How do you know if your story is any good, and how do you know if you’re writing sucks? These questions haunt me. Constantly. My concerns go beyond imposter syndrome. Given the importance of the Hope and Madness story, I need to determine if I’m telling it effectively.
When I first started writing my novel, part of the course required us to share our work with other participants. The overwhelmingly positive feedback I received ignited my writing journey.
I waited until I completed the first act before mustering the courage to share my work in progress with my husband. He praised it, offering only minor line edits. Encouraged by his response, I hoped to dream. Maybe this endeavor wasn’t as crazy as it seemed. 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 (a common saying amongst writers is don’t expect your family to read your writing) and kept writing.
Then, I met Eve—a writer with an English background and an MFA—who volunteered to review my pages. Her credentials intimidated me. She was a real writer. I wasn’t. I was a pretender. I couldn’t write.
My fear was rooted in my past. English teachers always told me I wrote poorly, and my parents echoed this sentiment. 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 expected her to call me out as a fraud. A part of me feared she’d tell me I didn’t have any talent and never would.
Eve’s feedback was kind and gentle. She didn’t say it was good. But she also didn’t say it was bad. Or state I had no talent.
Instead, she pointed out 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 (infodump). She ended with a recommendation: “I love the book Intuitive Editing by Tiffany Yates Martin. Do you know it?”
I’m embarrassed to admit I owned few books on writing or storytelling at that time. In my naivete, I underestimated the gap between writing and writing novels. After purchasing Intuitive Editing, I scanned the table of contents and then set it on my bookshelf, thinking I’d read it during the editing stage.
Not reading the book was a mistake.
Eve subtly tried to tell me my story didn’t work. By recommending the book, she pointed me toward understanding the essential components of a good story—components my draft lacked.
Her gentle judgment allowed my writing efforts to flourish, but to grasp her point, I needed her to be less kind and more direct. I misinterpreted her tempered criticism to mean my draft was good barring a few changes.
My interpretation of Eve’s feedback emboldened me to share my work with other writers. Unfortunately, they were not kind. Many were brutal. All were vague.
These criticisms fed my fears. Worse, the comments came from other (new) aspiring authors whose own works … needed considerable editing. For my self-preservation, it would’ve been easy to disregard these comments. It would’ve been equally easy to stop writing.
What to do if your writing sucks?
I refused to give up.
Their harsh knocks pushed me in new directions. I took courses, read craft books, and practiced writing. I worked to overcome writing habits from my years as an engineering professional, which were antithetical to good storytelling. Fundamental improvement emerged in two key areas. First, by becoming more knowledgeable, I improved at assessing my own work. Second, I found critique partners who gave me constructive, actionable feedback and pushed me to become better.
Two years have passed. During that time, I experienced all kinds of evaluations, many of which were brutal. I’ve discovered how difficult it is to obtain direct, constructive, actionable feedback. I’ve learned how hard it is to gauge the right level of analysis. And I’ve realized how vital good critiques are—they’re the lifeblood of good stories.
Now, I’m better able to decode harsh words into actionable items.
While positive reviews feel good at the moment, they can 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 out those who will be honest with us, even if it means facing uncomfortable truths. Only then can we truly become writers who create stories that resonate.
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