The Difficult Kind of Honesty

One of the hardest parts of being a writer isn’t always writing. Sometimes, it’s telling another writer the truth. I’ve been working on a critique lately, and I’ve found myself struggling with something I didn’t quite expect. I want to be honest about the problems I see, but I also don’t want the critique to feel like an attack.

When you critique someone’s work, it’s easy to focus on everything that isn’t working. There are plenty of things that can be found when looking closely at a manuscript—even my own.

But a critique isn’t supposed to be a list of everything wrong. At least, that’s not what I want mine to be. I keep reminding myself that there is a person behind those pages. Someone who created these characters, built this world, and spent hours putting those words together. They may already know there are weaknesses. Most writers do.

But how do I tell someone that something isn’t working without making them feel as though they aren’t working? That’s the real challenge.

I’ve started thinking about critique less as judgment and more as a way of pointing toward possibilities. This raises another issue, though: am I telling another writer what I think they should write?

Critiquing is never easy, and perhaps I’m making it more difficult. There is a difference between identifying a flaw and explaining how the writer might overcome it. That distinction matters to me.

I don’t want to soften the constructive criticism to the point it becomes meaningless. Telling someone that everything is wonderful when it isn’t doesn’t help them. Neither does surrounding every criticism with so many compliments that the actual point gets lost.

Sometimes the most helpful thing is saying what isn’t working. But I think the more important question is what comes after that.

Here’s why…

Here’s what I think you’re trying to accomplish…

Here’s where I think the story could go instead…

Here’s the strength I see underneath the problem…

Because sometimes a weakness is actually a strength that hasn’t been fully developed yet.

I also have to remind myself that a critique is ultimately one reader’s perspective. I can explain why something pulled me out of a story, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t another reader who will love it exactly as it is. My response isn’t an absolute truth. It’s information the writer can consider.

Maybe that’s why giving a critique feels so personal. I’m not examining someone else’s writing. I’m asking them to trust me with something they’ve created. And if they’re going to trust me with that, I want to be worthy of that trust. I want to be honest enough to tell them where I struggled, but generous enough to help them understand why.

So, I want to be the person who says, I see the problem. And I also see what this could become. That may be the hardest kind of honesty to give. But it might also be the most useful.