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A teacher friend recently asked me if I would come speak to her English class, as an editor and writer. She liked the idea of my How to Train Your Editor Brain class, since in the class her students often analyze and assess the books and stories they read.
This is one of my favorite presentations, both because I think it’s the most essential skill for writers to develop and hone their own craft knowledge, and because it’s tons of fun. Using a framework I’ve created for objectively assessing story, we look at examples from books, clips from movies and TV shows, commercials, song lyrics, journalistic profiles and articles, advertisements, podcasts, and more and pick those suckers apart to see what makes them work.
Historically it’s probably one of my most well-received presentations, both because of its applicability to every writer but also because it’s lighter and more casual and fun than some of my more intense craft classes.
But when I showed up to her class of sixteen- and seventeen-year-old juniors this past week, most of whom were taking the course for the dual credits they’d earn for both high school and college, and none of whom were interested in building a career in writing, I think it was me who wound up learning the most.
Lesson 1: Read the Room
First off, for any teachers reading this, let me start by commending you with every fiber of admiration in my soul. Your job is infinitely harder as an educator than is mine when I lead writing workshops. There’s a major difference between students who may feel forced into learning about something they have no interest in and those who have chosen or paid to be there to learn something they feel passionate about.
I realized about a third of the way into my presentation that the approach I use with authors, where we share a common currency of familiarity with story craft, didn’t really fly with a group of nonwriters who weren’t familiar with its more granular components.
Breaking down story through the lens of writing concepts like character motivation and arc, suspense and tension, or the delicate art of maintaining momentum didn’t directly correlate with the class’s usual approach of analyzing a work’s symbolism and theme and meaning.
So I abandoned my PowerPoint deck and went rogue, instead pulling up a series of excerpts from books I was pretty confident these students might be familiar with, which I thought they might find fun to dig into and analyze a bit more deeply: The Book Thief, The Hate U Give, The Kite Runner.
They had never read them. (Book banning in action—depriving students of these affecting, powerful stories.)
I showed more clips from movies and TV shows and commercials, and shared a two-paragraph George Saunders short story, “Sticks,” and we spent the rest of the class just loosely talking about whether the students found these stories effective and why, and how observing their own reactions and tracing those back to how the storyteller elicited them could help heighten their ability and confidence in analyzing stories in class.
Read more: “The Giddy Delight—and Incalculable Value—of Analyzing Masterful Work”
Read more: “Analyzing What Makes Story Work (Or Not)”
Most of the students seemed engaged once we changed tack, offering intriguing insights, in some cases things I hadn’t even considered as possible interpretations, and the discussion grew livelier and more interactive.
But there were a couple of students, sitting off in the far edge of the room, who were clearly Not Into It.
Lesson 2: Don’t Give Yourself the Yips
When I rerouted the presentation and started asking what books and movies and TV shows the students liked, one of this pair said he didn’t read or watch anything except TikTok videos. When they did offer feedback, it tended to be more closed-door than open-door for a discussion: that they found something clichéd or confusing, or just didn’t like it.
For most of the class, these two seemed uninterested and disengaged. They whispered between themselves, avoided eye contact with me, and at one point one of them rested her head in her hands and looked an awful lot like she was flipping me two birds (but I would like to think it was simply an unfortunate finger positioning).
Friends, I will confess to you that these two threw me for a loop. It isn’t that I expect every person I’m presenting to to be enraptured by the material or my delivery of it, and it certainly wasn’t my first time that not all of an audience seemed engaged. But for some reason, probably because I was already out of my element (and it didn’t help that being back in a high school brings its own weight of baggage from the past…and because, let’s be honest, teenagers can be weirdly terrifying…), I let their reaction determine my feelings about what I was presenting.
I started to worry that the material was of no interest to these students. I started to feel every inch of my age and tragic unhipness. I began watching the clock not for my usual reason—to pace the presentation and leave ample time for discussion—but hoping the time would miraculously pass faster, convinced that all these students were doing the very same thing.
I gave myself the yips.
Feedback and reaction are crucial feedback for anyone who wants to be an effective presenter—or an effective anything, for that matter. Who knows that better than an editor, where it’s the whole basis of the job description?
But I made the mistake I so often caution authors to avoid: letting their assessment of their work’s worth lie in external factors, rather than its own intrinsic value.
Feedback and reaction are crucial feedback for anyone who wants to be an effective presenter—or an effective anything, for that matter. But I made the mistake I so often caution authors to avoid: letting their assessment of their work’s worth lie in external factors, rather than its own intrinsic value.
I’m not saying your work is always perfect as it is and that negative feedback should be ignored. Just that it’s simply a data point of information to consider in areas that might benefit from improvement, where you might reassess and redirect if necessary.
Which, in fact, I had. When I realized, by gauging the audience’s demeanor and engagement, that the original material was probably too involved and technical for nonwriters, I took that feedback in and revised my approach. But I also know, from many past presentations of this material, that it’s foundationally solid.
And I reminded myself of that even as the bored pair fidgeted at the edge of the room. I may already have lost their interest and it was too late to get it back. Or maybe the new approach wasn’t effective for them either. Or maybe they just didn’t have a lot of interest in the topic in general, which is valid.
I made a few more attempts to find something that might appeal to them or their interests—throwing out Marvel movies to analyze, and Barbie—but decided not to pursue it to the point that it might pull my focus away from what did seem to now be more engaging for most of the rest of the class.
Lesson 3: Focus on the Positive
That brings me to the next lesson I learned, which is not to let the negative reactions outweigh positive ones. There’s a psychological phenomenon called negativity bias, where most of us tend to weight criticism and other negative reactions and feedback much more heavily than we do the positive. (Anyone get bent out of shape by a single one-star review amid many more four- and five-stars…?)
I remind authors of that with almost every editorial letter I write: that an editor’s job is sort of like a house inspector in that our focus is to find the places that may need some repair or attention, rather than to point out all the elements of the house that are in great shape. I do try to also point out those areas that are working well, but by its nature an edit largely addresses what’s not.
But, I remind authors, that is no reflection on the overall caliber and worth of the story or their writing.
Most of us tend to weight criticism and other negative reactions and feedback much more heavily than we do the positive
And yet I fell right into that trap at first, letting my feelings about how things were going be dictated by the couple of students who weren’t into it rather than focusing on the majority of them who were. Luckily I realized that before it pulled me under, and course-corrected, telling myself that not everything is for everyone, and that that’s normal.
You can’t know why your work doesn’t resonate with an audience. Maybe I rubbed these two students the wrong way. I often use examples that incorporate topics some people may find difficult to deal with or uncomfortable or even objectionable: about challenging subjects, marginalized and underrepresented characters, or complex, sometimes charged issues that aren’t black-and-white and that people may have strong feelings about. It could be that I lost them with a story that offended or annoyed them and they tuned me out after that.
Or maybe they just were having a bad day, or English lit is their least favorite class, or it was just substitute-teacher syndrome—license to goof off. (Been there, kids. Done it.)
The point is, it doesn’t matter. The creator’s job isn’t to try to appeal to every single person. One of the best pieces of advice I ever got about speaking that I use in all of my presenting and writing is that I don’t have to impact or affect everyone; hopefully the work will simply offer something of value to someone.
Even so, though, it can be hard to let go of negative reactions. But don’t overlook the wins. One student seemed deeply affected during our analysis of a Starbucks commercial about a trans girl reconciling with her father. She was gay, she said, and the ad resonated powerfully with her. (That’s one reason I try to include a wide array of perspectives in my examples; I am haunted by a friend of mine who told me about growing up gay in the eighties and seeing no positive representation of himself in art or media, and feeling that there was something intrinsically wrong with him.)
Another said the idea of starting by observing her own reactions and tracing them back to how the author achieved that effect felt really helpful to her in learning to analyze more effectively. A third stopped on the way out of class to thank me for the presentation (and to compliment my beloved wide-leg jeans and ask where I got them, and—again, if we’re being honest—having a stylish teenager imply that something I wore was actually fashionable pretty much made my entire middle-aged day).
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We’re in an art and a business where the “audience’s” reaction—meaning our readers, including agents and editors—is a key part of our careers. It can influence how we share our work, and how it performs in the marketplace, and often—at least in trad pub—whether we’re offered another opportunity to publish it in certain avenues.
But I’ve written before about not defining yourself, your work, or your writing career by external metrics. In fact I based an entire book around that idea. Doing so puts your career satisfaction in the hands of factors over which you have no control, making you a dinghy bobbing around at the mercy of the waves, rather than the captain of the ship.
Consider your audience, yes. Writing only for ourselves can keep you from completing the creative circuit: Art finds its full impact and meaning in its effect on others.
But remember—both in your writing itself and in talking about it to people—that not everyone is your audience. Not all readers will vibe to your jam. No story, no artist, has universal appeal. (Except you, Dolly Parton, you national treasure, you).
Write the stories of your heart. Make them the best you know how. Share them with the world. Find your people and relish that connection of the human soul.
And let go of worrying about the ones who aren’t your audience. They are someone else’s people. Everyone has different taste–a homogeneous world where everyone liked the same thing would be a dull one indeed. The wide variety of creative work enriches the world.
Regardless of what some may believe, diversity is our strength.
Over to you, authors. How much are you influenced by your “audience”—worrying about what readers, agents, editors, or listeners when you share your creative work? How do you balance considering reader reaction with not letting it define or direct the work away from your creative vision, or impact your confidence and belief in it? Every creative soul would likely welcome tips for handling those moments when we fall into that trap and give ourselves the yips—please share!
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24 Comments. Leave new
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
I taught high school for ten years. Toughest audience ever.
My hat is off to you–completely. 🙂
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Thanks. I really needed this blog today. I was feeling down because one of my beta readers really didn’t like my novel and was offering suggestions that didn’t get to the heart of what I was writing.
I’m glad it hit the right note at the right time, Nancy. It’s a valuable skill for an author to determine what feedback may be hard to hear but resonates for their vision and what may be off the mark. Good luck with revisions!
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Heading into a big Women’s History Presentation with my Champagne Widows novels, and this was just the talk I needed! I will share it with my fellow authors not to give ourselves The Yips!!! But our audience paid the be there, and they will be drinking champagne! So I think we’ve stacked the cards in our favor! Thanks Tiffany!
Champagne! I think you’ve taught me a new tactic for ensuring my presentations have wide appeal. 😉
Good luck, Rebecca–I know you’ll smash it with your lovely book and your lovely self.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
How could they have not read those books?! Public education is getting to be a babysitting service! Teachers, we need to stop teaching books students needed 50-100 years ago and start teaching what people need now!
It kinda killed me.
On the other hand, the students were telling me about books my friend was teaching them–Kafka’s Metamorphosis, Alice Munro’s story “Dimensions.” So thank goodness for teachers like that, who still encourage students to expand their worldview and think for themselves.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
You obviously learned the first tenet of theatre: It is never the audience’s fault. If they don’t laugh at a joke, or applaud a song, you’ve got to re-think the delivery, and you did that in spades. But man, oh man, you have also met the tenet’s nemesis: Everything is not for everybody. Kudos to you, for figuring out fast that it was best to leave the stragglers to their passive aggressive finger gestures (their loss) and focus on the ones you were reaching. I’d have had a hard time facing that double-fisted bird, though, there’s no doubt that was intentional.
I was afraid it was intentional too–and had enough objective remove to marvel at the weirdly strong impact a simple gesture can have on you. But I also told myself that I didn’t have much restraint or think things through deeply when I was that age either.
And yes, I am constantly grateful for all my actor training, for so many reasons–and improv too. You feel a lot more equipped to handle things like this. Thanks, Claudia.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Over the last two weeks, I have written a short story that is, to my mind, the best work I’ve done in my 50 years of writing. I’ve been sharing it with writer friends, receiving mixed responses, and I am okay with that. For the first time my choices don’t feel dependent on the last reader’s response. Taking it all in and listening for patterns in those responses. It’s a glorious experience. Thank you for today’s essay with your counsel on how to cultivate more of this.
That must be gratifying on so many levels, Karen: that you’ve written something you feel is your best work, and that you’ve found the confidence to know its worth even amid varying reactions to it. Congrats! And thanks for the kind comment.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Tiffany, I also love your insightful columns. Thank you for sharing them! I really needed to read this today, too. Your wise words restored my spirits and shored up my stoic nature to move past a disappointment. As you’ve said, we all have them. It’s how we dust ourselves off and move forward that counts.
Thank you, Sandra! That’s really nice to hear. And I’m always especially happy when a post hits the right chord for the right person at the right time. These speed bumps are normal–glad you’re already up and on the road again!
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Thank you, Tiffany, your timing is amazing. I just received candid constructive feedback from my very positive writing group that left me with a mild and temporary bout of the Yips.
I went to school in design. When you put your work on the chalk rail, it’s a little like taking your clothes off. My design classmates were of strong opinions and felt constructive feedback showed weakness. I developed a thick skin.
Today was a little painful but good for the book, which is all I have any business asking for. They’re not criticisms, they’re challenges, and I get to choose which ones I’ll accept. I’m always grateful, and I let them know how much I appreciate their help.
I taught graduate and undergraduates for twelve years, several different subjects, and those two young people over in the corner were enrolled in every one of my classes. It took me a lot longer than it did you to learn that which you learned in less than an hour.
When I was training in industry (twenty years) I learned that when I face an audience I don’t know much about or one that is composed of people not related to my topic like a high school class as opposed to a group of writers, I start with market research.
If the group is small enough (15-16), I ask them to introduce themselves, for example, name, what you do, not just your job title, and what you’d like to take away from the session. I’d have ’em do it individually and respond to each.
If the audience was too large for that, I’d put ’em in groups, skip the name and what you do, and ask them to discuss what they wanted from the session and then have one of the group members report for the group. I’d comment on the responses, especially on the ones I didn’t feel I could deliver on, and apologize for that.
If the group were more than twenty-five or thirty, I’d tell ’em what I hoped they’d take away, and sometimes, I’d ask them what if anything else they’d like to hear about. In my experience, people who don’t know what they want from a learning session aren’t likely to get what they want from a learning session.
In this way, I felt I started with a much clearer idea of who and what I was dealing with. And they’d then have a clearer picture of me. That also loosened them up and made it clear they were expected to participate. Most groups, especially those arranged in rows, just expect to be talked at.
Thank you for another Great Post.
I love the market research idea, Bob. Lately I’ve been doing something similar when I work with authors on edits; I created a pre-edit questionnaire that asks about what level of edit they’re looking for, how they work best, what areas of story they might particularly want to pay attention to, what level of feedback that want, etc. It’s been great to help me angle my work toward what works best for each author. It’s an intriguing idea for classes, though probably too unwieldy for my usual formats. (As they say in kindergarten, you get what you get and you don’t get upset….) 😉
The way you approach feedback sounds healthy to me. It always stings–how could it not? We all want to be told our baby is perfect. But I think if we can get past that initial bite we’re in a good position to assess what resonates with our vision and what doesn’t, and put it into constructive action. (Speaking of which–I don’t think I could handle your design group critiques!)
Thanks, as always, for the comment, Bob.
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Yeah, like everyone else, we crave praise. But if we’re going to grow, we require candor. Then we have to figure out what to do with it.
Agreed–I think they work together most effectively!
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Dear Tiffany, I have taught STATISTICS to first semester PSYCHOLOGY students all my professional life… Need I ay more?
My advice: Never ever again stand before an audience who are not 100% voluntarily where they are. And forgive any teachers you personally know all symptoms of freakiness…
Cordially, Mat
Oh, my–statistics: my least favorite class ever (English major). Reduced to tears more than once. I have endless, bottomless respect for teachers–especially in the current environment. I always did, but never more than now. I’m still in touch with my high school AP English teacher, whom I adore, and who taught me to think and trust my own mind. And also to be kind. She made a mark, and thank goodness for teachers like that. (Hey, Mrs. Corley!)
Thanks for the hot tip. Well received… 😉
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
I attended your Zoom class on foreshadowing and was really impressed by your mastery of the subject and your ability to think on your feet. Now I’m just plain awed by those traits.
The idea of presenting to a crowd of indifferent teenagers sounds akin to taking the starring role in a Roman Amphitheatre. Throw in a couple that are actively hostile and they just released the lions.
I am awed.
You are very kind to say so, Jeanne. Many years ago, in my little baby acting days, I also did improv comedy for years. If you can get up on a stage with no idea what’s going to happen or come out of your mouth, it prepares you for almost anything. 🙂 I’ve always been exceptionally grateful for that training in thinking on the fly!
The Real Person!
The Real Person!
Yup. I’m a college teacher…. public speaking (who doesn’t love THAT class!?) Over my 25+ years teaching, I’ve had all kinds of students, including those two in the back of the room that remain disengaged. I realized a long time ago I can’t reach everyone, try as I might. So I focus on the students who want to get something out of the class besides a C or D. And my A students? Well, they are GOLD.
I can only imagine how challenging teaching is, day in and day out. And yet part of me worries about the kids who are disengaged–for a variety of reasons–which may mean they continue to fall further and further behind. I think that’s why I kept trying to interest these two–wondering if their behavior was a defense, for instance, for not getting it or needing more help. But eventually I worried I was leaving the others behind if I focused too much on these two. A real catch-22–I don’t envy the pressures teachers are under all the time. They are so important, educators. They carry so much influence on how our school years go, and honestly how our minds develop, how we work, even what kind of people we may become. (I remember my favorite teacher–hi, Mrs. Corley!–urged me to be kind to one of the kids in class who was struggling socially. I never forgot that.)
I can sympathize with your decision that you can’t reach everyone. It’s the teachy equivalent of the point of the post: not everyone is receptive to your message, and that’s okay. It’s a heartbreak, I imagine, as a teacher, though. Thanks for this comment, Linda.