Chopped

Mmm, Delicious Brain Candy

Whilst I was laid up with the plague, I did a lot of reading and a lot of TV watching. (More specifically, Netflix-watching, but you know what I mean).

Food Network recently plonked some “best of” collections for a few of their shows.

Good Eats is amazing. Alton Brown is like the Bill Nye of cooking and he’s incredibly entertaining and educational.

That’s not what I’m here to talk to you about today, though. Nope. Today, we’re going to talk about the almost-but-not-quite-reality-tv show Chopped.

Chopped

For the uninitiated, Chopped is a competitive cooking show, where contestants are eliminated via three rounds of timed cooking with mystery ingredients until a single winner emerges, festooned with both fame and cash.

It’s pretty entertaining, especially if you like cooking shows (which I do). The reality tv levels are definitely there (plenty of solo-interviews interspersed with some creative editing) but I DO feel like the contestants — their mishaps, their reactions, and their victories — are genuine. YMMV.

My Realization

Entertaining or no, it’s a pretty standard formula for a show, and I watched far more episodes than I normally would of something that has no consistent plot. I like to pretend I’m learning writing skills by analyzing plots, you see, and therefore don’t feel quite so guilty about the time spent on them.

At first, I thought it was just because I was sick. Mindless, entertaining shows were definitely what the doctor ordered.

But the more I watched, the more I realized I was completely wrong. I wasn’t watching despite it not helping my writing — I was watching BECAUSE I write.

I was watching the JUDGES.

Hear me out.

Critique

Every dish the judges tasted was accompanied by praise and condemnation.

EVERY dish. I’m not sure I ever heard a single dish given unanimous perfect commentary, regardless of how skilled the chefs in question were. (In some cases, the chef’s attitude was critiqued in addition to their food).

In the beginning, I figured this was just good TV. I mean, the people watching need a MYSTERY, right? And the obvious mystery is “who will win?”. If one person never receives critique and is praised only, the mystery is gone.

So no matter how glorious a dish they’d been served, I believe the judges went out of their way to find something to negatively comment upon.

But I also feel that they went out of their way to find POSITIVE things to comment on as well. Again, good TV, but not JUST that.

These are human beings doing the critiquing, after all, and human beings RECEIVING the critique as well. I saw multiple contestants with red faces and shaking hands, voices cracking as they tried to contain their terror — and I SAW the judges change the way they talked about the dish.

They weren’t trying to break ANYONE. It would have been SO easy for them to go all Simon Cowell for the sheer “entertainment” value of watching these people break apart.

They never. Ever. EVER. went for the kill. They never backed down, and they never let chefs with a big ego push them around, but even with the relative jerks they projected an aura of fairness.

The longer I watched, the more in awe I felt of the judges.

Okay, sure, but Writing?

I’m getting there, I’m getting there.

Then I started paying attention to the contestants again. Their eagerness, their confidence, their fears, their challenges. Sure, there was some stirred-up drama in there as well, but for the most part, these people were ARTISTS and SCIENTISTS being called upon to perform their craft for a critical crowd, and in VERY unfriendly circumstances.

In most cases, they accepted the critiques of the judges while still feeling that they shouldn’t have been chopped. In many cases, the closing interviews included tears or red faces, obvious shock and grief.

In only a few very rare cases did someone get chopped and say “I can see why they did that.” Most of the time, it was because of equipment failure or something similarly out of their control.

Not. Once. Not once did I see someone leave who said “wow, yeah. I was totally out-chef’d in there.” People acknowledged the skill of their opponents, agreed that they could always learn and grow and do better. But I never saw a single person who believed what they did was utter crap at fault of their own skill.

Writing

(See, I told you I was getting there).

When we write, we are weaving imagination and skill and grammar and inspiration and (in some cases, whiskey) into a story that we hand to someone and hope they enjoy it.

Just like those chefs, we’re fighting against things we can and cannot control and trying desperately to prove that we are good enough.

Thankfully, we’re not tossed in a hotbox with a few other authors and told to write on command, then stand and receive critiques for our short stories in front of an audience of millions, but I think the analogy stands.

I looked at the faces of those chefs and in their expressions I saw myself, just after submitting a story. The hope and fear and worry and frantic desire to have just a few more minutes to fix something — I KNOW that cocktail and it is a bitter drink indeed.

I looked at the faces of those judges in in their expressions I saw myself, just after being handed a fresh story written by another person. The desire to be fair and help them grow coupled with the fear of crushing a delicate ego. (Okay, the ego thing is more something I feel than they did very often, but they’re dealing with the equivalent of J.K. Rowling up there, not my fellow Inkers).

An Extra Note

When I wrote my short stories for the Saucy Ink collections, I remember finishing the Dragons story. I sent my final version off to the talented Mr. Hall and I thought to myself that I’d knocked it out of the park.

That feeling of confidence in my work lasted for a long time, but I reread the story again recently and I felt a sinking in the pit of my stomach.

It’s good, sure. But it’s not anywhere NEAR as good as it was in my head. Not as good as I remember it. Not as vibrant.

I’m not pointing this out to knock the story, so my darling readers who are getting ready to rush to the story’s defense, please don’t worry about it — I say this because EVERY time we write something, we believe it to be wonderful.

That’s why it’s so difficult to revise just after writing a draft. Our perception of the piece is skewed (some folks probably skew more to the “utter garbage” end of the spectrum, but it’s STILL SKEWED, so be nice to yourself).

The story on paper is NOT the same thing we see when we read it.

Who I want to be is not who I am.

This is what makes accepting critiques so difficult. THIS is what makes those chefs pull the shocked face when the judges point out that a potato is undercooked or a sauce is too sticky. Yes, they are skilled enough that they probably could have picked out the problem given enough time, but AT THAT MOMENT, all they could see is victory on their plates.

Even fully knowing and believing that we will continue to improve and will always make mistakes, it is SO hard to hear those negative things and not take each syllable like a blow to the heart.

I don’t know the answer. I still cringe, my courage still falters, I still doubt myself, and I still grant far too little weight to positive comments.

My logic knows better. My heart just feels.

Watching those chefs, though? I know which reaction I WISH I had when rejection finds me. I know that I would want to be the air-punching never-give-up learning-experience do-what-I-love wink-at-the-camera person.

Watching those judges? I hope I can find the way to balance my commentary like they do. To find the one good thing on a horrific plate of burned and battered awfulness and offer it like a balm to soothe a tortured soul. It’s hard, especially for beginning writers who may not have any clue that they’ve severely overcooked their plot and underseasoned their main characters. But it’s worth learning.

So. Um. Anyway. That’s what I did last week betwixed deathly coughing fits.

Related posts:

On Beans and Lentils and Rice and Tears
Diagnosing And Solving A Writing Problem Through PoV
[Perry] Don’t Force Symbolism