The Feedback I Wasn't Ready For

I expected notes.

That’s what you brace for when you hand something precious to an editor. You expect margin comments. Structural concerns. A polite but firm list of things that need work. What I did not expect was to be told, in calm, measured language, that the book already does what it set out to do.

The response began by describing my manuscript as “a collection of well-crafted essays assembled as a sort of episodic memoir,” and went on to talk about how grief is present but not overpowering, used as a catalyst rather than a conclusion. The language was described as polished. No errors were found. None at all.

That should have felt like relief. Instead, my first reaction was discomfort. Because when someone doesn’t tell you what to fix, your mind starts hunting for what they certainly must have missed.

We’re conditioned that way. Especially those of us who write personal work. We learn early that doubt is safer than confidence. Doubt keeps you sharp. Doubt keeps you revising. Doubt protects you from embarrassment. Confidence, on the other hand, feels like tempting fate.

The editor went on to say something that stuck with me. He noted that collections like this often stumble when analysis gets in the way of story, that reflection can fracture a reading experience or feel indulgent. And then he said, essentially, that my book avoids that trap. That’s the part that really landed.

Because that structure wasn’t accidental. It was instinctive. It came from years of writing privately, journaling in real time, then returning later to understand what I’d written and why. I didn’t map it out. I trusted it. And trusting yourself is terrifying.

The editor wrote about how the book doesn’t end with grief, how it moves forward into life ten years later, and how the narrative weaves back and forth in time rather than offering a tidy epilogue. He pointed out that the story doesn’t stop where loss occurs—that the life continues; that the writing shows distance, perspective, movement.

Those are not things you can fake on the page. They’re earned. Slowly. Often painfully. And reading that feedback stirred up something I wasn’t prepared for. Because if the work holds, if it’s doing what I hoped it might do, then the lingering unease isn’t about the book at all. It’s about me.

About how uncomfortable it can feel to let something stand without apology. About how easy it is to believe critique and how hard it is to receive affirmation without immediately qualifying it. About how self-doubt often masquerades as humility.

The editor closed by saying the language was polished and that finding no errors in a manuscript this length was unusual. “So kudos,” he wrote. Simple. Direct. No caveats. I sat with that longer than I expected to. Because maybe the real work now isn’t revision. Maybe it’s allowing myself to believe that this book is what it needed to be.

If you’re someone who creates, writes, builds, or makes meaning out of your own life, you might recognize this moment. The one where the feedback is good and your instinct is to argue with it. If that’s you, you’re not alone. We’re taught to doubt ourselves far more thoroughly than we’re taught to trust our voice. I’m learning, slowly, to do the latter.

If you’d like to follow along as I move closer to sharing this book with the world, including the title reveal, cover design, and early excerpts, I’d love to have you.

👉 Subscribe to my newsletter at ronstempkowski.com/join-the-journey. That’s where I share the honest, behind-the-scenes parts of this process as it unfolds.

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