WIP THREAD

WIP Thread: Here we go again. Writers telling other writers how to write.

I avoid that thread.

Too many cooks spoil the stew.
I prefer the finished product.
How about you?

I asked for honest feedback on one of the Amazon discussion forums but no one would take me up on it. Al likes honest feedback. So do I. My knee jerk reaction is always to defend my writing. but if the feedback would lead to an improvement, my mind won't let it go. Once someone points out the flaws, they gnaw away at me and I have to make the corrections. The good side of this: if the feedback is nit-picking and would lead to no significant improvement, my mind doesn't even take it on board.

It's okay to challenge the feedback we get, particularly if it's vague and unspecific. Get the critic to defend and amplify his/her feedback. That's how we learn. Sometimes it causes us to rethink the approach to a complete manuscript. That's happened to me more than once.

I never find WIP threads specially useful. Al's right. They tend to be vague. I have beta readers I trust for this stuff.

Quote :

It's okay to challenge the feedback we get, particularly if it's vague and unspecific. Get the critic to defend and amplify his/her feedback.

I don't have to be able to defend what I like or don't like to know I like or don't like it. You aren't going to argue or explain it away. I disagree that most writers will learn, anyhow. Most just disagree, get their back up, or throw a tantrum.

I like a good writer to edit for me. Newspaper writers are great advisers as they are used to getting and holding attention with their writing.

How many WIP manuscripts that we have worked on and fought over have been published?

I think of one author who was just discouraged.

I wouldn't post on the WIP if I didn't want feedback. And feedback isn't helpful when it isn't honest. As the writer, it is up to me to decide if the suggestions fit my intent and are ideas I should consider.

I am one of the few members here who does use the WIP when I'm approaching something new, or have a problem that I could use help solving. I have received much good and helpful advice, have answered questions and asked for clarification, and, I hope, shown my gratitude.

Several weeks ago, I ran into a specific problem and posted the passage. Since few people actually check the WIP thread, I used the Chatterbox to ask my question, and did get a response at that time. I have since been working out some options, and the section in question is coming along. I think that the WIP is a valuable tool, and appreciate the fact that Shelagh has included it, and makes it private.

Recently, that older entry was pulled back up. While the comments were not related to the question I had asked, they were a valid observation, and I appreciated the initial comments. I must admit to being a bit egotistically miffed when Domenic posted a link to an extremely basic definition of what is a pretty standard writing practice, so I guess that one comment did get my back up, but I thought I responded to it politely. Apparently, Domenic didn't think so. That's his prerogative.

Thanks, Alice, for coming to my defense. I appreciate it.

Not everybody wants to make comments there, or give advice, or even read a work in unfinished bits and pieces, and that's perfectly fine.

It's still a good place to get feedback when you have a question, or even need a bit of approval that you have a project worth spending time on.

Ann

I consider that it is a very nice person who takes the time to read my unpolished words and offer their opinion. Like Ann said, it is a good place to get a little approval of what you have so far and some advice on presentation.

It does not make me angry if someone tells me it stinks. I do not take every opinion as etched in the literary stone.

There is no need for rudeness or room for anger on the WIP board. Not any of us can say we know it all and there is not a one of us that could not use eyes to read what we put on paper and tell us how it sets in their mind. Readers are the name of this game.

Love,
Betty

Love,
Betty

LC wrote:

Quote :

It's okay to challenge the feedback we get, particularly if it's vague and unspecific. Get the critic to defend and amplify his/her feedback.

I don't have to be able to defend what I like or don't like to know I like or don't like it. You aren't going to argue or explain it away. I disagree that most writers will learn, anyhow. Most just disagree, get their back up, or throw a tantrum.

That's exactly right. But we're not like most writers. Are we?

If I get a criticism that I don't understand, I want it explained so that I do understand it. I might not agree with it, but how do I know that if I don't understand it? If you are unable or unwilling to explain your criticism, don't bother offering it. "I don't like it" isn't helpful.

I saw a friendship dissolve over writing advice. The advice was sought and given.
The seeker did not like or take the advice. The advice giver was mystified.

Very sad!

alice wrote:

I saw a friendship dissolve over writing advice.

Then they weren't really friends. One of my friends read one of my essays years ago.

I said, "What do you think?"
He said, "It makes loud vacuum cleaner noises."
I said, "Can I use that?"

Friends don't let friends publish prose that sucks.

Sometimes we write our best with vertically elevated hackles.

Al Stevens wrote:

alice wrote:

I saw a friendship dissolve over writing advice.

Then they weren't really friends. One of my friends read one of my essays years ago.

I said, "What do you think?"
He said, "It makes loud vacuum cleaner noises."
I said, "Can I use that?"

Friends don't let friends publish prose that sucks.

Are you still friends?

Al Stevens wrote:

Sometimes we write our best with vertically elevated hackles.

How true -- and the hackles are raised because we are annoyed with ourselves. When anyone lies (out of jealousy) about our work, we can brush it off -- but the truth hurts and won't go away.

But, what is the truth?
One person might be mesmerized by what bores another.
A friend pleaded with me to change a story in my book.

"I can't change it," I said, 'This is a true story and that is how it happened."
Write your own book and you can do it as you wish."

She hasn't bothered.

I grew up on westerns - novels and films. I suppose that's why I'm having so much fun writing one.

I remember an old roll-top desk in my grandparents' farmhouse. It was filled with old, worn and yellowed paperbacks by writers like Max Brand and Luke Short. I read them avidly. they helped me form my concept of "good guy."

My favorite, though, was one I found on my father's bookshelves. It was a hardback, but as worn and used as the paperbacks in Granpa Windham's desk. It was written by Owen Wister in 1902, and was called, The Virginian. that book had so much truth in it. I especially liked this bit. It's public domain now, so the length of the excerpt isn't a problem. If you make it through to the end. You might see a connection between the matter of it and this thread.

Quote :

"I suppose you have me beat," said Steve, grinning at him affectionately. "You're such a son-of-a-- when you get down to work. Well, so long! I got to fix my horse's hoofs."

I had expected that the man would be struck down. He had used to the Virginian a term of heaviest insult, I thought. I had marvelled to hear it come so unheralded from Steve's friendly lips. And now I marvelled still more. Evidently he had meant no harm by it, and evidently no offence had been taken. Used thus, this language was plainly complimentary. I had stepped into a world new to me indeed, and novelties were occurring with scarce any time to get breath between them.

***********************************************************
. "Any cyards going to-night?" inquired the Virginian. "Stud and draw," Steve told him. "Strangers playing." "I think I'd like to get into a game for a while," said the Southerner. "Strangers, yu' say?" And then, before quitting the store, he made his toilet for this little hand at poker. It was a simple preparation. He took his pistol from its holster, examined it, then shoved it between his overalls and his shirt in front, and pulled his waistcoat over it.
He might have been combing his hair for all the attention any one paid to this, except myself. Then the two friends went out, and I bethought me of that epithet which Steve again had used to the Virginian as he clapped him on the shoulder. Clearly this wild country spoke a language other than mine--the word here was a term of endearment. Such was my conclusion.

***********************************************************
Through folding doors I passed from the bar proper with its bottles and elk head back to the hall with its various tables. I saw a man sliding cards from a case, and across the table from him another man laying counters down. Near by was a second dealer pulling cards from the bottom of a pack, and opposite him a solemn old rustic piling and changing coins upon the cards which lay already exposed. But now I heard a voice that drew my eyes to the far corner of the room. "Why didn't you stay in Arizona?" Harmless looking words as I
write them down here. Yet at the sound of them I noticed the eyes of the others directed to that corner. What answer was given to them I did not hear, nor did I see who spoke. Then came another remark. "Well, Arizona's no place for amatures." This time the two card dealers that I stood near began to give a part of their attention to the group that sat in the corner. There was in me a desire to leave this room. So far my hours at Medicine Bow had seemed to glide beneath a sunshine of merriment, of easy-going jocularity. This was suddenly gone, like the wind changing to north in the middle of a warm day. But I stayed, being ashamed to go. Five or six players sat over in the corner at a round table where counters were piled. Their eyes were close upon their cards, and one seemed to be dealing a card at a time to each, with pauses and betting between. Steve was there and the Virginian; the others were new faces. "No place for amatures," repeated the voice; and now I saw that it was the dealer's. There was in his countenance the same ugliness that his words conveyed. "Who's that talkin'?" said one of the men near me, in a low voice. "Trampas." "What's he?" "Cow-puncher, bronco-buster, tin-horn, most anything." "Who's he talkin' at?" "Think it's the black-headed guy he's talking at." "That ain't supposed to be safe, is it?" "Guess we're all goin' to find out in a few minutes." "Been trouble between 'em?" "They've not met before. Trampas don't enjoy losin' to a stranger." "Fello's from Arizona, yu' say?" "No. Virginia. He's recently back from havin' a look at Arizona. Went down there last year for a change. Works for the Sunk Creek outfit."
And then the dealer lowered his voice still further and said something in the other man's ear, causing him to grin. After which both of them looked at me. There had been silence over in the corner; but now the man Trampas spoke again.
"AND ten," said he, sliding out some chips from before him. Very strange it was to hear him, how he contrived to make those words a personal taunt. The Virginian was looking at his cards. He might have been deaf.
"AND twenty," said the next player, easily. The next threw his cards down. It was now the Virginian's turn to bet, or leave the game, and he did not speak at once. Therefore Trampas spoke. "Your bet, you son-of-a--."

The Virginian's pistol came out, and his hand lay on the table, holding it unaimed. And with a voice as gentle as ever, the voice that sounded almost like a caress, but drawling a very little more than usual, so that there was almost a space between each word, he issued his orders to the man Trampas: "When you call me that, SMILE." And he looked at Trampas across the table. Yes, the voice was gentle. But in my ears it seemed as if somewhere the bell of death was ringing; and silence, like a stroke, fell on the large room. All men present, as if by some magnetic current, had become aware of this crisis. In my ignorance, and the total stoppage of my thoughts, I stood stock-still, and noticed various people crouching, or shifting their positions. "Sit quiet," said the dealer, scornfully to the man near me. "Can't you see he don't want to push trouble? He has handed Trampas the choice to back down or draw his steel." Then, with equal suddenness and ease, the room came out of its strangeness. Voices and cards, the click of chips, the puff of tobacco, glasses lifted to drink,--this level of smooth relaxation hinted no more plainly of what lay beneath than does the surface tell the depth of the sea. For Trampas had made his choice. And that choice was not to "draw his steel." If it was knowledge that he sought, he had found it, and no mistake! We heard no further reference to what he had been pleased to style "amatures." In no company would the black-headed man who had visited Arizona be rated a novice at the cool art of self-preservation. One doubt remained: what kind of a man was Trampas? A public back-down is an unfinished thing,--for some natures at least. I looked at his face, and thought it sullen, but tricky rather than courageous. Something had been added to my knowledge also. Once again I had heard applied to the Virginian that epithet which Steve so freely used. The same words, identical to the letter. But this time they had produced a pistol.

"When you call me that, SMILE!" So I perceived a new example of the old truth, that the letter means nothing until the spirit gives it life.

Ann

alice wrote:

But, what is the truth?
One person might be mesmerized by what bores another.
A friend pleaded with me to change a story in my book.

"I can't change it," I said, 'This is a true story and that is how it happened."
Write your own book and you can do it as you wish."

She hasn't bothered.

The truth is when you are told that something sucks and you know it sucks. It's the "does my bum look big in this?" syndrome. If a woman is daft enough to ask the question, she knows the answer, but she doesn't want to be told.

During the shoot of a film starring Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn, Grant was spellbound as he looked at Hepburn's face. She asked him if there was something wrong with her face; was there a spot on her nose? He replied that there was nothing at all wrong with her face; it was lovely. If writers could assume the worst and receive compliments graciously instead of expecting praise and reacting badly to advice given with the best of intentions, then they would gain far more than they would lose by not heeding the advice.

I guess the writer has the final responsiblity. If they want advice and whether to ask for it or take it when offered.

I am very receptive to errors being pointed out. I do not like error ridden books. I bought and gave away 100 books. A friend pointed out two errors. I found three more.
They are fixed and I am glad. They are not an opinion, but a fact.