. Spinning .

“An interesting post, but the critique/criticism issue gets more murky when you bring in what people “hear” and “act” upon that hearing. How does one learn to take good criticism?” (ersinghaus response to WRITING: Critiquing (I) 3/20/04)

Personally, I find it harder to give good critique than to take it, but there are most certainly many factors that affect both sides.

I’m trying to find an excellent online article that gave guidelines for critiquing, but cannot locate it right now. I would suppose, from what I’ve tried to learn in workshopping, that one of the most important elements involved is objective honesty, again both in giving and wanting to receive. We all of course are vulnerable and subjective over our person as well as what we produce. It is a very difficult first step to even ask outside opinion, so I would think that who we ask is one of the first considerations. We’d look for someone who is open, honest, and while knowledge of the art is not essential, some form of literary savvy in steering the writer towards the necessary elements of story is just as great a help as providing response as to the feelings a piece may give to the reader. I tend to go overboard on the nitpicky things, but I am a born proofreader and cannot help myself.

It is almost impossible to catch all the places for improvement within one’s own work. Workshopping a piece is great because even though you may not agree with someone’s opinion, when you hear the same thing from several people, it’s a safe bet that it bears looking into more deeply. I still am eternally grateful to the magnificent seven who read the first real draft of my novel. They all said the same thing in various ways, and I’ve learned that “it’s long” really meant “it kinda plods along.”

More later.

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Addendum: The article I mentioned is Hardcare Critique Guidelines, by Amy Sterling Casil, and it’s well worth the read. Also, since I can see myself merely rambling above, and despite the importance of the topic and its interest to me, I’m abandoning it here since it is really nothing I can claim any proficiency at much less offer any expert advice upon. Luckily, it is being picked up and continued at The Great Lettuce Head log for more input. Thanks, Steve.

Driving on Route 179, alongside the curves of the snaking Farmington River, I see the earth shedding its scales in great shale slabs that land precariously tipped against the cliffs, the raw unweathered wound brighter, cleaner than its rainwashed host.

Oh boy, I really gotta find that tape recorder to use while I’m driving. Aside from two ugly orangey-pink cars, there was so very much to see and think about in a simple fifteen minute drive to the grocery store. One good thought, although my friends may truly start looking at me funny, is that as with learning Spanish, if perhaps I speak my thoughts out loud when I get them, it may improve my verbal articulation problems. But writing is so different for me–it just comes naturally, like little mouths upon my fingertips.

Perhaps a shower cap would keep the water off my head and prevent the germination of the seeds that grow within…

“Do good, honest work.” (quote by S.V.E. sometime recently)

And that is perhaps the main reason for taking Talespinning a bit away from the general public view. I may not do good work, but it most assuredly is done with as much honesty as I know how to deliver. The ongoing bout of poetics that I have been sputtering prolifically lately was more revealing than I should have liked, and poetry, if misunderstood while still held dear to its author, is a high form of frustration. I am not good enough to either write clearly enough, or feel magnanimous about its interpretation to hand it over without a doubting sense of bewilderment and longing.

I am beginning to see an organizational orbiting drawn by a gravitational pull that seems to mark the body “Words” as its sun. This galaxy that is forming is accelerating rapidly as it ages, formed in birth, perhaps, but spinning seems to feed its growth, gathering to it bits of flotsam to retain a state of flux. Did I tell you that I once was tempted to cut loose a friendship simply for the fact that she had written my name inside a book that I once loaned her? Obsessive respect and out of line, I’m sure, but then, I could never own the words within it, so why a name to brand it?

This fascination with words is coming from all directions now, the seeking of a higher education, the interest in philosophy (and good Lord, politics!), the reading, reading, reading, and the resulting writing; a word as seen in use and meaning, its history, purpose, necessity and intent, and its power to form a separate entity of its own control–pretty scary stuff.

I’m beginning to wonder whether my relative silence in my first fifty years of life was due to word storage in a fragile membrane within some as yet scientifically undiscovered spot within the brain that has, in my case, just ruptured, or if there is another yet unknown purpose somewhere in the convolutions that warns, as an alarm clock, that time to speak is running out.

But I do need to share this quickly–especially since there are quite a few of my friendly readers whose talent and sense of giving seem so tailor-made to this concept: Via The Soul Food Cafe: “Found Art is a great way to spread joy and goodwill in your community and connect with others, too.”

Skulking through the fog of melting snow, he blends into the grey morning in camouflage of nature’s evil intent. They scatter at his progress for when he stops he is unseen and patient when they trustingly return, surprised to find him that much closer to his quarry. Eventually he seizes victory and glory, and sits godlike on his throne, crowned by rising sun that sparkles dew like diamonds on his artificial ermine robe. Seated high above the crowd, he ignores the commoners below as they breakfast in their natural social levels, wary eyes in search of seed cast greedily about the ground like garnets in the speckled snow, manna from a heaven that sits atop a metal pole.

Goddamn squirrel’s emptied out the feeder again.

Figured it was a good time to take advantage of creative output to expand into areas other than my own self-serving interests. I have several pieces to read for a writers’ workshop in a couple of weeks. Honestly, I can get just as excited sometimes about the work of other writers as I do about my own; more so in fact, because I’m not as critical, and it’s fresh. Yes, I realize that I write here only about me, me, me, but then, who can I write as honestly about? And why would I? They have or can have their own blog. I’m not a book reviewer, and cannot tell you anything about how the writing process works for anyone but myself. Some will understand and relate, most won’t, and if I touch something within you–even if it’s a nerve–that was my intention.

Just dragged out the Webster’s to confirm or refute a suspicion of mine that was brought to the forefront at the last group meeting.

Critique: n. 1. a critical analysis or evaluation of a subject, situation, literary work, etc. 2. the act or art of criticizing; criticism. v. to analyze and evaluate (a subject, literary work, etc.); criticize.

Criticism: n. 1. the act of making judgments; analysis of qualities and evaluation of comparative worth; esp., the critical consideration and judgment of literary or artistic work. 2. a comment, review, article, etc. expressing such analysis and judgment. 3. the act of finding fault; censure; disapproval. 4. the art, principles, or methods of a critic or critics. 5. the scientific or scholarly investigation of texts or documents to discover their origin, history, or original form.
(Webster’s New World College Dictionary, Fourth Ed., 2001 IDG Books Worldwide, Inc.)

I, of course, ever the verbally challenged despite age and communications courses meant to overcome such affliction, committed yet another faux pas by using “criticize” rather than the proper “critique.” Immediately, I felt even my own horror at my error. Searching fruitlessly for the hole in the floor to relieve my discomfort and finding none, I apologized and corrected myself.

But what interests me here is how similar the two words are in meaning, yet that slight denigrating twist that “criticism” takes on in the world of art and literature might as well be the Grand Canyon to a sensitive group such as artists and writers—indeed, writers in particular must have an awareness of the nuances of words. My embarrassment is surely more so as a writer than for any other reason. My train of thought here is that perhaps criticize/critique is an example of very early political correctness, and once having established itself, becomes the new meaning. Applied incorrectly, it can turn eyes into saucers and elicit gasps of shock and further disapproval—which is exactly what the word critique is supposed to avoid.

At any rate, I do find it very interesting to follow the path a word travels in time and how it both serves and changes within cultures and societies.

Strange day today, most of it spent working with my hands in the frameshop, but working on things that needed some thought put into them. Blasted the stereo up as well, because it is difficult to think sometimes if I can really just move on the music and be satisfied mentally with that. Just wanted one day without my mind stuck in creative mode. I know this is like complaining of having too much too eat, and to my writer friends, I do apologize because I have been through writer’s block many times, and hearing someone moaning over a constant stream of narrative would, I’m sure, inspire a train of murderous thoughts at the very least. But to quote the honorable Kermit, “it isn’t easy being green.” There are always hundreds of sides to every story, and we often must walk the edges of them all simultaneously.

Allowing myself only two questions to put forth, and receiving these answers from different sources: “Done.” “Don’t.”

Both questions related in some way to writing, and in a round-about manner, to my inclination for now to have disconnected Talespinning with its load of narrative and just maintain its orbit in outer space without radio contact with anyone but the mother ship.

Simple answers beget generations of questions; and I’ll have to deal with them I suppose.

I believe I need a dish of ice cream.

It is showing up in my writing, and now my verbal conversation, and I have had to bite my tongue lest those who listen start to wonder. It doesn’t look to go away, yet at fifteen it was beaten to retreat in shadows, only peeking now and then to shrink back before the daylight of reality.

I am thinking too much. Too deep, too dramatic, and too somber to be able to fully function in a world of dirty plates and underwear. Example: Monday’s basket of clean laundry has settled in to look familiar in the living room, a fixture that I walk around to reach to open the blinds. Since Tuesday night I have reached in and found a matching pair of socks for J to wear and laid them on the dresser, easily found by him at five a.m. daily. Last night I washed the coffeepot, and filled the basket with the grounds, and poured the water in and shut the door so he could merely press the switch on in the morning as is our routine, before he wakes me up at five and I pack his lunch and pour his coffee, and he is gone by five-fifteen. This morning I awoke, alone, sometime after six, and searched, but could not find the coffeepot, although the maker waited patiently to start. J’s socks were where I left them, by the keyboard, and the coffeepot was hiding in the cupboard.

Perhaps it is wrong, this writing thing, this all-consuming godless god that keeps me from the sense of normal that I sought to hide within. All it seems to do is grow its tentacles to reach deep inside and change all to a different version of my life. I now belong to it, and everything is charged with meaning, and the answers disappear while questions multiply like cancer cells not cured by chemicals of bills and dinner and the screaming vacuum cleaner.

The more I think, the more I write; the more I write, the more I think. A cycle of self-feeding frenzy that I still, I think, can halt.

But will I, while I can?

The snow is weighing down on me, each flake an ironweight under its alias of feather. Grey days take the color out of life, and store it…where? Slowly we wean ourselves from the breasts that gave us milk and honey, but unlike the newly born we are built of memories of good and evil and are soon pawing at the skies and at each other for the vibrant rainbow that we knew. Perhaps until a snickering white haired, white robed god has satisfied his jealousy, and then, and only then, will we be offered filtered sun as compensation. And used to that, we pout and plaintively adapt and discontent again, we grumble, wanting more.