By Danny Hankner

 

If you read Lessons From the Field Part 1, then you’re familiar with my paintball past. In one of those old forums, I heard a solid piece of advice that remains with me to this day: If you really want to elevate your game, start refereeing.

 

It didn’t just stick with me because it was so simple. It stuck with me because it was so true.

 

As mentioned, paintball was my life, and I was exceptionally good at it: dominating my friends out in the woods, and (more than) keeping up with guys from the big city who would go on to play professionally for Bob Long’s Ironmen (that’s like playing for the Chicago Bulls). Hell, one of those guys would never play me 1 on 1 when I challenged him to pump action only – preferring to hide his mid-level skills behind a wall of paint.

 

Yeah, I was good, but I got even better when I finally took that sage advice and started reffing. But how is becoming a referee the key to unlocking next-level play?

 

When you’re on the field, diving behind bunkers, your adrenaline is pumping, your teammates are screaming, paint is flying, and all you have is your narrow little vantage point. All you see is all you know: faces snapping behind plywood, barrels glinting, gelatin-filled orbs sailing inches from your skin.

 

There’s an entire game being played that you just can’t see.

 

But the ref can.

 

Whether taking the high ground in the woods, or standing at the 50 sideline on a speedball course, the ref sees so much more. Because he’s not in here, he sees every bad play, every blunder, every failed snapshot, every good move never taken. He sees the overly timid getting shot from a better angle. He sees the overly brazen getting blasted on a run. He sees all the opportunities for flag pulls never taken because the players on the field just didn’t know if anyone was guarding it.

 

Indeed, the ref sees so much more than those playing.

 

The lessons I learned from the field after only a season of refereeing made me nearly unstoppable, so much so that, forever after, I handicapped myself by using pump-action only guns (when everyone else was throwing down semi-autos at a dozen balls a second) just to make it fair.

 

And as in paintball, so in writing.

 

Do you want your stories to start dominating contests and lighting up publishing credits and awards? Then you, dear writer, need to learn the same lesson, and since we talked about the why in part 1, we’re going to delve into how.

 

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In part 1, we discussed why friends and family are (typically) not the best to seek a critique from (though better than nothing!). Beyond that, avid readers – though a step above the familial – will often fall short in their critiques as well. Having never practiced the skills themselves, they will be clunky and ineffective, like a newbie walking onto the field with the fastest gun in the game. Sure, he’s got some good gear, but likely has no idea how to use it. So how would he be able to properly advise others? I don’t mean to say that avid readers don’t know anything – they certainly do! But it’s the articulation, not just of whether they liked a story, but why, and what specifically worked, and what didn’t work.

 

Unless you have a specific plot hole you need help with, wait until the story is reasonably polished, otherwise your reader will grow weary of slogging through the myriad of mistakes and not want to critique your writing again. Not only that, but critique fatigue (say that three times fast) is a real thing. People only have so much time – and patience – and if your manuscript is rife with problems, inevitably, they're going to focus on the largest plot holes (the ones you knew were looming but were too lazy to address), and forego touching on the other problems (the ones you weren’t aware of – and never will be, if they’re too busy addressing the bigger issues).

 

Just like those players on the field, everyone sees a different angle, and different perspectives will help in different areas. I prefer to take one critique at a time and work on those issues before moving on to the next. Then, after I’ve made the necessary changes, I send the updated draft off to the next prospect. Remember, you don’t want people wasting time and energy on a problem you’re already aware of.

 

Once you become familiar with your critiquers, you’ll begin to spot their strengths and weaknesses. This will help you sort out which advice to take, and what to leave. A good line of thought: let’s say you have several critiques, and all of them mention the same issue, likely it needs fixed, but if only 1 did, it may very well be unnecessary, or even unhelpful. Even good writers will occasionally give bad advice. Know what your story is about. Trust your instinct, especially as you mature in your craft and abilities.

 

I can’t say this enough – remove yourself from the story. Stop looking at your writing as an extension of yourself, and start looking at it as clay to be molded, a problem to be solved. The absolute best writers I work with all do this: their aim is not on nursing bruised egos (or even gobbling up credit), it’s laser-focused on making the story the best it can be. To do that, you have to remove yourself from the manuscript. It’s not about you; it’s about the story! Even if you have to stand in front of the monitor and repeat this idiom like an incantation - if that’s what it takes, then say it with me: It’s not about me, it’s about the story. It’s not about me, it’s about the story. It’s not about me, it’s about the story…

 

If someone critiques your manuscript, do the same for them. (Remember, thread the needle between kindness and clarity. Too many critiques err on one side or the other – too “nice” and they’re useless, too “blunt” and they completely dispirit the writer. Tell the writer where and when they are doing a good job while graciously pointing out what isn’t working for you. Don’t be afraid to simply ask questions to get the author thinking: Who’s saying this? Is this dialogue in character? Could there a stronger segue to this scene?) Not only is it the decent, sporting thing to do, but it’s the entire crux of the introduction to this article. This is your chance to referee. To look with distant, fresh eyes. To spot those blunders, those weak verbs and weaker characters, that wooden dialogue and those awkward transitions, to sink your teeth into no-hook introductions, to slog through the desert of agonizing, aimless prose, and feel the emptiness of an utterly flat ending. Yes, seeing is believing.

 

 

This is the secret key to unlocking your own great writing, to go next-level in honing your craft. It’s a key that few writers know even exists, and even fewer will pursue, because it requires effort. But it’s absolutely real.

 

And it works.

 

Ask me (an award-winning author, editor, and publisher) how I know.

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