We've all done it. Some of us have done it more dramatically than others, but all of us, at one time or another, have bitten the hand that critiqued or reviewed us. If we were wise, we did it with a drink in hand while talking to friends who would commiserate with us. Others have been unwise and done it rather publicly, either earning the disdain of other writers as they discovered how nasty we can be, or making sure that no one else in the workshop would ever want to comment on our work again. Sometimes the backlash can be explosive. Other times, it's barely more than a ripple. I've even seen writers in workshops take authors to task for not taking their advice. We've all done it. And most of us will do it again at some time or another.

When I was in college and workshopping my work, almost every professor had one rule in common: the author wasn't allowed to speak. Their reasoning actually makes some sense. Our writing needs to stand on its own. We can't go into every reader's living room and explain what we were attempting to do as they read our work. (And, really, would you want an author sitting on your shoulder explaining every word to you?) You can't defend your work once it's in print. It has to stand on its own. One professor allowed us to ask questions. Not questions that attempted to disguise a defense of what we'd written, but honest questions of "how can I do this better?" And his reasoning also made sense: we needed direction and not all critters know how to direct too well.

These are two principles I've tried to take with me into new workshop experiences. Does that mean I don't rage at a critiquer who just doesn't get it? Not at all. I generally do it with friends who understand, occasionally on my writing journal, but never in the workshop itself. We are entitled to be upset when our "babies" get bad reviews. But, if we want to keep getting input and become better writers, we don't scare off the reviewers with our reactions. I've had to explain every now and again that I've been "raised old school" in this respect and that's why I often don't say anything when a piece of mine gets a critique, but I've rarely, if ever, had to assure people that it's okay to comment on my work.

It's a brave thing to put our work up for scrutiny. It's just as brave a thing to scrutinize someone else's work. Too often we focus on the second half of the equation: the critter. What he should say, how he should say it, even what he should choose to say it on. But as authors we must realize that not everyone is going to use tact, going to be able to step away from a piece that arouses them, or even be able to find something positive to say. Not every critter will "get" our writing, nor will they all agree on the various aspects they comment on. Writing has its guidelines, but the only rule is that it's all a matter of taste.

So, how do you beat the critique? First, don't defend your writing. Being defensive and protective is a natural instinct and hard to combat, but it must be set aside for the critiquing process to work. Defending your work, no matter how appropriate you feel it may be, closes the door to what can be learned from even the most brutal comments and makes other critiquers hesitant to approach your work. Being defensive implies an unwillingness to listen to others. If you can think of nothing else to say, thank the critter for his or her comments. Then go to your circle of friends or your journal and rant all you want. Once you're done, you wait. Wait to see if anything from the crit speaks to you on another level. Wait to see if other critters make points that agree with the comments made in the crit that makes you irate. The key is to be open, to be willing to learn, to wanting to improve your writing so much that you'll take the lumps with all the goodness. Finally, when you're ready to revise, black out all the useless stuff, leaving only the comments you want to use visible.

As writers we're going to get the good, the bad, and the oh so very ugly when people comment on our work. Some will manage to make the hardest critiques sound so incredibly eloquent and reasonable that we'll consider them thoughtfully. Most of us aren't that good. We're blunt. We're hard. Some of us manage a little tact. Others will tell you that have no tact at all. In the end, however, we can't let the delivery keep us from growing in our journey as writers.