On Being Seen

A writer in our group — someone who has published two books — sat quietly after we'd responded to a piece she'd shared. Then she said something I haven't forgotten. She said she felt seen. Not just her writing — her. She said it was only the second time she'd experienced that feeling around her work. The first was with her editor.

Two published books. And she had almost never felt that her words were doing what she'd hoped they would.

I think about that a lot.

The idea of sharing our writing with others can feel terrifying — if not impossible. Many of us carry wounds from feedback we received from people we loved or respected. Words that landed hard and never quite healed. For others, sharing is something that has simply never happened. The writing stays private, protected, unseen. And the thought of letting it out feels something like walking into a party naked.

That fear makes complete sense when you consider what writing actually is.

Writing is deeply personal. It is an expression of who we are — our experiences, our emotions, our imaginings. When we put something true on the page, whether through fiction or personal writing, we are revealing parts of ourselves that may never have seen the light before. A memory we've carried alone. A feeling we've never said out loud. An imagined world that reflects something real about how we see this one.

Of course sharing that feels exposed. Of course it feels risky. You are not just handing someone a document. You are handing them a piece of yourself.

And then you wait to find out what they think.

New things are naturally frightening — and the uncertainty of how others will respond to our writing is fertile ground for the imagination. We fill that uncertainty with our worst fears. They'll find it boring. They won't understand it. They'll think less of us for having written it at all. Those fears keep so many writers from ever sharing their words with the world. The writing stays locked away, and the world never gets to receive it.

But here's something worth holding onto: any response you receive to your writing is simply that person's experience of it. It reflects what they brought to the page as much as what you put there. It is not a verdict on the value of your story. It is not a measurement of your worth as a writer. It is one person's experience, on one day, of one piece of writing.

That doesn't mean feedback can't sting. It can. Especially when the work is close to us. But we get to decide what we do with it.

And there's a way to receive feedback that makes it both less personal and more useful.

Instead of asking someone if they liked your writing — a question that invites judgment and tells you very little — try asking them something specific. Did you find yourself wondering what would happen next? Was there a moment where you felt the character's fear? Did anything surprise you? Was there a place where you felt yourself leaning in?

These questions shift the conversation from evaluation to experience. You're no longer asking whether your writing is good. You're asking whether it did what you hoped it would do. And their answer — whatever it is — becomes information rather than a verdict. You can use it. You can weigh it. You can set it aside if it doesn't serve the work.

Then you decide what comes next. Maybe you revise. Maybe you move on. Maybe you simply feel what that writer in our group felt — that your words reached someone, that they landed, that you were seen.

But regardless of what you do with the feedback — you keep writing.

That's the only thing that matters.

Wishing you and your stories all the best, 

Trevor Martens

Founder, I Help You Write Things

P.S. The next time someone reads your work, try asking them this: Where did you find yourself leaning in? That one question will tell you more than "did you like it?" ever could.