When I was in senior school, an English teacher started a press club. I had never been a big fan of extracurricular activities. However, I joined because I was a newbie in school and was flirting with multiple career paths.
In addition to wanting to study law, I wanted to be a journalist or reporter working in television. Unfortunately, the press club did not have any clear goals other than updating the school on news that concerned them on Monday mornings and publishing a magazine, which we never did.
The day we launched, I read news on assembly. We set up a large table on stage, two chairs and music in the background to welcome me and the other newscaster, a classmate. Think NTA news at 10 (insert soundtrack).
I remember preparing myself by mimicking newscasters I’d grown up watching. It was the first of many public presentations in my new school. I was semi-confident. (I’m always confident when speaking to a crowd. Less so if it’s a few people.) Everyone loved it. Throughout the day — returning to my homeroom from the hall and during the first break at the tuckshop — I received comments from seniors, friends and strangers about how good I sounded.
The vice-principal loved it too, ‘but….’
My government teacher loved it too, ‘but….’
I fixated on everything that came after the ‘but’ — the criticism. I didn’t respond with any defences, but I remember thinking, what do they know? And later thinking, they’re right, I am awful.
This is one of my earliest memories of responding to ‘professional’ feedback. Several years after this incident, in my interaction with literature, I would encounter more ‘buts’, and in some instance, only criticism, which I often thought was unfair. People say it’s easy to give feedback. It’s not. There’s a similar struggle in taking the feedback. It’s glossed over, even though it’s a fundamental part of working and creating.
I’m reading Sigrid Nunez’s Salvation City, a book about a fictional flu pandemic that orphaned a thirteen-year-old boy. It was published in 2010. In the past few days, I’ve set it aside to jot down beautiful lines and tender ideas (relatable compared to what we experienced in 2020 and now in 2021). And yet, I have a few concerns. These notes might never leave me, except I decide to write a review for you. I also won’t send her the concerns, mostly because Sigrid Nunez is a big shot that I probably can’t access. If anything, the concerns are not significant enough that I necessarily have to talk to her about them. At least, so far.
On the flip side, I read a book whose author I have relative access to. After reading it, I debated engaging the author in conversation about the book. There were beautiful sentences and interesting characters, but the book's idea — the plot and its themes — pandered to the western audience and played with certain overused narratives. After seeing the backlash someone who’d reviewed their work faced, I imagined that mine might not be received well, even if it was softer and gentler, so I never wrote a review or engaged them about it.
I realised a long time ago that more people are like me, the schoolgirl who didn’t know how to take feedback, the writer who still holds her breath when her work is being discussed. We’re scared of the ‘bad’ feedback, and when it comes, we fixate on it, flipping it over like pancakes, massaging it, picking and pulling at it.
In the past year, having consistently given and received feedback — literary criticism, performance reviews, etc., feedback has occupied a chunk of my mind. So, as with the intention behind most letters to you, I’ve decided to articulate some tips that I’ve used or attempted to use in navigating how I receive feedback.
Listen: Hear what the other person has to say without interjecting to explain yourself (wait till they’re done to do this). You don’t have to give excuses. For example, I remember having a post-presentation conversation where someone pointed out grammar errors in my slides. Although he praised my work, I wanted the ground to swallow me and had to hold myself from saying, “yeah, I was so busy so that I couldn’t proofread”, or the other many excuses that came to mind.
There’s a separate article about giving feedback somewhere in my head; I imagine that whoever is giving you feedback has considered your work carefully, more than once and as a whole. That’s a fair assumption. If you feel they haven’t paid enough attention to the work to deduce the feedback they’re giving you, tell them. That’s feedback for them. It might mean they need to work on their feedback process. It should be conversational, though (as much as you can). Not spiteful.
In line with this, assume everyone that gives you feedback has the best intention. More often than not, they do not hate you.
You don’t have to call their skillset into question. This might be arguable when the subject of feedback is objective. If it’s subjective, though, as some parts of writing and storytelling, you must recognise that they don’t have to be writers to see and appreciate good writing. Don’t say ‘you’re also not good at this’ because, at that moment, it’s your work, not their work being reviewed. Also, it’s just a bit petty.
Never forget to say thank you and ask for practical steps on how to improve.
Even if it hurts, try not to be physically disgruntled. It can make them feel you’re not open to feedback. I may have sabotaged my willingness to receive feedback by slightly arching my eyebrows or frowning when someone gave me feedback. Body language is important, friends.
If they’ve said something kind about your work, it’s just as valid as the constructive feedback. Don’t throw the baby with the bathwater. It may sometimes feel like the person giving you feedback is overcompensating to make you feel good or give you a soft landing before the ‘but’. My opinion stands: take what you can of the feedback and move on.
There are so many other tips I’m working through, but I’ll leave this here: if the feedback is subjective, you can go with your instinct or check with other people. At the end of the day, it’s your work. What professors and other creatives have told me is: be honest with how you feel about your work. Then, use that honesty to determine how you apply the feedback.
What I enjoyed this week:
I hope you find this newsletter useful. Although I promised to send these letters on Thursday evenings, Friday mornings (Naija time) have become a bad habit (😢). I’ll do better. Please share and comment. See you next week! ❤
I got a feedback on one of my manuscripts months ago and I felt on top of the world though they weren't going to publish my work. I was positive my writing wasn't that terrible after all though there were a good number of BUTs.
I think feedbacks should do so many things at a time: be gentle, firm, honest, suggest and spark hope. Nonetheless, getting honest feedbacks makes me cringe and I wonder why it is so.
Thanks for the letter Ope, and Pocket too💜
I struggle with taking feedback properly. Someone pointed this out and I have been self-conscious ever since. Learning and unlearning feedback etiquette is ultra stressful. This was really helpful, Ope. Thanks.