by Elaina Lyons

When I was an English major in college, I had this one professor for several of my classes. Where other professors gave me As, he would give me an A- or, even worse (in my mind), a B+. In writing. The thing I was supposedly best at. And when he delivered those grades on my pieces of writing, he would always, without fail, give me the same feedback: More detail.

More detail? How? Where? I would rack my brain trying to find any bit of detail I could add into my essays and short stories. I was certain that if I wrote even a tiny bit more, the characters themselves would revolt against me. “It’s too much!” they seemed to shout at me from the pages.

Eventually, his feedback became irritating. I began to despise the word “detail” in all its forms. I still loved his classes — they were fun and engaging and educational. But I dreaded submitting assignments.

It’s not that grades of B+ or A- are bad. They’re good! But for me, not being able to fix the pieces well enough to get that illusive A was frustrating beyond words. I wanted to impress him and, more than that, I wanted my writing to be perfect.

And an A means perfect, right?

Well, no.

I’ve learned a few things since I graduated a decade ago.

Firstly, he was right. My stories needed more detail. I didn’t know how to add it then, mainly because I was so preoccupied with the big picture of each piece that I neglected to zoom in. But over the years, I’ve taken his advice to heart in every single thing I’ve ever written. Every time I finish a piece, I look back and ask myself, “Where can I add more detail?”

Secondly, writing is subjective. Your work will always be judged. It’s just that, eventually, you get reviews instead of grades. Not everyone will like what you write, and that’s OK. It doesn’t mean they’re right or you’re right — if anything, it means you both are. You see, we consume art through the lens of our own experiences, and those experiences color our perception of it. This includes writing. So when you read a book, you read it with years of ideas already solidified in your head.

Your work will always be judged. It’s just that, eventually, you get reviews instead of grades. Not everyone will like what you write, and that’s OK. It doesn’t mean they’re right or you’re right — if anything, it means you both are.

You can’t write to impress anyone because, if you do, you will almost always fail. Someone will always dislike your work. Write anyway.

Thirdly, no one is ever above receiving constructive criticism. Just because something is your niche, doesn’t mean you’re automatically an expert in it. And, news flash, even experts can be wrong sometimes.

So, bottom line: Keep writing. Keep listening. Keep engaging. And, most importantly, keep growing. After all, the day we stop learning how to be better is the day we give up on ourselves.

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