A page that was not hers

A woman in Maadi is writing short stories in the evenings, and she wants to know if they are any good. Before showing her own, she tries something sly.

She copies out a page from a well-loved collection by a celebrated writer, one her sister has never read, and hands it over as her own first draft.

The verdict is quick and confident. The opening is slow. Nobody reads this sort of thing any more. It is a bit sad, and people want something lighter. Are you sure you want to put this out there, with your name on it?

Every word of that is aimed at a page that has been in print for decades and is still loved. Which tells her something useful. The criticism was never about the page. It was about her. Her sister is frightened that she will be hurt, or laughed at, or disappointed, and the fear came out dressed as advice.

That does not make her sister unkind. It makes her ordinary. Very few people have ever been taught to give feedback that helps. Most of us offer one of two things: comfort that costs nothing, or warnings that protect the other person from a danger we imagine for them.

Neither is much use when the work is real. What she needs is someone who knows how short stories work, what this kind of writing is trying to do, and who can say what is missing in a way she can act on tomorrow night.

Running the test with someone else's page first does not find that person. It does show her, quickly and painlessly, who it is not.