The entire point of peer reviews is to tear down what does not work. The point of tearing down what does not work is to rebuild your project so that it does work. I do not see a way to soften what amounts to a sledgehammer blow, especially since we're writing.

Afterall, what is more a product of individual personality and intellect? Getting your self-image slapped around publically is going to sting. But it's necessary. Because the other side of writing is this: it is inherently narcissistic. The entire point of the tearing down is to get the writer to understand the reader doesn't care how smart or witty the writer thinks he is--he just ain't communicating yet, except to himself.

All this is by way of voting for the harsh and unrelenting review. You are exactly right in saying we are not going to get kid gloves and warm tea from agents and editors. So why indulge ourselves here--if we are seriously seeking a place in a wildly competitive industry populated out of all proportion with hacks and the haplessly untalented? And that's what it is, folks. It ain't a commune of other-lovin' hipster artistes, who are just getting bad breaks from Coporate Dogs.

So, speaking for myself (and trying to convince others to toughen-up), please: tear me a new one. Be as hyper-critical as your intelligence will support.

Maybe that means I'm with Mimi.

Yep! Kindness definitely helps the medicine go down, everywhere and always.

And thanks to you, Danielle, I realized that I'd been punctuating my sentences with sometimes superfluous and eccentrically-positioned commas: that is to say, injecting pauses into the written, formal register that mimic the way I speak. Sometimes I still leave them in; most times I strike them out—but I thank you for calling my attention to it. Now that particular eccentricity of punctuation is a conscious decision, one that I was absolutely blind to before.

As to all the “rough boy and tough girls”—heh!—growling: “Bring it on! Be absolutely brutal in your critique and savage in tone when reviewing my work. Hurt me! Hurt me!”—or words to that effect—you don’t really mean it. And I’ll tell you why: unless you’re an absolute masochist or someone possessed of such low self-esteem that the only way you can feel better about yourself is, neurotically, if someone abuses you publicly you deserve to be treated with respect and professional courtesy. Directly, yes. Honestly, yes. With the maximum of succinctness and candor and a minimum of gratuitous or cloying hand-holding, by all means.  But callously, snidely, brutally or savagely?—pick your adverb—err . . . no.

And I would caution anyone behaving in such a fashion to: “check yo’self, befo’ ya wreck yo’self, fool!”, as a certain wise philosopher and psychologist recently sang in a popular song.

Because here’s the thing: most of you AREN’T editors or agents or other industry professionals taking the time to review and critique others; you’re writers. Like me. And do you really want to get a reputation for being Mr. or Mrs. Snidely Snark, Cruella Ego-stroke  or Censorious Pompositus Jack-ass? I don’t think so. Because the very people you may be ripping into are the very people who next week, month or year may be buying your books and talking about you—or not.

So by all means be honest, direct and unflinching in your analysis and criticism of another’s perceived weaknesses, critical flaws or other errors in writing. But honesty is never an excuse for cruelty—save for those who like being cruel.

Or as Zig Zigglar put it (I’ve posted this elsewhere but what the hey; let’s hear from him again):

— “No one cares how much you know, until they first know how much you care.”    

You bring up a good point, Mimi. I, too, have shied away from reviewing something that would have resulted in page-upon-page of criticism being posted. (At one point I had written more pages of criticism than the posting writer had in their novel's first chapter.) I'm almost certain the writer would have perceived that criticism as an all-out attack, so I’ve shelved the review for now.

Moral cowardice on my part? Shocking dereliction of duty? Perhaps. But life is short; there's only so much time allotted to each of us and I've no desire to troll around online picking fights with outraged writers.

Having said that, however, I’ve also given my share of one- and two-star reviews. (Most of those reviewed pieces are no longer posted.) Those aren’t fun to write, believe me. I’m sure they’re even less fun to receive. I hope I helped the writer in each of those cases but you never know. . . .

BTW: I wasn’t referring specifically to anyone posting in this particular thread; I should have made that clear. Your comments served as a kind of writing-prompt that caused me to think about other postings on this same topic by other writers asking reviewers to “let ’em have it; be brutally honest with your review.”

I always admire the courage and bravado of those writers but chuckle as I read the adjective or adverb they employ to define the levels of unflinching candor and/or verbal brutality they’re willing to endure in order to get a useful review. They seek to reassure the reviewer that they can “take it”, but I wince knowing that some reviewers (not here on BC, for the most part—though remember, new people are joining every day) will take them at their word and simply blast away. In other forums and venues I’ve read my share of all-out attack pieces that seem to have been written merely to stroke the reviewer’s own ego and demonstrate to their respective literary circles how cool, tough and clever they were on the poor schlub posting dreck. (Now, if that clueless, talent-less poster of such badly-written work is utterly oblivious to their own faults and failings that’s another matter entirely. . . .) 

@stephmcgee: I appreciate and concur with what you’re saying there. I always like to say that the only immediately-useful criticism you’ll receive is that which you immediately recognize as being useful. A tautology, yes, but the other kinds of criticism, the “won’t-recognize-the-truth-of-it-for-awhile” takes . . . well . . . awhile before becoming useful and the “nonsense; the critiquer got it plain wrong/merely has a different opinion and approach” stuff can be immediately dismissed.

I only review books that I like. I understand what I like about a story well enough to make my point and I want to encourage good writing.

But badly written stories? I have no idea how to correct another's writing. I'm not talking about anything I can look up. Spelling & grammar are not mysteries. And when the writing boggles down, well, an editor can unboggle. The badly written stories I'm referring to are those stories that someone has obviously spent a lot of time writing without creating anything of interest to others.

It may be that a writer has to contribute something of their self to their story and if they can't do that, craftsmanship will not save their writing.

@GD: the last paragraph of that last post. Bulls-eye! That should be bronzed and turned out as an inspirational plaque by somebody, somewhere.

In that vein, I offer a pair of contrasting  yet equally revealing and instructive quotes from the “Writers on Writing” genre:

Writing is easy:  All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.                     

                                                                    —Gene Fowler

If I just learned I had only six more minutes left to live I wouldn’t brood; I’d type a little faster.
                                                                    —Isaac Asimov

I read your last post, Mimi, and it's a doozy.

Here's the thing—there are two kinds of writers: the prolific and the sweats-blood-to-get-a-page-written. (Yeah, I know. But I swear that’s a category of writer: “sweats-blood-to-get-a-page-written.”)

Both kinds of writers have scribed great books and occasional steaming piles of horse-flied what-the-hell-were-you-thinking/smoking/fucking; both kinds of writers work at their craft—but the former have a lot more time in their day for naps, hot sweaty sex and the reading of medieval romances (not necessarily in that order).

Sadly, I am a long-suffering member of the latter group.

The point is this: If you’re a writer, you write. Simple as that. It’s an active process, like breathing and walking and doing Tai chi at rosy-fingered dawn; not a static title draped around your neck like a gold medal dangling from a red satin ribbon: “Author.”

No one can tell you how it’s done; they can only tell you how they get it done.

Or as many others have said, in a myriad different ways: Here’s the secret—there is no secret.

You must find your own way, take from others what you can use and ignore the rest.

Here’s my advice to you: stop talking to non-writers about how difficult the writing process is. As you’ve discovered, they don’t care. Why should they? They’re not writers. In fact most of them—if statistics are correct—read at between a seventh and eighth-grade level and barely get through a book a year.

So listening to you whine and moan and cavil about how tortuous and challenging and endlessly frustrating the writing process is sets their teeth on edge, the way you might feel if your local waitress bitched to you incessantly about how badly her feet ache as she hustles food to the table and deals with impossible customers while the drunk cook in the kitchen misreads her clearly-legible handwriting and the dick-head restaurant manager keeps shrinking her working hours while the thieving bus boys . . .

But we understand, Mimi. Ah, yes we do. So bring your doubts and insights, terrors and exaltations, gnawing doubts and sublime bursts of inspired confidence and share them with your tribe: Writers.

Because we know. When we’re working we live there in those territories of Ultima Thule and Terra Incognita, The Slough of Despond and winter-white Valhalla. We feel our way, every day—letter-by-letter, word-by-word, sentence piled upon sentence turned into paragraphs become pages into—

Shall I tell you why I write, Mimi? The truth of how and what I do and why I cannot stop? Must not stop?

I write because it feels—there’s no one else here, is there?—like I’m embracing both Cosmos and Void when I concretize the fleeting phantasms of focused cognition into black tick marks on the page. By which I mean to say: when I commit to the work, holding nothing back—engaging the entirety of mind and body and spirit in the attempt to get that one true sentence down, followed by another . . . and another . . . and another . . . I know that I have found my calling; am responding with utter conviction and fever-eyed intensity to the Muse that has—temporarily, at least—seized my consciousness and voice and pointed to scenes I feel I am merely transcribing: "There, do you see?" says the Muse, "There . . . and there . . . and there. I created; you transcribe. Write. Record. Preserve."

I do my best. One does not fuck with the Creator.

Knowing all the while, of course, that I am merely mortal: doomed, limited, flawed. A brief spark of sentience flaring in the darkness, a micro-second flicker of light in a firmament of flickering lights. Stars in a spangled heaven, book-ended—either side of the life cycle—by oblivion.

Priests assure us otherwise but I’m not entirely sure I trust priests. They’re beholden to hierarchies of power beholden to hierarchies of pelf.

Or to put it another way: writing gives back far more than I could ever give. As I call upon everything I have ever seen or heard, touched or tasted, lived or read, the writing becomes a sacred Way: a way of communing with my deepest, truest self and the deepest, truest selves of others.

What matter, then, the struggle? Isn’t this the smallest of prices to pay for the privilege of being in the temple, lighting the candles and perfuming the altar? Or if you prefer an equally true but more grounded mechanistic metaphor: Isn’t this the smallest of prices to pay for the privilege of oiling the wheels and stoking the furnace, lubing the pistons and greasing the chain? You labor to fire up nothing less than the Machineries of Joy.

Clearer still, as direct and sharp and succinct as I can make it: There should be pain and doubt and terror in the writing process, else you are doing naught but regurgitating dogma and cant. Or vomiting up hack-work for philistine dogs. But there should also be joy and laughter and ecstasy in the work: piercing pities and pitiless savageries, manic enthusiasms and dour grumbles, fire-eyed rages and cooling green murmurs.

So that at the end of the day, when you lay your own writing aside and take up the work of others you find a greater appreciation for their work. And you do have a far, far greater appreciation—earned by the blood, sweat and tears of your own efforts—for what they’ve done, haven’t you? These poets, novelists, essayists; philosophers, prophets, alchemists; peasants, bourgeoisies, priest-kings.

They did it for you. And for me.

As we will do for others.

Write! It's your calling.

And if others doubt the value of your efforts or the valor of your struggle, doubt 'em right back. Say, "I no longer believe in you, fuckface!"

And blow 'em away like an F-16 fighter after-burning through idiot clouds of thistledown. . . .

That fourth paragraph there: so true it hurts!

But if we didn't have that initial energy, that burst of wild enthusiasm and manic over-confidence that is so annoying to others, could we create in the first place?

The Greats are guilty of it as well, you know. I recall Stephen King recounting a road trip he took where he kept darting glances at his wife Tabitha, reading one of his just-completed manuscripts in the seat beside him as they drove along. That is, until she looked up and snapped, "Stephen! Don't be so goddamn needy! Keep your eyes on the friggin' road!"

Heh! Love that anecdote. SK isn't afraid to flay himself himself publicly for the edification and amusement of his "Constant Readers." He doesn't truckle; he tells the truth.

Or Philip K. Dick, another of my favorite writers. I can't remember if it was his second or third wife but she became so exasperated at his constant interruptions—he would demand she drop whatever she was doing and give him her undivided attention as he recited his latest brilliantly-conceived and masterfully-written words—that she banished him to a shed out back for the duration of the writing. (Years later he was still sore about it. But who could blame her?!)

As long as we remember to do the hard, cold-eyed work of revision with as critical and objective an eye as we are capable of ocularizing (yep; that's a word) onto our "li'l-darling words" we should be able to muddle through with a minimum of chagrin and embarassment.

Not me, you—you should be able to do that.

I always want to crawl under my desk to sob and pound the floor and scream at the startled dust mites I find down there: "Why? Why did I write that?!" when I discover glaring errors, clunkers and incoherencies in my writing.

I wondered if you'd been drinking . . .  Heh!

;0

Mimi: thou must chill!

It's your writing that's being critiqued, not you.

Of course, it feels like a personal attack; how could it not? This is your baby that's being dissected in a public forum:  every perceived flaw and weakness held up for critical examination, oftentimes accompanied by proscriptive suggestions made by strangers to improve the ruddy-cheeked glow of your squalling, tight-fisted love child.

They say: “Hmmm . . . there’s some snot on the cheek there, and I think its diaper may be full, and I do believe . . . yes, I’m certain of it, one unblinking bloodshot eye is a little off-center, eh?” and you feel like shrieking back, “MONSTER! What’s wrong with you?! Can’t you see how beautiful he (or she) is; how perfect and lovely and divine! Why, it’s nothing short of a miracle that I hold such a wonder in my cradling protective arms, a wonder I tell you! Hissssssss. . . .”

It’s all part of the process. The pain, the initial stung outrage and confusion, the injured ego screaming HELP HELP HELP at the reptilian ID and the ID responding with scarlet flashes of rage and scorn that serve to comfort the gasping, white-faced ego as it reels to its fainting couch. . . .

In the words of a current slogan meant to comfort the hurting: it gets better.

But not immediately.  You need time to reflect on the criticism, mull it over for awhile.

If you lash out publicly like this at your reviewers, however, you greatly diminish your potential pool of readers.

Remember, they invested the time and energy to read and review your work. Significant time and energy they could have spent doing something else. When you’re hurting that feels like the merest trifle but I assure you, from their perspective, it is not.

So . . . deep breaths, eh? Hang in there! It only feels like death.