How to Spot Toxic Feedback (and find Nourishing Feedback)

The other day I received a rejection email from an editor. It was not, however, the courteous form rejection that I had been expecting when I sent my manuscript out. No, this editor had decided to provide feedback—feedback that opened with a sentence informing me that “like Jorie Graham your heady maximalism works about 40% of the time” (a real puzzler given that most editors reject my work for being too quiet and understated; and also because I had no idea that it was possible to compare me to a Pulitzer Prize winner and insult me at the same time) and then proceeded to roll through the whole toxic feedback playlist in a lengthy email. I’ve received my share of tough love from editors and harsh-but-helpful feedback from writing workshops; this email was neither of these things. It was toxic sludge. I’m writing about it not to throw myself a pity party, but because recognizing toxic feedback and finding its opposite (which I call Nourishing Feedback) are vital survival skills for writers (and all other humans!). They are skills we don’t talk about enough and ones that took me decades to learn.

One of the trickiest things about toxic feedback is that it tends to come from people in positions of power and authority (editors, more senior students in a writing workshop, sometimes even teachers) who feel threatened into defending their status by showing off their knowledge/experience/editorial-taste by attacking another writer. This editor already had the power to reject my manuscript, but for some reason it got under his skin enough that he felt the need to ‘justify’ his rejection with a long screed. Maybe he didn’t like seeing me co-opt boys’ toys like submarines and nuclear weapons as metaphors for navigating domestic and online spaces. Maybe he writes about similar topics and felt a competitive need to scare me off his turf. Maybe one of my poems raised an uncomfortable emotion for him. Maybe he felt intimidated by the fact that most of the poems in the manuscript had already been published in well-regarded journals. Whatever the reason, he put considerable time and energy into attacking my work.

Here's how I recognize Toxic Feedback:

1. The critic operates without taking the writer’s intentions (including her consent to receive feedback at that time or from that source) into account. This, for me, was one of the ickiest parts of the whole experience. I didn’t ask this editor for feedback—just for a yes/no decision about whether the press was interested in publishing my work. If he didn’t like my work, all he had to do was stop reading and click a tab to send me a form rejection. But he went out of his way (by at least 45 minutes) to shove his thoughts in my inbox. An unsolicited critique—whether of someone’s draft, clothing, or body—is almost always toxic.

2. The feedback privileges the critic’s opinions (and ego) over the draft on the page. This editor quickly made it clear that he had not actually read my manuscript—he’d laminated his preconceived assumptions and a checklist of his own dislikes across my work and attacked a strawmanuscript of his own creation. He spewed generalizations and often seemed to confuse his own subjective experiences with universal truths; for instance, “______ do not exist” or “_____ can’t be ______” were frequent reactions whenever I’d used an unconventional adjective-noun pairing to get at an emotional truth (one wonders just what this guy would have to say about Wallace Stevens’ “The Man with the Blue Guitar”).  What he really meant was “I have never experienced _____ and I’m finding it difficult to imagine”. This kind of retreat to overly concrete thinking is a classic strategy from the toxic feedback playbook.

3. The feedback rushes to assign categories and labels (good, trite, too long etc.) without fully observing or engaging with the draft on the page. Often the critic decides to categorize and judge the writer as well as the work—typical specimens include “you______ too much”, “you are too_____”, and “you should know better”. A writer who tries to push back against these judgments may be treated to such gas-lighting gems as “you are too sensitive” and “you should be grateful”.

4. The feedback includes “questions” that are actually judgments phrased as rhetorical questions (e.g. “You don’t want to come across as unlikeable, or do you?”) rather than invitations to new ways of thinking or attempts to clarify a point of uncertainty. My theory is that these “questions” are often expressions of the critic’s frustration that they lack the skill to articulate just how the writer’s craft decisions are shaping the reading experience and/or that they lack the emotional awareness to pinpoint where and why a poem has unsettled them.

5. The feedback makes the writer want to hide under the covers and/or punch something and never look again at the manuscript in question. Or the feedback triggers physical symptoms like headache, heartburn, or nausea—because the body is very good at reacting to toxicity.

I found this editor’s toxic feedback hurtful not just because it trashed my own manuscript, but also because, as a writing coach, I dedicate most of my working hours to crafting its opposite: Nourishing Feedback. I’ve built my coaching practice around nourishing feedback because I’ve seen too many writers (including my past self) gutted by toxic feedback; I believe nourishing feedback is the only kind that helps writers (and their manuscripts) thrive in the long-term—not only because it’s kinder, but because it’s more specific, more collaborative, and more useful.  

Here’s how I recognize Nourishing Feedback:

1. It works from a place of mutual respect between the writer and the feedback-giver—who acknowledges her own fallibility and recognizes the writer’s intentions and wishes (including the wish not to receive feedback at a particular moment or on a particular manuscript).

2. It attends to the writing itself, treating it as an experience rather than an object. The feedback-giver has the emotional intelligence and the editorial skill to describe how specific craft elements shape the reading experience—and how any recommended changes to those elements would change the reading experience to better reflect the writer’s intentions.

3. It makes observations without rushing toward categories, labels, and judgment. Nourishing feedback might include praise that helps a writer recognize and further develop areas of strength; it might address moments where the feedback-giver feels the poem is falling short of its own potential (and suggest revisions). But it always affirms the writer’s human worth and the worth of the creative endeavor.

4. It asks real questions from a place of genuine curiosity and empathy. It invites in new possibilities, thoughts, techniques, and ideas.

5. It leaves the writer feeling energized and eager to write or go for a pre-writing walk. The writer might feel that there are tough decisions to be made or that a Big Rethink is required, but nourishing feedback empowers the writer to move forward.

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