8 Types of Readers That Will Critique Your Work

In the writing process, you're going to run into a place where you need outside feedback. Their job is to read your story and give you thoughtful criticism. Your job is to filter through all of their notes to figure out what is valuable and work to revise or continue your story. No matter their Reader type, not all of their feedback will be valuable/worthless.

This is certainly not a comprehensive list of readers you'll run into, but these are the approximate and common groups that I've gotten feedback from.

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Sand Wish | A short

When the time is right and the sand is clean of footprints, for the tide has done its job and the wind has cleaned the rest, the only heartbeat on the beach comes from an androgynous little creature that ought not to belong either on the land or in the sea.

It breaks the uniformity of the wet sand as it slides up to a bird perched upon a rock to feed. The sea creature will feed, too; just as the bird moves to peck at some sandy insect, the creature has snatched him up and sunk its teeth into its poor feathered neck. It does not break the beach's cleanliness; there is no blood, no bone, no feather left behind.

Tattooed | A poem

The following poem is found in the anthology Where the Mind Dwells: Proclamation, available for purchase online:

Flying Whales Are Not Safe | A poem

World War Four will be fought
On the backs of whales in the sky
(With sticks and stones,
Like Einstein said)
And we will not ask why.

No. | A poem

A response to rape culture: a poem included in the 2016-17 Dominican University literary magazine, Stella Veritum, entitled "No."

I Am Not an Astronaut | A poem

For Alyssa:

I See What Was | A poem

From the street,
In the window
Of an old home:

Will You Go Out With Me? | A poem

It is a heart-pounding question
I ask
In the middle of the day
Just because
I think
Of you.

Darling Darlene | A poem

Darlene, stay with me.
Here in our past
We will never grow old.

Sweet | A poem

He looked at her like her eyes were the moon -
And, oh, how he loved the nighttime.
He spoke to her like she could never do wrong -
And, oh, there was no one to change that.
He pet her hair like she was the last thing he'd touch -
And, oh, what a treasure that was.

She looked at him like her eyes were the moon -
And for once someone wanted the nighttime.
She listened to him like she could never do wrong -
And she believed all the sweet words he read.
She leaned into his hand like he was the last one who'd touch her -
And she said she was all right with that.

Is it sweet?
Like honey.

Prompt Series, #2 | the silence that won't go away + "Say it."

Silence. Silence. Silence that won't go away. There's no noise at all. Hasn't been. Not for years, it felt like.

She remembers what noise used to be: car horns out the window; birds on the telephone wire; children in the playground across the street; coffee machine's beeps; turning of newspaper or magazine pages; front door opens - pause - I love you before the door clicks shut.

it is alive | A poem

the creator shouts,
my God. it is alive,
as the creature rises
to move and breathe,
seamlessly.

there are no imperfections on satin skin.
the rips and tears and broken threads
of the long years and savored moments -
of wear and tear, of sleep and love -
are the threads i love the most,
are the threads that make skin human.

Prompt Series, #1 | the birds on the front lawn + "you have to stand still"

The birds were all on the ground along the entrance. Just sitting. He saw no reason. There were no seeds over there, no trees - and it hadn't rained in at least a week for there favorite worms, though those often lived in the dirt closer to the garden on the other side of the church.