Why you made those choices and how you plan to have the work out the road don't enter into the problem at hand. You might even need less background explanation than you think.

I don't think so, for a case like the one I described. I feel like the only way I can get useful feedback from M is if I question her closely on why things aren't working for her. It's all that virgin reader issue described above. If I made every change she suggested, believe me, my stories would no longer be recognizably mine, nor would they be historical fiction of a quality I'd be willing to have my name on. But if I ignored everything she said, I'd miss out on some ways to strengthen my work and make it more accessible to people who aren't Big Damn History Geeks. And it's that clarifying discussion that helps me figure out what to keep and what to ignore.

From my novice point of view, I see a large distinction between justifying yourself and probing the reactions of the audience. I think the reflex of the former often blocks (unless it's "I wanted to do X -- help!"), and the latter can give rise to interesting angles and revelations -- which are perfectly ignorable.

Yes, indeed, Deb--first ALWAYS look for consensus, I think I said that earlier. One person's response could just be a quirk or a bad day. That's actually another reason for the writer not to explain--it's useless trying to change one person's mind. And I think I wasn't clear, Susan-- questions are great. Defenses are what I see as a waste of group time. It's the difference beween explaining and exploring. The first doesn't go over any new ground or lead to discoveries and the second one does.

From my novice point of view, I see a large distinction between justifying yourself and probing the reactions of the audience. I think the reflex of the former often blocks (unless it's "I wanted to do X -- help!"), and the latter can give rise to interesting angles and revelations -- which are perfectly ignorable.

Oh, I agree. Hence my dislike of "yes, but" when said writer has, herself or himself, asked for the information.

My question to Robin was about the weight of numbers, and also about why "assume the reaction is correct" is a matter of policy. Also a novice over here, remember, from the student perspective: I've never read any books on the subject, and never taken any classes. So I don't know, and I'm curious. Could we clarify? Robin's sounded like a teacher offering up a "no deviation from this rule" policy, and I want to know, am I misreading that? Because what if the one out of twenty in the audience reacts by saying "That scene needs one of the characters to die!", is the writer obliged to say nothing except take that as valid feedback?

I'm trying to figure it out, is what.

And I think I wasn't clear, Susan-- questions are great. Defenses are what I see as a waste of group time. It's the difference beween explaining and exploring. The first doesn't go over any new ground or lead to discoveries and the second one does.

NOW we're cookin' with gas! Thanks, Robin. Beautiful, and clear.

And I think I wasn't clear, Susan-- questions are great. Defenses are what I see as a waste of group time. It's the difference beween explaining and exploring. The first doesn't go over any new ground or lead to discoveries and the second one does.

Gotcha.

This should give us great stuff to discuss at our first meeting next month. Thanks, y'all.

Robin, I hope your profile addy's an active one. You have mail there.

I would also note that there's a difference between coming to a critique with the whole idea worked out in your head, but with problems in how to implement the idea, and coming to a critique with ideas still jumbled up.

The former wants questions like, "How can I make that clearer?" while the latter warrants a full-blown "But wait, I thought I was saying this other thing entirely. Let us now talk out what the hell I meant by that." Which is not to say the former can't turn into the latter, but at base, they're different kinds of questions. I don't know many people who will refuse to admit that their implementation of an idea needs work; but I know plenty who can't admit it if their ideas need work.

(I find it refreshing and sometimes hilarious when somebody else turns out to know what I am saying better than I do myself. In that appalling, tucked-skirt-into-pantyhose way, but, you know.)

Which is not to say the former can't turn into the latter, but at base, they're different kinds of questions.

Yes, this. This a thousand times over, and then some. Different questions, different needs and, vitally important, with different impacts on the work.

(deep breath)

This is a bit longer than drabble length, and I'm not cutting a word. As some people know, I'm in the process of recovering memories of a certain time period. I hadn't actually forgotten about this, except for one thing; I'd forgotten I was crying at the time.

Contents of a Kitchen Floor

Two bottles of Seagrams whiskey, one empty, the other with an inch of liquid left.

Courvoisier, I'm counting three bottles, sticky with depletion.

The cats' dishes, empty.

A scattered pile of mail, probably pushed from the table by Pig or Fluff jumping away from their human, as he was fighting with his insane wife or reaching for one of the bottles I'm now bending to dispose of from my wheelchair. Included; one confirmation of the next dialysis appointment for the damaged man who emptied all these bottles into his damaged body.

Oh, and one damaged man, unconscious amid the rubble, trusting me to be there when he wakes up.

And me in my wheelchair, tears of love and longing sitting angry behind my eyes, wondering how to save him.