This past weekend I had to shift gears for a little bit. I needed to finish reading through my partner’s second novel. 40 chapters, nearly 100k words. And I had to go through word for word and provide my feedback. I mean I’ve been doing it for a while now for her, but in a more informal capacity for a long time. She had an editor who she worked with, an excellent fellow who pushed her writing further. Except she often complained of some feedback. Not that it wasn’t good or relevant feedback, just that she felt like he often didn’t understand what she was trying to say or do and his feedback was contrary to what she intentionally did.
I picked up Howard S. Becker’s Writing for Social Scientists. So far, I am of the understanding that it stems from an article submitted to an academic Sociology Journal. Written about a course he runs: writing for graduate students. Originally published in 1983, so many of the exact same issues that Becker speaks about are echoed in classes today. The same struggles of students, the power relationship between professor and student. That relationship is predicated in highschool and struggles to transition to what the academic community attempts to conjure through their various rituals of administration and degree planning. Somewhere, in that messy system, are passionate folks who care deeply about very specific subjects and carry that passion into something most people struggle to understand.
It is those passionate folk, who share a spark for intellectual community that pushed me through school. I find myself guilty of the sins spoken of by Becker’s musings on the struggles of students, chief among them: Trying to produce generative scholarship from performative scholarship.
Oh, I was told, time and time again, that I’ve got some sort of spark. Something to take me further. My academic career was like swinging from one bar of the schoolyard jungle gym to the next, hinging on the feedback of the few who gave it to me.
I remember in a third-year course, I wrote what was more equitable to a creative peace: a journal entry for a man in the 19th century. As Becker speaks says of most students I was taught to “earn grades rather than be interested in the subjects that they study” (44). Nonetheless, probably at the crook of the hour of midnight, I handed that paper in, fearful of what the grade might be. On the day we handed it in, my professor had us all go around the room and share their ideas of the paper. I shared mine, thinking it was silly. If it were a measure, I had to be proud that I even had an idea. Some folks came to class without a clue.
It was interesting, but I eventually got my grade back from that paper and the feedback said something along the lines of: “This work showed to me that you are capable of doing high-quality work in upper-year classes.” Paraphrased, but something quite close to that line of wording. I was devastated. I had dozed off in these classes, and really wasn’t certain what I had done right. As with most things, I was conflicted, but in the end, I still have the feedback saved somewhere for me to find on a reminiscent day and to help remind myself something another professor told me: “Whatever you do will be good enough.” I have the evidence to say so!
But it’s hard, imposter syndrome. It’s a recognized issue, especially for graduate students. One of the issues is, this disconnects between these wonderful human beings who care so much about something that they dedicate their lives to it, and (some unwillingly) teaching it. This system is somewhat inherently performative, but also at the same time extremely expressive.
I’ve been told time and time again, that I give good feedback. I’ve been effectively a “Reading and Writing” tutor although my official title was Humanities Tutor. The previous holder of that position changed the title to reflect the work he was doing; I was open to helping people whatever their issue. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a whole lot of people come, but the few who did all told me that I really helped them.
I even had a professor tell me that I give incredible feedback and ask me in front of one of her lower year classes on how to give better feedback. I, not having thought much through it at the time, responded to a fundamental principle that I followed since middle school: “Two stars and a wish.” Let the person know what they did well, and something you wish they did.
Now, not to say that Two Stars and a Wish isn’t a great method, but it is something that I wish I pulled out in a more straightforward sense at the time: You need to tell the person Why something needs improving.
I’ve done some editing. I always tell people, my grammar sucks. I know, because I can still go through my undergraduate thesis and find grammar errors (5$ to the first person to find the random ‘z’ I forgot to edit out), spelling errors, citation errors, formatting errors. It’s a real mess, but, I did receive a 90 on that thesis, and the author of the book which I was following up on had told me: “This is a great thesis!” suggesting I do more graduate research on it. Another one of those things that I go dredge up for my “I Love Me” days.
The trouble is: I have no idea what I did right.
Part of the trouble is I never asked anyone, but the other thing is, I went through that paper word for word with my supervisor, had another faculty member read it and it’s been downloaded at least 28 times.
The trouble is, despite having empirical evidence that I have succeeded to some degree, I have little understanding of how or why and I must plod forward with the concept of: “Whatever you do will be good enough” guiding my actions.
So, if you’re still with me or if you want to skip to the useful bit you need to tell people why your editorial advice is useful to them.
If you want someone to be receptive to your feedback, whether it be destructive (cuts/alterations/changes) or constructive (criticisms/additions/questions), tell them Why.
I go into giving people feedback knowing several of things:
- “I probably know less than them about what they’re trying to say. If I don’t understand what is going on, it’s because I don’t understand so I need to communicate that.” When I’m giving feedback to my partners fantasy novels I will say stuff like “I don’t remember this, can you somehow remind me the significance of this?”
- “If they don’t understand a grammatical concept (including citations) they may be breaking the rules deliberately, or are in a style I don’t understand, or don’t understand the style.” Explain to people why certain things are important (often for clarity: ex. Explain why it’s important to speak in the active vs. passive).
- “I am not here to do battle. I am here to provide my two bits, as my best interpretation of good writing, and you are to do with what you will of the feedback. I am not The expert, but I do offer my expertise freely.” I occasionally get a bit more flippant with some things, but often when I do not provide explanations, they are always suggestions. If they do not match the image/language the author is trying to capture, they can either change it, or get rid of it completely.
If you can’t provide The Why, then it’s not a form of useful feedback. It’s the perpetuation of a misunderstanding. People who take the time to seek feedback, are opening the door to being educated. Except feedback is used like the whip of a lash. Red ink becomes scars across someone’s heart and soul because that’s what writing inadvertently becomes. The exposure of internal communication. Translating thought into words to be shared.
Most people carry a great shame in writing, as Becker notes in his first chapter, hiding their process of writing behind rituals attempting to control variables entirely outside someone’s control.
When you could teach someone, to help them become better than they were before. Why miss the opportunity.
Tell them Why they did something well, and tell them
