Me: Thank you for asking! Book Three is getting interesting. Let me tell you all about it!
Before Christmas I offered my family a dazzling opportunity. In exchange for some honest feedback, they could have a sneak preview of the current/58,783th draft of Assembling the Wingpeople. Eight fabulous people snapped my hand off, so I emailed them a copy. Because I accept that other people have lives - even in a pandemic, I appreciate my novel mightn't take precedence over children, jigsaws, and staring into the abyss - I gave them two months to get it done. There are still weeks and weeks to go, but feedback has started to roll in. And it is fascinating. No really, it is. Let me explain.
I am shaped by my English Literature background. I struggle to care about grammar and spellings initially, but feel a deep need to know whether themes, plot, and character development are robust. I imagine if I'd focused my further education on English Language, I'd be riddled with the need to check that my adjectives and adverbs were tip top. (Disclaimer, my understanding of English Language is based on Y4 curriculum from a decade ago. I imagine there's more to it than that.)  |
| My next tattoo? |
Unlike me, my feedbackers - or beta readers - are not necessarily from an English Literature background and that's a good thing. They are a mix. Some are readers for pleasure, some are family members doing me a favour, and then there are the grammar pendants. These are the readers that highlight the split infinitives, even though I don't really know what they are. (I do when I stop and think about it, but it's like the off-side rule. I need a freeze frame and a bit of concentrated thought.) Split infinitives are a tricky issue though. The correct English can sound wrong when applied to dialogue and inner thoughts. It can come across as formal when a character may be anything but. Each one ends up being a judgement call. Some of my infinitives remain split. Soz pedants.
But I digress. All feedback is essential, however it arrives and whatever form it takes. It offers a range of views and is (hopefully) an honest account of first impressions. Ultimately, the only question I need to ask is, 'Did you like it?' That's it, in a nutshell. Everything else is extra stuff. Extra stuff that's necessary to sort out, but doesn't provide the same thrill when fed back. When a feedbacker sends an email that opens with, 'I loved it', that's all I really need to stop hyperventilating in a corner. Once I know it was a good enough read to keep them going 'til the end, I can take all critique on the chin - often agreeing with it - and can systematically work through the edits.
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| I should have done this at the start. |
What I find fascinating, however, is how necessary a variety of critical eyes are. So far, four readers have fed back to me. All four have, amongst other things, provided me with a decent list of typos and spellings mistakes. That's great. Here's the thing though. Each person has found completely different mistakes. Basically, four people have read it, and I have four lists of different errors. I find this fascinating. (Googles synonyms for fascinating. This is getting ridiculous.)
I know from my own experience that after reading the same pages for the past year, nothing jumps out at me anymore. My brain knows what I have written, or what I meant to write, and skims over the errors, without so much as a flicker. One of the tips for proofreading, is to change the font of your manuscript. When I'm at the final read-through stage, I'll do that. It tricks the mind into thinking it's new. But I don't understand why people reading it for the first time miss some errors, and spot others. I feel like it warrants a Psychology dissertation all on it's own. A study into typo bias when proofreading fiction. I'll get applying for grants ASAP.
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| What would YOU call this? |
The other compelling, intriguing, and riveting (thank you, Ms Thesaurus) aspect to all this is the random trains of thought that one piece of feedback can provide. I find myself going down rabbit holes and up back streets in a bid to address an issue. Hot topics I am currently debating? Would Stewart use the word dump to describe toilet time? I say yes, but my beta readers say no. At least 50% of them, anyway. It's led this house to have in-depth discussions about alternative faecal phrasings that could be inserted. So far, none seem right. What does a grown man, who's slightly stuffy, slightly broken by life, refer to as his morning defecation? He's not speaking to anyone else as it's all part of his inner monologue. I feel dump works. Alternative suggestions have been going to the toilet. BORING. Having a shit. SAME AS DUMP. Or having a log. GROSS. Suddenly I want to rip out that chapter, delete the character, and write pastoral poetry instead. It's a visceral activity, this editing lark. Make no mistake.
Something to ponder for you, there. Don't say I give nothing back. But as you do that, I'm back at the grindstone. I have to address my commas (I, use, them, willy, nilly) and need to beef up the dramatic reveal. I'm not even sure I intended a dramatic reveal, so that's going to be tricky. But I shall do my best. It's all very irresistible, bewitching, engrossing, and gripping.
Have a lovely week, folks.
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