The Writer, the Work and the Reader

Why understanding your audience feels so nerve wracking — and what happens when you stop avoiding this work

I’d like to talk to you about readers.

And what happens when I suggest that they are part of the creative process.

Over the years, I’ve noticed something curious — and telling — about how writers respond to this idea. Whether they’re publishing a book, writing a newsletter or working on any project where words eventually meet the eyes of others, the mention of readers seems to strike a very particular nerve.

There’s often resistance. Sometimes panic. A visible discomfort that flickers across a face, a tightening of shoulders or a shift in posture that signals I’ve said something quite uncomfortable.

The response is usually something like this: “But if I think about readers, I’ll lose the spark. I’ll betray my creativity.” Or, in some cases, a quieter, wordless reaction: a closing off, as if even imagining an audience might undo everything they’ve built inside their own mind.

And I get it. I really do. Thinking about readers can feel like inviting a menacing force into a sacred space.

It can feel like betrayal.

But what if it isn’t?

Why We Resist

I’ve seen some of my favorite writers on Substack declare, with fiery conviction, that readers have no place in their creative process. Thinking about readers, they argue, will only dilute the work, taint the purity of the art and drag the creative self into the noisy muck of outside opinions.

And I’ve felt that same pull — an instinct to protect what feels fragile and untouchable.

For me, this resistance is deeply familiar. It reminds me of the imaginary readers who haunted me in the early years of my writing life: shadowy family members who might one day read my words and judge me for writing them. The mere thought of these people — who I knew would never even touch my work — was enough to paralyze me.

I’ve also worried about the real readers. The ones who might reject my work outright, or worse, say nothing at all. Readers, after all, hold enormous power in this exchange. A single review, a click of the “unsubscribe” button or a moment of disinterest can feel like a verdict on your deepest, most personal efforts.

So, yes. I understand why we resist. I understand the need to create a boundary — to declare that the reader shall not pass into the intimate, vulnerable space where we make things.

But I also wonder: What are we really afraid of?

A Fear With Deep Roots

I don’t think this fear comes from nowhere. I think it’s deeply rooted in something real.

In trauma therapy, there’s a term called coupling. It describes the way our brains and bodies link certain experiences with danger, even when no actual threat is present now. A smell, a sound, a word — anything at all — can trigger a response that feels like self-preservation, even if the danger is long gone.

When it comes to readers, it seems to me that many of us have coupled the very idea of “audience” with something unsafe. Maybe it’s a memory of rejection, criticism or failure. Maybe it’s the knowledge that readers, by their very nature, are unpredictable. Or maybe it’s simply the vulnerability of having to admit, deep down, that our work is not just for ourselves — it’s also for them.

This fear doesn’t just surface in our thoughts. It lodges itself in our creative instincts, shaping the way we work and what we’re willing to confront. It tells us that to think about readers is to court danger.

And that instinct feels protective. But in practice, it can limit what we’re capable of.

What Happens When We Avoid Readers

Here’s where this resistance becomes a problem.

When we refuse to think about our readers, we don’t make them disappear. Someone else will still think about them. Someone else will learn who they are, what they want and how to reach them.

For writers, that “someone else” is often a publisher, a marketer or even an algorithm. These forces are already at work — tracking audience behaviors, shaping how our work is delivered, and deciding what readers see.

The hard part to admit is that when we leave this work to others, we lose agency. They may package our work beautifully. They may help us find success. But they’ll also take the largest share of the credit — financially, professionally and culturally.

To avoid learning about readers is to leave a void that someone else will fill. And once they do, they’ll own the bridge between your work and the world.

Uncoupling the Fear

So how do we move forward? How do we make peace with the discomfort of knowing our readers?

First, I think it’s important to honor the fear, to not dismiss it. Resistance to readers isn’t a sign of laziness or arrogance. It’s often a sign that, somewhere in our creative lives, we’ve learned to associate audiences with threat.

But fear doesn’t have to be the end of the story.

The work of “uncoupling” begins with curiosity. What happens if we start asking gentle questions?

• Who do I imagine when I write?

• What do I want readers to feel when they encounter my work?

• What can I learn about them — not to change myself, but to strengthen the connection between us?

This isn’t about pandering or compromising. It’s about reclaiming agency. It’s about seeing readers not as critics or gatekeepers, but as collaborators in the life of the work.

A Relationship Worth Building

I believe there’s a way to hold both truths at once: You can protect your creative sovereignty and still open the door to the world. You can honor the voice inside you while also learning how it lands for others.

And this isn’t just a creative choice — it’s a practical one. If your writing supports your livelihood, if it helps you share your vision, if it fuels your career, then learning about your readers is not an intrusion. It’s a lifeline.

Because when you build a relationship with your readers, you’re not just marketing a book or growing a newsletter. You’re creating a bridge. A connection. And that connection has the power to sustain your work — not just financially, but spiritually.

This doesn’t have to mean selling out. It can mean showing up. Showing up for yourself, for your work, and for the people who give it their time and attention.

That’s the opportunity I see on the other side of this fear.

It’s not about losing yourself. It’s about expanding what’s possible.

New to Amanda and The Editing Spectrum?

The Editing Spectrum is a space where newsletter creators build momentum in the six core components of a newsletter: reader knowledge, quality essays, engaged community, authentic promotions, data insights and sustainable revenue. This month, we’re focusing on reader knowledge—exploring ways to connect with your audience through tools like polls and prompts, all while navigating the creative overwhelm that often comes with these choices.

If you’re swirling with too many ideas or feeling unsure of where to turn next, consider joining my upcoming Editorial Centering Session. We’ll begin with my Somatic Signaling Guide, a grounding practice to reconnect with your creative instincts, and then move into a tactical planning session to turn your ideas into something clear, actionable, and uniquely yours.

The next session will be held on January 17th at 11:00 AM CST, and it’s open to all newsletter creators looking for clarity and momentum. The session is just $20 (launch pricing), and I’d love to have you join us — click here to sign up.