The Terrifying Gift of Real Readers
Since I am on a roll with uncomfortable truths, here is another one.
Here is something no one tells you about writing.
At some point, you have to let someone else read it.
Yes yes I know.
We all want our work to be read, to be books, but at some point it is really scary because it becomes an audience's.
They will have opinions.
They will love characters.
They will hate them.
They will have fan theories that become head canon, and suddenly a character you thought you knew so well, other people are perceiving them waaaaay differently than you thought they might.
But you have to get it out there.
Not just to your cat. Not your notebook. Not the voice in your head that already knows every word.
A real person. With eyes. And opinions. And the power to say something you cannot take back.
Terrifying, right?
I used to keep my work close. Hidden. Safe. I told myself I was "waiting until it was ready." But the truth was simpler and uglier: I was afraid.
Afraid they would not like it. Afraid they would laugh. Afraid they would be bored. Afraid they would confirm the voice that already lived in my head — the one that said who do you think you are?
Or even afraid someone might say, "That's a brilliant idea! Thanks for sharing!" And then take it or publish it themselves.
We have seen this happen, especially to women.
Women who write.
Who create art and music.
Who love freely and expressively and become muses, only to become discarded.
Who invent.
Who want to change the world.
[F Scott Fitzgerald, I can't prove it, but just know I am giving you the EYE, sir.]
So I kept my stories in the drawer. And then another drawer. And then a hard drive. And then a folder called "old stuff" that I never opened.
Sometimes I eventually started sharing them with close friends (I have had more than a few "friendship breakups," so I am hesitant to share my work, but THAT is a story for another day--
And I was met with enthusiasm.
My very lovely friends who are ACTUAL artists, called ME an artist.
Me.
And it must be known, right now I feel I cannot draw to save my life.
But writing?
They called ME an artist.
And then I started Substack.
And I started letting people read.
What happened:
Some people liked it. Some people loved it. Some people — this still surprises me — subscribed.
But here is what I did not expect: the criticism.
Not the lazy kind. Not "I don't like it" with no follow-up. The real kind. The kind that made me wince. The kind that made me put my head in my hands. The kind that was right.
A scene that dragged.
A character who was not yet a person.
A line of dialogue that sounded like a writer, not a human.
Sometimes I put a story out there and I was so enthusiastic about it, and the response just wasn't there.
It wasn't the audiences cup of tea. It didn't test well.
Now I may still make it a novel, because I believe in the story. And truthfully, that criticism hurt. But it also helped. It showed me things I could not see because I was too close. It made the story better. Not easier. Better.
And I realized something: real readers are not the enemy. They are collaborators. They are the ones who see the blind spots. Who catch the things your eye skipped. Who ask the questions you forgot to ask.
They are not there to tear you down. They are there to help you build.
What I learned about trust:
You cannot trust your readers to be kind. Some will not be.
But you can trust them to be honest. And honesty — even when it stings — is a gift.
The key is learning the difference between:
- "I don't like this" (fine, move on)
- "This is not working, and here is why" (take a breath, lean in, and then listen)
The first one is taste. The second one is craft.
Also, take a deep breath and let their words marinate.
Substack taught me to listen to the second. To ignore the first unless it came with receipts. And to be grateful for the readers who took the time to tell me what was not yet working.
They did not have to. They chose to. Because they cared about the story.
That is not criticism. That is collaboration.
What I am still learning:
I still get nervous before I hit publish. Every time. The voice still whispers: what if this is the one they hate?
But I hit publish anyway.
Because the alternative — keeping it hidden, keeping it safe, keeping it only mine — is worse. That is not protection. That is isolation.
And stories are not meant to be alone. They are meant to be read.
So I trust my readers. Not to be gentle. To be real. And I trust myself to handle what they give me — to take the useful criticism, leave the rest, and keep writing.
That is not easy. But it is worth it.
So if you are afraid to let someone read your work —
Start small. One, two readers. A friend. A writing group. A Substack subscriber who has already proven they care.
Ask them for specific things: What felt alive? What dragged? What confused you?
And when they answer — even if it stings — say thank you.
Then go revise.
That is not failure. That is growth.
And it is the only way your story gets better.
Trust me. I learned the hard way.
Now go let someone read it. Your story is ready. And so are you.
One more thing. Trust yourself first. Then trust your readers. The rest is just courage. And courage, like a draft, grows with practice.