You know that dream, where you show up to school (or the office, or a Packer game, or center stage during the monologue of Saturday Night Live) without a stitch of clothing. You know you’re naked, but you can’t find clothes (or won’t – some people are into that – I don’t judge…much). Maybe you go about your business hoping no one will notice, until one person realizes your hairy chest is not a ratty sweater. Then everyone turns to stare – people noting your flabby abs, sagging bits, and ancient stretch marks. Now throw some snickering into the background too – because you know someone laughs, and maybe a few whip out their iPhones to post pictures on Facebook or Twitter.
Horrifying isn’t it? Your most embarrassing parts flapping in the wind for all to comment on and criticize. You secretly hope someone will pipe up with an admiring whistle or encouraging “woohoo,” but we both know that wouldn’t happen. And once you’ve put yourself out there, you can’t take it back. Your naked bits are burned on the eyelids of every fictional person in your dream. Their fictional memories will never erase. Remember that feeling, it becomes relevant later in this blog.
With my conference (gulp) 42 days away (I have a countdown app on my phone – less messy than one of those paper chains kindergartners make to countdown to Christmas), I want my manuscript in the best possible shape just in case an editor actually wants to see it. I need feedback on everything: what works, what doesn’t, are my characters real, does the plot seem believable, do I resolve the many plot threads? And I can’t give that kind of information to myself. Enter my valiant beta readers; brave souls who volunteered (or kept bugging me till I handed it over – I’m talking to you dear sister) to read this early version and give me their honest thoughts.
Handing out early manuscripts to beta readers is the writing equivalent of the question, “Does my butt look fat in these jeans?” I want to hear, “No, Beyonce would be envious of your ass.” But I need to know if the jeans are too tight I might attract a camel podiatrist.
We both know my work needs improvement. You know it, dear reader, because you read my blog each week and see the many errors I’m prone to making. I know it because I stalk my husband while he reads and I can see him scribbling comments in the margins. He even chortles with glee over his own witty criticism.
I need to know where my beta readers think the book needs improving – really, I do. But knowing these people are reading my words… well, refer to that dream I mentioned earlier.
I feel naked. I’ve written the story as I think it works best. I’ve tried to fix clunky language, awkward transitions, and unrealistic events. But I’ve also poured quite a bit of me into it. This isn’t like a college paper where you want the grade. A book is personal. Even if its fiction, you put a lot of yourself out there – your humor, your interests, your themes. When someone doesn’t like a scene, it’s hard not to take personally. You did it that way for a reason, damn it, why can’t they see it?
But that’s the point isn’t it. You can’t find the flaws unless you expose them, parade them naked in front of a live audience. Once flaws are identified, then you can fix them. For example, I may have intended a line to be funny, but if my betas don’t laugh, I didn’t do it right. I’ll need to try a different approach; a different pair of jeans.
So, dear reader, pardon my insecurities. I feel a little naked right now. While I wait for my beta readers to get back to me, do you mind telling me if these jeans make me look fat?
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