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My favorite teacher who taught me the most and with whom I am still in touch, Mrs. Corley, sent me an obituary last week for Dr. Tom McHaney, a Georgia State University professor she had visit our high school AP English class.
It sounds like he had a rich and rewarding life, though I didn’t know Dr. McHaney beyond his visit to our classroom in my junior year. But I have remembered him ever since for a comment he made on a paper I turned in for his assignment to our class to write about āour most meaningful high school experience.ā
Ever a lover of story, I made one up about the time I was kidnapped by aliens.
Connie Corley was the same teacher who let me turn in as our assigned report on Heart of Darkness a parody called āHeart of Daculaā (a small town near our school), because she said you couldn’t satirize something without deeply understanding it, so my creative flight of fancy wasn’t too far out of left field for her class.
Little Monica Geller that I was in school, I couldn’t wait for this big-time college English professor to read my inventive essay and see how it stood out for its creativity and originality and humor. I was ready for him to identify me as the natural-born storyteller I was sure I was, and cement my place, at least in my own grandiose mind, as the best in the class.
All these decades later I still remember his sole comment in red ink at the top of my paper: āFun story, but what’s the point?ā
The Sting of Tough Feedback
Friends, I wish I could tell you that my creative soul appreciated his insight and that that comment marked a watershed moment not only for my writing, but in the development of my passion for and eventual career in editing.
Lo, it did not. Instead, like pretty much every writer receiving feedback throughout the course of history, my first reaction was mortal offense and the immediate formulation of all the reasons he was wrong, starting with, “Obviously that it’s a fun story is the point.”
Fortunately I did not say this to him nor even to Mrs. Corley, who had brought him in as a guest lecturer, but I can promise you I nurtured that wound for many a year, telling anyone who would be interested (which was as few as you might imagine) that Dr. Tom McHaney obviously didn’t understand the entertainment value of a good story. That as a college professor he clearly had some kind of literary stick up his butt where only work of great seriousness merited praise.
And now, all these years later, having spent my entire career in the field of editing, I so clearly see the favor he did meāor at least triedāin showing me that effective story should do so much more than just amuse and entertain the reader. The best stories, the most substantive and memorable ones, engage a readerās entire being, drawing them into the character’s journey and allowing them to grow from it right along with the protagonist, bringing those insights and lessons to their own lives.
Why the Feedback You Hate Might Be the Feedback You Need
I bring this up not simply to remember and memorialize Dr. McHaney, though I’ll be forever grateful to him for the compliment of seeing and treating me as a serious writer and offering feedback in that vein to help me to improve my craft, rather than just palliating me with the cookie of praise I was so clearly hungry for.
No writer enjoys hearing where their story may be falling short. Say the words āeditorial letterā or āeditorial feedbackā to an author and youāre likely to get some version of the face I make when my trainer corrects my form and makes an exercise more difficult and unpleasant (which is most of them).
But I take in his sadistic instructions because I know heās helping me get the end result I wantāstrength and fitness.
This week Iām at a writersā retreat that Iām coleading with fellow editor and friend Allison K Williams. Allison bills herself as āthe Unkind Editor,ā an appellation Iāve taken issue with numerous times, because I know her approach to be positive, constructive, and supportive of authors.
But I understand what she means by the monikerāand why she uses it. An editorās job isnāt to be your warm, fuzzy buddy. Itās not to tell you how great you and your story are and inflate your ego (one of a number of reasons I counsel using AI with great skepticism and caution for your editing/revising; its fawning sycophancy can obscure or dilute the straightforward assessment a writer needs).
A good editor will do you the favor that Dr. McHaney did me: evaluating your story through the clear-eyed lens of their experience and knowledge and not pulling any punchesāeven while offering positive feedback on the strengths of your story.
Good feedback is direct, clear, and candid; specific and actionable. It frankly assesses whatās working in a story and how effectively itās conveying the authorās vision on the page, provides clear, straightforward reasons for the observations, and offers actionable guidance for how to strengthen any areas of weakness. It does not candycoat, pussyfoot, or coddle.
Read more: āAssessing Writing Feedback: Criticism, Commentary, and Critiqueā
That said, a person giving feedback should also not be an asshole, and they donāt know everything (even editors and coaches, even agents, even bestselling authors).
The editor or agent or beta reader isnāt the ultimate authorityāyou are. The author has to gauge the difference between useful feedback for them and less helpful versions.
All edits hit the way Dr. McHaney’s hit me at first: like a plank to the face. That’s not the time to decide whether they resonate for you and what you’re trying to do with your story.
You have to let feedback percolate a bitāhopefully not the many years it took me to see the wisdom of Dr. McHaney’s observation, but even after just a day or two the initial shock of not hearing your baby is perfect wears off and the feedback starts to percolate in the back of your mind.
Good Feedback Feels Personal (Because It Can Be)
I did an interview yesterday with Andrew Buckley of the StoryCentric podcast (it’ll be out later this month) where he asked about vetting an editor before you hire them and how to know from a sample edit if they’re the right editor for you.
Learn more about hiring an editor: Get It Edited class: āWhen to Call in the Pros and What to Look for When You Doā
My answer was unusually squishy for practical, logical me: You will get a feeling. You’ll know.
The reason Dr. McHaneyās comment rubbed me so hard the wrong way was because I knew he was right. My made-up story was intended to entertain and amuse, yesābut also to deflect. I did it to avoid talking about what was real in my high school experience: the hard, uncomfortable feelings of struggling to find my place, to belong, to feel good about myself. The soft, vulnerable places I was trying so hard to cover upāand in doing so I stripped my work of its heart, its authenticity, my true voice.
Fun, maybeā¦but whatās the point?
When someone shines the spotlight on something so tender and raw and real, we tend to recoil, at least at first.
But if we can bravely let the light in, it will illuminate the shadowy corners weāve been trying so hardāeven if unconsciouslyāto conceal. It can free the full power of our storiesā¦and our individuality, our authentic selves and voice.
Authors, let me hear your authentic voice. What do you feel when you get difficult editorial feedback on your work? How do you process it, and how do you weigh it to determine what resonates for you, your story, and your style, while still taking in even the hard truths that resonate for you and putting them into clear-eyed action to strengthen your story?
Continue reading:
- āWhat Does a Developmental Editor Do? GPS and Map Viewā
- āHow Much Should an Editor Do?ā
- How to Handle Critique of Your Workā
- āHow to Utilize Critique and Incorporate It into Your Storyā
- āHow to Avoid Bad Editingā
- My āGet It Editedā guide, a 13-page guide for how to find, vet, and hire the right editor for you
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20 Comments. Leave new
Thanks so much for the great post! I received a developmental edit for my manuscript earlier this year. One of the things that really helped me process the in-line edits was to write down every comment in a separate notebook (sometimes rewording to make the comment actionable). I then ranked the amount of effort needed to make the fix on a scale from 1 to 5 with 1 being the easiest. I was surprised that while there were hundreds of comments, most were easy fixes. This approach helped me feel more positive about the editorās comments and gave me confidence going forward in implementing the changes.
This is such a useful way to categorize the edits, Hermina–and reduce revising from a fathomlessly high mountain to climb to a series of steps to take to scale it. I know from doing edits how voluminous the feedback can seem (and often be!) initially; I like how your system shows how many of the suggestions are often easily actionable items you can knock out, and make the big stuff feel less daunting. Thanks for sharing this approach–I expect many authors may find it useful.
Do you still have the story you wrote ā the one which received Dr McHaney’s comment? It would be great to read it, knowing what he thought of it. I also wonder if that was all he wrote: “Fun story, but what’s the point?” Did he elaborate or give you constructive help? Or was his brief ā to be brief?
He left no other comment–but that sole one cut to the heart of what was missing, I realize now. Too bad I don’t have it; it would be interesting to reread it from my more experienced editorial perspective. š
Over the years, I’ve gotten much better at accepting feedback. Good feedback is so hard to find and I really appreciate the few writers in my life who are able to give feedback at the level I need, which like your coachās directions, can be uncomfortable. Often it’s almost immediate that I know that a piece of feedback is true because, like you, somewhere in the back of my mind, maybe not even consciously, I was already thinking it.
One thing I do while I’m revising is highlight sentences or sections that don’t feel right. There’s nothing wrong with them inherently but I just know they arenāt the words that will end up in that place when the book is done. They feel wrong, like a bump in the road. Usually I don’t make notes for how to fix them; I just highlight them so they’re all there for me to see the places that need to get smoothed out. The majority of feedback I get is on sections that Iāve highlighted.
As a nurse, I always hated the term ānursing intuitionā because, to me, it suggested that a nurse got a feeling or sense without concrete information or knowledge. But that’s not what nursing intuition is at all. Nursing intuition is the result of years of study and experience that have gone beyond the conscious mind. A very experienced nurse often no longer needs to (or can) verbalize the long list of things that has made her KNOW that something is wrong. She just knows. It’s happening on such a fast level that it’s no longer conscious.
I think the same thing happens with writing. At some point, you’ve written and read so much that you just know something is not working without necessarily being able to put into words why specifically it’s not working. You just know it isnāt right and you work with it until it is.
That’s a pretty accurate description of my use of “intuitive” in my books too–that quick and invisible chain of understanding developed from experience and study. It happens so under-the-radar we may not be able to pinpoint why. I like your technique of highlighting what that intuition tells you isn’t quite working as well as it could. I so often find that authors already “had a feeling” about the areas I may point out–in fact I love hearing that from them after an edit. It reinforces how good their instincts are and as they see that, it starts to build confidence and their self-editing skills. Thanks for sharing this.
“What’s the point”?! Pleasure? Even delight? Okay, perhaps just a respite? Or possibly a talent to make money with? As a retired English professor, I’d mark *McHaney’s* comment “We need to talk.”
Heh…I admit it rubbed me wrong at the time for similar reasons, but in hindsight I think he was dead right; there was no heart to it, no “there” there, to quote Gertrude Stein. He was trying to make me a better, more substantive writer. It wasn’t mean–I did feel he was being kind about it (“Fun story”), rather than just knocking it. The sugar with the medicine. š
i was an undergrad and grad student at the university where dr. mchaney presided as department head, and i am not surprised by your story. i only wish this ‘brilliant’ man had been smart enough to tailor his feedback to his high school audience.
in ‘the power of vulnerability,’ brene brown reports that 90% of her interviewees remember an early shaming of their creativity, and how long it takes to recover, if ever. i’m glad you did, tiffany.
I’m a little envious that you studied with him! I suspect I’d have learned a lot from him and enjoyed it (eventually). As I said in an earlier comment, I didn’t take his comment as mean or shaming even then–he complimented the story’s entertainment value, but I see now he was encouraging me to dig deeper–and in doing so, expressing his belief that I had that in me. I take that as very good editorial feedback, actually, now that I have a bit more perspective. But I completely agree with you about the corrosive and stifling effect of shame, and I thank you for your kind worry about Baby Me. š
Connie Corley hereā the English teacher mentioned in Tiffanyās post. Two points to clarifyāTiffany was a very good writer even in high school. Her gift for humor and attention to detail made me look forward to seeing her work. Her āHeart of Daculaā parody still resonates even all these years later! Second point, in my memory Tom McHaney read some of the student work to get to know them better, not to grade or edit their work. His comment was a quick bit of feedback and not a graded assignment. Iām so impressed that Tiffany remembers this episode and learned something important from it. Tom would be so pleased to know that even a brief comment made a difference!
I’m going to go ahead and confess that even decades later, I am glowing at receiving your praise. š
And absolutely about Dr. McHaney’s feedback; I understood that he was doing us the kindness of simply looking at our work with the benefit of his experience and expertise, not grading it. Which is why I was so hungry for his informed praise too. š It was an excellent lesson for me (in hindsight).
Thank you for this validating post today, Tiffany. I think the most profound statement is āa person giving feedback should also not be an asshole.ā Which statement leads me to conclude that I am far too immature, even 75 years later, to process feedback of any type the way you are able to do. Itās like the fellow watching someone trip on the sidewalk and thinking āwhat a clumsy oaf.ā But the next day when that fellow trips on the same sidewalk they think, āwho the hell put this sidewalk in?ā The second part of your statement is also true, āthey donāt know everything.ā But you are right. The feedback takes a while to percolate. And it is far less impactful if it is sugar coated. Another aspect of feedback is that the person giving it may not be your reader. Which leads me to conclude, who cares what they think, theyāre just pretentious assholes? So, I guess Iām pretty hopeless when it comes to this craft. I learn so much from your weekly posts, please keep āem coming.
It’s always hard to receive editorial feedback. No one likes it unless it’s “This is perfect!” Which is almost never the feedback. š But it’s also essential to getting a clear picture of how effectively your story is engaging the reader and getting your vision on the page, so it’s a necessary tool for improving both a story and ourselves as authors. I’ve found that the more experienced an author, the more they’ve learned to take feedback in stride and process and utilize it productively. So hang in there! You’re in good company in that initial recoil. š
Tiffany, I hope youāre having a marvelous time in France.
As a former English professor, I āfeltā this post. Too many of my colleagues destroyed students with pithy remarks, and many, unlike yours, were simply their own indications of huge egos, and little empathy.
For me, fun stories (comedy) donāt have to have a point. Escapism, entertainmentā¦ that in itself might be the point. I need a good dark read/movie. But thereās very few comedies I can recall with a āpoint.ā
Maybe I am missing the point!
Nicola, I am having a MARVELOUS time in France, thank you. š
I didn’t at all take Dr. McHaney’s comments as him operating from ego or trying to whack-a-mole my creative efforts. What affront I felt at the time was because I was so certain my story was exceptional, perfect as it was–but his observation was excellent feedback to point out where my work could go deeper, be more authentic and powerful. Which is a favor to any writer who aspires to create effective story.
I think of the comedies I love most–I Love You, Man, The Wedding Crashers, etc. They’re full of vulnerability and authenticity, and there’s more to them than slapsticky fun. They have a deeper meaning for the characters and effect some transformation in them–the value of friendship and community, being open and real, etc. The comedies I don’t usually enjoy are the ones that are just amusing anecdotes. I want humor with heart–and perhaps that’s a stylistic thing that makes me see Dr. McHaney’s feedback as a favor to help me create the kind of story I like to read myself: that are entertaining but nonetheless makes an impact on people.
Thanks for your insight–and compassion! š
Great post! I guess given the power such feedback can have, one of the problems is knowing who to let in?
It can be, absolutely. Not everyone is your target reader, and not all feedback is created equal. (This post speaks to the latter point.) Thanks, Syl!
Although you’ve said receiving editorial feedback is similar to getting a root canal, I haven’t experienced one of those (yet). I’ve had two crowns, however, and I compare the editorial letter and comments in the margins of my manuscript to getting a crown on a tooth. Reading the letter is like the dentist drilling the tooth apart, chips of enamel whizzing into my cheeks, my recoiling as I did to the smell (like burning hair) as I sat vulnerably in the tilted back chair. I had to separate reading the letter and opening the manuscript by two weeks because I felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the suggestions. Over a period of four months, I poured over the recommendations in the margins of the manuscript, seeing the wisdom of the majority of them, implementing them to the best of my ability.
I believe that, like getting the permanent crown placed three weeks after the temporary one, my manuscript is more sound, more appealing, just like my smile after the dental work was completed. Was it unpleasant and even painful? You bet. Was it worth it? Absolutely!
WOW, Lee, these descriptions of receiving and editorial letter are…visceral… š
I’m continually amazed and admiring of how authors tackle what’s often intensive, detailed feedback on their stories–not just how they process the sting of it (which is admirable in itself–because unless an editor says “Your baby is perfect!” then it stings), but then putting it into action. To me that’s the mark of a pro, and what sets a career author apart from a hobbyist. Nothing wrong with either approach, but experienced authors tend to understand that edits and revisions are the major work of writing, and they hone their skills in those areas and persist through those challenging parts. As you pointed out, it’s rarely easy, but it’s how you build an enduring body of work, and an enduring career. (And I continue to hope that authors also come to appreciate the editing/revision process as much as I do–it’s where the story finds its full expression and comes to life…where the magic happens!)
Thanks for sharing this.