The Nip/Tuck Effect

Or how to give horribly helpful feedback

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The Nip/Tuck Effect

Or how to give horribly helpful feedback

I recently had the pleasure to be a beta reader for

Johnathan Reid

’s excellent first novel, which made me reflect on what’s my role when I give feedback, leading to a very unlikely parallelism.

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If you’re not familiar with Nip/Tuck

Back in the early 2000’s, when I was way too young to watch the show, I was totally fascinated by Nip/Tuck. A sick, sick tv series following the unethical misadventures of two plastic surgeons in Miami.

Christian Troy, interpreted by Julian McMahon, is a brilliantly unlikable character. The worst kind of narcissistic womanizer imaginable, he was what every young, stupid boy wanted to become.

I would lie if I said that, back then, I watched it for the plot twists and the thrills, but after all these years, one scene stuck with me, and the more I lose sleep on my writing, the more that scene seems to represent perfectly my creative process.

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A perfect ten

In the pilot, Christian sleeps with Kimber Henry (Kelly Carlson); a gorgeous model, as beautiful as a human can aspire to be, and the morning after she mentions how much she loves to be a “perfect ten”.

Christian, being a successful plastic surgeon, suggests she can still improve. Wounded in her pride, Kimber challenges him to show her.

That’s when the passionate seducer transforms into a cold butcher. Placing her in front of a mirror, he traces all the surgical improvements he thinks necessary on her skin with her own lipstick.

By the end of it, she’s covered in red, almost in tears, and asks Christian if she’s really that ugly.

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Editing is a cruel game

As horrifying as it looks, this is the job of any writer on a re-draft, any editor, any agent or publisher or beta reader.

We need to take this beautiful thing, which, sometimes, is really lovely, and pull it apart until it’s unrecognisable, highlighting every single tiny defect with red lipstick.

Of course, we don’t have to be as cruel as Christian Troy, but we can’t be too gentle either. Any book worth reading, I can guarantee you, has gone through this relentless process.

Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

And that’s the thing; if you do it for long enough, it stops hurting.

I’m lucky to be part of an amazing critique group, a lovely community—the Hampshire Writers Society—and some very supportive writers friends with whom I can share the journey.

And yet, I literally can’t wait to receive the first piece of professional feedback from my agent.

I’m obviously terrified.

My impostor syndrome now is family, and I do expect his feedback to be a cold shower, but, in a sense, I want it to be. I want my agent to highlight every little mistake, all the parts that can be improved. I want him to suggest a change that I secretly dread.

Because I do want my book to be a perfect ten.

And I don’t think there’s another way.

Alla prossima.

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