Feedback with Compassionate Detachment

Photo by Cara Lopez Lee

I feel sorry for the first writers who ever came to me for feedback. My initial writing experience was in news, where deadlines were brutal and so were the editors. We believed that was because nobody had time to waste, but I now believe it was because we were young and stressed out and didn’t know another way. I’ve discovered that providing feedback with the goal of serving both writer and story can be faster and easier, if you know how.

I learned the hard way, the first time I judged a writing contest. I meant to be empathetic and constructive when I told a writer that her story about financial hardship was an opportunity to broaden readers’ minds. Unfortunately, I included this: “…take a moment to explain why you couldn’t get a better job.” She was outraged, believing I was judging her for not having a better job. Egads, that wasn’t what I meant at all! I was just suggesting she write more detail. I was a professional writer and I had failed to communicate.

I felt terrible.

I had many positive teaching experiences before that, so I chose to see this as an opportunity to improve. I sought more training and a new perspective on feedback. Creative writing is always deeply personal, fiction or non, and I’ve learned that’s why it’s important for feedback to be both compassionate and detached.

I’ve since developed a reputation among coaching clients, writing colleagues, and students for giving feedback that encourages and motivates. Here are a few tips that have helped me:

1) I take responsibility for my opinion by emphasizing “I” statements over “you” statements. This helps writers take feedback as opinion, rather than personal blame or praise, encouraging them to decide whether their writing needs to change or just needs another audience. For example:

• I’d like to know more about this character’s relationship with his father. 
• I’m confused here. Is it possible to clarify? 
• I find myself wondering how this character felt when she saw the body.

2) I address what I observe in the writing rather than my opinion of the writer:

• The opening effectively introduces the character’s motivation: her father betrayed her, and she has never trusted men since.
• The dialogue in this section didn’t feel realistic to me. I had a hard time believing a three-year-old would talk that much about death.

3) I spend less time making suggestions than I do asking questions:

• What do these people really want in this relationship? 
• What’s at stake for the protagonist? 

4) I clarify that my intention is to serve the story, not to prove I’m right, sometimes adding phrases like, “As a reader…” or “From an audience’s perspective…”

• I like that she notices his cologne. As a reader, I’d be interested to know exactly what he smells like to her and how that scent affects her.”
• From a female audience’s perspective, this kind of language might sound sexist, which might make it difficult to root for him.

5) Instead of pointing out what’s missing, I ask for more information:

• I don’t understand why he reacted that way. I’d like to know more. 
• How does meeting someone else who has lived with this kind of secret affect him?

6) I beware of information overload. In evaluations, I offer no more than three challenges the author faces to take the writing to the next level. It can be difficult to remember more, and the writer may shut down. I use terms like “challenge,” and “take it to the next level,” not to add a spoonful of sugar, but because I believe it’s more accurate than talking about what’s “good” or what “needs work.” Growth in any craft is a lifelong journey. I find it helpful to remember we can always improve tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean we’re failing today.

7) I try to spend as much time on strengths as challenges. It’s important for writers to recognize what’s working, so they can lean into that. What’s more, writers who regularly receive feedback want to know whether their changes are effective.

By giving feedback with compassionate detachment, I’ve discovered something unexpected. In the powerful movie Whiplash, the megalomaniacal music teacher declares: “There are no two words in the English language more harmful than ‘good job’.” I disagree. When I emphasize what’s working and simply ask questions about the rest, my students improve faster – especially the geniuses.

Cara Lopez Lee is the author of the memoir They Only Eat Their Husbands. Her stories have appeared in such publications as The Los Angeles Times, Denver Post, Connotation Press, and Rivet Journal. She’s a book editor, a writing coach, and a faculty member at Lighthouse Writers Workshop. She was a journalist in Alaska and North Carolina, and a writer for HGTV and Food Network. An avid traveler, she has explored twenty countries and most of the fifty United States. She and her husband live in Denver.