I remember ENG 216 and 383 with alarming clarity. At least, I think those were the numbers—that’s not the part I remember. I remember making an ass of myself in my creative writing workshops.
I have had experiences through the years that were life-changing, exhilarating, and downright side-splitting. Yet, all I can ever seem to remember, detail for detail, are the ones that were excruciating, debilitating, and agonizingly embarrassing. Especially that last one. I could be sitting stock still, happy, content, and a memory of a time when I was a complete ass will flash across my mind, and I’ll cringe—outwardly.
It may be the reason people give me strange looks.
A good number of those cringeworthy moments came right out of those classes, and each spasm has reminded me of the kinds of choices I would rather make and the kind of writer (and let’s face it, human) I would rather be. I may never stop wincing during quiet, pensive moments, but at least I won’t forget the lessons I learned from my own stupidity and others’ brilliance.
But this is not a coming-of-age story. I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t know what age you come to when you come of age. If someone has the answer, please let me know. But do it gently; I may not be old enough to understand.
Picture this:
You’ve worked on a project that is an extension of your heart and soul—possibly for enough years that they can be grouped together with shorthand: a dozen, a decade, half a century, what have you. Or perhaps it’s only been a few days or weeks, but this passionate outpouring has come from a place so deep within yourself that you didn’t even know it existed until it manifested in your work.
(If you’ve never done this, you should try it.)
Then, throw some cute little overalls and booties on that baby of yours, slather it in au jus, and abandon it in a forest of three-day-starved wolves.
Now, lean back and watch what happens.
Do you sit still?
Do you poise a delicate, fruity martini in your fingers, cross one leg over the other, and lightly bounce your foot by the warm glow of a cozy fire?
You damn well better believe you don’t.
You grab a bottle of tonic, a tankard of gin, a bushel of limes, and you stop getting dressed, stop brushing your hair, manacle your feet to the chair legs, and sweat like a dog beside that roaring flame.
So goes it with beta reads, as well.
Beta readers are generous, selfless people, preferably who are well read, at least in your genre or one tangential to it, who are willing to read through a copy of your book that you wouldn’t release on an internet blog with privacy settings that don’t extend past your inner circle of closest friends.
And then, those kind, haggard souls tell you what they think.
When I was in my creative writing courses, I bit my tongue a whole lot more than the above might make you believe, but boy, did I have an astonishing lack of control when it came to my facial muscles and vocal cords.
I don’t remember being cruel or growling at people. I do remember furrowed eyebrows and a voice colder than the Titanic’s bathwater as I asked questions to clarify the respondent’s commentary. And I would take notes, faithfully jotting down their ideas in the margins of my works, secretly wondering if they were right.
And frankly, I don’t remember if they were. Probably. But they weren’t critiquing anything that had come from the true depths of my soul. I wasn’t mature enough to handle their responses with grace, and I wasn’t in-tune enough to produce works of passion that deserved their scrutiny.
So, when I handed book one of my Realm Riders series to my beta readers, I aspired to do better this time. I simply sat with my nausea and cultivated a pearl of an ulcer in silence.
Until they returned their critiques to me.
I would read them, and my first response was usually, “I have to rewrite this whole thing. It’ll take a year to fix—at least!” And then, after my—now relatively private—temper tantrum, I would read them again and begin my list of questions.
Some I asked of the respondent. Others I asked of myself. Still more I asked of the other beta readers in true cross-examination fashion. But I still had to be my own warden.
“You have to fix it,” bad-cop me would say. “Because this is your passion. It’s worth getting right.”
And finally, after years of recoiling at my own feral reactions to critics, good-cop me would say, “You’re absolutely right.”
Selecting your beta readers is almost as agonizing a process as receiving their responses. But even if you came across one who forgot he or she was critiquing a part of your soul and came out with the long, metallic claws of a comic book character, you can find the value in his or her opinions.
And you can find the worth in the shreds of your work that he or she has left behind, too.
Remember, these folks only wanted to help you. They weren’t randomly stuck with your arrogant ass in a class they took under the auspices of self-improvement (it’s why you took it, too, remember?). They offered to rip your work a new asshole. For me, it’s penance. But for others, it will be soul-crushing. If you can, shift it to penance. Writers thrive on self-loathing anyway, and it’ll give you a leg up.
Still, I recommend you do it. Get yourself a beta reader or three. If your work has been many years in the making, you’re probably too subjective to see what a new set of eyes will, and you will be astonished at what you can miss, even after a hundred drafts. It’s okay. You’re human. You’re gonna miss stuff. And you can only find it if you know it’s missing.
It’s nice to have that fresh perspective, even if it mugs you on the street. You’ll heal. And if you’re smart, you’ll make sure you watch your six a little more carefully. Your work deserves it.
A HUGE thank-you to my several beta readers—you know who you are. But for your sake, in case you don’t end up liking the finished product, I’ll keep you anonymous here. Thanks.
-H.A.
Ever worked with a beta reader? Be brave! Share your experiences of some of the best and worst responses you’ve received.
