A Litmus Test For Working With Writing Feedback

Plus: an invitation to explore the usefulness of feedback when you're not trying to grow a readership

Today I’m diving into some light-hearted and easy terrain. I want to explore the total, unending ambiguity a piece of writing undergoes before it is published. 

Sound breezy? Great. But first, a story.

I went to work for a small book publisher right out of college. Here as a fledgling 22-year-old, all my hopes and dreams of an orderly editor’s life would be shredded.

Our official style guide was AP Style, but we also had an in-house style guide to reference. My managing editor would amend this style sheet at least two or three times a month. (This felt like a lot to me at the time, but I would later learn it is actually quite docile for some business spaces.) Rather than adhering stringently (satisfyingly!) to AP Style regulations, I found myself often debating the merits of certain style requests from folks we were featuring in our books, along with my fellow editors’ own misgivings. Many days I would fling my head out a window, imploring to the sky, “What does it all mean?!” 

Even if you don’t work in a publishing house with a revolving door on its style guide, it’s quite possible you’ve experienced this “Should I, shouldn’t I?” editorial vortex somewhere on Substack.

So my first “hot tip” for today is that the minute you ask for feedback on your writing or try to bring it into the world, there inevitably arises an occasion for you to question everything about it. Because everyone has an opinion and a preference and a history with how they think writing ought to land on the page.

This dynamic has been subtly showing up the last few months in The Editing Spectrum as well as some other newsletters that offer community-centric writing feedback. One person likes your bio; the other person wants something more zippy. Five people want you to change this word in the title, while seven folks don’t want you to keep the last phrase. This dynamic can feed on itself, to a point where asking for input can become more trouble than it’s worth, and ultimately send us back into our respective writing turtle shells.

A litmus test to help you hold onto the writing feedback that works for you

In light of this, I’ve been considering how we can support one another and also skillfully offer feedback in such a broad space as Ask an Editor. How can we continue to give everyone at The Editing Spectrum a nourishing and constructive place to have their writing be heard? I have one resource to share and one idea (further down) that I’d like your feedback on.

There’s a litmus test that helps me every day, many times a day, filter the advice that comes toward my own writing. And it’s built on the fact that I am deeply compelled to identify the connection point in my writing. Don’t get me wrong: I care about my experience as a writer and the creativity with which I can play. And at the exact same time, I have an unquenchable thirst for writing that resonates with readers. I yearn for writing that connects me with readers without abandoning myself along the way.

So when someone offers writing feedback, I filter it through the lens of my “writer-to-reader” relationship.

» Does that advice help me learn something or consider something new about my readers’ needs and how my writing reaches them? 

» Does it point out a blind spot in my own writing habits that I want (and have the energy) to address? 

If the feedback drives me to honor myself and serve my readers’ best interests, I take it to heart and amend my writing.

»Stay tuned in 2024 for more opportunities to cultivate this writer-to-reader relationship. Subscribe to The Editing Spectrum here.

What to do with feedback when you’re not interested in growing a readership (right now)

But of course, as with all things in writing, there is a caveat to this litmus test.

Sometimes we need seasons of writing where we don’t care at all about readers. It’s also wholly permissible to not ever care about them. But does that mean that asking for writing feedback is a waste of time?

In the context of Ask an Editor, I think a lot about my fellow “hibernating writers.” I reflect often on the few years I spent in my own hibernation and how, while it was deeply nourishing in many ways, it was also lonely and grief-filled. When I imagine that same hibernating Amanda having a safe place to share her writing, it fills me with a certain ache. I wish I could reach back in time and give her the gift of belonging in a place like Ask an Editor without her feeling pressured whatsoever to “shape up” for readers.

With that in mind, I think there should be a place for writers at The Editing Spectrum to connect with others about their writing even if they’re not interested in growing their readership.

What do you think?

I’d like to hear from you (in a poll below, as well as the comments!) about how we can make Ask an Editor a place that offers writing nourishment and feedback in light of where a person might be on the “ready for readers” and “I’m just hibernating” spectrum. 

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Today’s editing sample looks at two ways to work with writing intros

To further press into this idea of ambiguity in editing and taking in feedback, I want to look at a writing sample that Michelle Spencer of

Armchair Rebel

shared in Ask an Editor this month.

Michelle’s Original

Only one person is the official ‘next of kin’, who signs the paperwork and has the ultimate say, and also ultimate responsibility for the bill. As the old saying goes: who pays the piper, calls the tune. But the geometry of loss is hardly ever so simple.

Amanda’s Edit Version 1

Here I’m leaning on a lot of advice that says to make the first sentence of a piece as tight and short as possible. The idea here being that readers will scatter from the page quite quickly if you linger too much.

Being labeled “next of kin” comes with a lot of paperwork. Having the ultimate say over someone’s life is hard enough. Then there’s the bills to contend with. As the old saying goes: Who pays the piper, calls the tune? The geometry of loss is hardly ever so simple.

Amanda’s Edit Version 2

In the context of writing for readers of a newsletter who are here for a moment of connection with Michelle through her writing, the case could be made for giving them more descriptive introductions. Imagery-rich details could be the exact nourishment that readers of her newsletter are seeking!

Just as my heart had dropped through the tile floors of my brother’s hospital room, someone saw fit to hand me a pile of paperwork. 

In the foggy echo that tends to show up when grief and shock commingle inside a human body, I heard someone interrupt my train of thought with the blunt words: “Here, you’re next of kin on his registration papers.”

I saw what looked like the outline of a hospital bill or maybe it was a list of administered medications? My body and mind were on one plane, but medical administrators were ready for me to handle the business of being next of kin. 

I wish the geometry of loss was as simple as paying a bill and moving on. But it never really is, is it?

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See you in the comments

There’s a lot going on today in this edition of “Tips and Takealongs” so here are a few questions to help your editorial digestion. I’d also just like to share a reminder that The Editing Spectrum is hosted by me, an autistic editor who has encountered a hundred (if not a thousand) ways of being told how to be in the world (as a person, writer, friend). What you find confusing, baffling, annoying, intimidating about the writing/feedback dynamic has a safe place here.

1. How do you get feedback on your writing these days?

2. Have you wanted to join Ask an Editor (or another public space) but haven’t been sure how to chime in?

3. How do you feel about the “writer-to-reader relationship” litmus test I proposed? How might you apply it?

4. If you’re in a season of writing hibernation, what would the best kind of writing feedback sound like to you?