The longer I write and try to "break into" paid publication, the more I become aware that nothing in writing is as set in stone as it appears. Oh, there are the "markers" of good fiction, the characteristics of plot, character, setting, and everything else that goes into telling a story well that writers are told make the "best" fiction; but even with these there are writers and stories that ignore or contradict those standards and still somehow qualify as "good fiction." This can make it pretty damn hard for a writer to figure out exactly how to revise his or her work so it falls into the "good" category and, hopefully, gets selected for publication. In an art where contradiction reigns, how do you learn what works?

Take a recent rejection I received for one of my short stories. The story was read by four different editors and I was sent the comment sheets from all four. Two said the story set up, plot, and conflict all needed work, but the remaining two said these elements worked fine. Then there's the story that was rejected by three different markets: one said the beginning needed to be reworked; the second didn't like the middle and, in essence, told me to write a completely different story; while the third said the ending should be rewritten. None of them had any trouble with what the other two had problems with, but, according to these comments, a story loved as is by a number of critiquers and "just" plain readers is so completely flawed that it needs to be totally rewritten or, better yet, tossed aside and just the germ of the idea used to write a whole new story.

Writers who are an active part of a workshop get to see this inherent contradiction at work even more frequently and blatantly. Rarely will all the comments on a particular piece agree. Usually what one reader liked, another despises, or at least feels should be "fixed" in some way. Description, for example, can get reactions that fall across the spectrum. Some adore detailed descriptions a paragraph long, others don't even want to know the eye and hair color of a character, preferring to fill in the details themselves. Then we get to the stylistic issues of the day. At one time adverbs were okay to use quite liberally, now it's preferred that they aren't used at all. The poor 'to be' verb is becoming a victim of a stylistic passion that demands active, descriptive verbs whenever possible. On and on it goes, becoming a maze that the writer finds ever more difficult to navigate in an ever changing writing atmosphere.

And yet. without these contradictions, there would be no reason to discuss writing as a process of craft. We would learn its absolutes and that would be it. There certainly would not be a market for the how to write better books because it would have all been said long ago. And, most importantly, there wouldn?t be the diversity we enjoy in what we read. Harry Potter would not sit on the same shelves as Ahab and his whale. Writing would be static, the individual voices stifled. Taking away the contradictions would make it easier to be a writer, the "rules" more easily learned, but the depth and richness of the stories we offer would be lost, and that's a price far too high to pay.

The next time you are given contradictory advice or editorial comments that don't agree, turn to your story and let it tell you what it needs. Find your own path to being a writer, even if it requires a few more adverbs than current standards would consider wise. It worked for J. K. Rowling, why not you?

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.