I've figured out where I put my copies of the Mass Effect trilogy so that I'm ready to go when the next installment comes out (there's a lady Turian in the trailer--I'm already in love).

I'm probably being too optimistic with my leisure plans. I've met me. I'll likely find some way to spend hours grading or obsessively scrolling through my work email. I know I won't be able to leave the manuscript be this week. And I still have a project due in April that's not quite done.

But I'm going to take a comparative break. I'm going to be lazy.

And it's going to be awesome.

That Point

I don't know how it is for other people, but with everything I write, I hit that point. If you do, too, then I don't have to explain what that point is.

If you don't, then let me first say that I am incredibly envious of you.

When I start work on a project, I'm excited and energetic. I've never started a story that I didn't love--because, to me, if you don't love it why bother writing it in the first place? And the first part of the process is an enthusiastic flurry of activity. I'm outlining, researching, taking notes. I start pounding out a draft at an impressive pace, especially compared to what I normally end up falling to later on in the work.

I'm able to keep this up for a while. The first third of a draft, usually--the first half if I'm lucky. In the beginning, it's like being in love. I'm never more excited than when I'm writing the first chapters of a new novel or the first pages of a short story.

But somewhere along the way, it always sours.

There comes a point--that point--in every piece that I work on where I hate every bit of it. I look at my work and see nothing worth liking. The characters are flat. The setting is blank. The plot has holes big enough to drive a truck through. Every sentence feels clunky and aimless. I can't make myself care about what happens to the characters or how the plot resolves--and if I can't make myself care, how can I expect anyone else to?

It's never fun to get to this place with my work. This is part of why I let finished drafts sit for a while before I go back and revise. By the time I finish a draft, I typically hate it. I'm not able to revise it without wanting to more or less burn the thing to the ground and start all over. I have to leave it alone for a while so that I can come at it with a clearer eyes. (The work is never as bad as I think it is. It's usually not as good, either.)

I'm just starting a new project--the pitch I mentioned a few posts ago that got picked up for publication--so I'm pretty far from that point right now, but my writing partner seems like she might be there now.

I used to think that I was the only one that got to that point. That other writers knew their work's value all along--that a good writer always felt like their writing was good.

In hindsight, that's a pretty ridiculous thing to believe. Creating anything is a trial-and-error process, and a perfectionist is never satisfied. But it's easy to forget that, to compare your draft with someone else's final product.

I think that's really what that point is. You can't see how you're going to get you imperfect, lumpy mess to become a smooth, beautiful narrative. I think that's why it's important to take a step back sometimes, to get fresh eyes on the work. Your own perspective is always going to be skewed--a can't-see-the-forest-for-the-trees kind of thing. It's hard to keep going when you hit that point. But it's a normal part of the process--and, like I said, the work is never as bad as we tend to think.

Wrap It Up

Well, 2016 was certainly a hell of a ride.

In a lot of ways, this past year was not a great one for me. I lost a great many idols and inspirations. I saw the appalling reversal of trends that I thought couldn't help but continue to march forward. I went through a semester of teaching that turned out to be more complicated and difficult than the last few have been. I had to find ways to cope with anxiety and depression without the aid of the healthcare system--which frequently meant not coping very well at all.

Let's just say it's been a rough one.

But, in spite of all of that, 2016 might have been the best year ever as far as my writing is concerned.

I don't say that to romanticize suffering in the way that some might. Sure, struggle can sometimes lead to the creation of great art, but it's really hard to create art when you're so deep in a pit of depression that a managing to get up and get a shower feels like a feat worthy of an Olympic medal. This glamorized image of the suffering artist is a problem in a lot of ways, and I could go one about the issues for hours, but that's for another day. What I mean is that, despite (despite and not because of) the difficulties I faced this year, I still managed to do.

I've mentioned before that one of my (many) stumbling blocks with writing has been momentum. I'll come up with an idea, steam ahead for a while, and then lose interest or stop making the time to work. Projects not only got moved to the back burner, but taken off of the stove all together and shoved into the back corner of the freezer.

That didn't happen this year. I committed to setting aside time for my writing work. I got shit done, and it felt pretty glorious. When I look at the list of achievements for 2016, it's actually pretty impressive.

1. I finished the polishes on Evin
2. Evin got published--my first ever published novel
3. Had semi-regular writing group meetings
4. I re-outlined and redrafted Delphinus
5. And outlined and drafted its prequel
6. I finished two rounds of revisions on Delphinus
7. According to my Magic Spreadsheet count, I wrote almost 150,000 words
8. I managed to keep up with this blog for most of the year (and I'm notoriously bad about abandoning blogs)

And most of that was in the back half of the year. 

So, yeah. As far as writing goes, 2016 was one for the books. But I don't want to rest on my laurels. I don't want this to be the one productive year that I get.

I've been thinking about what I want for my writing career, such as it is, and what I can do in 2017 to keep the momentum and to get closer to my dreams for my writing.

I'm compiling a list of goals for this year. I'm sure the list will change as the months go by, but I wanted to share some of what I plan to do to keep myself on track this year. Maybe these goals are relevant to you, too.

1. Finish the next round of edits for Delphinus and send it back out to test readers
2. Attend at least one writing conference and try to do some in-person pitching
3. Continue writing group meetings and participate in more local writer events
4. Do author events--a couple of signings are already in the works, but I want to make it to at least one convention in 2017 as well
5. Send out more queries in batches of four. Review the manuscript and responses after rejections to determine if there are patterns in how agents/editors are responding
6. Do round one revisions on the prequel and get it sent to beta readers
7. Outline trilogy's third book
8. Draft trilogy's third book
9. Finish drafts of two short stories
10. Continue regular blog posts

I've got my work cut out for me this year, but I've also already made progress on a few of these goals.

As difficult as 2016 was, it was the turning of a new leaf for me as far as my writing goes. I have high hopes for 2017.

In the meantime, I have work to do.

Happy New Year.
 

Cutting

The beta readers for project 2016 are starting to send me their comments, which means that it's time to start revisions.

Response to the project has been pretty positive so far. There's still some work that needs to be done, as I expected, but the reaction has been better than I expected and I might not have to redo as much as I had thought.

My relationship with my first drafts is complicated. On the one hand, they hold a special place in my heart. They represent my first steps into a world. They're the way I really get to know my characters. I'm able to experiment a little more in a first draft, since I know that there's plenty of time to go back and figure out what works and what doesn't.

On the other hand, I have to be a little detached from these first drafts. I mentioned in my post about beta reading that I don't assume that anything that shows up in the first draft will make it to the second. The cutting process between draft one and draft two is not unlike a George R.R. Martin novel--literally anything, anyone can go.

Normally, I don't mind this so much. Dropping passages may sting, but I'm usually able to find some way to keep a nugget of the passage. The original prologue for Evin got cut in the first round of revisions, but I was able to work parts of it back in in ways that served the story better. Characters might have lost some lines, but they still got to be present, even if only in passing.

Project 2016 is already a little different from Evin. It's been cooking longer, so I've had more time to work through the story and to pin down the characters. That's probably part of why the first draft is more cohesive on the whole than Evin's was. It's also going to be why making cuts will hurt more this time.

Reaction to project 2016 has been great. But there's one thing that the readers seem to keep pointing out. And if it's coming from multiple readers, it can't be a fluke.

It looks like one of my characters--one of these folks that I've lived with for years now--isn't going to make it to the next draft.

It's not the worst thing that could happen, I guess. The character in question is pretty easily merged with one of the existing characters, and meshing the two together will eliminate one character that's not pulling their weight while building up the one that remains. There doesn't seem (so far, at least) to be any major story issues with the draft, so the plot's not going to need a huge overhaul. As far as "back to the drawing boards" go, it's not a bad one.

But it's going to be strange. Like I said, project 2016 and its characters have been with me for a long time. It might be best for the story to say goodbye to one of them, but that doesn't mean that I'll like it.

I may find another place for the character to live. There's a lot in the world of the story that I haven't explored, and while I hadn't initially planned on spending more than one novel in this particular setting, the more I think about it, the more I think I'd like to come back. Maybe he can be fleshed out in another narrative. Who knows?

Cutting from a story is never easy, and I can't say that I'm looking forward to it. But it is a necessary part of the process--and I am looking forward to having a final, polished draft of project 2016.

Behind the Curtain

Before I was a sociologist--and maybe even before I was a writer--I was a theater kid.

I loved watching performances--music, dance, theater. I still do. But when I was about eight, I decided that I wanted to do more than watch performances. I wanted to be part of them.

Insert The Little Mermaid reference here.

 

So I took acting classes and did theater camps. I helped local community theaters on their work days, and I started following actors, composers, and playwrights. Where before I had only seen the finished product--the play unfolding on stage--I started to see all of the bits and pieces that go in to creating the spectacle in front of me.

 

It's hard to explain to someone who's never been back stage at a performance the (sometimes barely)  controlled chaos that's required to keep a show moving. It's a little like watching a duck swim from underneath. It slides smoothly across the surface, but below is a bunch of unattractive though necessary flailing. Now and then, though, there's the opportunity for people outside the theater community to get a glimpse at what it's like.

 

The Tony's are always great for this. Last year, especially.

 

 This opportunity to look behind the curtain has changed the way that I look at performances--which is a good thing and a bad one, depending on the day. I'm able to appreciate a well crafted illusion. I'm also more likely to notice when things go wrong or don't work. Someone who's not familiar with how a particular change is supposed to go won't notice if, for instance, a piece of costume is missing or a prop doesn't make it to where its supposed to be or if the people responsible for the effect don't know how to accomplish it properly.

 

I am occasionally (often) a pain to watch plays, television, and movies with precisely because I notice the little hiccups. The kind of stuff that folks generally are able to overlook. I'll be the one to point out that a change in the lighting was off or that someone wasn't where they were supposed to be. And comments like these are almost always met with the suggestion that I just ignore the flaws and try to enjoy whatever I'm watching.

 

But that's not easy. It's hard to ignore the strings once you've seen them.  

 

I've learned over the time I've spent trying to figure out how to be a better writer, that this applies just as much to my experience of reading as it did to my experience of performance. 

 

I don't just read things anymore. There's an ongoing critique that runs under everything that I read now. Most of it isn't a planned thing--I don't set out to read a book with the intention of picking it apart or trying to figure out the author's exact intent and the type of tools they had at their disposal (though sometimes I do, like when I read Kieron Gillen's writing notes for The Wicked + The Divine). But I inevitably end up doing the same thing I've done with performance for years.

 

And I tend to get the same response-- "Just try to enjoy it."

 

 

The thing is, I don't think being critical of the bits and pieces of a thing and enjoying that thing are mutually exclusive. I read the writer notes, which frequently point out flaws and lumps that I didn't notice on my read, for each issue of The Wicked + The Divine, and it's still my favorite comic series. I'm able to reread the Harry Potter books--which were pretty formative for me--and track the ways the writing changed and improved over the course of the series. It gives me a little thrill to realize at what point Rowling learned a new tool or what Gillen thinks he should have done differently with a character's dialogue.

 

It humanizes the people I look up to. It tells me that it's not going to hurt me or my work to acknowledge when I don't do things as well as I'd like or as well as I could. It suggests things that I need to think about in improving my own work. 

 

It makes me better.

 

So I'm going to continue to look behind the curtain, to try to see the work and the pieces that go into the things that I watch and read. 

 

My apologies to the people that wish I'd just sit back and enjoy.

 

 

 

 

Beta Reading

This week has been all about beta reading.

My writing group partner has gotten back to me with her notes for project 2016, so I'm working my way through those.

I also decided--mostly on a whim--that I would beta read someone's novel. Normally, that's not something that I do for people that I don't know well, but I'm trying to build a network, and I figure the best way for me to do that is to prove myself willing to help out.

Beta reading is an interesting part of the writing process. Most of the writing work, for me at least, is done privately--no input from anyone other than my writing partner, and even that is relatively rare. I build the outline on my own, I sketch the scenes and characters in my personal notebooks, and I pound out the first draft on my laptop at my house with on one but my cats looking in. The beta reader (or beta readers, as the case sometimes is) is the first person to see the work aside from me and the person meant to be the first to tell me what's gone wrong.

It's an uncomfortable situation all around, even when the readers are the same people each time. And it's uncomfortable on both sides. I, as a writer, go into this with the understanding that my work isn't perfect and that I will have made mistakes. I, as a human being, though, am not always excited for those mistakes to be pointed out. It's necessary, and in the end I'm always grateful, but it's still a rough ride for my ego (and, even with my imposter syndrome, I definitely have an ego).

The position for the reader isn't a whole lot better--and it's especially awkward when the reader doesn't know the writer that well (this, incidentally, is the position that my aforementioned whim has put me in). The reader has to make a sizable time commitment to go through hundreds of pages of prose to point out the lumps and flaws to a writer who may or may not be receptive.

There aren't really hard and fast rules for either side of the process. But, in the times that I've been on both sides, I've come up with a few guidelines that I make use of.

For the writer:

• Ask for more readers than you need. Look, people are busy. Everyone is busy. If you say you have a novel draft that you want people to read, you're going to have friends and family and maybe strangers saying that they want to read for you, and they'll say it with enthusiasm. But then you'll send a 300-page manuscript draft, and they'll realize how much work it's actually going to be. Some of the folks you send it to will muscle through and send you thorough feedback. And some of them will never get back to you. It happens. It's no reflection on you or on them--but you still need feedback, so ask for more than you need. 

• Find honest readers. It's nice to hear gushing praise of your work. But it's not really helpful. If you've decided to find beta readers, then you know that your work isn't perfect. Find people who are going to tell you what you need to fix. Relatedly, don't limit yourself to people with degrees in English or to people who read and/or write your genre. Their input is valuable, and if you can find an English major or a fellow genre writer to be a reader that's great, but most of your readers aren't going to have that background. Get a mix of honest readers.

•  Don't shut down in the face of criticism. At some point or another, someone is going to give a critique that you don't like. They'll suggest altering a plot point that you were excited about. Or they'll think a bit of dialogue that you love is hokey or cliche. Or they'll say that you should really drop that 5,000+ word prologue that was the first bit you wrote of this story and the reason that you fell in love with the world of the novel because it's not really a strong start to your novel. (Yes, that happened to me, and yes, I was devastated). The thing is, unless you've chosen really awful readers--and you probably haven't--these critiques aren't mean spirited. Your readers are trying to help you make your work better. You may not like the things they point out, but don't dismiss them. That prologue that I loved so much? The reader was right. It did need to go. And the finished product of that piece is so much better.

• Just because someone says it, doesn't mean you have to change it. By the same token, you have to use your own judgement. Don't dismiss criticism out of hand, but don't change something if you feel strongly about it. If you try the edit, and it doesn't feel right (and I know how nebulous that sounds, but a lot of writing is like that), then don't make the change. Your reader won't hold it against you.

• Find something to distract you while you wait. Waiting for feedback is terrible. You've sent your work, a little piece of you, out to be judged and now you have to wait to see what the reaction is. If you let it, the anxiety will tear you up. So don't let it. Find something else to do--start another project, take some time for a different hobby, anything. Step away for a while and let it stew. Not only will you be refreshed by the time the work gets back to you, you might have a clearer view of the project yourself. 

For the reader:

• Be honest. You don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but just saying that you love the piece isn't really helping anyone. Your job as a beta reader is to point out when something doesn't work--when a piece of the puzzle is missing or a scene gets too confusing to follow or when the author is circling for a landing. If a writer sent you their work, they know there's room for improvement. They can more than likely take what you have to say--so long as you aren't a snot about it.

• Say what you like. Just as important as saying what you don't like or don't think works is telling the author what you do like. For one thing, a little bit of praise makes the criticism easier to handle. For another, pointing out what the author is getting right helps them figure out where their strengths are. All my beta readers say they like a quiet character scene in chapter 3? I may make use of that in the next project. It also points out the things we ought to keep in the next draft. In my view, nothing from draft one is guaranteed to make the next draft--unless the readers latch onto it. If it hooked my betas, it stands a reason that it will hook the book's readers.

• Be thorough. You just read 200-300 pages for someone. They want more feedback than a couple of sentences. Take notes while you read. Ask the writer what specific things they're concerned about with the draft you're reading. That will give you an idea of what to spend your time on and encourage the writer to consider where their weaknesses are. Good for everybody.

• Be timely. From the moment the writer hits send on the email that contains their draft or puts the hard copy in your hands, they are going to be fretting. Waiting for feedback is nervy--especially when you're waiting for feedback on something that you've poured significant time and effort into. Don't make the writer suffer longer than they have to. Aside from that, the writer maybe on a deadline themselves, so your delays may translate to actual financial consequences for them. When a writer sets a deadline for a beta reading, do your best to honor it. If you're going to miss the deadline, let the writer know so that they can adjust.

These lists are by no means comprehensive or universal--everyone's got their preferences when it comes to beta reading, and the best thing to do is find people whose preferences are similar to yours. But these are definitely some things worth keeping in mind if you're a writer looking for a beta reader or a friend/acquaintance/whatever of a writer who has asked you to beta for them. They're certainly what I'm going to be making use of in the coming weeks.

Critique

My writing group partner and I are trading off partial drafts today. We're both around halfway through, so we're passing on the first part of our drafts while we work on the second.

This is sorta a stressful thing. I mean, it's the first time that anyone other than me sees this thing that I've been pouring hours, sometimes days, of effort into. Someone else will be leafing through a story that has alternately sparked my passion and left me frustratedly contemplating what must be a complete lack of talent, judging its form and content.

There's a very big part of me that hates this point in the process.

There's a bigger part of me that thinks that this is the best and most important thing I can do for my story.

I have been living in this story for a little over a month. I'll be here for another month or more, putting together the pieces.

I can't see it anymore.

It's like a fish in water. Water is the fish's day-to-day. It spends so much time in the water, surrounded by the water, that it doesn't even notice the water so much anymore.

Every draft needs critique--to be put under a microscope so that the writer can see how the little bits and pieces are working and figure out what parts are doing more harm than good.

But self-critique is pretty difficult.

Part of this, at least for me, is that my internal critic tends to hang out with that anxious, self-sabotaging part of my brain. Where a useful internal critic might say, "Y'know, this scene is dragging and doesn't really serve a plot purpose--let's toss it," mine says, "This is terrible, and there is no way to fix it; you should just stop before you embarrass yourself." One of those sees a problem and offers a possible solution. The other makes me want to crawl into my bed and never get out. It's sort of a crap shoot which critic I'll hear on any given day. I've gotten better at telling the difference between the two and at dismissing the second in favor of the first. Self-critique is still a difficult thing, though, and there's only so much that I, as the only person who knows the entire story can do.

Which brings me to the second issue with self-critique: I know the entire story. I have information that the reader doesn't. Which means that, if there's a gap in what's communicated to the reader, I probably won't see it.

It's the same reason that it's a bad idea for an actor to also direct a stage play. The actor is inside the play--they can't see all of the moving pieces from the audience's perspective. They can't tell, for instance, that all of the actors are bunched up on stage right for half of scene three or that they way they've placed on performer means that another can't be seen. It takes outside eyes to notice these sorts of issues.

I know the back story. I know why each character is saying the things they're saying and doing the things they're doing. I know how the world of the story works. And it's my job to make sure that all of that information gets communicated to the reader.

The best way to make sure that I've done that is to have someone else read it.

My writing group partner knows the bare-bones of the story and the characters. She doesn't know all of the ins and outs of the worlds or the details of the characters' backstories. If something is confusing to her or falls wrong, she'll notice, and she'll tell me.

This is never an easy thing. No writer ever really wants someone else to say that there's something wrong with the work that they've poured themselves into. And most friends of writers, the group of people likely to be asked to provide these initial reads, don't want to hurt their friend's feelings by saying that their pet project needs to go back to the drawing board.

In spite of the weird feelings that both parties may have about it, there is well and truly noting more useful to a writer than an honest and thorough critique. I may not want to hear that my opening chapter--my favorite chapter in the piece--is too long and ultimately unnecessary. But if I never hear that, then I never fix it. I send a slogging and unnecessary chapter out in my queries, and I get rejection after rejection.

Obviously, critique can go too far. A reader that sounds like my internal critic on the bad days, for example, is not terribly useful. Critic has to be honest, not devastating.

On the flip side, a critic that is all suns and roses isn't helpful, either. It's great that you loved the draft. But I know that the draft has problems, and "I loved it!," nice as it is to hear, doesn't help me fix them.

It's not too hard to make the difficult critiques easier to swallow. The sting of hearing that my favorite chapter needs to go is a little lessened by the statement that the environmental elements throughout the draft are spot on. This mix of "fix this" and "this is working" is, I've found, the most effective for getting me to go back through the draft and make the changes--even the ones that hurt a little.

Handing off a draft is a nerve-wracking process. When the feedback is good, though, there's nothing better for a story.