I want to help writers. I really do. As the least competitive writer you’ll ever meet, I want writers to write better, to feel better. My concern is selfish. They might just finish a book I enjoy. Unfortunately, this is the furthest thing from their minds.
“Tell me, is this any good?” I hate that question. I hate it because I have to answer in a way that will cause them angst. The one thing they don’t need more of.
“No.”
“But you haven’t looked at it.”
“I don’t have to.”
“Why?”
“Because you should know. A writer who needs an opinion is lost.”
“They are?”
“Yes.”
“Oh God… ”
At this point, I’m the one who cracks. I apologize. I say I’ve had a hard day. It’s me, not you. All these are lies. Exactly what the writer wants to hear.
So I take the manuscript and flick through. As usual, it’s hopeless. The thing is single-spaced. There are typos, unintended changes in tense. Characters are introduced solely by their names, followed by great blocks of inane dialog. As though the writer wants to get away from his or her story as soon as possible. In short, the writer hasn’t handed me a manuscript as much as a catalog of mistakes. Mistakes that a thousand books on writing attempt to iron out.
Worst of all, it’s unfinished.
The manuscript isn’t even complete. It collapses into a ragtag series of scenes and notes. The pages end with a grocery list. The items include raw cheese curds. I do not know what raw cheese curds are. I don’t want to know.
“Yeah,” says the writer. “Gotta remember to pick that stuff up.” He is oblivious to the idea that he needs to complete a piece before any judgment is possible. That the first thing a writer cultivates, if they can, is the skill to finish.
“I’ll polish it up when I know it’s good.”
“But that’s the part that tells you it’s good.”
“Oh God… ”
I’ve seen writers tremble. I’ve seen them snuffle, wipe eyes. In one of my former writing groups, we had a writer, mid-critique, pound his head on the table. We stopped him. Once a woman gave me a manuscript in Starbucks and refused to take it back. If it wasn’t any good, she didn’t want it back. Which made a strange kind of sense. But I didn’t want it either.
So what do you do when a writer asks if they are any good? The only thing a decent person can do: Lie.
Lie flagrantly. Lie dramatically. It’s great. Really. We’re all in this together (which is true.) Chin up! You’re special!
Also, a hug won’t hurt. If a writer can’t write better, they might as well feel better. And isn’t that the goal all along?
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com