Taking Criticism
Criticism – it’s a funny ol’ thing.
As a writer, by definition, you have to be thick skinned. The more I write, and the more I meet people of different attitudes and opinions, the thicker skin I seem to be developing. The real trick when receiving criticism is to take it on the chin (whatever form it may take), take some time to think about it, and then reflect on it, and decide for yourself whether or not the criticism was valid, and then whether or not you are actually going to do anything about it.
Generally, I’d like to think I’m quite good at taking criticism when it’s offered fairly and constructively. In all fairness, I know my work isn’t everybody’s cup of tea, and that’s fair enough: we can’t all be J.R.R.Tolkein. What I don’t appreciate however, is when school-yard type criticism is sent my way with no valid argument or constructive comment. This has happened to me a few times now, and none more so recently than at a party I attended a few days ago now when I was – I shall use the word ‘accosted’ – by a drunk man who introduced himself to me and told me, in his words, that my work is ‘a bit shit’. Now far be it from me to argue with such savage, academically sound criticism as this, but when an individual won’t even so much as offer his name, so as to escape any sort of recrimination, you really do have to wonder whether the critic really did have a problem with my work at all.
Not only would he not offer me his name as his name ‘is not important’, but when asked what work he himself had had published of late, his faltering response of ‘a few pieces in LeNurb’ didn’t really cut it with me. Far be it from me to suggest that in all my three years working and writing for LeNurb that I hadn’t seen any of his work published in the magazine by him, but how on earth was I supposed to respond to an individual who had nothing to offer to his cause other than bitterness and jealousy. He then even went so far as to accuse a friend of mine of plagiarising an article he had sent in. As soon as he said this, the battle was over before it had really begun.
I felt quite honoured actually, that in my decision not to even try to engage this raving drunk man in any form of intelligent debate, David should try and defend my honour. I must be getting really thick skinned lately for David to be more angry with the ‘criticism’ I was receiving than I was. Just another day in the life of a writer I guess.
This whole episode does of course bring to mind a section from Matthew Lewis’ The Monk (1796) which I feel I might well have posted here before, but is worth re-posting anyway:
An author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal whom every body is privileged to attack: for though all are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composition carries with it its own punishment – contempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and entails upon its author a thousand mortifications: he finds himself assailed by partial and ill-humoured criticism: one man finds fault with the plan, another with the style, a third with the precept which it strives to inculcate; and they who cannot succeed in finding fault with the book, employ themselves in stigmatizing its author. They maliciously rake out from obscurity every little circumstance which may throw ridicule upon his private character or conduct, and aim at wounding the man since they cannot hurt the writer. In short, to enter the lists of literature is wilfully to expose yourself to the arrows of neglect, ridicule, envy, and disappointment. Whether you write well or ill, be assured that you will not escape from blame.
In over two hundred years, nothing has changed.
Until next time.
MJR
