authors — Blog — Robyn Ritchie

When people would ask where I'm from, I used to stutter.

A thousand things ran through my mind—what is from, exactly? Well, I was born in LA and lived there in the years I wasn't making memories. Okay, well, I made one or two, and they sit in a corner of my mind all dilapidated with time. A palm tree here, maybe smog from back then is still in my lungs. Then I moved to Florida, yes, that place, the home state of Florida Man, and I became one with the hurricane. Then, like a final touch to my soul, I was shipped up to Tennessee and spent my late teen and new adult years there. I lost my virginity in the Tennessean grasses, I won awards at a Tennessean university.

When people ask where I'm from now, I just say Tennessee, but when I say that, am I lying? Seems a lot neater than to go into the previous paragraph and spew it in a slightly different syntax at every man making small talk at me.

Sure I wasn't born there but I know it, and more than know the geography, I know that without Tennessee (and to a great extent, Florida, though whether that is THE SOUTH is another conversation) I wouldn't possibly be me. (Whether that's a good or bad thing is also another conversation.)

Somewhere along the line I started identifying as a Southern writer. There's this little town an hour south of Nashville called Columbia where my parents lived for ten years; I went to visit for summers and the odd weekend. If someone ever asks me why I identify as such, I think the only real true answer I could give would be two words: "Columbia, Tennessee."

I don't think I've ever seen such a cute little town. Gorgeous, really, with a strange and hilarious history having to do with mules. The more time I spent there, the more time I wanted to be that, in whatever capacity I could be since I never lived there proper. I wanted to talk how the people talked and I wanted to go where they went. The book store, the antique store, parks and old barns and trails and creeks that sounded like music in the dead of winter. Knowing, of course, I could never intrinsically be just like a Columbia-bred person, I decided to work it into my writing. So deep that they couldn't be separated. If I was ever going to be known as a writer, I would be known as a writer who put this place on the map—William Gay notwithstanding.

The novel my agent's currently shopping around takes place in a warped version of Columbia called White Hill. If you're ever in the area or just look at a map, you'll see Columbia is tied by a small stretch of highway to another town called Spring Hill—in the book, it's called Red Creek. Like bitter Southern sisters, Red Creek and White Hill bitch and fight and the older brags about getting her period and tits first, but in the end they do love each other for no other reason than they're blood.

Really, I don't know if I do the town justice. Towns. They're so beautiful which is why I've attached pictures. I follow some of their town officials on Twitter because I miss it and I have never lived there but I miss it so much it's sometimes physical pain. My parents don't even live there anymore. So I have no real reason to visit. But I think, sometime, I will go back just because.

So, on wanting to be something you're not:

I've told many people I'm from Tennessee. Sometimes, they say, "Wow! And no accent!" and I'll just grin and say I've been moved around too much for it to stick. But if you say you are something, and you want to be something, and you prove you love something, I think you can turn your blood a different color.

I’ve been in many workshops – high end, low end, undergrad, graduate, fiction, poetry, with bestselling writers and unknowns. Ones in which it seemed everyone was a professional and capable of handling constructive critiques and ones in which people were giant titty-babies who couldn’t handle one negative point made.

I remember when someone cried.

She was younger than me, not by much. This was in undergrad where everyone was nervous, anxiously wanting to prove their capability. The concept of relaxation hadn’t yet worked its way into our skin.

She was obviously proud of her story; you could tell because she talked about it beforehand with us which is something of a faux pas. Do not discuss the work outside of the workshop, particularly with people you don’t know! Because chances are they don’t care. Something else you should know: s/he whose work is being discussed is not to speak during the discussion. S/he is not to defend, plead or bargain. ‘Take what you are given and expect no more’ kind of deal. She was breaking all kinds of unspoken rules.

As we were discussing (and at this point, you could tell this story was not a class favorite) she spoke up. The point being made currently: this part of the story is unrealistic for the kind of character we have thus far been shown. The girl said, “But this really happened! This happened to me and this is how I responded!”

Now, at this point, everyone was, one, annoyed at being interrupted and, two, inly rolling their eyes because this defense is as lame as they come. The “this really happened” line is a non-sequitur. Never is it appropriate in a fiction workshop. I don’t care if it did happen and neither does anyone else. Fiction is not real life and the two are not interchangeable. If we as an audience cannot believe it on the page, it needs to be changed, end of story. I said so. Others did too.

Then came the waterworks.

The professor agreed with us and we hurried to get to the end of her workshop. I can still see her sitting across the circle from me: patchy red and soggy-faced, looking sullen and angry. I knew she wasn’t going to use any of the edits. I’ll never get back the breath I used that day.

Here’s how to accept and be one with critiques:

Be open.

Openness is something you have control over. Can you control how other people see your work? No. And I’m not heartless – I’m always the critiquer and the critiqued, so I know it’s frustrating when people divine nonsense from your work, when you’re dying to say, “That’s not what that means at all!” There’s no control there. There is control in how you respond to it. One of my grad profs said that during your workshop, when your story is being discussed, you are to sit on your throne and observe. This is some of the best advice you can get. Sit there, look regal, and nod and take in what people are saying. Don’t spend time scribbling notes; they won’t do you any good. Openness works in many ways. You are open to their opinions and readings. You are open to seeing your work through their eyes. You are open to change.

2. Be gracious.

Smile, goddammit. This isn’t wartime; it’s serious, yes, but this is your day! Your work is being looked upon, scrutinized. Do you know how lucky you are? Do you? So many wanna-be writing cadets would kill to have a proper workshop look at their work, to guide them towards publication, which is the real goal of any good workshop. People in these workshops have taken time to read, re-read and consider your work. To think about how best to give you their opinions. To show you there may be a better way to get across your point. You are so lucky.

3. Be faithful.

To you, to your work. You know where you wanted to go with this in the first place, don’t you? You know what you wanted to say, right? If the consensus among the workshop is that your point did not come across, look for how they suggest alternative routes. Take these routes. Use the workshop’s ideas – bridges, high roads, low roads – to get to your destination. Having a story critiqued does not mean giving up ownership. It means strengthening your claim and learning from your missteps.

4. Be discerning.

You can’t take everyone’s advice. That way lies ruin. It may take you some time, but you will learn by reading others who you share ideals with and whose writing you admire. Obviously always give particular consideration to the workshop head/professor, as they are the most experienced and will… probably not steer you wrongly, but on a second tier, look to the people in the workshop who you feel kinship with. If you admire their work and they give you a point to look at or advice on sentence structure, value theirs above someone who you aren’t sure about. You obviously wouldn’t say these things aloud, just keep it in mind and take everyone’s criticisms equally graciously.

The day of your workshop is a great day for you and your writing. There is no where else you will get this kind of treatment. I don’t care if you have a group of friends you trade stories with; I don’t care if you write fanfiction and someone gave you a good comment; no one looks at your work the way a coherent and serious workshop will. But this advice also extends to taking criticism from your editor or agent. The relationship between the critiquer and the critiqued is a constant and measured push and pull. Allow yourself and your writing to be taken care of.

The South Spilled Blood into My Mouth and I Drank It with Relief

4 Tips for Receiving Criticism in the Fiction Workshop