Am the Literary Asshole For Wanting to Tell People Their Writing Sucks?

Thanks for joining me for another thrilling installment of Am I the Literary Asshole?, an advice column that gets most of its ambitions from the bottom of a tequila bottle. I’m your host with the most, Kristen Arnett, and I’m thrilled to announce that this is officially our twelfth column, which means that I’ve been doling out drunk advice to the internet at large for a cool six months now! Can you believe it? Truly the little column that could (drink me under the table).

I’ve got a trio of exciting questions lined up for us today, and since it’s a momentous occasion, I say we turn this into a real celebration and pull out the big guns. Nothing says “I’m qualified to hand out literary guidance” quite like mixing together a giant vat of hunch punch.

Got your red solo cup handy? Then let’s get this party started.

1) I’m fairly sure I haven’t done anything asshole-ish but I certainly feel like one, help! I recently wrote a novel and (self) published. When I’d gotten my first draft slightly presentable I asked the only two people in my life I felt close enough to share with if either of them would like to read it. Both declined. Based on the subject matter, (which isn’t anything too personal or traumatic or saucy) I understand! Boundaries, etc. But once I’d gone through months of edits and rewrites and formatting I had my little vanity-published paperback. I asked both persons if they would like a copy of the book, under no obligation to read it, and once again both declined.

I like to think I try to be a good friend and relative and I always try to participate in and celebrate other people’s (let’s be honest—actual and important) accomplishments. I go to art exhibitions and open mic nights and weddings and graduations and birthday celebrations when I can. Still, I consider myself to be a literary asshole for continuing to feel so resentful and slighted by the complete lack of interest in something I spent a lot of time and effort on. I asked, they answered. They established a clear boundary. “No” is a complete sentence, after all. Absolutely nothing is more boring than listening to someone talk about their writing if you’ve no intention of reading it, but I’d like the chance to do it a little! It’s been over a year but I can’t seem to let it go. How do I stop being an asshole and move on?

Oh, friend. I want to start off by looking at the last sentence you wrote—“how do I stop being an asshole and move on”—and reassure you that in this situation, you are not the asshole. You have written me quite the question here, but nowhere inside of these sentences have I been able to detect even a whiff of asshole-ish behavior. You were exceedingly polite and deferential to these potential readers of your work. You considered their boundaries and their capacity for looking at your pages. If anything, you gave overly of yourself when it came to thinking of these individuals and their comfort.

When you asked if they’d take a look, you understood that they might say no because they simply didn’t have the bandwidth for it (and yes, you’re entirely correct—reading someone else’s draft and providing feedback is indeed work). And when they said no, you immediately backed off and respected the fact that they didn’t have time to help out. So, you went out and worked all on your own. You kept at it, day after day, and at the end of it, you’d finished a book! That’s something to be proud of.

Here’s where I feel that these individuals might be the assholes, gentle reader. You offered them finished copies of your book. There was no labor attached at this juncture. You didn’t ask for their thoughts or notes or a review or even a social media post! You knew that they might not even read the book. You offered them a free gift, no strings attached. The fact that both of these people declined is… oddly unkind.

In this situation, these people did not choose to be nice. In a world where a deluge of infuriating bullshit happens on a daily basis, why not be a friend and say: “Yes, of course, I’ll take a copy of your book, thank you for thinking of me.” It is the very, very least they could do. It requires no work, no effort!

So no, I do not believe that you are the asshole here, because I keep coming back to that last sentence you wrote. What I think has occurred is that these people have hurt your feelings. And feeling bad about it has translated into you worrying that you are an asshole for having feelings at all! Buddy, it’s fine to feel bad about this situation. These people just weren’t all that nice to you.

Mostly, I wish for you to find readers who’d be honored and overjoyed that you’d gift them your work, free of obligation. I hope you start to feel better about this situation soon. And please know that I’m out here rooting for you!

I’ve got several gallons of mixers and liquor dumped in an igloo cooler and have included a sliced up orange to ward off scurvy. Let’s ladle out some fresh cups for ourselves and move on to our second question of the day:

2) Am I the Literary Asshole if I tell people what I really think about their work? Good, bad, ugly? For the record, I am not a writer.

This is a great follow up from the previous question-asker, who was not an asshole, because this particular question-asker might very much be one!

Everyone is entitled to their own opinions. When it comes to books and art, people have wide and varied tastes. Writing spans the gamut, doesn’t it? We all exist together on the Lord’s Fiery Internet. On any given day, I’ll encounter writing that makes me feel uplifted, bewildered, amused, angry, frustrated, joyful, and sometimes nearly comatose with boredom. That’s normal and simply how art works.

However, I think there is a very fine line between understanding that work might not be for you (and maybe not all that good) and informing someone that you hate their writing.

First, let’s eliminate bad faith art from this argument. Mean hot takes, work that is looking to engage with faulty discourse—all of this can get your honest, unvarnished opinion. Fair game! For the sake of this particular argument, that’s not what we’re discussing here.

Now:

Do you like being honest or do you enjoy criticizing people? You’ve admitted that you’re not a writer yourself. Is the point simply to make a person feel bad when you argue that you’re simply being truthful? Telling someone that their work is annoying or poorly written is just… mean. Honesty for honesty’s sake—when there is no reasoning behind it other than to hurt someone’s feelings—just seems like dickish behavior without cause.

When in doubt, send petty jabs to the trusted group chat. No need to tell a well-meaning person that their work bored you just because you can.

Someone slipped some fruit punch into this mix and now I have a Koolaid mustache. Let’s move onto our last question while I ladle up my final drink:

3) Hi Dad—Am I the Literary Asshole for not wanting to share my manuscript with my whole critique group? I’m rounding the bases on a finished draft of my latest novel. I want to query this project but want to get input from beta readers first. I’m a member of a generous critique group that has between six and eight members other than myself, depending on people’s workloads. There’s an expectation among the group that my full manuscript will be critiqued in a big group session. I know I should be grateful to have such a wealth of riches. People are willing to read my work!

But most advice I’ve gotten is that when it comes to a full manuscript, you should limit your list of beta readers to five or less, lest there be too many cooks in the kitchen. If I had my druthers, I’d get one-on-one takes from a couple of people from the critique group plus a couple of friends who aren’t writers. But I don’t want to hurt any of my critique partners’ feelings by not including them all in the process, especially since they are all generously willing to show up for me. I guess my question is twofold. First, how many betas is the right amount, in your experience? And second, is there any way to thwart a giant manuscript jam session without being a total asshole to my critique group?

This is a terrific question! My favorite kind, in fact, because there aren’t going to be any correct answers. When it comes to how many people you should let read your drafts and give you notes, the answer varies from writer to writer.

I’ll use myself as an example here.

Only one person ever looks at my work before it heads over to my agent. One! And that draft is usually pretty clean and nearly done. I ask very specific questions of that reader and I include those questions along with the MS draft. I want to know if anything sticks out in a way that makes them stop reading, but otherwise I just want them to stick to the questions I’ve provided.

I never, ever have more than one reader.

But here’s the thing: that’s just me! Other writers? Totally different.

For instance, one writer friend I know has a handful of readers that she asks to view early stuff, but then she has different readers look at later, more finished versions of the draft. She has different questions for each set of readers. I have another writer friend who swears by having dozens of readers, at every version of the draft! That sounds wild to me, but it absolutely works for them.

Long story short, it really all boils down to what you want.

So, let’s get down to your real issue. You’ve indicated in your letter that you don’t want that many eyes on your current project. And that’s fine!

If you choose to have the whole group read your draft just because you feel bad saying no, I have to wonder if that’s a good enough reason. Reserve access to those who’d provide you with proper and necessary feedback. Consider what you need from each reader. Does one have a way with dialogue? Is there someone who is great when it comes to world building? Give this early work to those who’ll give you constructive and helpful feedback. You’re looking for help with your draft, and that means being precise when it comes to critique.

Yes, it’s lovely that you have so many people ready and willing to look at your work! But not every draft requires so many eyeballs. And anyone who deserves to read your work will understand that sometimes their input isn’t necessary. You’ll figure it out! I have faith in you, friend.

The cooler’s run dry and we’re all out of questions. Join me next time when we break out a bottle of the good stuff (7-Eleven wine) and I serve up a platter of light hors d’oeuvres (several kinds of chips mixed together in a serving bowl). And send me your anonymous questions!!! Let’s keep this show going for another six months!!!!

Orange you glad I didn’t say banana daiquiri,

Dad

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Are you worried you’re the literary asshole? Ask Kristen via email at AskKristen@lithub.com, or anonymously here.