Critical Hearts

This week, I met with my editor and I played some Zelda. I don’t mind telling you that the only reason I’m upright and functioning is because I did both.

At her suggestion, my editor and I went to a coffee shop of the charming, rustic sort—homemade Rice Krispie treats, sliding barn doors, etc. We ordered hot teas, sat at one corner of a reclaimed wood table, and made a few minutes of small talk while we waited for the drinks to arrive. It was all quaint and lovely, and then she opened her tote bag and got down to business, which looked a lot like hurling my manuscript into the ocean.

Okay, not really. We’re nowhere near the ocean.

But she did tell me, in no uncertain terms, that the novel I thought was finished needs some work. Perhaps just a reimagining of the entire world I’ve created, you know. We spent the next three hours gutting it—plot, characters, voice, everything. She had so many notes I ran out of room in my legal pad.

Then I got into my car and calculated the distance to the nearest ocean to drive into.

It’s hard to take editorial criticism, friends, but that’s not exactly a hot take. In writing groups, there’s an entire mythology around it. Your book is your CHILD, we like to tell each other. It’s your most cherished and hoped for creation, and you’ve pushed it into the world with your own blood and sweat and sheer force of will.

When it’s criticized, then, of course you will flip out. It’s a protective gesture. Our irrational sensitivity is as natural as a mother grizzly tearing through a group of hikers. Especially hikers carrying raw meat. Or hikers tapping their pens on a perfectly good, perfectly birthed manuscript and asking, “Was this line also supposed to be funny?”

I’ve bought into this mythology at times, tragic creative soul that I am. But as I wallowed this week, I also had to get real about the timeline here. This problem is not new. 

I didn’t start hating criticism when I started writing. I would have flipped out just as much if someone had criticized my teaching, or my parenting, or my golf swing, or my gingerbread cookies, or my pretty much anything.

Wouldn’t you?

Maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you are one of those people that can listen to criticism, nod, and carry on. Maybe you even love criticism, and embrace it as part of your personal growth journey. 

Maybe you are a sociopath.

If you are like me, however, and do not enjoy criticism—in a way that may include tunnel vision, nausea, and gnashing of teeth—I think you should play some Zelda.

I did, in the midst of my wallowing, and it helped me recall that adversity of any sort seems more manageable when you remember you’re the hero. You’re Link. And the only way to make Link—who starts the game with three measly hearts and a ragged pair of pants—stronger is for him to fight his enemies.

When you beat a big enough enemy, you get another heart. You get more resilient. And if you beat a slightly bigger enemy next time, you might even get its weapon as well. Now you’re more resilient and you have a big spiky club, and both of those are going to move you closer to what you came here to do: SAVE HYRULE.

We’re not here, in real life, to save Hyrule—at least I don’t think—but we all have some mission. Some path we laid out before we came down here. And if your life is anything like mine, the obstacles seem to get trickier the further down that path I walk.

Writing professionally is a bit further down than I thought, it seems, but I suspect that’s because I’m going to need more hearts. There are monsters to beat and spiky clubs to pick up first, starting with this big hairy one called Impostor Syndrome, and/or Dealing with Criticism Without Imploding.

That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway. If you are also feeling criticized or blocked this week (hello teacher friends), take heart. Take lots of hearts, actually. The monster you’re looking at today isn’t actually here to keep you from making it to the castle. It’s just a hairy heart delivery system.