By Nina Walker
(You can read more about the group and zine Amateur Hour on Creative Writing at Leicester here).
There is a popular idiom that too many cooks spoil the broth, that too many people getting involved in a project, sticking their dirty fingers in and poking about, tends to make the project worse. But is this true of creative writing? Is there a point at which a perfect balance is achieved between opinions and inner clarity, and how on earth do we reach this mythical balance? As one of the organisers of a creative writing group, my position ought to be obvious: Yes! More people are great, and new perspectives always yield insights grand enough to send Percy Shelly back up Mont Blanc to have another look. But the reality is more complicated. I believe in the inherent value of outside perspectives in the process of redrafting. I also believe that if you were to make every adjustment suggested by others your work ceases to truly be your own. The idea of writers having a signature style or voice is dependent partly on the ability to resist criticism and persevere. Often when giving feedback I have to stop and wonder whether I, a woman covered in crisp shards working from her bed, is truly an authority on what constitutes a ‘weak metaphor’ and what constitutes a ‘good’ one. Often my feedback initially will simply resemble a series of ‘this doesn’t work for me’ or ‘I love this,’ which all contain the inherent caveat that this is just my singular opinion: your reader's opinions will (hopefully) contain multitudes.
When we produced our second zine, I finished the process feeling more satisfied than when we produced our first; this was for a few reasons, but a key one was the sense of unique voices within the collection. It was clear that members of Amateur Hour were not all singing from a mass-printed song sheet, and I liked that! I get the impression that it is incredibly difficult to teach people how to receive feedback (and indeed give it, we have learned as a group mainly through practice) but almost two years in it’s clear to me that the group has gotten better at receiving and applying feedback. The knotted truth about feedback is that it is often wrong, not in the sense that it is irrelevant or purposefully disruptive, but in the sense that it is only one perspective upon your work. People will misread your similes, critique what you thought was your strongest sentence, and ask whether such and such is a ‘real word.’ All of this instinctually will feel wrong when you sit down to absorb your comments and sometimes that instinct is worth honouring. Your work can have strengths that aren’t apparent to anyone. Your work can also be worse than you perceive it to be. The skill comes in differentiating which comments ought to be listened to and which ought to be ignored.
The way we submit our feedback has changed over the two years that the writing group has been running. We used to have people upload their own annotated version of the document. This method had strengths but also many weaknesses: it was a pain to collate thoughts when going back over what you’d written, and people inadvertently ended up giving very similar feedback with areas of work barren of thoughts. But it did avoid the tricky pitfall of being persuaded by the feelings of others. Now we all work on one Google doc and annotate it, which overall is much more successful and allows people to have conversations as they feedback. I prefer this way of working because it allows people to be inspired not just by the work but by the way it is received by others. This is not always a net positive, however: sometimes comments get stuck in a ‘feedback loop’ of agreed, agreed, agreed, agreed and you begin to wonder how it’s possible that so many people read that sentence and came to the same conclusion. You also wonder whether those who liked the sentence now felt too embarrassed to say so (delusional as this thought may appear the embarrassment of being a dissenting voice is genuine). There is also the question of whether you take a sentence hated by the masses to be objectively worse than one that received mixed responses— feedback supported by a group always feels more ‘objective'— the answer I tend to come to is yes. But sometimes you aren’t in agreement and then it becomes the writer vs the collective and that’s a far greyer zone to operate within.
There is an importance to learning how to reject feedback; there is an importance to removing your ego from receiving criticism. Often, I and, I’m sure, many others end up realising: you knew what you were going for, but it only exists in your head and not in that Google doc. All of this is to say that from my perspective too many cooks spoil the draft if the head chef doesn’t feel like he can say no to the chefs. If he spends all his time flapping around following orders it's likely his final dish won’t be the nicest. I am also aware here that I speak for a group of people who all have their unique perspectives on how to give and receive feedback (indeed that is one of the groups strengths), but my hope is that the support of the writing group breeds the confidence to have the final say on what does and doesn’t work. I used to have fairly high-minded beliefs that often poems come out perfectly formed, like babies or diamonds, but this is an extremely rare thing. In reality, most poems improve from redrafting and most novels would benefit from a nice (brutal) cutback. We tend to be gentle with our own writing, sentimental about our visions and our hopes, and sometimes having people cut into that gentleness spurs a more grounded perspective on what people are hearing rather than what you’re trying to say. Writing is deeply personal so sometimes feedback feels deeply personal too; what comes from a writing group is the trust that everyone there isn’t motivated by anything other than wanting to see you improve.
We made several moves when we produced our second zine: we changed the font, we made a web-store (here), but most importantly we all wrote to the theme ‘Stew.’ Writing to a theme in my opinion produced a more unified front. The fact we were all in a sense attacking the same problem seemed to create a mindset that was more open to feedback. Below I’ll include two examples of work written to the theme that exemplify just how varied our output was even though we were all dipping into the same feedback pool.
I bucked and chased you
across the rutted field.
Scaring you senseless.
Diving beneath wire,
you cursed catching your sleeve.
seemed ominous—
but there was no blood.
Just a neat incision—
easily stitched.
I stared
then strutted away
across our turf—
hard like.
Later, I followed the gang.
The familiar track sighed.
We mounted each other,
the gate turned away.
It was a warm evening.
The flies were humming
sauce down our legs.
Tails twitched.
turning left.
sidled by.
Hazard lights sealed it for me.
Backed into a corner,
We hustled in…
I’d like to say we were excited
by the unexpected trip
because ‘abattoir’ had a French ring to it—
but there was a whiff of hysteria
as we tried synching our kick-ups—
a posse of demented Can-Can
dancers—Dexy’s Midnight Runners.
They were gunning for us.
Stunning
to think that this morning I held all the power
as you cowered beneath wire.
for my exsanguination.
ripped off. Dainty shins—
chopped. Cheeky smiles—
lopped.
for stew or stock
I want to finish this reflection by thanking everyone in the writing group (members past and present) for continuing to dedicate time and care to the betterment of everyone's writing. If there are too many cooks, then I’m glad it's these cooks in particular. If you’re interested in the writing group or would like to get a zine for yourself, please get in touch at amateurhourpublications@gmail.com.
Nina Walker is a poet and first-year English Literature PhD Student who has been co-running her Leicester-based writing group 'Amateur Hour' for nearly two years and has overseen the production of their 2024 and 2025 Zines. More of her poetry and short essays can be found on her blog here.
