Like avoiding a chamber pot dumped out of a second story window in medieval times, a favorable outcome at a writers workshop requires quick reflexes, stubborn vigilance, and a certain talent for ignoring undesirable consequences—and that’s just the checking into the hotel part. Writers, like hapless pedestrians on a cobblestone street, appreciate prudence from higher ups—as well as a little warning shout before the effluent gets dumped.
So, before walking through—or standing under—any potentially malodorous material, it behooves the aspiring writer to become familiar with the proper terminology, trope, and technique in the hopes of avoiding covering one’s self in caca. Those who wish to be Masters of Avoiding Metaphorical Manure, please read on. I give you:
The Idiot’s Guide to Writing Workshops
(Or “How I Survived People Actually Reading my First Book”)
Lexicon
“Lexicon” is a Greek-sounding word that means “vocabulary.” Reviewers use it to imply that their vocabulary, and therefore their education, and therefore their writing, is better than yours.
Oftentimes, learning the workshop lingo involves copious nodding and smiling to buy time to decipher unknown acronyms (or the online equivalent in chat-room-based courses: googling possible word combinations while others make low-brow comments, type frowning emojis, and misuse the word “lexicon.”)
To save the gentle writer any embarrassing smileys (or similes, for that matter) let us begin with…
Common Abbreviations Explained
- CV: This Latin phrase, Concido Vacuus (or “Condo Vacuum” as my MS insists. See below), loosely translates as “cut the crap.” (Non-American reviewers may take issue with this translation, but there are only a handful of literates outside the US, and they misspell everything—so we just ignore them.) CV is most often used as an abbreviation for a one-page document that the reviewer deems to be lacking in creativity/originality or thinks should be written in a larger font. (It has been brought to the author’s attention that it may also stand for curriculum vitae, but most writers don’t have a “course of life”—other than bleeding onto a blank page—so it would be silly to spend time writing such a thing.)
- MS: Although every writer is familiar with this acronym, no writers dictionary would be complete without including it: Microsoft. MS Word is the de facto standard for all writing evaluations (novel, short story, or the drivel yours truly writes). MS checks spelling. It checks grammar. It checks for misplaced prepositions and dangling subordinate whatcha-ma-widgets. It even checks that you put those damn commas inside the quotation marks (if you have the American edition). Because of this, a seasoned reviewer no longer refers to the document by name but rather announces that MS edited (and probably panned) one’s writing. (Another obscure usage is to refer to one’s “manuscript,” but the astute reader might wonder why the ‘s’ is capitalized—expecting that the people who call themselves editors could spell. You’ve been warned.)
- PB: Particularly Boring is used with prose in need of something to liven it up. (“Pb” also happens to be the chemical symbol for lead, implying that one should “get the lead out.”) Editors often scrawl the letters ‘PB?’ in the top, right-hand corner of a manuscript as notification that drawings by an expensive illustrator are needed. (If you can afford Gary Larson, then PB probably stands for “Picture Book.”) Beware: Editors rarely accept books tagged as PB because the market is pint-sized (read: “your MS will float like a lead balloon.”)
- POD: Party On Demand is a welcome addition to the editor’s (and publisher’s) lexicon. In the interest of saving time and money, publishing-related celebrations are no longer scheduled in advance. Those “Amazon #1 Best-Selling” authors deserving of PODs are notified by their editors when a party has been called in (via Amazon Prime, of course). The proud writer simply stands back while the balloons, box wine, and tasteless finger-food arrive on a UPS truck. Just add hot air.
- POV: Probably Optional Verbiage is self-explanatory. (William Faulkner is known to have struggled with this problem his entire life.) Editors write ‘POV?’ in the margin when they have no idea what’s wrong with your writing but think there should be less of it. Bear in mind (yes, it’s ‘bear’ not ‘bare’): Self-help dieting tomes are comprised of only second POVs, as the first and thirds have been skipped to avoid overindulging. (Don’t confuse POV with PV! PV stands for Purposefully Vague and relates to verbiage that is in search of a subject, or at the very least, a well-endowed cover model.)
- YA: Yearning for Adverbs (also “Yearning for Adjectives.”) Adverbs (and their stalwart cousins, adjectives) are a dying breed, and editors often request they be added to liven things up a bit. Really. Really truly. The exception to this rule is any book written for adult masochists, usually labeled with the euphemism Literature. In this case—and only in this case—extra words are considered an attempt to swindle the reader into thinking more is better (and that literature is worth paying for.) Unless you intend to write Literature (which no one buys), YA is an excellent choice.
Caution:
It may seem as if reviewers are questioning your POVs or excising your carefully crafted YA-words in the hope of secretly reducing your chances of getting published, but they aren’t. Remember: “Don’t be a fool; extra words rule.” Shakespeare was famously workshopped and had his “wordy, overwrought, melodramatic” Hamlet soliloquy “To be or not to be?” chopped down to “Just do it.” (N.B. It’s possible I have that backward.)
How to Interpret Feedback
The workshop world is full of reviewers who use pre-defined and well-accepted euphemisms. Once the writer is familiar with the necessary terminology (practice with your cat—they are self-cleaning), the next step requires an understanding of how editors employ common euphemisms for feedback. (No one in the writing world gives honest feedback except paid professionals, and they only do it to fill time lest they show up promptly for dinner, revealing to their spouses how cushy their jobs really are. See MS above). After years of careful (and somewhat painful) research, I have managed to compile a quick reference based upon my own writing. Your mileage may vary.
I. The Good
Editors always make up something nice to say about your submission right off the bat. Don’t expect honesty here (see section III), unless 1) they call out an obscure character—especially one whose name you’ve intentionally misspelled (as a test, of course), or 2) they use the words “first draft”.
Example 1: “I like how you dive right in and tell us about Bhil and Genaphir standing in the passport renewal line for six hours! Wow, that was exciting.”
Example 2: “Decent first draft. Keep writing.”
II. The Bad
Seasoned reviewers rarely read past the first page, so don’t waste your time translating anything after that!
What They Wrote = What It Means.
Good Plot = Dialogue Sucks.
Good Dialogue = Characters Suck.
Good Characterization = Plot Sucks.
Good Description = If you say one more word about the [rug, sky, hair] I’ll barf.
Surprising Plot Twist = That makes no sense.
Neat Trick = That is a blatant ruse—no sane reader would believe it.
Interesting Backstory = Delete that part.
Add More Dialogue = Delete that part.
A Little Slow = Delete that part.
You Covered a Lot = Delete that part.
This Scene Could Be Stronger = Delete that part.
Nice = Did you plagiarize that line?
You have all the pieces to succeed. Keep writing! = The writing, plot, and characters suck. Don’t quit your day job.
III. The Ugly
Editors usually being this section with the words “These are just nitpicks…” or “Just a few final thoughts…” or “I’m sure you already know this but…” (The actual words don’t matter. They’re just inserted to give the impression that what follows is unimportant.) After that, editors write what they really think (sometimes prefaced with a self-deprecating disclaimer.) Don’t be fooled: this is the feedback that really counts!
Example 1: I know nothing about [your genre] so this probably doesn’t matter, but your character arc is as flat as a jackrabbit that’s been run over by a dump truck full of rocks*. (*The editor probably writes Literature—which is why she’s not home drinking red wine and eating dark chocolate like E.L James. I’m just saying.)
Example 2: I’m hopelessly pedantic so no one else will probably notice, but reading the first chapter put me into a coma*. (*That would be quite a trick. Maybe I could be a super-villain instead of a writer?)
Example 3: I have an abysmal vocabulary, but I don’t think sesquipedalian and antidisestablishmentarianism are good word choices for a middle-grade book about talking dung beetles*. (*But you have to admit they’re cool words! Am I right? Anybody?)
IV. The Closing
Finally, editors often pick a descriptive phrase from the ones given below, add a smarmy line (“Best of luck” is very common), and sign their name. Here’s the translation.
I hope these comments are helpful = I have no idea how to fix your writing.
Thanks for sharing = I would never pay to read this.
I’d love to read your completed manuscript = I’m giving you a fake email address.
This was a great read = Thanks for keeping it short.
Best of luck = You’re going to need all the luck you can get.
TL;DR
For the uninitiated—or those who refuse to call the internet a super-highway—TL;DR stands for “Too Long; Didn’t Read” (honest). It may be the best thing ever invented on the internet. What a time-saver it is for those of us with dirty laundry piling up (and kids, pets, a day job, a spouse, and dinner still to be made. But I digress.) Successfully navigating the noxious perils of a writers workshop can be challenging for the neophyte, but if you follow this survival guide, it can be as easy as 1, 2, 3—plus a pair of dark glasses and a side exit.
Oh, and remember to duck when someone yells “Gare à l'eau!”
(Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go do some laundry…)