Let the Messenger Live
I was attending a writers' conference, minding my own business, when a metaphysical lesson hit me over the head.
One of the workshops offered writers the opportunity for an anonymous critique. Those of us who wanted to participate had submitted the first two pages from a manuscript in progress. During the session, a moderator would read them aloud, and then a guest editor would offer suggestions. None of us—moderator, editor or audience—would know the identity of the authors. The anonymity was supposed to lesson the sting of criticism. It didn’t.
I had submitted pages from a story that had been rejected half a dozen times, and revised just as often. I couldn’t figure out why nobody liked it.
The moderator picked up the first manuscript and it turned out to be mine. By the time she’d read half a page, I’d lost interest in it. If a story can’t even hold the author’s attention, it’s in serious trouble. My piece was so unformed that it wasn’t ready for a critique, much less for publication. But I was not to be spared.
The editor looked up from his notes.” That was about as interesting as a furniture catalog.”
I froze.
He shook his head and stabbed the paper with his pencil, punctuating my offenses. “What the hell is it about? Jesus, it sounds like the writer has gastrointestinal problems.”
At that point I did.
The sarcasm made me sick. My face burned with embarrassment. I feigned nonchalance, so nobody could identify me. But I was certain that everyone present knew exactly who had written that drivel.
The remaining writers received similar treatment. One was advised to throw the manuscript in the trash, immediately. The editor seemed insulted by the mistakes that he pointed out, and the room was deadly silent.
My tension grew into a five-alarm migraine. After half an hour, I left the session.
Alone in my hotel room, I gulped some aspirin and sunk into humiliation. I did not have a dainty little cry. I heaved great sobs of shame. I howled my failure into a pillow, and then collapsed onto the bed, with a box of Kleenex to console me.
When the crying released its grip, I meditated. The mental conversation was persistent. I told the editor off, defended my story’s potential, and decided to quit writing.
But as thoughts do, when they are seen from the bridge of meditation, these disappeared downstream before I believed them. And in their gentle wake, a realization materialized. I know what’s wrong with that story, and I know how to fix it.
The workshop had provided exactly what I’d wanted, although at the time it felt like a personal attack. And that’s the way life goes. If I can let the messenger live, sometimes I hear the message.
I won’t subject myself to this style of criticism again—at least not on purpose. But when I caught my breath after the punch to the gut, I felt more confident than ever. Confidence not born of having a thick skin, but in the willingness to bear a broken heart.
One of the workshops offered writers the opportunity for an anonymous critique. Those of us who wanted to participate had submitted the first two pages from a manuscript in progress. During the session, a moderator would read them aloud, and then a guest editor would offer suggestions. None of us—moderator, editor or audience—would know the identity of the authors. The anonymity was supposed to lesson the sting of criticism. It didn’t.
I had submitted pages from a story that had been rejected half a dozen times, and revised just as often. I couldn’t figure out why nobody liked it.
The moderator picked up the first manuscript and it turned out to be mine. By the time she’d read half a page, I’d lost interest in it. If a story can’t even hold the author’s attention, it’s in serious trouble. My piece was so unformed that it wasn’t ready for a critique, much less for publication. But I was not to be spared.
The editor looked up from his notes.” That was about as interesting as a furniture catalog.”
I froze.
He shook his head and stabbed the paper with his pencil, punctuating my offenses. “What the hell is it about? Jesus, it sounds like the writer has gastrointestinal problems.”
At that point I did.
The sarcasm made me sick. My face burned with embarrassment. I feigned nonchalance, so nobody could identify me. But I was certain that everyone present knew exactly who had written that drivel.
The remaining writers received similar treatment. One was advised to throw the manuscript in the trash, immediately. The editor seemed insulted by the mistakes that he pointed out, and the room was deadly silent.
My tension grew into a five-alarm migraine. After half an hour, I left the session.
Alone in my hotel room, I gulped some aspirin and sunk into humiliation. I did not have a dainty little cry. I heaved great sobs of shame. I howled my failure into a pillow, and then collapsed onto the bed, with a box of Kleenex to console me.
When the crying released its grip, I meditated. The mental conversation was persistent. I told the editor off, defended my story’s potential, and decided to quit writing.
But as thoughts do, when they are seen from the bridge of meditation, these disappeared downstream before I believed them. And in their gentle wake, a realization materialized. I know what’s wrong with that story, and I know how to fix it.
The workshop had provided exactly what I’d wanted, although at the time it felt like a personal attack. And that’s the way life goes. If I can let the messenger live, sometimes I hear the message.
I won’t subject myself to this style of criticism again—at least not on purpose. But when I caught my breath after the punch to the gut, I felt more confident than ever. Confidence not born of having a thick skin, but in the willingness to bear a broken heart.
Posted by Dawn Downey at 4/25/2009 1:41 PM 
Categories: writers' conference
Tags: writing critique meditation writers' conference
Categories: writers' conference
Tags: writing critique meditation writers' conference
An inspirational story to persevere no matter how bleak things may look or feel. Thanks!
I'm discovering that things don't always look the way I think they look. Something might look bleak from one angle, and look completely different from another. Once, I heard a wise man say, "I don't know nothing."
Wow! That was a terrific essay about surviving the information that comes to us. I have said it before - I'm likely to say it again, being a person who enjoys repeating my own good ideas - you should have a column! Loved it! Chalise
And so much of the time, it feels like there's far too much information coming at me. Thanks for your comment and the compliment.
Awesome!!! I hope I remember this the next time my messenger zaps me!
I know what you mean. I usually don't realize that a messenger has visited me unti at least three days later when I pick my poor zapped self up off the floor.
Dawn, your stories are refreshingly frank and endearingly fun.
Thank you for reading. I hope to keep the frank-ness and the fun-ness intact.
Wow Dawn this was powerful. As I read it I wanted to go punch that guy out ...but when I got to the end that feeling softened...I had a good sized contraction when you described his criticism I wondered how anyone would think this is a good way to encourage writers. My own experience with writing is very limited but I know that number one I must leave the judges behind and let the words fall where they may. Our lessons don't always come in a soft terry bathrobe that helps us feel warm and fuzzy do they? I'm so glad you learned the lesson and didn't stay in hiding. You go girl! : )
Kate M Oh and thanks for putting a spell check on, this really helps my judges K again
Like you, I was surprised that this was considered a way to encourage writers. But then, some people have a sarcastic sense of humor and would not be put off by this type of critique. I did hear someone, who was there, say that writers need to have thick skins. The experience did show me that criticism is not personal. Even though it felt personal - way personal- it could not have been, since the editor did not know the identity of the person being criticized.
Thanks, Dawn. I love the metaphor of not killing the messenger in order to hear the message. I just came from a yoga class where students were complaining loudly about the temperature in the room, the teachers' methods, the class schedule...and as I sat with my eyes closed listening, the loudest voice was my own, complaining about having to listen to their complaints. The loud-mouth messengers allowed me to look in the mirror for a moment, feel discouraged at what I saw, notice the discouragement, and finally smile about the whole scene. I'm less likely to want to kill when I know it's all me. And that none of it is me.
I admire your ability to close your eyes and turn inward, right in the middle of the situation.
"...that none of it is me." That's the most difficult message for me to hear. And how did you know that I needed to hear it right now? I just got a criticism via email. It was a little thing, really. But boy did it sting. It felt like it WAS me being criticized, and I sure wanted to kill the messenger. You just reminded me–even the desire to murder is not me. Thank you, Janice.
Good essay! I always feel I am out of my body at writers conferences. I do like to attend and get inspired but your experience reminded me of Julia Cameron's take on people who criticize in that manner. She calls them "blocked artists" who feel inadequate and have to put others down to feel better. I firmly believe in constructive criticism that is helpful and informative. Even when it consists of rewriting and rewriting until you scream.
D.
Thanks for reading. I like writers' conferences too. I've noticed recently that there are so many that sound intriguing that I could easily spend my time going to conferences instead of writing. Like you, I believe in constructive criticism. The irony is that I don't know if it's constructive, informative or hurtful until after I hear it. So there's no way to protect myself beforehand from criticism that hurts. I have to learn how to respond (internally) when that happens. Meditate? Go to the bar? Or both.
Maybe meditating in a bar.
Perfect.
The true meaning of Success is, how many people are better off because you lived? You Dawn Downey have collected many lucky souls.
Well, that's one heck of a generous compliment! Thank you.
Dear Dawn,
We love you. Let us know where we can read more of your writing.
Terra