The wisdom of early feedback

Turns out having an external brain, or three, can be extremely helpful from the very beginning

I hate that they are all men but I love that little visor (Marjory Collins via Wikimedia Commons)

Maybe it’s too soon to write this. But, as they say, fuck it. I’ve just finished another draft of a big chapter for my book. A key one, an early one. I’m happy with it, and I’m confident others will like it, understand it, have requisite “!!!” moments, and hopefully giggle a little. But I feel this way only because I gave the chapter to (very) early readers, aka my three external brains, aka my writing group.

I’ve written about them before, but now that I’m in the midst of actual drafting of the actual book, it’s become even clearer to me just how helpful it is to have their eyes on the work, and to have them this early.

My chapters aren’t these ephemeral, blink-and-you’re-onto-the-next-one slivers, they are big bois, many thousands of words that you sit in for some time (it’ll be a good time, I assure you). Each is essentially a longform magazine story of its own. It’s not a small ask for outsiders to read one with an eye for edits. But it also means that each chapter is a significant chunk of the book, making the early feedback all the more important.

Do I agree with everything they say and will I write as someone else wants me to? No, of course not. And I understand why some people want to keep their writing close to the vest until they are ready to share. But I’m a first-time author, and while I generally do think I know what I’m doing and trust my instincts, there’s still plenty of second-guessing, of “Does this work?” questions, or “How do I approach this?” ones.

I decided to talk about this because the feedback I got from my early readers on this one chapter had me rethink how I’ll approach the writing going forward. Two things happened. This chapter is about a much earlier time than the rest of the book. It’s necessary, it’s fascinating. But it’s also been incredibly easy to become obsessed with its world, everything new and mind-blowing, the rabbit holes endless. Like excellent shipmates that they are, my early readers threw me a line, pulling me out of the abyss just a little bit, reminding me what it is that my book is actually about. They made me check the compass or sextant or whatever (one of them is writing about sea adventures, my inept attempt at this metaphor is her fault). They helped me right the ship. (Woof, I’ll stop with this now… mateys.)

That feedback, and the way the resulting adjustments made the chapter so much better, will stay with me as I move onto the rest of the book.

And then there was another note. I was very proud of my extended opening anecdote, but it turned out that the way it was written made it too obscure, too deep into the topic, leaving the reader without much grounding. My brain had been floating in these fluids for so long, I figured everyone would make the necessary connections to understand what I was talking about. But my early readers were lost. And I was frustrated that they were lost, because I had done the thing that all the advice tells you not to do but everyone does anyway – spent an inordinate amount of time polishing your lede, tweaking it every time you go in, even if you were supposed to work on something 12 pages later.

I puzzled and puzzled, and I couldn’t get it right. I was super stuck in the version I polished to a shine so blinding no one else could see what was underneath. And then I published an issue of this newsletter. And one of my writing group buddies commented that she wished I wrote my chapter in a similar tone – fun and authoritative at the same time (I didn’t call it that, she did!).

This simultaneous flattery and burn unlocked something for me. In the book, I’d been trying to be impressive and clever with my writing, maybe treating it all with too much distance, too much reverence. I was studying other people’s writing voices and worrying whether mine sounded smart and literary enough. Plus, trained in pretty traditional reporting, I was taking myself out of the text, my presence hovering above it. My friend’s comment made me realize that it did not have to be this way. It’s not all that serious, and when I use the voice I’ve already honed, the writing is easier, the flow smoother. For this book, I, as the writer, can plop myself right in there — without being obnoxiously gonzo —and it only makes the reading experience more fun (duh, Hanna, I tell myself now, plenty of nonfiction writers do this — but I guess I had to hear it from someone else).

I re-wrote the opening in this voice. It clicked instantly. For me, for my early readers.

Having other people read my work this soon helps me have the capital “R” Reader, the one who will (🤞) pick up my book at the store, top of mind as I keep writing. My early readers are not experts on the subject, they are not as immersed in it as I am, and because of that they can show me where I, in my writing, assume something is obvious, but it really isn’t.

At the same time, they are in my broad target audience group — they read what I read, they share my references, and they’ve had their own experiences in the realm I’m writing about (online dating, if you’re new here). It’s not foreign territory.

Most importantly, and why I’m enormously lucky, all three of them are or have been at some point professional editors. They are writing their own books. They know exactly how to give feedback. They get it, on so many levels. If you’re a journalist or academic trying to write a book, you have access to those people. If you’re not, I think the answer is to find the good readers in your life. Look deep in your network, and when you find them, use them wisely (and give back in return).