Last week Lady Glamis at The Literary Lab raised an interesting question about critique and how many times we writers are conditioned to look only for the negative.

In response to this thread, I started pondering how we critique not just other writers’ work but our own.  Just as I am a believer in focusing first on big picture issues when I read pieces from other writers, I find that approach also works best when revising my own work.

As a former student of psychology, I’m reminded of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, where humans will fill their most basic needs first (food, water, shelter) before trying to fill needs that fall higher in the pyramid (love, companionship, success).  My own revision system falls into a similar pyramid shape:

Character: Whose story is it?  This is the most basic part of the book.  If you don’t have a compelling character, then the rest of the pyramid will fall apart.  (Notice I say “compelling” character and not “sympathetic” or “likable,” but that is a topic for another post.)

Plot/Story: What story are you going to tell?  Now that you have a character in place, the character needs to want something and that want will drive the story.  Things need to happen to get in the way of that want.  There needs to be conflict.

Structure, POV and Voice: How are you going to tell this story?  These are the main choices you make when you decide how to tell the story.  The voice of the narrator ties in directly with point of view and the structure you choose for the story.

Description and Dialogue: Decisions made at this level are less about “big picture” and are smaller in scale.  At the same time, though, they are not as nitty-gritty as the revisions at the top of the pyramid.  Description and dialogue also tie in closely with character development and elements of story so this is why they are in the middle of the pyramid, serving as a bridge between the macro decisions at the bottom and micro decisions at the top.  Description and dialogue also clue in the reader to Where and When the story is taking place.

Theme: This is all about the Why.  Why are you telling this story?  Why do we want to read it?  Usually these answers only come together once you’ve written a draft, maybe two, which is why theme falls at the top of the pyramid.  Very rarely do stories start with a theme and grow from there.

Language:  At the very top we have the micro decisions.  Word choice.  Grammar.  Spelling.  Small stuff.  Just because the writing might not be super-smooth on the language level doesn’t mean it can’t shine at the character or plot levels.  What I try to stress to writers is that the bottom of the pyramid is the hard part.  If you nail that, you’ll have done the hard work.  Language is just a matter of using spell check and keeping a copy of Strunk & White’s Elements of Style on your desk.  And getting a trusted friend to proofread when you’re through.

Basically, revision all comes down to this:

Don’t sweat the small stuff until you’ve dealt with the big stuff.

Today Lady Glamis at Literary Lab posted a follow-up to her poetry discussion and it got me thinking about what it is that I love about poetry and why some of it resonates with me and some of it doesn’t.  In other words, why did I go from having such a visceral hatred of poetry to suddenly rediscovering its beauty.  Let me sum it up.

It’s not that I dislike poetry, I just dislike bad poetry.

Let me backtrack a little bit.  For starters, I should be the last person to complain about bad poetry because I was a purveyor of bad poetry myself, once upon a time.  When I was a teenager I was obsessed with poetry–in particular sonnets.  I scribbled hundreds of terrible sonnets in the margins of my textbooks, all of the poems about how unjust the world was and how misunderstood I was.  Of course, at the time, I thought they were seriously deep, but now I’m glad those textbooks have long since been recycled.  To tell the truth, writing poetry was my way of passing the time during boring classes and looking back, while the fruit of all this writing was pretty awful, at least it kept my brain working.

My resistance to poetry began when I started taking writing classes.  The tricky thing about poetry is that there are so few words and language is boiled down to its barest essentials so when it’s good, it can be very very good, but when it’s bad it’s horrid.  This makes poetry especially challenging to discuss in a workshop setting.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m a firm believer in the workshop process; I think everyone should be free to submit rough, messy drafts in a workshop and learn to make them better.

The trouble with poetry began in one of the classes I took some years ago, where I sensed a certain defensiveness around the poetry submissions that I didn’t get when reading fiction pieces.  It was as though everyone in the class would back away in deference.  After all, this wasn’t fiction, it was poetry and poetry was personal so who were we to critique it?  And when I raised my hand and said “Um… I’m sorry, but I just don’t get what the poem’s trying to say” the class struck me down so fast I thought I hallucinated the whole thing.

Thing is, as a result of repeated exposure to less-than-wonderful poetry, for several years I assumed that the only reason I didn’t “get” these poems was because I was too dumb.  Then, I discovered Kim Addonizio’s Ordinary Genius (which I reviewed earlier this month) and this book is in large part responsible for my change of heart regarding poetry.  Suddenly, I realized that I wasn’t too dumb and I could make sense of poetry if I really tried.  Better yet, I enjoy it even if I didn’t understand it completely and simply relish in the language.  The best part was, I could even try my hand at it and write some poems of my own.

And here, of course, was where the real journey began.

David Mamet, executive producer of CBS’s drama The Unit, wrote a memo to the writers on the show. While his memo focuses on writing for television, much of the advice is applicable to writers in all fields. This memo can be found at this link and was also quoted on the Longstockings blog.

Mamet’s main message is that to create drama, you have to show rather than tell. He writes: “The job of the dramatist is to make the audience wonder what happens next: not to explain to them what just happened or to *suggest* to them what happens next.” In other words, the writer’s job is to write the stinkin’ scene, not tell us what happens in the scene or what’s going to happen.

He continues: “Any time two characters are talking about a third, the scene is a crock of sh*t. Any time any character is saying to another ‘as you know’ that is, telling another character what you, the writer, need the audience to know, the scene is a crock of sh*t.”

This advice is especially apt for fantasy or sci-fi writing. In these genres (the former of which I am currently attempting as my master’s thesis), a world exists that the writer knows inside and out, but the reader is discovering it for the first time. The temptation is almost irresistible to have characters over-explain the rules of their world in dialogue or narration, but doing so would kill the drama of the story.

It all comes down to this: trust that your readers are smart and have faith that they will trust you, the writer, to show them what they need to know in due time. And remember that writing does not reside in dialogue alone; stage directions and description can do as much showing as do the words spoken by the characters.

As Mamet says: “If you pretend the characters can’t speak, and write a silent movie, you will be writing great drama.”