One day soon — if it hasn’t happened already — someone is going to give you notes, aka “constructive criticism,” regarding one of your latest stories. If you’re like most writers, meaning you’re full of rage and alcohol and a deep well of sadness inside your body that draws everything downward with its indefatigable gravity, this process can be troubling. You get the notes. You look them over. Your intestines bind into a choking knot. Your heart tries to punch a hole through your breastbone.

You weep into your Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

You call your children names. You drink with the dog. You drown the neighbor in your bathtub.

I’ve been there.

It’s not healthy.

The “accepting criticism” part of the writer’s job is for many one of the hardest — it represents a hard-to-leap hurdle. I’ve only recently come to terms with the process and, in fact, have moved into a place where I generally love to get notes because of the challenge it provides. This is a good place to be, because taking criticism and making use of it has been a skill necessary since my very first short story sale way back in (cough cough) the Clintonian era of the American Rebel States. I sent out a story, and the editor sent back a very nice but forthright letter (paraphrased, of course): “I like this story a lot and my associate editor loves it, but it needs some work. I don’t usually do this, but I’m going to give you notes, and if you address them, I’ll publish this story.” Boom.

You get notes, you go through those Kubler-Ross stages of grief, I assure you: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Best to get through them quickly as you can.

I did. I took the notes. I put them into play. And I sold the story.

It felt awful accepting those notes, but what can I say? I was an angry, cocky 18-year-old asshole. Chest all puffed out. Ego equal parts “bloated beast” and “withered flower.”

But it felt pretty fucking sweet getting accepted, and then getting published, and then getting a check.

You’re going to need criticism. You’re going to need the notes process.

Here’s an apple-cart full of tips on how to handle it. In no particular order.

1 ) Realize: It’s Not Personal

Unless someone writes across the top some kind of insult — “You’re a goddamn Albanian goat whore!” — then criticism isn’t ever personal. So, don’t take it personally. Nobody’s calling you out. Nobody’s insulting you. They’re not even insulting your story. If you catch a whiff of insult, it’s probably safe to disregard the advice. At least, nobody would blame you for doing so. Oh, sidenote to this: it will feel less personal if you’ve first given yourself some distance. You finish writing a story at 3PM and give it to a reader at 4PM, you’re just asking for a kick to the sphincter. Gain distance. Give it a week. Give it a month. Whatever you can stand. You need to transition from “writer” to “reader.” When you are the reader of the story instead of its writer, you gain the clarity needed to accept notes without leaping off a bridge.

2 ) Ask For Notes

Criticism doesn’t often happen unbidden. You’ll never know how fast you can run unless somebody times you. You often have to step into the ring and demand that the notes be slung at your head like so much moldy lettuce. Invite it into your process. Don’t stop at one set of notes. Move outside your comfort zone and get a good cross-section. You get one or two sets of notes, it might legitimately help, but you also have no bearing, no sense of comparison, no context for which path to choose. Get at least three or more. Find a way to create a majority. If two reviewers call out a problem but the third doesn’t, it’s safe — though not automatically correct — to err on the side of the majority view.

3 ) Understand: Not All Criticism Is Created Equal

Not every note is of value. And not every critic knows how to provide notes. This is of course something of a slippery slope — you don’t want to start disregarding criticism out-of-hand simply because “that dickmonkey doesn’t know good writing from the skidmarks in an old man’s diaper.” Good criticism is not criticism that agrees with you or likes your work. Good criticism feels distant, even a little dispassionate, and it doesn’t take ownership of the work — it views it as a third party, not a primary source. Good criticism goes beyond “I didn’t like this,” but stops short of, “Here’s how you need to fix it.” Good criticism is provided by good critics. Which leads us to…

4 ) Choose Critics That Matter

Do not choose critics who are bound to like your work, and don’t be afraid to choose those who are likely to dislike the work — they will at the very least offer you new perspective. While their notes may not be helpful (someone who hates sci-fi is likely to criticize those sci-fi aspects of the story, regardless of how integral they happen to be), they will at least highlight things others didn’t look for, and they may even help you kill the sacred cows that come mooing and pooping with every genre. Good story is good story, after all. Further, choose critics who enjoy the process, who have done it before, who are themselves creators or editors or storytellers of some ilk. It helps to know that they understand the process and are not simply, “That guy over there.” “Hey, Hobo Joe, you wanna read and critique my novel?” will not help you.

5 ) Recognize The Outcome

The outcome of the notes process is different with different reviewers. You give it to a friend to read, then the outcome is uncertain — you make the notes or you don’t, and maybe the story’s better, maybe it’s not. Not saying that’s a bad thing — but it’s a thing. On the other hand, you have an agent or an editor giving you notes, well, those matter more, don’t they? Sometimes, the note process is a key to open a door, and understand that if you make changes based on those notes — and are happy to do so — then that door opens.

6 ) Choose One Of The Three Paths

Each note offers you three choices. First: ignore the note. Second: do exactly what the note demands. Third: find the middle path and choose your own solution. Which leads us to…

7 ) Look For Problems, Not Solutions

Even the best critics read work and apply the “What Would I Do Differently?” stamp. It’s totally normal. But it’s your job to spot this. In most walks of life, it’s unreasonable to call out a problem without having a solution ready at hand — otherwise, it’s really just complaining. Here, though, you want the opposite. You want: “The protagonist feels passive.” You don’t necessarily want: “And the way to make him more active is to turn him into a gun-toting ballerina.” You need to read past the notes and find the problems, but you don’t need to accept the solutions offered. You can. If you like the solution, great. But the better, stronger way is to own the work and answer a challenge in the way that your story and its characters best demand.

8 ) Treat It Like A Game

One assumes that the greatest dose of creativity comes when crafting a story wholesale, birthing it from your mind-womb, wet and struggling on the restroom floor. Not so, intrepid writerfolk. The greatest measure of creativity is in the problem-solving that comes during the notes process. You are presented with any number of blank walls, giant hurdles, locked doors and screaming banshees. They all point to one thing: this is a problem for me, says the critic. If you treat it like a game, like a kind of open-world Choose Your Own Adventure, you can take it from nerve-wracking to holy crap, this is some fun shit. Take every note and play with it. Swirl it around your mouth. Spitball. Brainstorm. Think up not just one solution, but several. “I could do this, or this, or this. Gun-toting ballerina, or maybe he’s a ninja janitor, or what would happen if I made him a Vatican librarian with a talking bookstamp, its amber handle holding a bone splinter from a saint’s index finger?” This is the best time to engage in the “WHAT IF?” game? What if he’s dead? What if he’s a dog? What if he’s a she? Find multiple options. But like with Choose Your Own Adventure, save the page with your thumb — you may not like the paths you find. And that’s okay.

9 ) Communicate With The Reviewer

Nine times out of ten you can talk to the reviewer. Sound off. Ask him clarifying questions. Present him with alternate solutions, see if that would answer the note. Invite the critic into your game.

10 ) Integrity Is For Assholes

“Integrity” is like “honor.” It’s some made-up shit to excuse our worst behaviors. You have no integrity as a writer. To assume that a note violates your integrity is a sign that either you’ve either got low self-esteem or in fact suffer from the opposite: you hold yourself in a regard that is needlessly high. Or, alternately, you’re just a lazy fucker who doesn’t want to put in the work. Worry not about your integrity. Worry only about one thing: does this note make the story better, does it make it worse, or does it do nothing at all? Come into the process mindful of all the things you think are strong about the work — character, theme, mood — and be prepared for the judgment call of, “This does not strengthen my theme.” Or, “This doesn’t make sense.” Or, “That is not what this story is about.” But also be prepared to challenge even those most sacred of notions. Always go back to #8 on this list: first find the paths and light ‘em up as bright as you can before you reject them. Do not reject a note automatically. Do not rely on your integrity as a false defense. Always swish the note around your mouth; always see if it contains secret flavors. You can only know the value of the note if you hold it in your hand and give it a good long look.