CRITICISMS

by Leigh Lundin

As a new writer speaking to new writers, this particular column is of critical importance.

In Deborah Elliott-Upton’s first column, she wrote about deducing how well students would do in class by where they sat. While that part of the article was intriguing, at the heart of the article was how students ‘listened’ and reacted to criticism.

In the second or third writing class I attended, we had the usual array of students found in most other writing classes: Those who wrote to entertain the class but probably would never submit a story, those who attended just to listen, a few who were serious about writing, and the woman who was polishing her 200,000 word semi-autobiographical epic about the half-her-age prisoner she’d fallen in love with. Mostly, I remember two potentially good writers who ‘didn’t listen’ and fought against being critiqued, a sure sign of literary death.

The first was a guy who wrote about war in Viet Nam. I wonder now if he attended expecting to hear how brilliant his stories were (and they certainly could have been), but he dropped out after just two or three sessions, almost angry about being critiqued. As good as his stories were, he didn’t want to hear they could be improved. We surmised he felt that a sweet white-haired Mrs. Conté and a band of ragtag fellow students had nothing to offer.

The other student was a girl who wore spiked hair, jewelry, and dog collar. She wrote barbed, kinky little stories that, underneath their hard carapaces, were little romances. Unlike our soldier, she didn’t argue with criticism; she just seemed to take each suggestion like a bullet to the heart.

I have little doubt both these writers filed their stories away, forgotten in a dresser drawer. Perhaps one distant day, a granddaughter of our girl with the steely body jewelry and studded collar will find them and exclaim, “Grandmother, these are brilliant! Why didn’t you publish them?”

Your stories don’t have to suffer that fate.

We all make mistakes. My first column had errors and rough edges. This one surely has errors. I’m working to become as fine a writer as Deborah, Melodie, James and the others, but I’ll never accomplish that if I cannot embrace tough, fair criticism.

Criticism is like cooked greens: You might not like the taste, but it’s good for you. Don’t reflexively spit it out, but chew on it, and only then decide if it’s nutritional. Then, one day, you’ll find you welcome the greening of positive criticism more than automatic compliments.

First MWA (continuing from last week)

The Mystery Writers of America is the domestic professional association for authors of mystery, intrigue, and crime fiction. They are most famous for their Edgar awards given to the best of the best. To be nominated, let alone considered, is an honor. For the first time, I was eligible to be a full member.

James Lincoln Warren had told me that I would quickly learn that mystery writers are genuinely nice people. Professionals in some other genres, he said, can be secretive, jealous, afraid others might steal their ideas. Mystery authors, however, love to help others. You’ll meet, he went on, not just colleagues, but friends, people you like. James didn’t mention he was the genre’s best exemplar.

Another pleasant surprise, again epitomized by James’ encyclopedic memory, was that for the first time in my life, I was surrounded by a lot of people smarter than me. Renaissance men and brainy women swell the MWA ranks. For me, braininess in a woman is an essential ingredient of sexiness. (There are other factors; perhaps more about that later.) For admirers of intelligence, the MWA was the place to be.

New York City

Eons ago, I had watched the World Trade Center being built. Ensconced high up in 45 Broadway, my friend Larry Goldstein and I struggled to recall our calculus by computing how fast a workman’s hammer dropped from the Twin Towers’ roof would be traveling by the time it hit the pavement.

I haven’t lived in New York in more than three decades and certainly not visited it since 9/11. I was in for a remarkable surprise.

In the past, New Yorkers were not known for their politeness. Indeed, some seemed to relish rudeness. Years ago, the city was not a pleasant place to live. Shift to the present: I was astonished to find New Yorkers now not only polite, but gracious.

Certainly, cabbies still shouted and gesticulated, but they seemed to do it out of a sense of tradition, rather than any deep-seated angst.

My take is that New Yorkers have defied bin Laden by becoming more than they had ever been. New York had taken a kick in the balls but stood tall and said, “This is not who we are. We are better than this.”

With such reason and resolve, NYC is an appropriate home to the Mystery Writers of America, tough and tender, sophisticated and gritty. It is in New York the annual migration takes place, the MWA, their symposium, the numerous cocktail parties, the dinner, and the Edgar Awards.
An old television drama used to say: “There are eight million stories in the Naked City.” That was as good a description as any of the MWA.

Next, the MWA continues…