There aren't many topics as divisive in the writing world as writers groups. Self-publishing, maybe. Submission fees. Maybe the Oxford comma. But really, many writers feel very strongly about writing groups, and I'm one of them. I hate them.
Well, except for the one I lead each week.
Which is to say of course there are good - and great - writers groups out there, but they're thin on the ground. Since most writers are not highly remunerated (at least not for their writing), many groups are "all-peer, no-pay." That means there's no leader getting paid, and no one shells out a dime unless it's their turn to pick up doughnuts and coffee.
In theory, that's great. In practice, not so much. Leaderless workshops can be meandering and without direction, becoming gripe sessions about the vagaries of the profession rather than focused on craft. But directed workshops can be pretty lame, too. Not every writer can teach, not every writer can edit, and certainly not every writer can embody the combination of average joe, zen master, and barroom bouncer necessary to successfully lead a group discussion. I work with adult poets and writers in a variety of contexts, and it's distressing to me how often my clients - many of whom are rather accomplished professionals, currently publishing - tell me the horrid edits they've made to their work were based upon the input of writing group peers. I've had writers cry telling me how everyone in a group piled on to repeat a single picayune criticism. And more often, I've had writers complain that everyone in their writing group loves their work, yet editors seem not to. That should be a red flag to a thinking person, but we writers are long on imagination and have a terrific ability to kid ourselves, present company included.
Writing is a solitary endeavor (sorry, TV-writing brethren; it is, for most of us). The best thing most people - even fellow writers - can offer the nascent scribe is encouragement, and perhaps a bit of camaraderie over a cup of coffee or a wee flacon of wine. So why join a group?
Writers join groups for a handful of reasons: to get feedback from others in their field, to talk craft, to have a social experience in a very solitary occupation, to connect with someone who might - please, dear God - provide an introduction to an agent, and so on. And also, I'm sorry to say, to engage in a writing-adjacent activity that allows one to feel as though he or she is officially A Writer, Writing, without actually having to put in a lot of fingers-to-keyboard time.
.jpeg)
As Epictetus advised us, if you want to be a writer, write. If you haven't averaged four hours a day at the keyboard all week (two, if you have a full-time day job), could be you've got no business showing up for coffee and pastries at the Saturday workshop. Your time is limited - everyone's is – and you ought to spend that afternoon at your desk, doing what writers do. You know. Writing.
But time management is the least of my quibbles with the typical group. If it were just a matter of frittering away the day without getting words on paper, we all can (and do) find plenty of ways to do that: nine-to-five jobs, significant others, children who need their dinner, dogs that need walking, gas tanks that need filling, bills, emails, e-vites, ad infinitum. Right? So the biggest problem with writing groups isn't that they glom up time that would be better spent writing. The real problem is that many - dare I say most - groups are not only not constructive, they are actively destructive. Yeah, I said it. Here's why.
Most fiction writers groups - knowingly or not - follow some variation of the MFA workshop format. Everyone emails around a few pages that the others are supposed to have read before the meeting. Then each writer reads his or her own work aloud as the others nod, or gasp, or whistle admiringly under their breath. Then they go around in a circle and each person shares his or her ideas about the piece – what's great, what needs work, and so on. (Poetry workshops are conducted similarly.)
The writer whose work is being discussed doesn't respond to any of the comments, not even with a lifted eyebrow or a strategic harumph. They just listen. Some writers groups do allow a bit of leeway - for example, the writer may humbly and succinctly advise the group at the end of the discussion that it really was a "bridle shower" and not a misspelled "bridal shower," or that they confused Jim Higgins the parole officer with Tim Wiggins the police officer and thus completely misunderstood the story's denouement. Other groups hold so strictly to the rules that they forbid what is annoyingly referred to as "crosstalk," which is something normal people refer to as "conversation." That is, if Maria says she thinks Bob's use of metaphors is over-done and heavy-handed, Louanne cannot jump in and say that she admires Bob's abstractions and thinks the piece could use even more of them.
A lot of idiosyncrasies of the typical MFA workshop model made sense originally. Having the writer read aloud is a CYA move for those who didn't pre-read the story, and it also tells the listener how particular bits of dialogue and oddly punctuated passages are supposed to be heard. Consider, for example, this tidbit:
John picked up the gun and moved it to the shelf. "This is dangerous," he said, smiling.
.jpeg)
Now, at some point, either before or after this passage, the author is going to have to tell us what's happening here. Many questions could be answered if she inserted the word "angrily" or "kindly" or "sarcastically" or "firmly" after the "he said." Many more, if we knew how John is smiling: Sinisterly? Dismissively? With amusement, or perhaps with disapprobation? When the author reads aloud, the listener gets clues that may not be in the text about what the author intends, and in theory, can then provide suggestions: "I wasn't sure John was actually threatening his landlady until I heard the scary way you read that line," and so on. In theory, this tells the writer that something is missing from the words that are on the page, because after all, the author will not be there to whisper the text into most readers' ears.
In actual practice, what tends to happen is that what is read by the eye and heard by the ear get conflated, so the writer ends up not being told that the line needs clarification. Instead, she gets positive reinforcement for what's wrong with the bit: "I got chills when you read the part where John picks up the gun. Terrifying!" Are the words actually terrifying? Not at all. But the author's intonation told us they should be. We think we read what we actually only heard. We praise the writer for what she meant, not for what she wrote.
Another problem with leaderless workshops is that honest, constructive criticism – and especially back-and-forth discussion – is often perceived as the dread "crosstalk," especially by those with MFAs. Yet another issue is that writers don't always use good judgment about which points to dwell on and which to let go. I have been in writing groups where every single participant (of eight or ten) mentioned the same misspelling or punctuation error. And I've been in groups where every single participant offered insipid comments like, "I love your writing. This is so good."
Compliments like that have absolutely no value. They mean nothing. Okay, they do mean something. They mean "I like you and I don't want to hurt your feelings." But compliments that have actual constructive value are specific. For example, "I like the way you made us think Erin was the thief, until she threw open the door and we saw Carmen standing there with the gold dust," or "I never heard the word enormity used that way, so I looked it up and saw that you are right. Very interesting, thanks!"
Of course the same is true of criticisms - they are of value only when they are specific. In writers groups, criticisms are often couched as questions or as personal failings of the reader: "I wonder why the flautist was at the ballpark at 11:10, but was also at the police station across town at 11:08. I'm probably missing something!"
That's okay – it's great to point out a plot hole or solecism, and helpful for the writer – but the fact is that writers should listen to criticism only from those who clearly like their work. Hang on, there, before you argue that you're tough enough to take it. This is not because writers are fragile hothouse flowers who should cancel people who don't appreciate their stuff. Not at all. It's because years of teaching creative writing have shown me that when someone doesn't like a piece, and the writer is in the room, the critic will struggle to find a reason to give, a suggestion for improvement, that may actually have nothing at all to do with whatever is wrong with the piece (if anything). The reader dislikes the piece at a gut level, but feels pressured to verbalize a reason, something that can be "fixed." Too often, they just pull stuff out of thin air. "It takes too long to get to the murder," or "I wanted the dog to live at the end, instead of drowning," or "something about that rainy cafe scene just seems off," are criticisms that people may come up with when they don't like a story and don't know why. And the writer gets back to work trying to please a critic who is probably not ever going to be pleased by that particular piece. My suggestion is, if you don't like the story, don't offer any feedback. If you do like it for the most part, but see something wrong, hallelujah! By all means let the writer know.
Think of it as the old "prom dress rule" your parents probably taught you. If your best friend asks if she looks good in her prom dress, and she just doesn't, whether you answer truthfully depends on whether it's four hours till prom, or four months. Offer criticism only when it's sincere, justified, and is something that can be fixed. If you just despise stories that include friendly clowns and madcap capers, when Lamont reads his, smile cryptically and keep your mouth shut. If, however, you really like clowns, capers, and Lamont's writing style, but notice the clown sits down to lunch right after dinner on page eight, or that his dialogue bits are so long they qualify as dramatic monologues, by all means, speak up.
The biggest problem with all-peer writing groups is that everyone is equal. I know, I know, we are all equal and everyone's opinion is of of identical value, blah blah blah. Except, no. Not here. A workshop needs a leader, a person who knows more than the others about many or most of the topics that will arise in discussion, and who is able to direct the flow when necessary. If you have ever sat through a ten-minute monologue in which the "critiquer" mumbled, hemmed and hawed, repeated himself, apologized, belabored inconsequential points, and repeated what other participants had already covered in detail, you know what I mean. As a workshop leader, I sometimes have to cut people off – and I'm not afraid to do so – when they talk too long ("I know I'm running way over, but I just want to add…") or make inappropriate comments ("I love the sex scene – is that move something you yourself enjoy?") or expect everyone to wait around while they figure out something to say, rather than succinctly delivering thoughtful, pre-written notes. But the most common and egregious of all errors is that a critiquer will turn the conversation to himself: "I like your story, Glenda! It reminds me of my own story, Murder Under the Christmas Wreath, published in 1991, in which I blah blah blah bladdedty blah…" I will give a critiquer one gentle reminder - "Hey, Lenny, sorry to interrupt, but let's focus on Glenda's work here." And if he slides back into it, he gets ruthlessly cut off. Sorry, again, Len.
One element of the typical MFA-style workshop that can be tough to accept is the idea that writers shouldn't respond to comments about their work during or after the critiques. This means that they can only listen, allowing them – forcing them! – to hear how their work strikes the reader without their mind racing ahead, trying to gather evidence to use on the defensive cross ("I did explain that Miss Pettiwad is a bookkeeper – you just didn't get to that part yet!"). I find this stipulation tough to follow and tough to enforce, but worth the trouble, both in fiction and in poetry workshops. We're writers – we've got a lot to say. Sometimes it's really helpful to be forced to just listen.
Other rules seem simply intended to pander to the ultra-sensitive sensibility that sometimes dominates conversations about art. Trigger warnings are a nice idea, but have been taken to ridiculous extremes. I think it's acceptable – even commendable – for a workshop author to note at the beginning of a written piece, and before reading it aloud, that it contains lengthy passages of graphic violence, or a great deal of foul or offensive language, or some other truly objectionable element. That allows those who do not want to read or hear to bow out.
.jpeg)
But to announce ahead of time that piece briefly references something appalling undermines the elements of the work that should be revealed with reading. There is a very real difference between one sentence reading, "Carolyn slid the knife neatly between Mr. Andrews's ribs, careful to keep blood from staining her pinafore," and a two-page depiction of the full, grisly details of the violent crime. The latter might justify a trigger warning, I think, but not the former. (But the latter would probably also have a gross-out factor far outweighing any literary merit.)
I've been in workshops where writers included trigger warnings for guns, knives, a bottle of pills on the counter, overeating, childbirth, a construction worker wolf-whistling, drunks talking in a bar, dog poop on the sidewalk, raw beef, and…allergies. Yes. Allergies. Like, hay fever. This is where the wise workshop leader steps in and inquires gently, "Are you out of your freaking mind?"
.jpg)
So, back to crosstalk and constructive criticism. If it would thoroughly crush Michaela's spirit to be told that Amani disagrees with her, Michaela may need therapy more than she needs to participate in a writing group. This is not to say that courtesy and respect for others should not be paramount in every group; of course they should. You may find Rick to be a blithering idiot, and his work best used to line the recycling bin, but there's no law that you have to say so. So don't. You can always (yes, I will die on that hill – always) find something good to say about someone's work. But the fact is, you won't normally need to. No one will mind if you just hush up and let the others talk. Most people have lots to say and really like to hear themselves say it.
So what about the good workshops out there? What sets them apart?
The very first thing a workshop leader should do is establish ground rules. I'd suggest the basics: a sincere compliment should precede every criticism (including those couched as questions or personal failures). That might go like this: "Audrey, your story made me laugh out loud, first at the part where Doug fell off the bridge, and then again when his wife asked why he was all wet. There is something I noticed, though. When Audrey and Doug speak, they never use contractions, so the dialogue seems a bit stiff and unnatural." Note that it is not necessary to then cite every instance of stiff dialogue. The writer can consider your note later, in private, and decide whether it has value to him or her.
But hang on. What if you have a really, really great criticism but just cannot think of a single compliment to precede it? Scroll up. If you didn't like the story enough to single out something great about it, don't offer any comment at all. Really. Just zip it. Not kidding.
A second rule might be no seconding and thirding the comments of others rather than to say, "I agree with Dylan about the tone." (Do not then proceed to repeat everything Dylan said.) Be aware that each person in a workshop will not get equal time to speak about every story. That would not make sense, because by the time you get to the eighth or ninth person, almost everything has already been said. Therefore, the workshop leader should choose a different writer to start the comments each go-round.
Third, the workshop leader should let everyone know that commenting on a comment or disagreeing with a comment are perfectly acceptable – if the remarks are made with courtesy and respect. "Sorry, Bob, I don't agree with you about the dog breeds in Jane's story. Lots of people have pit bulls that are friendly," or "Tammy, it's possible that your character should say uninterested, not disinterested." However, rude or hurtful remarks will result in immediate shut down (or mic-muting, if on zoom). The leader should be willing and able to say firmly, "Doris, I'm cutting you off right there, sorry. Let's discuss it later."
One of the best workshops I've attended was a one-off led by a fairly well-known writer who announced at the start, "I'm very direct. If I offend you, sorry – if you just slip out during the break, I'll understand." He was direct, and some people did take umbrage and leave, but for those of us who stayed, wow – great learning experience in how to give and receive constructive criticism. Unfortunately, too many groups are led by writers who are too damned nice to stop the train by interrupting a speaker or turning off a mic. (I've been accused of a lot, but being too nice is apparently not one of my flaws.)
This is why I often advise clients, students, and colleagues against joining all-peer, no-pay groups. If you're considering a directed, pay-to-play group, ask to sit in on a session before you commit. I've just had too many writers receive bad advice, or get piled on by the crowd about something inconsequential, or get pumped up about something that really wasn't great, in these groups. But I'd love to be mistaken. If you belong to a fantastic writing group that has helped you become a better writer, please share details in the comments. And of course horror stories will be devoured with relish!
.jpg)
Anna Scotti's most recent release, It's Not Even Past, went out of print with the recent closure of Down&Out Books. It will be available from a new publisher soon – but if you can't wait, contact the author via her website. She has a few copies available.
Anna's latest story for Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, "Season of Giving", appears in the January/February issue of the magazine.
