Write Things: On Letting Go of “Is This Good?”

Last week, I wrote about why sharing your writing isn't enough. If we want to understand how our words are being experienced, we need to do more than hand someone a piece of writing and wait to hear what they think. We need to ask questions, listen to their responses, and become curious about what's happening when someone else encounters our stories.

But there's one question I think deserves a little more attention.

Is this good?

It's a question I've heard from countless writers over the years, and one I suspect just about everyone who's ever tried to create something has asked themselves.

And I understand why.

Writing asks an awful lot of us. We commit hours, days, months, and sometimes years to creating something that may never turn out the way we imagined. We invest our time, energy, and often our money. We sacrifice opportunities to do other things, struggle through difficult drafts, wrestle with uncertainty, and sometimes spend an entire afternoon trying to make a single scene work.

And after all of that, we still don't know whether what we've created is any good!

We don't know whether someone will enjoy reading it, whether they'll understand what we're trying to express, or whether the story we've spent so much time creating will mean anything to anyone else.

That uncertainty can drive us absolutely nuts.

Of course we want to know whether our writing is worthwhile. Of course we want to know whether all the time and effort we're investing is going to amount to something. And of course, when we finally work up the courage to share something we've written, we want someone to tell us that we're on the right track.

I don't think there's anything wrong with wanting that reassurance.

But I do think we get ourselves into trouble when we expect someone else to give us certainty about the value of our writing.

Because the truth is, no one person can.

Imagine sharing the same manuscript with a hundred different editors. Do you think they'd all agree about its quality? About which characters were most interesting, which scenes were most effective, or which passages should be revised or removed?

Of course not.

You'd receive a hundred different assessments. There would likely be some common observations, but there would also be differences in what each editor noticed, appreciated, questioned, and believed could be improved.

And these are professionals who spend their working lives reading and evaluating writing!

Now imagine sharing that manuscript with a hundred everyday readers.

Some might love your descriptive language, while others wish you'd get on with the story. Some might connect deeply with a character who reminds them of someone they know, while others find that same character frustrating or unlikeable. One reader might appreciate the uncomfortable honesty of a difficult scene, while another finds it deeply disturbing.

And sometimes, their responses might have very little to do with the quality of your writing.

Perhaps someone has experienced abuse, and a scene you've written brings up feelings of anger or distress. Maybe someone finds graphic descriptions upsetting, regardless of how effectively they're written. Perhaps they simply don't enjoy the genre you're working in, or don't believe fiction is a particularly worthwhile use of their time.

Even something as ordinary as having a bad day can influence how we experience a story. Someone who's exhausted, distracted, worried, or upset may respond very differently than they would if they encountered the same writing on another occasion.

And then there are the different ways people approach giving feedback. Some believe the best way to help a writer is to point out everything that's wrong. Others are so concerned about hurting someone's feelings that they hesitate to share anything but praise.

None of this necessarily makes their experiences invalid. If someone was confused, bored, moved, disturbed, or delighted by your writing, that's what they experienced.

But their experience is not an objective verdict on the quality or value of your work.

It's one person's experience, influenced by everything they brought to the page.

And I think this is where we need to reconsider the power we give to other people's opinions.

When someone tells us our writing is wonderful, it's tempting to believe we've succeeded. When someone tells us it isn't very good, it's equally tempting to believe we've failed.

But neither response tells us the whole story.

A reader might love something we weren't particularly trying to accomplish. Another might dislike the very thing we were hoping to create. And someone might identify a genuine problem in our writing while offering a solution that doesn't suit our intentions at all.

So where does that leave us?

Well, I think it leaves us with a responsibility that's both exciting and a little frightening.

We have to decide what we believe about our own writing.

After all, you're the person who chose to tell this story. You're the one who brought your experiences, imagination, thoughts, feelings, and perspectives to the page. Whether you began with a clear vision or discovered your story as you wrote it, you're the one who gets to decide what matters about the work.

What do you love about it? What do you believe is worth sharing? What are you hoping someone else will experience?

These are questions you get to answer.

Of course, that doesn't mean everything you've written is working perfectly. Far from it! There will always be opportunities to improve our language, clarify our ideas, strengthen our scenes, and discover places where our readers aren't experiencing what we hoped they would.

That's why I believe so strongly in sharing our writing and seeking thoughtful feedback.

But there's a difference between asking someone to help us understand how our writing is being experienced and asking them to determine whether our writing is worth pursuing.

The first gives us information we can use. The second asks someone else to make a decision that ultimately belongs to us.

And I think there's something else worth considering.

Perhaps the certainty we're looking for isn't something another person can give us. Perhaps it's something we have to develop for ourselves.

Think about how we become more confident in almost anything we do. We try something. We discover what happens. We learn from the experience, make adjustments, and try again.

Writing is no different.

We write something and share it. We listen to how someone experienced it. We consider what we've learned and revise where we see an opportunity to better communicate what we intended. Then we share it again.

And again.

Not always with the same person, either. We seek out different readers, with different perspectives, tastes, and experiences. We begin to notice patterns in their responses. We discover which parts of our writing consistently engage people, which moments create confusion, and which experiences we're particularly good at bringing to life.

Sometimes we discover that something we thought was wonderful isn't reaching readers the way we hoped. Other times, we discover that a passage we weren't particularly confident about is doing something remarkable.

And gradually, through all of these experiences, we begin to develop something that no single compliment or criticism could ever give us.

Confidence in our ability to write, learn, revise, and create the experiences we hope to share.

Not certainty that every piece we write will be wonderful, or that everyone who reads our work will appreciate it. I don't think that kind of certainty exists.

But a growing understanding of our strengths, our preferences, our creative intentions, and our ability to recognize when our writing is accomplishing what we hoped it would.

We begin to trust ourselves, not because someone has declared us talented, but because we've spent time writing, sharing, listening, learning, and discovering what we're capable of.

And I think that's a much more valuable kind of confidence.

Because if our belief in our writing depends entirely on what someone else thinks, we're always going to be at the mercy of the next person who reads it.

One enthusiastic response can send us soaring. One critical comment can bring us crashing back down.

But when we've developed confidence through experience, we can appreciate praise without needing it to validate our work. We can consider criticism without allowing it to define our abilities. We can recognize that someone else's experience might be valuable, even when it differs from our own.

And perhaps most importantly, we can keep writing.

So the next time you find yourself wondering whether your writing is any good, I'd encourage you to consider what you're really hoping to discover.

Are you wondering whether you've created the experience you intended? Whether your characters are engaging? Whether your story is communicating something that matters to you?

Those are questions worth exploring, and other readers can help you answer them.

But if you're looking for someone to tell you, once and for all, that your writing is worthwhile, I suspect you're going to be disappointed.

Not because your writing isn't worthwhile.

But because the certainty you're looking for isn't something another person can give you. It's something you develop through experience.

And every time you write, share, listen, reflect, and try again, you're giving yourself another opportunity to develop it.

Wishing you and your stories all the best,

Trevor Martens
Founder, I Help You Write Things

P.S. If you're ready to make writing a regular part of your life, and would value the support of an experienced writing coach and a community of like-minded writers along the way, I'd love to introduce you to the Write Things Community. I meet with prospective members before inviting them to join, as it's important to me that we're a good fit for one another and that everyone shares a genuine commitment to writing and growing together.

Learn more about the Write Things Community here.