Monthly Archives: May 2025

As writers, we must have a critical feedback loop. Rather like the body’s immune system, it must be strong enough to ward off what is destructive or unnecessary, but not so strong that it stifles healthy growth. That balance is essential. If the feedback loop is too weak, a writer can’t develop greater facility in the craft. If it’s too strong, a would-be writer will be rendered silent by the shriek of self-criticism. Still, as tricky as it can be, this loop is the first stage of editing.

However, for most of us, the internal loop is not enough. We need the critical eyes of others. Passages which we think are crystaline in their clarity may be baffling to others. Good sections might be too lengthy, while others are too brief. The material might be just right for us, but our preconceptions, interests, and biases can cloud our judgment. Other eyes see our prose without our unique lens, and so don’t see it the same way we do.

That is why a critique group is helpful. As others read and comment on one’s work, one comes to see it through their eyes and sensibilities. Good critique groups are a blessing for serious writers, but they are damn hard to find. The problem is that everyone wants praise, and no one wants to hear that what they’ve created has fallen short. Such emotional needs cause a writer’s group to slide into a mutual praise society. You wax ecstatic at my work, and I will swoon over yours. We will justify this joyride by telling ourselves we support and nurture one another. We go home happy—but no wiser and no better. When I find myself in such a group, I don’t stay long. The feel-good drives me away.

Recently, a member of the Chattanooga Writers Guild, of which I am a member, started a new critique group. I waffled on whether to attend the first meeting, but in the end, I gave in and went. I’m glad I did. After addressing the early ‘teething’ issues — too few people at the first meeting, too many at the second, too much time spent on one piece and too little on another — we have now settled into a stable, meaningful group. The critical comments are insightful but never cutting. They focus on the work. I’ve presented short fiction that I felt was ready for submission to journals, and was able to refine it based on the feedback from the critique group. I hope we can maintain this delicate balance. I hope we can avoid the slippery slope of ego enhancement. I hope we continue to reach ever higher, driven forward by honesty.

My wife and I went to Atlanta to meet the newest addition to the family, baby Violet. While we were there, we stopped by to see our brother-in-law, and he gave us an old Underwood portable typewriter that had belonged to my wife’s dad. It had been in his basement for years, protected by a sturdy leather case that could withstand a hit from an artillery shell. He referred to it as “an old piece of junk,” although he had never opened it up to take a look. Not to hurt his feelings, we left with it.

When I opened the case, I found a fully functional four-bank Underwood Standard Portable. I looked up the serial number in the typewriter database (yes, such a thing exists), and it was manufactured in 1929. It looks like it was made yesterday. My wife thinks this typewriter may be her father’s from when he went off to college.

I gave the Underwood a try. The action was stiff, but no stiffer than the Sears portable I used when I was a student. The type size was elite, and aside from the slugs needing a cleaning, none were damaged. The fact that the ribbon was usable meant someone, perhaps my sister-in-law, had replaced it more recently. Whether that is the case, we do not know. I was surprised to find I could still bang along at 35-40 words a minute. The action of the keys, so much stiffer than on a computer, gave a satisfying physicality to writing, though the little finger on my left hand wasn’t strong enough to adequately strike the ‘a’.

I started to extemporize a story about cowboys watching and worrying about their herd as a storm approached (yup, ‘It was a dark and stormy night’). What I wrote was, of course, garbage. What interested me was how, even in that short time, I felt more emotionally linked to the words as they appeared on the page. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe it was the novelty. I don’t know. Still, it was an interesting experience. Am I going to dump my computer and go back to 1929, embracing the world of Ernest and F. Scott? Nope. Not on your life. But it was nice to visit.