A Memoir Coach’s Top 4 Tips on How to Take Writing Criticism

One of my personal ground rules as a writer, creative person, and memoir coach is that we can’t — and should never try to — create by consensus. But, we also can’t create entirely in a vacuum or a silo, because writing is meant to connect. We won’t go from “crappy first draft” all the way to “polished and publishable” all on our own. 

Whether we call it constructive criticism, writing critique, or just feedback, it’s essential to being a writer. It makes us grow and stretch within the craft, and helps ensure our work is set up for success with audiences. 

There’s also a major danger in NOT figuring out how to take criticism as writers: Quitting. 

Every single writer gets criticism at some point, whether from peers, readers, or actual critics once the book is published. Writers who can’t take, parse, and improve from criticism won’t write for anyone other than themselves and an audience of yes-people.

That’s why I’m going in-depth on my top four tips for how to best get and take criticism on your writing, so that it helps you grow instead of stifling you. 

1. Check your ego, don’t take criticism personally, and never let it stop you from writing.

Yup, this one is a 3-in-1, 3-for-1…a three-fer. 

Halfway through college — on the heels of a writing class peppered with glib hipsters and helmed by a professor who didn’t create a safe environment for sharing our work — I stopped writing. I let myself be convinced I shouldn’t bother. 

Until then, writing had always been my refuge. In middle school, I wrote fiction to escape bullying and taunting which piled onto my immigrant anxieties and feelings of not belonging. I built worlds I could control, where the heroes were kind and just and a little ostracized through my fiction. I wrote poetry to play with words and express emotions from anger to appreciation to awe, and every other letter of the alphabet. 

I got attached to writing as “my thing”. I wasn’t good at sports. I got good grades, but it didn’t matter to me beyond making my parents happy, and my nerdiness actually separated me from my peers. I wanted my classmates to like me, but many didn’t and took frequent opportunities to remind me. 

That stung, but at least I had my characters. 

In high school, I wrote consistently. Sometimes novels, sometimes poetry, sometimes short stories. In my small school, I was seen as “one of the kids who wrote”, and was deeply engulfed by the bubble of our tiny writing community the entire time. I had an English teacher who I still consider my best writing teacher. I felt encouraged and supported, and I blossomed as a writer. 

Writing was a huge part of my identity, both in how I saw myself and how I figured others saw me. The one thing that was mine, the one thing that made me special, worthy despite being told otherwise. 

College was an overall less supportive, more discouraging beast. 

I had one writing class that was amazing, then that shittyl one I mentioned above. In the latter, when someone asked a question like “Why should I care?” about a character or a situation in one of my stories, I heard “Your writing is not worth caring about, which means you’re not worth caring about. You’re worthless and don’t belong here among writers.” 

It was a direct jab at my tender core, even though I’m sure it wasn’t intended to be. But, also somewhere deep down, I was offended, because I thought I was better than I was. 😬

Why aren’t these fucking hipsters into my work? I thought. It was a blow to my ego and my identity. 

I wallowed in feeling smacked down and focused too hard on guarding myself, even though the critiques themselves might’ve helped me improve. I was green, and bad at taking criticism; my peers were green and bad at conveying their feedback in a way that didn’t decimate others. 

Now, two decades later, I can reframe that fumbling “why should I care?” as “give me more to hold onto, so I can invest in this character and what happens to them.” 

I also have perspective around myself as a whole person vs. the writer slice of me vs. the writing I produce. 

I am not just a writer. I am not my writing. I remain worthy whether I write well, whether I write at all. 

But I don’t think I can be whole without writing. I know I want to use it to connect with others. And critique is important for making it the best, most connective it can be.

So, my number 1 tip on taking writing feedback is this: Don’t conflate writing criticism with a personal attack, don’t let your ego get in the way of what serves your craft, and don’t ever let it stop you from writing. 

And if someone is personally attacking you, they are not a person you should listen to (more on that in a bit). 

2. Find the right people or group to ask for feedback on your writing, and do it under the right circumstances. 

One of the biggest mistakes I see new writers make is asking the wrong people to read and critique their work. People who, for reasons I’ll dive into, won’t be able to give the most valuable and helpful writing critiques. 

Some of the most frequently relied upon WRONG people, groups, or scenarios for sourcing writing feedback include: 

• Family (including partners/spouses) and close friends. Often when writers ask friends and family for writing feedback, the results are bland and a little useless. Or heartbreaking. “It was good” or “I liked it” or “I didn’t really like it” if they’re bold. Those closest to you will be undoubtedly biased. Don’t put them in a position of validating or invalidating your work. Don’t risk damaging your relationship over what may turn out to be data you don’t use. 

  • Notable exception: A friend or family member who is a fellow writer, or avid reader, with the tools and disposition to be simultaneously supportive and illuminating. For example, Stephen King wrote in his “memoir of the craft” On Writing, that his wife Tabitha (also a published author in his genres) is always his “first reader”. Twenty-plus years later, they’re still married and he’s still cranking out fan-favorite books, so it’s working for them. They’re probably one of few exceptions.  

• People who do not write (or at least read heavily) in your genre. Someone who doesn’t read or write Fantasy, for example, won’t be as good a source of helpful feedback on a fantasy novel as someone who is deeply familiar with, and committed to, the genre and its conventions. 

  Similarly, you don’t want to give your memoir to someone who thinks Memoir is a self-indulgent, navel-gazing endeavor, and hasn’t read one since they were assigned the Diary of Anne Frank in middle school. That person may feel they know you better after reading your memoir, but they probably can’t give you the information you need to make your memoir better. 

• Facebook groups and other random people on social media. I see this so often: A writer posts a short excerpt of their work in a writing group of tens of thousands, then gets hundreds of head-spinning, often contradictory comments from strangers who may or may not know what they’re talking about. The comments section spirals into various arguments that leave the writer’s work all but sidelined in the conversation. Or the grammar and spelling pedants show up with something like “if you’re going to be a writer, you first need to master basic spelling” because the excerpt has a couple errors that spellcheck will easily fix in the next draft.
  
  Social media is not the place to get deep, constructive criticism on your work. It’s an impersonal, frenetic, space that exposes you and your writing to whatever anyone wants to throw at you, and often a waste of time when it comes to writing critique. 

  • Notable exceptions: Small, well-structured, focused, intentional, and active Facebook groups and other online communities that have critique-giving at their core. These groups are usually private, closely curated, and probably include fewer than 50 people (if that). They’re not noisy, and comments are thoughtful and honest without being discouraging. 

So if you shouldn’t ask your friends, partner, or randos on the internet for feedback on your writing, who the eff are you supposed to ask? 

The RIGHT people, groups, situations for getting the most out of writing feedback include:

• Writers and readers of your genre (bonus if they’re intimate with your subgenre). Find critique partners, writing groups, and beta readers who know and love the genre you write in. Find practitioners of your specific pocket of the craft.

  Someone who wades deep into Memoir, reads the genre so frequently and fervently, they instinctively know how a good one feels and reads. Someone who is a practicing or previously practicing memoirist, and knows how good memoirs come together.  

  You can also try to find folks who write and read the specific subgenre (type or subcategory of memoir) you’re writing. Maybe it’s a small critique group of adventure memoirists writing about extreme treks and impossible feats, or a writing partner who’s also written or writing about family substance abuse. 

• Small, trusted circles of writers who aren’t trying to rewrite your work for you.  People who are skilled at giving thought-through and genuinely helpful responses to others’ work. People who are not trying to make your work their own, bearing down on you with how they would do it, harping too long on what they don’t like and why, or nitpicking when you’ve asked for broad assessments. 

  The right critique group, partner, or reader will be able to draw your attention to what isn’t working, have the language to elaborate if you don’t understand, and ultimately honor your creative control over how to make it work. They’ll tell you the good, bad, and ugly, and maybe make suggestions, but will not try to force their fixes on you. They’ll trust you to solve the problems they see. And they won’t let offense-taking lead to pulling their support if you choose to forgo their points. 

  Anne Lamott said, “Help is the sunny side of control.” Listen to those whose intention is not to exert control over your writing, but to empower and help you make it better on your terms.

• Writers and readers committed to helping you build up your writing, not looking to tear it apart. It’s called “constructive” — as opposed to “destructive” — criticism for a reason, friends. Critiques during the workshop/revision/pre-publication stages of your writing should serve the goal of making your WIP or manuscript better, not destroying it (or your belief in it) by being dismissive, passive-aggressive, deliberately confusing, or holier-than-thou.
  
  You’ll get your fill of those folks once your book is published and reviews roll in. 

• Writers/readers who get your work, what you’re trying to do with it, or ask instead of assuming. Beyond knowing your genre and its conventions, those giving feedback on your work should understand what you are trying to do. Yes, it’s your job as the writer to be clear, but it’s also their job to ask. If there’s a chasm between what you’re trying to do and what’s actually happening on the page (aka: how it hits the reader), a good critique group or partner will be able to show you the gap, so you can build the necessary bridge. 

• A writing mentor, teacher, or coach. A mentor is usually a person who has written, and likely published in your genre, who is further ahead and more experienced at writing than you are, and who is sharing their wisdom with you. Writing teachers often know a lot about the craft of writing, and the tools, strategies, and references (aka: readings) that help writers and their work go from ok to good, or good to great.
  
  Coaches often weave a bit of mentorship and teaching into what they offer, and are primarily focused on bringing out the best writer in you through discovery, inquiry-based approaches, generative exercises, and empathetic accountability. Some coaches do not give feedback at all, others do it sparingly. Coaching is about you — the writer behind the work — about guiding, supporting, and championing you as the hero of your own journey and story (both in writing, and in general). Too much critique can sometimes get in the way of that. 

  Good writing mentors, teachers, and coaches communicate critical information in a way that’s absorbable and actionable for you. They help you do your best work, acknowledge and celebrate your progress, and help you keep incrementally but consistently improving. The best ones are not overbearing or overly prescriptive; they never force you to do it their way.  

3. Be clear, specific, but open-minded with what you are looking for when  asking for feedback. 

Giving someone a piece of writing — a memoir excerpt, personal essay, chapter of your novel — and just saying “tell me what you think” can help to a degree. It’s a good prompt for beta readers. But to really maximize what you get in return, be prepared to pinpoint and ask questions about specific aspects you’re struggling with. 

If you’re questioning how your dialogue sounds, or how a specific plot element lands, ask your writing group or critique partners to pay special attention there. If you’re unsure whether your book’s main themes emerged clearly enough, ask readers to consider and tell you the themes and threads they pick up on.

Do you want early draft readers to look at your work on the macro level (aka: big picture) or the micro (line, sentence, paragraph, scene construction, etc.)?

Tell them, either way. If you’re looking for suggestions about phrasing, paragraph length, word choice, and other small-and-close aspects, make sure you mention that. And feel free to mention what you are not asking them to spend time on, so that their attention and energy can go toward your top concerns.  

But, also, don’t be so narrow and rigid that you discourage suggestions or feedback on anything else a reader might pick up on. Stay open to the possibilities and opportunities you may have missed in your last revision. Welcome feedback with gratitude, even if you end up not implementing some of it.

4. Stay open to all of it, but be choosy about what you incorporate 

Even if you’re asking the clearest questions of the right people, you can still end up with some distracting and unhelpful advice. Or suggestions that don’t truly serve your memoir, personal essay, novel, or story. 

When all’s said and done, you have to be satisfied with how your work turns out. You have to believe in it, because you’re the one doing most of the hard work to make it ready for the world. You’ve gotta know what to take and what to leave. You have to be able to be proud of it. 

This doesn’t mean rejecting all feedback that’s hard to take, or that asks you to do more work than you’ve prepared for. It means being open, but discerning.

Consider all the feedback you get, put some of it to use to see if/how it improves your work. Approach it with curiosity, give it a chance. 

But don’t be afraid to stand in what you know to be true, or what emerges through revisions. Don’t make a change you don’t believe in just because someone else suggested it. 

Distinguish between that generative, constructive feedback I mentioned earlier, and the petty nitpicking feedback that serves to make the critic feel good about themselves instead of being in service of improving the writing. Be especially aware of strong personal preference masquerading as generally accepted wisdom. 

I was once in a writing class with a guy who returned nothing but surface level noise in the guise of constructive criticism whenever it was his turn to share his thoughts. In one session, he went on a rant about how much he hated the proliferation of swearing these days, and how he just couldn’t get past the one or two cuss words in someone’s chapter long enough to provide any real critique. That pointless diatribe was the entirety of his feedback on the 10 pages he’d been asked to read. Luckily, that writer recognized this blowhard hadn’t actually done the work of true critique, had a good laugh about it, and discarded it. 

✍🏻