Harsh Critiques

     For almost all of my life, I have always lived with the relative certainty that I am a good writer. Ever since first grade, when I had first received praise for writing a story, I had decided that writing is what I wanted to do in life, which was a pretty helpful time to have a heading for my future. Having said that, over time I recognized I am not in fact a perfect writer (shocker) and have since always welcomed criticism and advice when it comes to my work. After all, peer review is one of the strongest tools in a writer's wheelhouse, right?

    The issue is that most people aren't really equipped to give meaningful feedback on writing. In my college classes, whenever we would take a day to peer review each other's drafts and essays, 95% of the time I was paired with people who skimmed through my essay, gave some vague compliment about my work, and then a surface-level observation about a detail that could be changed. Suffice to say, peer reviews are oftentimes a joke, and thus I don't really get to hear solid criticism about my writing, which sucks because I want to improve any flaws I can't recognize for myself.

    This brings me to the motivation behind today's blog. I have recently turned in my capstone essay for my Multicultural Film course, which was an admittedly rushed work as I was in the midst of a billion other assignments and projects as deadlines crashed down on my finals week. However, even though I knew it was lazy and not my best work, I submitted it anyways, because time and time again, I have been shown that very few people have a discerning taste when it comes to writing, and even fewer people will vocalize their issues with my work. So, I submitted and continued along my day, working on other projects with no lingering thoughts about this paper in my mind.

    Eventually, I got the email notifying me that my paper was graded. So, eager to see my score, I opened it, only to be hit with the writer's equivalent of being shot in the chest four times. In the comment section of the scoring sheet (a feature seldom used by other professors), my professor had given me one of the most brutal, honest reviews I've ever received about my writing. Opening with a backhanded compliment: John, although this is probably your best writing of the semester, it still does not rise to the level of your knowledge of the concepts. Honestly, I couldn't argue with him. I knew I didn't try my best on this essay, but to have it addressed so immediately and directly was not expected on my behalf.

    He continued by pointing out several flaws, like errors in my citations, extensive summarization, and minimal analysis of my sources. With each new word I read in his critique, I felt the dreadful warmth build up inside of my chest. This wasn't anger, nor was it embarrassment. I still struggle to place a name for the emotion I had felt. It was the strangest mix of shame for being called out for not doing my best, but simultaneously beaming with happiness at the fact that someone could dedicate such an intensive look into everything I did wrong in my writing, the recognition of flaws that most people wouldn't bother pointing out. For the first time in a very, very long time, I felt like a complete stranger truly cared about my writing and my improvement as a writer, so much so that they would get brutal, almost VIOLENTLY honest with me and my shortcomings in this piece.

    There's something about being told that I have "consistently underachieved when it comes to writing, despite proving I'm well-versed in the material" that just lights a fire within you. And not a fire of rage, to clarify. It's a fire of self improvement, the sort of fire that burns within a steam engine, fueling the train's journey forward through the tracks. It's the sort of fire that illuminates a dark night, allowing me to see where I've gone wrong, and highlighting the path to redemption. In many ways, the sort of critique that would depress or piss off other people instead motivated me to become better. For the next few days, the words from that critique rang in my head, echoing the disappointment I brought to one of the only professors I've had that had demonstrated such a precise investment and care in me.

    So. While it was too late for me to fix my mistakes in that class (ended up finishing with an A though lol), it comes at a great time for my future. Even though I might get away with doing the bare minimum, I will still strive to do my absolute best moving forward, in every aspect of my life where I can improve. Educationally, socially, and even in this blog, I have room for improvement. All I can ask of my friends and family is to not be afraid to call me out on my shit, because sometimes, a kick in the ass can turn out to be just the push in the right direction you need.