The Etiquette of Sharing Your Drafts and Getting Feedback

What do people really want when they ask you to read a draft? What kind of feedback is useful? What's useless? If you're sending a draft, are you an asshole for asking in the first place?

By Luke Winkie

I’m a serial draft-sharer. It’s a response to my one freelance writing anxiety that’s never fully gone away. I will soon hit my sixth year subsisting entirely off of 1099s, and I still send reams of mid-stakes and high-stakes copy to a network of friends and colleagues the day before filing. I’m seeking assurance that, in my handling of a laborious metaphor or particularly sensitive subject matter, I’m not completely unhinged; if I am, I’d like that message to come from a loved one first, rather than someone with control of my next paycheck.

Lately I’ve come to learn that I’m not the only one who does this. I’ve been the recipient of anxious first drafts from fellow freelance writers; I’ve offered reassurance that the work in question is “great!,” “good!,” or at least “on the right track!” We rely on solidarity in the grim landscape of contract labor, and freelancers are able to create a support group with a simple Google Doc link. That being said, I do think that this ritual could use some guidelines.

As a surrogate editor and as a frequent user of surrogate editors, I’ve generated a whole rulebook of trivial preferences about the process. But those are all specific to me. Everyone in this industry has their own tics and pet peeves about the pre-filing sharing network. What do people really want when they ask you to read a draft? What kind of feedback is useful? What’s useless? If you’re sending a draft, are you an asshole for asking in the first place? I got in touch with several colleagues in the industry—some of who have read my unhinged drafts in the past—to find out.

A common refrain was that the most annoying thing a surrogate editor can do is litigate the fundamental idea of the story, rather than responding to the actual story as it’s been assigned. Rachel Sugar, a freelancer in Brooklyn, describes the phenomenon: “I show a draft to someone for a piece that is, lets say, about cats, because the editor and I have agreed I will be writing an article about cats, and [the draft reader is] like, ‘Why isn’t it about dogs, it would be better if it was about dogs.'”

I’ve been the instigator of what Sugar is talking about. Maybe it’s part of freelancer DNA—even when you’re supposed to be proofing a draft for a friend, your brain reflexively offers follow-up questions, responses, critiques, and alternative angles. But it’s important to digest a draft without trying to outsmart it like a headstrong sophomore in a continental philosophy class. Will Partin, an esports journalist currently working on his PhD at the University of North Carolina, agrees with Sugar. “The point of reading and sharing and editing is to help someone make the best version of the piece they set out to write. If I give someone something and all their changes are, ‘This is what I would have done if I were writing it,’ I’m like, “Well fuck you then, go write it yourself!’”

Both Partin and Sugar told me that, when they receive a draft, they appreciate an overview of the author’s concerns. Are they worried about the pacing? Does a risky stylistic choice work? Is the argument convincing? That helps clarify exactly how a surrogate editor can be useful. “I think that is a courtesy to your reader because it allows them to optimize their time and expertise,” adds Partin.

“If someone says, ‘This is due tomorrow, just want to make sure it generally makes sense,’ it’s useful for me to know that!” says Sugar. “So I don’t give structural feedback no one wants!”

Steven Wright, a freelancer in Minnesota, says he provides a list of questions when he sends out a story to a friend: “Is the lede good? Does the structure connect? Do you feel compelled to keep reading?” I look for the same kind of feedback; when I send a draft, I’m mostly seeking a gut reaction about whether the piece works.

To that point, I’m not a huge fan of granular line and copy edits. That’s left to my editor—they’ll decide whether to cut a six-dollar word, or will remind me, for the billionth time, that the style guide demands real em-dashes instead of two hyphens. [Editor’s note: It does.] I already know all the technical reasons my writing can be stupid sometimes; it’s more useful to know how the piece lands.

I think some of my paranoia about these sort of line edits is tied up with the Google Doc interface itself. I don’t love the idea that the piece’s actual editor might find an orphan comment left by a friend of mine, questioning whether or not I’m using the word “ancillary” correctly. I want my readers to leave my Docs as they found them: Clean, at least superficially.

Wright, on the other hand, tells me he doesn’t mind Google Doc comments, but one thing that makes his skin crawl is direct copy editing, especially if those edits haven’t been flagged with an accompanying note. “Even if it’s something like a typo or an obvious error, I would prefer someone just highlight it,” he says. “I find that solving the error by itself is generally not that productive. If I made a mistake in tense, for example, the structure of the sentence is probably suboptimal, so I’ll probably change the whole thing.”

Cecilia D’Anastasio, a senior reporter at Kotaku, told me that her biggest pet peeve is when another writer asks her for a “sensitivity review” on a piece—more specifically, white men asking women to read a draft that deals with race, gender identity, or sex work in order to insulate it from blowback. “I think that the writer or editor should already be in a position to do that [sensitivity review] if they’ve agreed to [publish] it,” she says.

Eddie Kim, a staff writer at Mel, told me that he hates it when a friend, a peer, or a random freelancer ambushes him with a draft in need of a short turnaround; he also gets a little annoyed when compensation never comes up. “Of course this is different if it’s a peer at work or a good friend, but even those people tend to offer to buy me drinks,” he explains. “I’ve gotten cold requests from people to read their stuff because I’ve done something in a similar subject, and while I’m flattered by it, people need to acknowledge that time is literally money.”

To recap, editors:

• Don’t quarrel with the fundamental premise of the piece.
• Don’t make direct changes to the copy without adding a note.

For draft senders:

• Summarize your main concerns.
• If you’re asking for a “sensitivity read,” consider discussing with your editor instead. (At the very least, offer to pay your reader.)
• Don’t send a draft you need to file in 15 minutes.
• Maybe offer to buy your reader a beer or a treat.

Of course, these are guidelines, and your surrogate editor may have a completely separate set of tics. But with honest communication about our expectations, we’ll all be more useful and a bit less annoying.

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