Terror, Self-Doubt, and the Benefits of Soul-Crushing Criticism
How can writers get better at receiving critical feedback?
The email lingered in my inbox—unopened, unwelcome, and, I feared, full of harsh judgment. It was from my PhD dissertation chair: comments on a draft chapter. I had no reason to expect a grilling. His feedback had always been honest but kind, clear but encouraging.
Still, I braced for the worst. I always did. Every time I received feedback from anyone on my committee, I let the email sit unopened for at least a week. I was convinced the game was up. They’d found me out. I was the dumbest kid in the room, and I’d just proved it with my latest, hopelessly bad draft.
“We don’t know how you got into this program,” they’d tell me, “but we’d like you to leave now.”
When I finally opened the email, I was relieved. I had work to do, yes. But I was still a PhD candidate. And my writing was headed in the right direction.
That didn’t stop the dread from returning the next time. Or the time after that. Fear of feedback never went away. Even now, as I write this line, I worry what you—my reader—will think of it.
Critical feedback is a wonderful thing. It sharpens our writing. It helps us learn and grow by increasing self-awareness and pointing out our weak spots.
But critical feedback is also a terrible thing. It stings. No one enjoys hearing what’s wrong with their work. Whether it’s a professor’s margin notes or a boss’s comments, each criticism can feel like a needle stick. In academia, “Reviewer #2” has become shorthand for criticism from anonymous peer reviewers that feels personal, nitpicky, or hostile. I suspect many writers have a Reviewer #2 in their life—someone they can count on to sink their confidence with a brutal critique delivered in a snarky tone.
Still, painful as it is, critical feedback helps writers get better. It stings, but it works. But knowing that doesn’t make it easier to take. Many of us ignore, avoid, or explain away criticism. How can we get better?
First, we must decide we want to know the truth about our work. Feedback sits at the intersection of two things we all need—to be accepted as we are, and to learn and grow. On one hand, we need to know we’re doing okay. We want people to like our writing. It feels good to hear that something we wrote is clear, sharp, or moving.
But on the other hand, we need to learn and grow as writers, which means we need to know where we fell short. We need someone to tell us we’re not doing okay. And that’s uncomfortable because it conflicts with our need to be accepted as we are.
We can’t have both. We have to choose. Do we want praise that feels good? Or truth that helps us improve? Good writers choose the second.
Once we’ve chosen to know the truth, we need to go get it. Good writers seek out feedback from readers, editors, and trusted colleagues. Getting honest feedback is surprisingly hard. People often hesitate to give blunt advice because they know how hard it can hit (they don’t like it and assume you don’t either).
Make it easier for them to tell you the truth. Tell them clearly that you want useful, honest comments. And when they give it, listen. Don’t argue or explain. Don’t get defensive—even if the feedback seems unfair or harsh. If you react badly, people will stop telling you the truth. Instead, thank them for taking the time to read and respond.
Last, separate the feedback from the person who gave it. Some people give critical feedback you didn’t ask for. Some are blunt. Some are rude. But that doesn’t mean they’re wrong. Don’t throw it all out just because it was badly delivered. Look past the tone. Focus on the content. Ask: Is there something here I can use to make my writing better?
Critical feedback will never feel good. But it will always help. Writers who take it seriously—not personally—get better. They find their blind spots, fix their habits, and write clearer, stronger prose.