I also wanted to clarify that in my own fiction writing, sometimes I resist change because I’m exhausted and/or my ego’s been pricked–and usually, hopefully, I work through the stages of grief and realize that the critic was right and begin again. But sometimes I resist change because, while I understand the reasons the critic is giving, I’ve made a conscious decision to do it another way. To me, art-making is a continual balancing act between understanding and working within conventions, then having the vision and courage to know when and why and how to push the envelope. It’s knowing the difference between half-bakedness and ingenuity that actually works. Sometimes the gears ARE turning, the organs ARE pulsing, and somebody else will still tell you to change it. It takes courage and intelligence to know when to tell that person no.

But it also takes courage and intelligence to tell that person yes.

The truth is, it’s hard to know when a work of art is actually done. There’s no science to it. There’s craft, sure, but not science. In the end, the artist’s just got to trust his or her gut.

Personally, I believe that the only time you can reject a critique in favor of your artistic vision is when you can show the critic sound reasons why you made the choices he or she is taking to task. Taking refuge in “this is my artistic vision” doesn’t help anyone when it comes to writing better. Good art comes out of communities that have a way to talk about how that art comes to be. This is the reason Gene England was so insistent that Mormonism establish a strong literary criticism. We just shoot ourselves in the foot when we refuse to demystify our art.

Actually, I haven’t had someone tell me an essay I thought was finished was a mess. At least, not since I actually figured out how to write. Before I figured out how to write, I sent out all kinds of crap to my long-suffering friends (including Chris). But when I sent it out then, all I wanted was for them say, “Wow, this is great, Carter” (even though I wouldn’t admit it). Because I didn’t know what was going on. The only way I could tell something was good was if someone else liked it.

It was a terrible way to write. Now I know when something is half-baked. Sometimes I can’t get past that half-bakedness and I either need to set the essay aside for a while to ferment, or send it to a trusted reader (I have only one). But when I send it out, I want nothing more than for the reader to take that baby apart and help me see it new. I WANT it to come back in a bag. Otherwise it’s going to remain in artistic vision land, where it will die ignominiously unless I’m dumb enough to send it out to an editor.

I know an essay is done when I can see how it’s working. When all the gears turn, when all the organs pulse.

You’re right, though. I don’t have to go back and reshoot, I just need to massage things (not to mention color correction and sound engineering, which will account for the majority of the year of work I have left). But that’s because I prepared well. When I went into this project I was only a few months away from earning my MFA, so I had already steeped myself in story theory. Add to that the fact that I knew what kind of story was going to unfold because I had seen it happen to someone else; I went in with a lot on my side.

However, contrast with my story the story of a Dutch production company that made a documentary on exactly the same Alaskan island I made mine. They had money (I had to borrow everything). They had a real cinematographer (I learned on the fly). They had a real sound technician (I Velcroed the mic to the top of the camera). They shot on real film (miniDv for me). They had a bona fide editing studio back home (I have my workhorse of a Mac and Final Cut Pro). But they didn’t have one thing: a story. So the film turned out to be a beautiful 80-minute postcard of Shishmaref.

They had all the tools, but no story. If they want a story, they’re going to have to go back and reshoot. They’ll need to find some characters that want something. They’ll need to find a conflict. And they’ll need to see it through to the end.

I wonder, though if it’s easier to take a critique like this in a genre where you don’t feel quite as adept. Critiques in genres where I feel like I kinda know what I’m doing, like fiction, are harder to take than in those I don’t have as much experience in, like poetry and creative nonfiction. Somebody telling me I need to completely rehaul my fiction is particularly hard if I think I’m done. If somebody has a dozen suggestions for a first or second draft? No problem. But if I submit what I thought was a finished story and I’m told that I need to start over from the beginning, like what Chris noted above? There’s a sense of, “Hey, hands off, buddy, I know what I’m doing,” that comes into play. And to be honest, at some point the artist has the right to say hands off. It’s just hard to know when that point has actually taken place. Is a resistance to changing a work of art stemming from a mixture of ego and exhaustion? Or is the resistance based on a belief in your own vision and a faith that the story as you envision it will work?

Has somebody told you a personal essay you thought was finished is still miles away from completion recently? Just curious. I’d be interested to hear if that was difficult for you.

I remember when you critiqued my novel Kindred Spirits pre-publication, you talked about starting the story in a whole different place, something about an “inciting event.” This would have required reimagining whole new swaths of story territory, something I just wasn’t interested in doing.

I was just wondering if you need to do anything that major, or if you “just” need to reshape what you’ve already got.

Well, thank you. Because I’m planning on submitting something to you.