Dear Writer…When Your Work Is Met With Silence

Lisa Heidle
Sep 9
3 min read

Updated: Sep 10

Yellow Typewriter with words Story Telling

Dear Writer,

I recently released a novelette. Like so many of us, I poured my heart into it, writing, rewriting, editing late into the night, carrying the story like a fragile secret until it was ready to be shared. I believed in it. I hoped for connection. I dreamed that it might find its way into readers' hands and stir something in them.

But after the launch, the silence was louder than I expected.

A few family members and close friends supported the release, graciously and lovingly, but beyond that, the book didn’t get much attention. No buzz, no meaningful traction, no invitations to talk about it. Just a quiet trickle and, then, stillness.

At first, I told myself not to be dramatic. Keep this tender truth of heartbreak to myself. But underneath the surface, I felt the weight of disappointment.

When I dug deeper, I uncovered something heavier than disappointment: shame.

Not just shame that the book didn’t perform the way I’d hoped. Not just that it didn’t sell or get noticed. But a deeper, quieter fear, the kind that settles in your chest and doesn’t say much at first, just lingers:

Maybe the writing wasn’t good enough.

Maybe I’m not good enough.

Maybe I'll never be good enough.

That’s the part that stings the most, not the low numbers, not the lack of attention, but the creeping belief that maybe I don’t belong in this work I love so much. That maybe I missed the mark in some fundamental, unfixable way.

It’s not just disappointment. It’s self-doubt dressed as truth. That kind of shame can hollow you out. It can stall your writing. It can make you question your voice, your instincts, and your place in the creative world.

So I’m writing this for you, and for myself, because I know I’m not the only writer who’s been here. If your work has ever been met with silence, rejection, or disinterest, and if that silence left you wondering whether your words even matter, this is for you.

1. You’re only disappointed because you still care.

Disappointment hurts, but it’s also a sign that you’re still emotionally invested in your work. That’s not weakness. That’s courage. You believed in something and risked being vulnerable. That’s what artists do. And caring that deeply is what gives your writing life.

2. Your expectations aren’t the enemy, they’re just human.

You might have told yourself not to get your hopes up. But of course you hoped. Of course you imagined the release of your creative work going differently. That’s part of dreaming. When those expectations crash against reality, the dissonance hurts but it doesn’t mean you were wrong to hope. It just means you’re navigating the unpredictable terrain of creative work.

3. Disappointment often disguises itself as shame.

When your work is ignored or underappreciated, it’s easy to internalize that as a personal failing: I didn’t write the right story. I’m not good enough. I was foolish to try. But that voice, the shaming voice, isn’t speaking truth. It’s reacting to pain. Shame says your worth is tied to the outcome. But your value as a writer isn’t defined by algorithms, sales, or visibility. It's defined by your willingness to keep creating, even when the world isn't watching.

4. This is not the end of your writing story.

Every writer goes through this. The discouraging launch. The book that barely moves. The newsletter no one opens. These moments are not final, they're formative. The writers who make it aren’t always the most talented, they’re the ones who keep showing up. You can survive this silence. You can even grow stronger in it.

5. The next story might connect in ways you can’t yet imagine.

Maybe this wasn’t the story that would open the doors, but maybe it was the one that prepared you for the one that will. And maybe the people who did read it needed it more than you realize. You don’t have to write what everyone wants to read, you have to write what’s true. The right readers will find you. Or you’ll find them. Either way, the path continues.