When I’m in conversation with someone and the subject of my extremely-long-running project of writing a book comes up, at some point I usually mention how nice it is to be working on something that’s shielded from feedback unless I actively seek it out. I’m not sure exactly why I say this, but it probably has something to do with the fact that I’m guarded, desire control, and of course only ever produce perfect work with zero flaws—so why do I need feedback anyway?
That last part is an exaggeration of course, but in terms of mentality, maybe not that far from a real manifestation of the fear of rejection. No matter how good you get at taking feedback, it still sucks sometimes. It’s hard to separate yourself from the thing on which you need feedback—whether it’s a very personal piece of art or some throwaway task at work. In the latter example it’s still something with your name on it, at least somewhere along the line. If you’re a human being, glowing notes are likely going to feel better than critical ones.
At the same time, it’s perhaps not a surprise that over time I’ve gotten pretty good at discerning which feedback—positive or negative—is actually helpful in the spirit of making an output better at work, whereas this skill has lagged behind when it comes to my creative writing. Not only is work easier to separate from myself, but whatever it is I’m producing as a content designer on a tech product team is only one small part of the puzzle. The operative word already appeared organically in the last sentence: team. I’m part of a team that’s responsible for an overall product, and working solo the way I would (and at this very moment am) as a writer just wouldn’t be possible in the pursuit of designing and building a quality user experience. So when one of my teammates suggests a change to my slice of the pie that I know won’t make that experience better—because I’ve overreacted to similar feedback in the past, know something about the wider system the other person doesn’t, or what have you—it’s perfectly easy for me to say “thanks for the feedback” and move on without doing anything about it.
With writing, especially a novel, this is harder, because not only do I feel super close and even tied to the work I produce, it’s so much of a solitary practice that the work basically is me, and vice versa. And I haven’t had much experience turning that version of me into a commercial product—here and there I’ve been edited and paid for articles I published on the Internet, but we’re still far from published book territory—so I can’t draw on past separations to feel as confident in what’s helpful as a way to smooth over any perceived slights. Not yet. Of course, the only way to get there is to get there, which in this case means sharing my writing more, receiving everything that comes back, and sifting through the pieces to find what’s useful regardless of how it all feels.
Interestingly, I find that there’s a deeper place where this skill is lagging so far behind the arenas of creativity and work that it’s almost nonexistent: my head. I’m what you might call a bit of a perfectionist, who often feels that something is missing, or lacking, or incorrect. Nothing is ever enough, including—especially—myself. This is okay, and yes, I can assure you that I’m in therapy. It’s actually a pretty stimulating conversation to get into during a session, the building up of awareness in the way I think. The way I turn criticism inward. The way I give feedback to yours truly. Constantly.
Self-awareness. What a gift! Sort of. Seeing unhelpful self-talk is one thing. Learning to dismiss it the same way you might brush off a pointless comment from someone you don’t care about on a work project you care even less about is another world entirely. After all, self-talk is the ongoing tale of your life, which is by far the most interesting story you’ve ever heard. A thought about how my life could be better? Dictated by me? Worth hearing out!
But the thing is, if in work or in art, you incorporate every piece of feedback you get, you’ll lose the essence of whatever you’re making pretty quickly. At a job, okay, sure, you can shrug that off as no big deal. For a personal project, probably much less so—after all, it’s closer to you. But ultimately…what about yourself? The you-est you there is. If you wouldn’t incorporate every piece of feedback on something external you make, why of all things would you take every piece of feedback on the internal self you create? “I’m not working out enough—I should go for a run.” “I neglected to consider a friend in a group decision that affects them—I should be better.” “I said no to a project at work—I shouldn’t do that, I’ll be perceived negatively.” On and on and on. Wouldn’t the most useful application of the skill we’re talking about here—wading through a deluge of feedback to apply what’s actually helpful and letting the rest rush by—be on ourselves?
Yes. Yes, I think it would. Thanks for the feedback.