Carrie Muller

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How to Eat a Rotten Fish Sandwich

Carrie Muller

So. You’ve just received professional edits on your manuscript. WHAT NOW?

Well, before we get into all that, it’s time for an unsavory metaphor. You see, criticism is like a rotten fish sandwich. On the outside, the bread may be delightfully springy with a nice, chewy crust, maybe even sprinkled with seeds for a little extra crunch. But there’s no getting around that putrid filling gently sogging it all up.

The rule with criticism is to start and end with praise and slip the constructive bit somewhere in the middle—as if it will not be noticed, as if people will be tricked into focusing on the positive and let the negative settle like a feather on their palm. But what they've actually been given is more akin to a coupon for a free dental cleaning. Yes, it’s a bargain, but look at what they're getting.

Last Wednesday, I received edits for the first chapter of my book because, and I paraphrase, THAT WAS THE ONE THAT NEEDED THE MOST WORK, and my editor wanted to give me a head start on considering the changes. After a quick glance at her comments, I found myself paddling frantically through:

The Five Stages of Criticism

  1. Feigned acceptance

  2. Secret dismay

  3. Nausea

  4. Positive mantras

  5. Snacking

This kept up for over a week, until I started to annoy even myself. Plenty of edits were still to come, and I couldn’t let myself fall apart like this again. I needed a PLAN. Some sort of COPING MECHANISM. To give some PERSPECTIVE in a MILDLY CHALLENGING TIME. And so, on the back of a bag of tortilla chips, I hastily jotted down:

How to Accept Constructive Criticism Gracefully (When You Are in Fact a Fragile Bird)

  1. As they say (“they” being folksy-type optimists), an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. How does this apply to our situation? Well, first, we can deduce that the unit rate of prevention to cure is 16:1, so file that away for future use. Second, you can (and should) prepare yourself in advance for this harrowing experience. Namely, you’ll want to develop a thick skin—as thick as possible. This may involve different techniques of long-term exposure to the elements, but for a quick fix, try rubbing coarse salt all over yourself. Really get it into all the nooks and crannies. Maybe give it a good scrub with steel wool. Yes, you may experience some minor irritation and sensitivity at first, but it's worth it in end.

  2. When it comes time to receive the criticism, you’ll want to drench your callused skin in oil. (Coconut oil works best here, but whatever you have handy will do the trick!) This will allow all feelings of shame and inadequacy to slip right off you like water off a duck’s oily back. All that will remain is the useful meat of the critique.

  3. Fill up on a healthy meal so you’re less tempted to rage-snack. (Also maybe write yourself some reminders that your work does not define your worth and perfection isn’t a requirement of any creative endeavor.) Don’t forget to hydrate!

  4. Once you get yourself in a good place emotionally, inject some humor into the situation. Put on a deep, movie-trailer-voiceover voice and pick out comments to read like they’re starred reviews.

    Critics call it “a literal page-turner…except for that first chapterrrr.”

    “Unrelenting banterrr.”

    “Bluntly, way too loooong.”

    “I really wanted the story…to move onnn.”

    (Not that any of these are direct quotes from any critique I’ve ever received. Let’s not be ridiculous, now. Such things do not become us.)

  5. Remember, above all, YOUR EDITOR IS NOT YOUR FRIEND. Not that they should call you names and kick you, but don’t expect them to coddle you, either. It may seem cruel that they would painstakingly craft this rotten fish sandwich and serve it to you with a flourish, but ultimately, if you can pinch your nose and get it down, it will make you smarter and your work better. After all, it’s got all those omega-3s. (This metaphor may be falling apart.)

Tomorrow I can expect feedback on the rest of the manuscript. I’m going to arrange an elegant table setting, tuck the corner of the tablecloth into my collar, and get ready for the biggest rotten fish sandwich of my life.