If you would like to join us as we embark on our first D&D campaign as a recreational offering from NeuroHub Community, now is the time to sign-up.
We are intending to have a session 0 with players in order to establish the most effective way of delivering this, and we will be looking to schedule that in the next few days.
Campaign entry will be free to all community members on our All Access Heartbeat community subscription, or £15 a month to everyone else while the campaign is active. This is to ensure that expenses are covered and NeuroHub Community staff can be paid.
If you would like to sign up and take part, click the button below. The description section also has a link to sign up for our Heartbeat community if that is something you wish to do. We hope to see you there!
NeuroHub Community Journal | Newsletter | Announcements is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
One of the things I’ve always been hesitant about whenever I publish my writings—and I’m sure most writers can relate—is the fear of being criticized. Strangely, it’s usually the pieces I’m most proud of that I’m most afraid to share. Not because I can’t handle criticism, but because I’m afraid of what it might do to me.
I worry that someone’s words, even when they’re meant to help me improve, will quietly steal the joy I find in writing. I don’t want their comments replaying in my head every time I sit down to draft the next piece, second-guessing every sentence before it’s even finished. Even when I know they mean well, it’s one of the hardest things for me to carry as a writer.
Because whether we’re aspiring our professional, we give every piece the best we can at that moment. We pour our thoughts, our time and often parts of ourselves into it. In a way, our writing becomes our baby. So when someone tells us it isn’t good enough, it’s hard not to feel deflated. Even if they’re only trying to help.
One of the best ways I’ve learned to deal with constructive criticism is to meet it with the same mindset it was given: constructively. I try to take someone else’s words the way I hope they take mine—with curiosity instead of defensiveness, with the understanding that they’re responding to the work, not to me.
It helps as well, to imagine that they’re critiquing someone else’s writing instead of my own. That small mental shift creates just enough distance for me to see the comments objectively just so that it wouldn’t feel like an attack, but a suggestion.
None of us are strangers to criticism, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. I understand that crushing feeling when people fail to see the beauty in something you poured your hear and soul into. It’s disheartening. Sometimes, it even makes me want to stop writing for awhile, especially when the people criticizing my work are the very ones I hoped it would resonate with. The people whose hearts I wanted to touch, the people I imagined as my core audience.
But that’s the risk we take the moment we choose to share our work with the world.
It’s important to remember that we cannot please everyone.
No matter how brilliant we think our writing is, or how flawed we believe them to be, there will always be people who love it and people who don’t.
Art has never been universal and writing is no exception. What moves one person may leave another completely…unmoved. So it’s best we don’t take everything to heart.
Criticism doesn’t erase the value of what you’ve created. It doesn’t invalidate the hours spent reading countless research articles, combing through interview footage, rewriting the same sentence five different ways or finding the courage to put your thoughts on paper. It simply reminds us that in every piece of writing, even the ones we treasure the most, will always have room to grow.
‘Manic’ writing…
What essentially my desk looked like at the time, sadly I didn’t think of taking any photos, but I did love working in dim lighting. (Image Source: Pinterest).
I remember one assignment during university that taught me this lesson better than anything else.
During one of my ‘manic’ episodes, I became obsessed with perfecting an essay. The task itself wasn’t particularly difficult, which only made me more determined to make it exceptional. And for an entire month, I revised it over and over until I eventually produced five different versions. I buried myself in obscure research articles, crafted what I thought were compelling arguments and polished every paragraph until I was convinced that I had created my best work yet.
By the time I submitted it, I was certain that I would earn one of the highest marks in my grade. Ambitious? Absolutely. But I truly believed in it.
Imagine my surprise, when the grades came back and I discovered that I received the lowest score I’ve ever gotten since starting university.
I was stunned.
My first reaction was anger, ‘cause…what the hell?
I wondered if the professor simply disliked me, before remembering that our names had been anonymized in the system when our essays were being marked.
Maybe she hadn’t understood the sources I cited? Maybe she had missed the point of my argument? I searched for every possible explanation except the one I didn’t want to consider—that perhaps I was too over-confident with the work I’ve submitted.
I even went to her office demanding an explanation, hoping there had been some mistake. She listened patiently, but told me there was nothing she could do. The grade had already been finalized.
I remember walking home disappointed and frustrated, unable to understand how I had failed something that had consumed so much of my time and energy.
Eventually, I opened the document again.
This time, I tried to read it as though someone else had written it.
And suddenly, I saw everything.
In my relentless pursuit of perfection, I had overcomplicated every idea until my essay had become a tangled mess. My arguments wandered. My transitions were clumsy. The paper was trying to say ten different things all at once. Looking back, writing during that ‘manic’ period had made the essay itself feel…manic.
It was then that I realized that my professor hadn’t been unfair. If anything, I would have given myself the same score.
But that experience taught me that growth doesn’t mean the original piece was worthless. It doesn’t mean the effort was wasted or that I, as the writer, has failed. It simply means that there is always going to be another draft, another opportunity to make the next piece clearer, stronger and better than the last.
Sometimes, the most valuable critique isn’t the one that confirms our talent. It’s the one that forces us to step outside ourselves and finally see the work for what it is.
Sincerely,
Cherie.
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