I didn’t believe in writing communities. Then I started one

Photo by Ian Tuck on Unsplash

“This writing is trash. It reads like an emo kid’s wet dream.”

I was so proud of that story. But in the space of a few moments, a stranger in a writing group burned it all to dust.

Later, a moderator messaged me privately: “Don’t mind him. He’s just like that.”

But they didn’t say anything to him.

They didn’t stop him from treating others the same way.

And I didn’t share my work for five years after that.

Have you ever shared a story and regretted it immediately? Because you were met with silence, cruelty, or useless feedback? It’s a depressingly common experience, and this writing group wasn’t the first time someone had made me feel worthless. It wasn’t even the first time I’d quit.

It was just the final straw: the moment when I stopped trusting people. Convinced myself that I didn’t need anyone else. That I was better off alone.

But the truth is, I was scared.

The Plan

That moment taught me lessons I’d carry for years:

First: That writing communities weren’t safe.

Second: That I must be the problem.

Third: That the only way to protect myself was to handle everything alone.

Those beliefs kept me safe for a very long time.

So, when I started the Writers’ Room earlier this year, it wasn’t because I believed in community. I wanted to run a workshop. Provide the same level of developmental editing feedback I give to my private clients, without the hefty price tag.

Craft focused. Professional feedback. No emotional entanglements. That was The Plan.

And then everything went horribly wrong.

Photo by Kyle Bushnell on Unsplash

What I Didn’t Expect

Slowly, the community built itself despite me.

While I focused on the workshop, people started talking. Checking in. Commiserating over rejections. One of our writers started saying “welcome home” to everyone that joined.

After two months, we were reading The Haunting of Hill House together—and sharing wildly different opinions. One person loved the ambiguity. Another found it frustrating. Neither was wrong. We just all saw different things.

After three months, we had writers from all over the world. Different ages, faiths, genders, backgrounds. I hadn’t made it that way. It just happened. Because the door was open, and everyone felt safe.

That’s when I realised: this wasn’t my workshop any more. It was theirs.

I’d built the Writers’ Room for professional feedback. For the workshop. Because I was following The Plan. But what actually mattered—what kept everyone talking, bringing their messy and unfinished work—was each other.

The community wasn’t a bonus. It was the whole point.

And something inside me started to shift. Because, for the first time, I’d seen a community actually work.

Inside the Writers’ Room

Slowly, the Writers’ Room became what it is now:

A monthly workshop, where writers bring stories they’re not sure about, and feedback acts like a compass—guiding the author exactly where they need to go. Where I give developmental feedback, and the community constantly surprises me with things I hadn’t considered.

Quiet encouragement and permission to explore. Where writers are met with curiosity and care. Small wins are genuinely celebrated. Where everyone is different, and all of us feel a little less alone.

Daily connections that remind me, time and again, that writers are astonishing. Capable of both incredible strength and deep vulnerability.

Creative exchange and inspiration. Helping blocked writers start moving again, and letting confidence build slowly.

And yet...

Photo by Nick on Unsplash

Welcome Home

Change doesn’t happen all at once. I’m still a solitary creature. I still flinch at the thought of too many people, too much noise, or too many expectations.

But somewhere in there, the Writers’ Room became something I didn’t know I needed. A fierce sort of softness that comes when I open Discord and see someone say: “Have I mentioned how much I love this place today?”

Just out of nowhere.

Just because.

Maybe you ache for a place like this: where writing skills are polished, vulnerabilities are held, and the magic of storytelling has a place to live and breathe. Or maybe you’ve been burned before, and part of you still isn’t sure.

Either way, you’re welcome here. No pressure, no long-term commitment. Just an open door if you want to come in, explore, and see what feels right.

And if that resonates for you? Consider this your “welcome home.”

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We’re opening the doors a little wider for the next few weeks. Until the end of May, new members get 20% off their first year (or first month) in the Writers’ Room.

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