I’ve begun to re-evaluate what it means to critique a piece of writing. Frequently frustrated with my own inferior critiquing skills, I’ve been going through what others have said about my own writing, who has helped and why. The whole enterprise has led me to feel doubly embarrassed about a rather pompously titled ‘Guide to Good Critique’ I wrote two years ago. I operated under some of the worst misconceptions about workshops, about writing itself. This essay is an attempt to start over, but I’m fully aware that I could get it wrong again.

The first inkling that something was wrong with my guide came a good six months ago when a group on deviantART asked for permission to translate it into French. It sent me back to the article and I found myself balking at most of the things I said. Later I put it into storage. Recently I brought it back out, but only so that there’s a way to compare stances.

In brief, these are some of the article’s greater flaws: I’ve straitjacketed critique into something that can never be literary criticism or reviewing, even though all three are forms of assessment; I’ve identified a format for critique that is rigid and ridiculously elaborate; I’ve allowed for writing to be picked apart without necessarily putting it back together; I’ve prescribed a protocol for critics and writers that is absurd, if not laughable; I’ve overwritten.

It’s hard to deal with the last problem since I’m so lackadaisical about my prose, but what of the others?

With regard to form, I’m leaning towards a more inclusive definition of critique, one that includes indirect remarks, analytical essays, two-line dismissals, the more traditional in-line critique and most of whatever else might be in existence. Significantly, I want to put in a word for harsh critique. Sometimes a writer needs to hear that she sucks.

What disturbs me about my own advice in the guide is that it argues for a dissection in which elements are examined individually rather than as parts of a whole. We should be addressing the whole. If it’s impossible to address the whole, then that needs to be stated in the critique.

When the writer has reached a certain stage – the point at which her ability to write in a poetic diction has improved overall and she can afford to focus on bringing individual poems to completion – it’s futile to explain what clichés and abstractions are. It is also futile to list them all out without considering their place in the poem, without, in fact, considering whether or not they are clichés and abstractions in the first place. The reason I say this is that I’ve found many critics vomiting out “rules” learnt from guides such as my own. You read the poem without fully engaging with it, pick out the clichés, abstractions and modifiers, and think you’ve been of tremendous help.

One of the most frustrating lines I’ve read in a critique consists of a section copied from the poem and italicised, followed by “Um, show don’t tell.” It was as if the reason to “show” was so painfully obvious that there was no point explaining why. But I had no idea why I was supposed to show in this particular case; I suspected that the critic had just read a bunch of rules and was applying them studiously to my poem.

The truth is that it’s much easier to critique something written by a beginner. I’m reasonably confident telling someone that they need to understand a lot of very important things before they can write anything worthwhile; the instant I come across someone who is talented and capable, I’m afraid that I may be wrong, or worse, sound unintelligent. Other times I worry that I’ve underestimated the writer’s knowledge of craft and have been condescending.

Another limiting advice often heard is that the critic must always offer suggestions. Suggestions have an illustrative function; they can clarify and illuminate. And sometimes you may just have a good idea for the poem. But why must you force a suggestion out of yourself? Why must the onus be on the critic to provide solutions?

There are other difficulties involved in solving the writer’s problems for her. For example, will the writer feel obligated to use the critic’s suggestion? Or worse, what if the writer wants to use the suggestion but feels like she’s cheating by not coming up with her own way of dealing with the issue? This is not to say that we should refrain from suggestions altogether, just that it’s not necessary and comes with its own set of quandaries.

Looking back at the critiques I’ve found helpful, I notice some things in common: the critic evaluated the poem as a whole, searched for intent, studied the movement from beginning to end. That’s what I’d like to be doing myself.

Intent is tricky in the world of criticism. We’re supposed to shy away from psychoanalysing the writer; we’re supposed to focus on the text. I agree with this stance in general. At the same time, a poem that doesn’t know where it’s going will be bad. So even if you don’t know the writer’s intent, you should be able to gauge her commitment to a vision. When it comes to a workshop poem, I think it’s important to evaluate intent. At times it can be a guessing game, but it’s incredibly useful for a writer and critic to enter into a dialogue about where the former wants to go with the poem.

I suppose, then, that as a critic you have to try to assess the writer’s intent and articulate this perceived intent. That way, the writer knows where you are coming from; dialogue is possible.

Of course, I'm still aiming for inclusiveness, which means a critique that is simply a reading of the poem (like a critical essay written for a literature class) can be helpful too.

To sum up, a good critic is a good reader, someone who has read diversely, intelligently, passionately. This is what we should aspire to, instead of blindly following patterns. This is also why I hope no one will take this as a how-to. We can’t be machines churning out critiques; we need to respond as human beings.