Judge Your Writing—Two Months or Two Years Later · 3:48am Oct 11th, 2019
It feels strange to be writing something like this coming from a wake, one for the daughter of a father I admire. He's a real biker in every sense of the word, and Bomber is the name we shall give him, though his actual name fits him far better. He's got a potbelly and long white hair flowing around a bald spot.
Let me assure you, real quick, that the combo fits. The baldness makes Mr. Clean envious; the length of hair makes Jesus jealous. His face always done in a lax expression, eyelids tight, but eyes glinting with kindness. He's short, wears a goatee—one trimmed and fitting.
And Bomber is the man who gave B magazines on bikes, a whole collection running back years. It was through him and his stories that I not only learned to ride a bike, but I learned to do so, anywhere, anyhow, during any storm.
I suppose my one regret in my life, despite possessing a sway with words, is my difficulty to adequately express myself. Two things boil beneath the surface. Something stronger than anger or hatred, passion or cynicism.
They are appreciation, genuine appreciation for certain people and particular traits, and gratitude, for their investment in me or something they've done. Bomber may not think of it as much, but some of the reason why I ride my bike is because of him.
And I'll never be able to fully express my gratitude for that.
Only to keep riding, further, and say it's not out of selfishness.
Now that we've cleaned the board and everyone's taken their seat, I shall approach the front of the classroom wearing my vest. Paying attention, everyone? Good! Now drag your gaze to the board, which I've now drawn a large circle across.
In the middle of this circle, I shall write the following:
“Don't Judge Your Own Work.”
Can anyone cite the source for those words? You don't have to sweat general phrasing for the meaning tends to be the same. Regardless of the idea, if you want to prove you understand something, then express it using different words. Better that than reciting dusty words. Most dislike unoriginal people.
The answers are shouted down the class. Isaac Asimov to Ray Bradbury; writers to artists. List after quote after essay after Starbucks Snapchat caption hit this shit like an old man to a faulty T.V. It's decent advice in its intended purpose—but rarely do we use things for their purposes anymore.
To view the original intent, class, allow us to forward to lesson zero.
Writer's block can kill. It can stale your mind and still your fingers. Drink your will and devour your hope. Typing is easy but writing is hard. Sometimes writing is typing and sometimes writing is writing. There is some meaning in that previous sentence.
Writing goes well when you are typing, with a movie in your head playing, a delightful succession of events and words and twists and pulls. The story you wanted to see and experience, the plunge into your own fantasy. Your mind the machine while you simply handle the keys.
But when writing becomes writing... it's work. Sitting at your desk with forty-five minutes having passed, twenty-two words written, a brick—one paved in concrete—lodged inside your mind. The writing is exactly that: mere writing. The words on the screen are nothing more than a combination of letters. There isn't a glimpse of a fantasy to be seen.
You sit and you hope. Craving flow is like craving heroin. Flow can save you, make the words and the picture move alright. The story plays, and the fingers type, everything in harmony, words speaking. Sometimes you have to break into it; sometimes you have to suffer for an hour.
But when you hit flow, and the scattered world makes sense again, the writer is overjoyed, sure, but they also come to fear leaving the page... knowing flow leaves with them as well. It's in this fear most writers live.
Why does B ramble this at us?
Because it's through improper mindsets and terrible habits, we lose the flow of prose, where the clarity of our thoughts, the genuine feeling of our emotions, starts to become muddled. As writers, we must maintain a proper attitude about writing—or else, we won't get much writing done.
And it's hard to write a work, of course, when you're judging it.
The central point behind 'Don't Judge Your Work' comes from how, if you judge your work, you will become a thing of shivers. You will notice all that is wrong with your work, brilliant passages now mere passages. Overall feelings lost, only crap remaining.
When you start judging the worth of your work, what good and what is bad, the habit of lingering more in the latter than the former—then why is it any wonder that striking the page with passion is now harder to do? People don't do things that are hard unless they feel something more will come out of it.
What is the point of suffering for no reward?
The advice to not to cease judging your work is done so to save yourself from despair. If the finished piece is any good or bad is not your concern for, as a writer, all you must do is write and, when it's done, make it better and then move on. It's worth and value are of no concern to you for, the only duty of a writer is to write.
Everything else is optional.
This is good advice. I will sing it not from rooftops—how the hell does one get up there in real life anyway?—but in the prose upon this page. Bad writing is better than no writing. Anything to give your skills more practice. Don't allow anything to cease your work.
People need thicker skin if they can't handle their own critique.
Yes! The nameless person at the back of the class. The claim is true, indeed. It's a harsh world out there—and it should be—for those sensitive. Safe places are nice, but exactly that, mere places. It helps to brunt the worst insult a creative can garner: Your work is a waste, you are the worst in your craft, and nothing you say or do will amount to anything.
Those are the three dooms. That your work was wasteful, and let me assure you, they will pluck out many reasons why. You are the worst in person and at the craft. And third. No matter how hard you try, it will always end in failure because you lack the special sauce.
Beyond those three things, there is not much harm someone else can do.
But those people who can't handle their own critique? They may be weak, sure, but the best part about being weak is getting stronger. Don't assume someone can't get thicker skin for they don't develop it right away. Rather, it comes from scratches, cuts dug deep, forcing the skin to heal over stronger.
The reason why people should judge their work is that, at first, it will be pointless since they still need to nail the mechanical skill. No amount of learning and listening and talking can save you from having to write a million words of utter shit. Everyone has a quota of lousy drawing and bad writing inside of them. It's only through writing a lot. At the start, will this get better.
If you're too busy judging your own writing, then you will never progress, because you're focusing on all the wrong stuff. You need tons of raw practice to fail within, learning as you go, applying different tricks to judge the result, succeeding at one thing that will serve as an understanding for the things around it. Knowing things, in theory, is grand, but applying them makes you a genius.
There's little sense in judging your work at the start because, of course, they are shit and will continue to be shit. But you're not allowed to feel bad about that. Like a person starting jogging and becoming mad they cannot run a marathon. You need to jog, little by little, every day, to build up your stamina.
Are you trying to disprove your own thesis? So far, you've been in support of the opposite.
Not at all. Whatever is correct or true for me, I shall go, until it no longer proves to be that way. Most things in life are based on conditions, and my goal is to make them known, leaving you to make a choice with greater understanding.
And by you, of course, I mean myself.
Beginner writers should not judge their own work, and instead, focus on writing a lot. If you bear some resemblance of intelligence, then you will get better. Sure. Everyone can cite a shit writer who never gets better. Do you think yourself smarter than that person? Good. You'll get better then with practice.
Are you sensitive to criticism? Everyone bleeds at bad reviews. The only question is if they make it known (that, of course, was stolen from Isaac Asimov.) The initial reaction, of course, is hurt and issues of self-worth. After that, upon understanding, you will find delight in future cases in applying the advice.
Providing myself as an example, editing used to be something I disliked, for it all spoke of were my efforts being worthless, my writing wasteful, my dreams... mere dreams. I avoided it for so long, for all editing ever seemed to whisper was: “Stop. Give up. You're not meant for this.”
This blog will be unedited, of course, due to time constraints. But after having lovely British people edit my work, I had gone through their notes to confirm that all the things I'd fear while writing was true. Everyone has those fears, but the problem is when most of your comments say everything is perfect, fears quickly become forgotten.
The feedback didn't sting like I expected it to, but the valid points stabbed at me with their truth, my weakness exposed, the mask blown off. Give up. You're not real. Here's the proof your writing is a sham.
Though after a little while, however, when the storm of longs nights finally started to settle, I took to a completed work once more. Instead of gazing upon the page with horror, my eyes shifted across the syntax, catching janky phrasing and needless words cluttering my prose.
And I removed everything I could, keeping only the strong and pure on the page, shortening my sentences. Dialogue sounding strange fixed with changing the placement of the words. Flaws and issues that once spoke of lack of worth, now, delights to be found and removed or corrected or improved.
What had once been my fears, now, my secondary sources of delight in writing.
Why has B given us his backstory?
To lead into the climax.
The bell is going to ring soon, but before the chairs begin their chorus of scratching against the floor, let's wrap up the lesson. When you judge your work early on, when you are sensitive and unpracticed, then it ceases continued efforts and, without continued efforts, we cease to improve or to be writers.
And writing, even badly, is still a wonderful thing to do—even if only for you.
By writing a lot, your skill will improve, and by denying a judge of your work, you'll yourself not having to bleed at the typewriter. That's as far as the advice goes. But once your skills are self-sufficient and your skin thickened by shallow cuts developing in depth... you're ready to judge your own work.
For only you can do so.
Most things in this world are subjective, and because of that, what writing should be is based all upon you. Sure, other people can come around, tell you what it should be, listing reasons and stating points—but even then, it's up to you to agree or disagree.
No one else can tell you the worth or value of your work—except their perception based upon a multitude of reasons and factors. The worth of a project, its importance to you, quite simply, can only be answered by you.
Since most things are subjective, only you can decide of long sentences are a good or a bad thing, if you like them sprawling with words that, though could be cut, help the overall flow of its cadence. Vladimir Nabokov is excellent, and Hemingway is shit, or perhaps the reverse is true for you.
Only through what you think writing should be, or what your writing should be to you, can you come closer to the process that will assist you in doing so. In the good and bad writings of others, we recognize traces of what writing should be and, in viewing our own work, start applying.
The best way to judge your own writing is to do the following. First is to not judge while you are writing, or even after the project is done. Your job is to get the writing done, and then afterward, make it better. No amount of judging will be of any help here. Even thereafter, the writing and your connection to it are too hot. Step back and let the heat chill.
The best time to judge your work—not in terms of editing—is two months to two years after the fact. By then, the cords have snapped or come loose. Come to the work with a clear mind. Be content. I repeat. Do not be happy or sad, needing to prove of worth or seeking damnation of yourself. Even when you must be subjective, strive to be objectively subjective.
And when you come to your work, read, as you should with most works, with kindness. You are not reading yourself but your past self, someone different, so fall into the words as they were written by someone you know. Take notes, reflect on what works and what doesn't, what it nails, and what should be changed.
After that. Verdict. Bad or decent; good or great. You don't need any more factors than that. Select one, an honest choice, and then be done. Keep doing this, and you will get a feel for the average worth of your work. You will understand it like everyone else, as a reader, though what is learned shall assist you as a writer.
Failure to do this, however, either slows or denies personal growth.
And that's it. The bell has run. The lesson has been half-learned—but there is enough there for you to chew on. Ensure you go to your next classes. Try doing your homework. Let dogs, everywhere, go on a paperless diet.
That was a strange blog, wasn't it?
I'll admit it's been some strange times as of late. It's often I find myself in isolation despite being surrounded around people. Genuine connection found for a moment then lost for a month. Those I genuinely care for seem to go while those who keep me around simply keep me around.
I'm not sure what's going to happen to me soon enough. Day's end, I'll be fine. Same with the month and that truth consistent to the ending of this year? But what of the next? Striking genuine connection with people, becoming closer with idols... only for connection to drop, an absurdity to settle in, confusing further an already befuddled kid.
I don't quite know how to express this, but this lack of being able to be genuine with some people, connected by the lack of connection with others, followed by building feelings of strange isolation... it's like a dense ball of nothingness pulsating inside of me. Little ball, tiny, tiny little thing, compressing further with every invisible cut.
That little ball isn't seen, unknown to all, and though it's there, it's so small as not to be worthy of notice. It's only a little thing, right? And only little things, paper cuts most ignore, build in that compression of that little ball.
Only, when that little ball, finally beyond dense, will explode bigger than the big bang. An eruption of something wailing, screaming at none but the sky above, its only answer the echos it produces. With that energy expelled, the thing collapses, everything made nothing.
There's two things to fear in this life, kiddos: absurdity and isolation.
But so long as I can write, with friends sometimes around to play and mock shit with, micro and macro to be developed, hope to be maintained... maybe that ball loses some of the pressure behind its compression.
I've rambled enough about nothing.
Back to work, I go.
~ Yr. Pal, B_25 ~
Thank you for writing this. It is wonderfully written.
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Thanks, broski.
That felt deep on some levels, especially the whole don’t judge your own work thing, this coming from someone who looks at his musical performances and cringes at the slightest misstep in timing or flaw in notes
You're a wonderfully pondering person B.
I think this blog accomplished a part of what it set out to do. At least, with me, for me.
I've never suffered from thin skin, but my own jabs have always been the hardest.
I'm a perfectionist with the excuse of being lazy. Really I'm just afraid. Afraid that I won't be able to create something that captures, at the very least, a sliver of the picture in my head.
I know that in theory failing is simply a part of the process of improving, it's natural and perfectly okay.
Yet It terrifies me.
I'd like to try to do what you've taught us here today. Who knows. Perhaps I can fight off my fear, just long enough to make something. As long as I've written it, I think it'll bring me some manner of joy.
Thanks B. I like you too.
This was an interesting blog, and I found myself agreeing with quite a bit of it. This part, though:
I'm not quite sure if I agree, thinking back to what I remember of my early stories. The first story I ever posted here, which was also the first complete story I'd ever written, took me most of the summer to write, and I spent a lot of time re-reading it and trying to revise it and reading the Fimfiction writing guide to try and get a sense of what I could do to make it better. I learned some obscure grammar rules I'd never heard of, I learned about showing and telling and how sometimes one's a lot better than the other, the list goes on. I could have written quite a lot more than the couple thousand words I ended up with, but instead I tried to take the time to pick out flaws in what I'd written, and do what I could to correct them.
And... I'm going to toot my own horn here, but I've seen people put out ten times as many stories and not seem to improve as much as I felt I did by putting out one story and really thinking about how to do it right. In that sense, I think the judging did a lot more good for me than the writing did. Especially when you're just starting out, I think that's almost the best time to judge your own work, because then you can try to stamp out bad habits before they're too ingrained.
This is, of course, entirely anecdotal, since I've cited nothing but my own experiences. But I guess I'd just question how you're supposed to get better without judging yourself--if you never take the time to think about what you're doing wrong, how are you supposed to make better decisions in the future? Is your thought process more that you want to seek out feedback from other, more experienced authors instead of relying on your own judgments?
Great blog B, you've got support all around I promise! We'll always love you just as much as your incredible stories!
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Thanks for reading it, broski—though, if you don't mind my asking, how did you find this blog?
Now then; the reply.
The golden rule of any craft art—nearly anything in life as well—is whatever works, works. If a process works well for you, then the only reason to try something new... is the chance of it working better. If it doesn't, return to the process before. Everything stated is what's worked best for me, what has been true for other writers, and what I have seen work for those struggling.
But! The golden rule:
Whatever works, works.
What I meant, in this case, are people who know plenty about writing—video essays devoured, writing books read twice, famous authors patting their shoulders upon their uttering the right words—but cannot apply anything they've learned. A friend of mine is like this. Knowledgable, but without application. Days spent thinking and talking about, its components and process, but never enduring either.
Why? Because he is unable to apply his conscious knowledge for writing tends to be a subconscious endeavour and, since the only way for them to merge is to write and edit and get feedback a lot, he writes like shit. Shit, of course, in his veiw because he cannot apply what he knows.
No matter what, you must write, well or terrible, to have a draft to polish... right? Even then, the story must be in the first draft. If you don't have the fundamentals nailed in composition, then sure, you can improve the words—but the essence beneath them isn't there.
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My second point would be, upon focusing only on one project, you are limited. Doing new works presents new practices. Like an artist who draws more than one shapes, sure, some things—like straight lines and curving lines, much like omitting needless words and showing instead of telling—will persist in all shapes and works, but there is still a difference between drawing a circle to an ellipse.
From the sounds of your comment, however, you may be confusing editing with judging. Edit. Edit your works if you can. I may still fight that a person who writes 500K words, and a person who writes 50K words (but also edits them)—that the former, despite having poorer words, will improve more and quicker than the latter who, despite having crisp 50K words, won't have learned as much.
Editing makes your work better; judging decides the worth of the work.
It's pointless to the latter when it will be poor regardless. Even the best editing at the start won't compare to your best editing 600K words written overall. My point has been this. You must learn to write and edit well, by doing them both—though with a preference on the former—at least to the point of competence before you start judging the worth of your work. Deciding after the fact what kind of writing you wanted it to be, the preferences of long or short sentences—shit like that.
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In the case of your last paragraph, once more, I would say that sheer practice will tighten up a lot of your stuff. Everything in speculation is mostly pointless; everything, in reaction during composition, is useful. You'll notice things more. Get a bad feeling when a passage flows out slightly off. More writing—plus reading and keeping advice in mind—will grant you more recognition.
You can only edit to the height of your recognition.
Feedback is editing; people telling you is crap is judging. Unless the input—either from yourself and someone else—improves or fixes the problem, then it's not much of feedback.
Anywho. Thanks for your comment!
~ Yr. Pal. B_25
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Thank you for the kind comments broskies. I hope you two continue to keep commenting—for they provide additional value to writing these blogs once they're posted. Beyond that, keep well and do well, boys.
~ Yr. Pal, B_25
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Thanks for taking the time to respond! It's been really interesting reading your thoughts
I saw a story you posted earlier--the subject matter didn't interest me much, so I didn't read it, but I've enjoyed reading some of your blogs before, so I checked to see if you posted anything new, and here I am.
Anyway, lots more points I agree with!
Thanks for clarifying this, I think this makes your stance on a beginner writer's ideal steps a lot more palatable to me. Though I will admit I find the choice of words here confusing--which might very well be the source of my original disagreement.
To me, judging is a part of editing, or at least a first step in the editing process; why would I want to make something better unless I'd decided it wasn't worth as much as it could be? If I'm going to, say, take my first draft and remove a sentence or word or scene or what have you, surely that would be because I thought it wasn't contributing anything positive, and from the definition you provided, I'd call that judging, albeit on a small scale.
To clarify, what I had in mind when writing that last paragraph, I would put under the latter category. I agree that practice can make your work better, absolutely. The point I wanted to make is that there are wrong ways to practice, and I think the good ways to practice come with some kind of reflection following the practice, where you look over what you did as practice and ask if you could have done better; if you write a story, make a mistake, go back and find the mistake, and then incorporate the solution to that mistake into your next story, I'd say that does you more good than writing just as many stories but making the same mistakes every time.
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Always. You seem like a more intelligent fellow than myself. Always good to cast your values against people smarter to see what survives the interaction. Dissecting and disproving our thought and feeling, all the time, is rather harmful. Debates are always better when there are two people involved, ya know?
It would appear I'm becoming known more for my blogs than my stories. Strange when I think about it. Most of my life has been spent thinking I didn't have much to share about myself or my thoughts that would be of general interest to people. I'm glad you decided to check out these rambles again.
You could say judging is inherent within editing. Once we toss aside all the objective activities to improve your draft, all we're left is the subjective acts. Should this sentence go on longer for the cadance to thrive, or cut down to the bone? Should I omit these words or strung some more? Would she speak like this? Wouldn't it be neat, for once, if she tried... improvement here is based upon your subjective ideas of writing.
And that is formed, of course, on previous judgements.
But you shouldn't be making these judgements during composition for, without heat, nothing unexpected can pop onto the page. Not only that, but because you have tastes made on fine judgements doesn't mean your skill is enough to reach those tastes. More often than not, your skill only gets better by writing a lot and editing a lot. But doing those both at the start doesn't mean you will reach your taste and judgements right away.
You simply lack the skill to compose such a thing. Hence, you shouldn't judge your work, not until your skills have been brought up.
But yeah. You do judge when you edit. But that serves a function and immediate purpose. Judging the worth of your work, however, in contrast to your taste is a different matter. It's from that which the thesis of this blog was derived.
You may be a better writer than me. The problem when I first started out is I couldn't recognize my own faults or, even if I did, not knowing how to fix them. For the longest time, I worried about my prose. It just... never had that special something, y'know? It wasn't something that re-writing and editing could fix, for I lacked that fundamental something. It was only through writing a lot that I found some resemblance of a voice.
Because I can recognize a problem doesn't mean I know how to solve it. It's only through repeated practice that I learned a trick or two. Going back to edit my work now is far more useful than if I were to do so starting out. It's through repeating those mistakes you become more comfortable with them, understanding why you make them and assessing that, then slowly working out a solution during the next composition.
It was through this I learned the best. But this was the way it worked for me. Everyone else must follow their own path.
Sorry if anything in the message sounds attacking. I'm currently writing this at 4 AM, so any slight, please take as a misphrasing of a tired mind.
I enjoy your discourse. Reading your thoughts has caused me to think twice about the matter. That, and to be more precise in the intent behind my words.
Should you ever want to talk again—please feel free to hit me up anytime.
~ Yr. Pal, B