Note: Updated January 2026
How do you know if your story is any good? How do you know if you’re writing sucks? These questions haunt me. Constantly.
My concerns go beyond imposter syndrome. Given the importance and the responsibility I feel in sharing Hope and Madness, I need to determine if I’m telling the story not just earnestly, but effectively.
When I started writing my novel, a course requirement was to share our work with other participants. The overwhelmingly positive feedback I received provided a confidence boost and ignited my writing journey.
I waited until I had completed the first act before mustering the courage to share my work-in-progress with my husband. He praised it and offered only minor line edits. Further encouraged by his response, I dared to dream. Maybe this endeavor wasn’t as crazy as it felt. I dove into writing Act Two.
Next, I took another leap of faith. I shared the first act with my daughter, knowing she would be more critical. It took some prodding and patience for her to read it (not a great sign). Her praise was more reserved. She added a caveat: “I’m not a good judge because I already know the story.”
Her words contained a sliver of truth. She lived at home during the events of the first act but experienced little of what occurred. I dismissed her lukewarm response as typical familial disinterest. Writers often warn each other not to expect family members to read their work, let alone assess it objectively. I kept writing.
Then, I met Eve.
Gentle Isn’t Always What You Need
Eve was a writer with an English background and an MFA who volunteered to read my pages. Her credentials intimidated me. She was a real writer. I wasn’t. I was a pretender.
My fear was more than normal imposter syndrome; it had roots. English teachers had always told me I wrote poorly. My parents echoed that sentiment. Once, after reading one of my high school papers, my father retrieved a recent story written by my eight-year-old sister, read it aloud, and said, “Now that’s good writing. You’ll never write like that. You just don’t have the talent.”
Despite my fears, I shared Act One with Eve. I braced myself and waited for her to call me out as a fraud. Feared she would confirm I lacked talent and always would.
She didn’t.
Her feedback was gentle. She didn’t say the writing was good. But she also didn’t say it was bad. Or suggest I should give up
Instead, she pointed out a few glaring omissions in character relationships and background information that my husband, daughter, and I were too close to notice. She suggested shortening the first chapter and removing a chapter of backstory (info dump). She ended with a question:
“I love the book Intuitive Editing by Tiffany Yates Martin. Do you know it?”
I hadn’t.
I’m embarrassed to admit I owned few books about writing or storytelling at that time. In my naivete, I’d underestimated the distance between writing and writing a novel. After buying Intuitive Editing, I skimmed the table of contents and placed it on my shelf, telling myself I’d return to it later—during the editing phase.
Not reading the book was a mistake.
In hindsight, Eve subtly tried to tell me my story didn’t work. By recommending the book, she pointed me toward understanding fundamental elements my draft lacked. But because her critique was restrained, I misread it as reassurance. I assumed the manuscript was solid, needing a good round of editing.
My interpretation of Eve’s feedback emboldened me to share my work with other writers. What followed was a flood of feedback. Often brutal. Usually vague. Rarely actionable. I learned quickly how difficult it is to find thoughtful critique. Many comments came from new writers still struggling with their own drafts.
It would’ve been easy to disregard their comments. It would’ve been equally easy to stop writing.
Neither the instinct to absorb the criticism nor the instinct to reject it outright would bring me closer to my goal.
When you Receive Harsh Criticism
There are times when criticism should be ignored. Not all feedback is informed. Not all advice deserves equal weight. Every critique is cast in the crucible of each individual’s experiences and paradigms.
The secret, is sifting through the noise to uncover the kernels of truth.
Working through criticism is hard. The line between protecting your ego and protecting the work is subtle, and it takes practice to recognize it. It also requires maturity and confidence. Early on, feedback can feel like a verdict rather than information. I know this well. The message from my youth—that I couldn’t write—lodged deep in my psyche.
I’m more seasoned now. Instead of quitting, I continued. My burning need to tell the story of Hope and Madness outweighed my insecurities. Decades of experience leading complex projects, learning new disciplines, and building expertise also gave me confidence that I could learn this too if I put in the work and stuck with it.
For the first time, I wasn’t asking whether I was a writer, but what I needed to do to become one.
Digging in: Craft, Commitment, and Discernment
I took courses, read craft books, and practiced.
Three critical shifts followed.
First, I transformed my writing. Objectivity and conciseness were replaced with emotional depth, motivation, and interiority to create resonance.
Second, in becoming more knowledgeable, I gained discernment. When I received feedback, I translated to answer the questions:
- Is it pointing to confusion, missing information, or weak execution?
- Is the comment coming from the work, or from the reader’s own preferences and taste?
- Am I accomplishing what I set out to convey, or is the intent too subtle or obscured by noise?
Third, I found critique partners through my Story Grid Guild courses. Our shared craft and vocabulary background proved invaluable. They provided me with constructive, actionable feedback. While evaluating their work and witnessing their process has informed my own.
Years have passed.
I still question my work, revise relentlessly, and feedback can still sting. But I don’t conflate critique with identity. I no longer ask if I am a writer. And I’ve learned to value good critiques for what they are—the lifeblood of stories.
While positive reviews feel good at the moment, they have a hidden cost if they prevent us from seeing where we need to improve. Constructive criticism, even if it stings, is essential for growth. As writers, we must seek those who will be honest with us, even if it means facing uncomfortable truths. Only then can we become writers who create stories that resonate.