I remember the first time I was given notes as a television writer. I was pitching a spec script for the show Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, starring Kevin Sorbo. I had the episode set in the dead of winter, starting with an evil wizard conjuring up an abominable snowman that was going to fight Hercules.

I had an alternate take for a potential plot-twist though: it was never actually an abominable snowman, but actually just a group of harmless woodland creatures who had accidentally gotten tangled up in a giant snowball during the snowstorm and were inadvertently wreaking havoc.

My father – a writer on the show (and responsible for such lines as Iolaus: Hercules, how did you feel fighting your clone? Hercules: I was beside myself) – calmly explained to me that the woodland creature take sounded much more “Disney” and that Hercules was something called a “monster of the week” show, and it was important for a spec script to play into that formula.

I was five years old.   

That gives me a total of twenty-three years getting professional critiques as a writer. I’m not even kidding. I don’t know how my dad gave me notes as a kindergartener with a straight face, but he did. He took me so seriously my entire life, and so I was raised to understand that feedback is a crucial part of the writing process, one that makes you a better writer, a better person, a better communicator.

Today (March 18) is my father’s birthday, and I kind of feel like a jerk because I did nothing for him today, but that’s because I was busy being a writer, which I hope is the best thing I could do to honor our relationship and the Herskowitz legacy (my grandfather, Mickey Herskowitz, is an award-winning sports journalist and biographer whom my dad credits with inspiring him the way that my dad inspires me). My musical, Between Gods and Kings, written with Neil Douglas Reilly and Austin Ruffer, has its first preview in two days at a bar on the lower east side, an Equity production classed somewhere between Off-Broadway and Off-Off Broadway due to the odd mix of equity actors and a non-traditional space. I’ve been getting ready to head to PAX East for my first con as a game dev (!!!) which is something I never planned on being, but my dad and I used to play all the old Zork games and King’s Quest (VII is my fave game of all time) starting, again, when I was about five years old, so I hope that makes him proud, too. I’m pretty sure it does, which is great ‘cause “Monster Prom” is sometimes FILTH and some dads wouldn’t like that, but mine doesn’t particularly care what the content is as long as it’s well-written XD.

Three years ago today – once again upstaging my father’s birthday with writing jobs and once again having complete support from him – we did a presentation of my musical Loch Lomond, also with Neil Douglas Reilly. At the time, it seemed like there might be some exciting momentum there. Then nothing happened for three years. And now things are happening again. And some of them already were so incredible they made my heart burst with joy… and then my heart burst with sadness when they fell through. And now more new things are on the horizon for it… and those might fall through, too. Or not.

You have no control over what happens to what you write.

But you do have control over who you are as a writer.

And what I’ve learned as a theatre writer especially is that who you are is everything. Being collaborative, being willing to learn, being open to feedback is all crucial.

My absolutely incredible musical theatre writing mentors, Tony-winners Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty (Ragtime, Once On This Island, Seussical, Anastasia, owning my heart forever…) were generous enough to take the time out of their busy schedules and attend the 18 March 2016 Loch Lomond reading. Then they were DOUBLE generous with their time and gave us a ton of feedback. In doing so, Lynn gave me one of my favoritest favorite quotes anyone’s ever said. I had heard a note from my mother and father which Neil and I resisted absolutely, completely convinced that both my parents were wrong. Then in her e-mail, Lynn mentioned the same thing. I wrote her back thanking her profusely for her notes and confessing that one in particular was something I had heard twice before. Lynn’s response?

“If three people tell you you’re drunk, it’s time to go lie down.”

I . Freaking. Treasure. That.

Because of course, as writers, we want to hold on to our vision and remain true to our ideals and tell the story we want to tell etc. etc., so it can be difficult to take into consideration other people’s points of view without feeling that we’re somehow compromising our artistic vision. So how do we know when it’s just someone else’s opinion and not worth changing your piece because someone else happens to not have the same aesthetic, and how do we know when a change is truly worth making?

The Lynn drunk person rule really works for me. Because here’s what it tells me – it tells me that it’s not about someone not wanting to hear the story I’m telling, it’s that the story I want to tell isn’t being told the way I think it is/the way I want it to be, that there’s a lack of clarity, that people want more for me in that moment.

Your goal is to tell your story, the way you want to tell it. But your audience – whether it be a physical audience in the theater or the audience reading your written work – has to be in on that experience. You have to let them come along for the ride with you. They have to be on the journey. And if you stick to a “my way or the highway” mentality where no feedback is going to change your opinion on your piece, you’re not sharing with the rest of the class, you’re writing a diary.

I worked very briefly with a playwright who I thought (and still think!) is incredibly talented. Like, beyond talented. When I read a play of theirs, I was blown away… but very confused by the ending, which seemed completely unrealistic in a play that seemed otherwise very grounded in reality. I politely asked about this, saying that I found it jarring and was wondering what they were going for (we had often given each other notes) and they got extremely frustrated and angry with me. They explained that they weren’t offended or anything, it was just infuriating because everyone kept telling them that they didn’t get the ending and it was unrealistic, but everyone was wrong.

Well. The playwright may have thought their ending was clear and fit the piece perfectly, but if everyone else was lost and didn’t “get it” then it wasn’t just a question of aesthetic, it was a question of clarity. Yet the playwright had no interest in taking this in and sharing their intention with the audience by reworking the end in a way that let the audience come along on the journey, rather choosing to stick to the point of view that the entire audience was wrong in their interpretation of the ending and nothing needed to be done. To the best of my knowledge nothing has been done with that play since, which is really too bad because most of it was immensely powerful. But because of their complete unwillingness to hear what their audience was experiencing, they ended up having no audience at all.

So how does this all relate back to my dad?

Great question.

Not all notes are going to be good notes, and not all people are going to know how to give good notes, even if they’re fantastic writers, or make you feel empowered when they do so. Earlier this year my dad read a screenplay I had written for a friend and more or less told me that it was really, really good… but unworthy of her talent and absolutely needed to get to the next level. BUT he did it in a kind, loving, humorous, inspiring way that was pushing me to be better without putting me down.

You need to find the kind of critiques that work for you, find the Beta reader who communicates on your level, find the mentors and heroes who are willing to take on an aspiring writer and teach them with an open heart and keen eye for detail but plenty of empathy as well.

Those people are out there. I know I’m incredibly blessed to have grown up in an incredible family (my mom also gives AMAZING notes but it’s not her birthday, so…) and to work for my heroes and have them be so generous and kind to me. Not everyone will have those opportunities. But you have the internet! You have websites and hashtags and ways to find people and get their opinions. All you need is an audience, and it’s up to you to decide what you’re going to communicate to them and how you’re going to do it.

If one person doesn’t respond to a particular moment in your work, then it might just not be their aesthetic, it might be a beat that doesn’t sing to their soul.

But if three people tell you you’re drunk…

You might want to think about lying down.  

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Maggie Herskowitz on Twitter @Maggie_Julienne.