• Read with a charitable eye. A key feature of charitable reading is to not expect the author to be doing what you want him or her to do. This does not mean that you don’t hold texts to genre standard and basic standards of quality. It does mean that recognizing that some things are a matter of taste and expectations and being up front about your own.
• Engage in omnivorous media consumption so that you broaden your expectations and tastes and have more experiences in charitable reading.
• Related to both of the above — be aware of genre conventions and expectations and respect them (and sometimes subvert them, of course, but only subvert because you already know and love the conventions). Nothing is worse than a reviewer or critic who spouts off on a subject that he or she clearly doesn’t know a whole lot about (c.f. James Wood on speculative fiction and Bruce Jorgensen on Anita Stansfield). If you feel compelled to write about an area that you don’t know that much about, reflect that in your writing — or even better, recruit somebody to help (cite, co-author, do a Q&A instead of a review). This, in fact, is one of the benefits of engaging in literary criticism via a blog — it’s much easier and more natural to pull in experts.
• Use humor, especially self-deprecating humor. Be judicious in your use of snark and sarcasm — and, really, satire is the better approach because satire can show a deep knowledge of and even fondness for the subject being satirized.
• Understand that every piece of criticism comes out of a particular time, place, mood and history and where appropriate acknowledge that.
• Use specific examples, especially direct quotes from and references to texts — but be careful about cherrypicking to prove a point and removing context that adds meaning to a particular quote, scene, character, work, etc.
• Reviews are fine (and on the other post there are some great comments about the differences between reviews and literary criticism), but don’t forget about criticism. It’s one thing to give a thumbs up or a thumbs down, but approaching a work with humility may just mean that at some point, you need to analyze it in order to give it its due.
• Be invested in the success of the authors, genres, and literary communities you engage with and show that investment in your writing.  And be up front about conflicts of interest (which is a horrible term, imo, because it suggests that sometimes we don’t have interests in what we write about — that’s clearly never the case. If it’s worth spending time writing about, then clearly there’s some sort of interest involved) — but don’t use a potential conflict of interest as an excuse to dodge a conversation you really should engage in. This is especially important in the world of Mormon letters.
• If you must respond to a review or a comment (and sometimes it is indeed better to keep silent), try to avoid a point by point debate. Clarify rather than combat.
• Revisit if you change your mind or re-read or have new insights (another virtue of blogging). In general, much of the problem of literary critics and pride comes from the drive-by judgments and the desire to set oneself up as wholly independent rather than part of a conversation.

So that’s what I was able to come up with in 24 hours. Anything I’m missing or got wrong?

This line of thinking also comes out of some of the high profile author meltdowns of late (one of note is detailed at Gawker) over bad (or even simply mixed) reviews. Look. Writing fiction is a tough business. It’s a lonely often emotionally wrenching and exhausting enterprise; the sweat equity is rarely worth it; the criticism generally outweighs the acclaim and the acclaim is, in the end, fleeting and not very emotionally satisfying long term.  Which means that healthy egos and thin skins are not all that unusual. And the thing gets messier when fiction authors write criticism (or literary critics try their hand at fiction) because envy — the companion of pride — often comes in to play. And even if the critic/author isn’t reviewing out of a place of envy, that’s often what the perception is and when that is how the review/piece of criticism is responded to (and it’s remarkable how many ways writers can hint that a bad review is because its author is just jealous) then pride gets wounded on both sides and the rhetoric often escalates.

So how does pride manifest itself in literary criticism? What do authors do to cope with the collision of literary ambition/pride and criticism. Here’s what I’ve been able to come up with:

• One maintains a proud silence and refuses to engage. This is probably the best solution, but, on the other hand it is can still be a form of pride. One thinks of the haughty “I don’t read reviews” (with the undertone of my work is above criticism) or the fragile “I don’t read reviews” (with the undertone that I’m such a fragile, creative flower that I would wilt under such harsh, coarse treatment of my work  — a sort of false humility).
• One only reviews and engages with work you like (especially work by friends). Also an understandable solution, but it sometimes brings with it the pride of cliquishness and the pride of placing yourself above the works you won’t touch.
• One enters the fray — literary pugilism. Also a valid choice, and the one most conventionally pointed to as a manifestation of pride. This is the world of snarky reviews and literary tempests and using the power of the pen to demean, punish, vigorously defend, dismiss, whine, overpraise, etc.
• One enters the fray but remains abstract. This is the approach of generalizations and manifestos and abstract assertions and rules and preferences (that also sometimes take a shot at another author or authors in a coded way). This is a sniffing at genres and generations and schools and The Bad State of Things These Days. The pride inherent here should be obvious — it is again the pride of being above the fray; the pride of self-importance; the pride of sweeping across the field with your critical eye and summing it all up.

President Benson said that the “central feature of pride is enmity.” I am of the opinion that all four coping methods above can and often arise out of enmity — or if not enmity, at the very least reproachful feelings. Am I wrong here?

And if I am not wrong, then what does criticism look like when it is engaged in with humility — without enmity, envy or pride?