In my previous post I noted that you can only write like yourself (Read that one before this one). You have to follow your own muse, not anybody else’s. Ultimately, no one else’s opinion matters.

And yet, it does. Criticism from knowledgeable, trusted people is essential to growth in any craft. The trick is knowing what to do about it. And the trick is this: your critic is the Patient. You’re the Doctor. Your critic says, “Doctor, it hurts right here.” Or, “Doctor, your treatment is working mostly, but the side effects are awful. I keep falling asleep.”

In short, if a trusted critic tells you that you have a problem, you have a problem. Constant Readers can tell when something isn’t working, and you should listen to them. But you’re the Doctor. You know the story you’re trying to tell, and you need to figure out for yourself what the right fix is. This is harder than it looks, because your critics will usually express their criticism as a suggested fix without actually pinpointing the real issue. In effect, they are saying “Doc, it hurts when I do this.” It’s up to you to diagnose the underlying problem, and to determine the appropriate prescription. And in the end, this will usually be something other than what the patient suggested.

I’m not advising that you ignore the suggestions you receive. Sometimes they will be spot on—and if you find a critic who can reliably tell you what’s wrong and how to fix it, glom onto them with both hands and a rope.

“So where did you learn all this,” I hear you asking. “You’re not a published author…how much experience with this can you possibly have?” That’s all true. But on the other hand, I’m a software engineer, a mathematical modeler, and a skilled technical writer with twenty-five years of experience. I’m not sure I’ve put Malcolm Gladwell’s “10,000 hours” into technical writing…but I’m not sure I haven’t. And all that time, I’ve relied on getting the best criticism that I can get. Fiction writing isn’t the same craft…but it’s a craft, just the same.

I’ve written a couple of novels, and I’m in the middle of revising a third (the first is on-line here, if anyone is interested). And every so often I’ll be reading a book, and be struck by the quality of the writing, and I’ll say, “Oh, I simply can’t write like this! I wish I could write like this!” I’ll sometimes have the same experience while reading blogs. I’ll read a book review by Julie or by Lars and think, “Gosh, they do this well. Why should I bother?”*

But here’s the thing, and it’s the most important thing I’ve learned in fifteen years of on-line activity: you can only write like yourself. I can’t write like Steven Brust or Terry Pratchett or Lois McMaster Bujold or Roger Zelazny…but then, they don’t write like each other, either, and I wouldn’t want them to.

But I can write like me. I can write so that my prose pleases me, so that it when I read it aloud it flows smooth as molasses. I can write it so that it makes Jane laugh, and makes me smile when I come back to it.

In the end, I have to trust to my judgement, to my sense of what works. I have to write for me. And if other folks like what I write (and they do seem to), that’s gravy. Tasty gravy, and I like it a lot…but the meat and potatoes are in the writing.

* I’m not fishing for compliments, here, nor is this evidence of some kind of crisis of confidence. I’m just reflecting.