The secret society of great writing partners

The mythical club that doesn’t exist—but its members do

There’s a secret society of great writing partners out there.

It doesn’t officially exist. But once you’ve met one of its members, you know.

I’ve been extremely lucky to have met some of them, and whenever I do, I make sure to hold onto them.

Because all the other people mean well, but they don’t always make the writing easier.

They hear, ‘Can you give me feedback?’ and take it as an invitation to barge in with their own, often overzealous, opinions—reshaping, rewriting, and steering the piece toward what they would say instead.

Forgetting, of course, that the goal isn’t to make it theirs.

Because real writing support isn’t about shaping someone’s work in your image—it’s about helping them shape it into theirs.

You’re asking for it

Trust me, I know how easy and enticing it is to share your opinion—especially when someone’s asking for it.

It’s instinctive. Humans love solving problems. We love hearing ourselves talk. And we love the feeling of being useful.

I know I do.

A friend once came to me with a personal problem. He received a job proposal from a client he really didn’t like working for, but he needed the money. I told him what I would do: suck it up this one time and take the money.

Later, I heard he had talked to another, mutual, friend of ours who had a way better approach—he asked him what he felt about the whole thing. Turned out he was really uncomfortable taking the job, and during their conversation, he came up with an entirely different strategy to make some money. Not as much, but enough. And he was really happy about that.

Was he mad at me for pushing him into the other direction? No. He didn’t even remember.

Why most people aren’t in the club (yet)

When writers ask for feedback, the Uninitiated assume their job is to take full control—offering fixes, steering the argument, adding their own personal flair, unintentionally molding it into something they’d write themselves.

They don’t stop to consider what the writer needs at this stage—or what type of feedback would actually help.

But the members of this secret society do something different. They don’t charge ahead. They listen first. They know their job isn’t to take over—it’s to help the writer uncover and hold onto what matters most first.

Instead of rushing in with suggestions, they help writers uncover where their real fire lies—what’s actually driving them to write in the first place, what they might not have put into words yet.

Jumping in too early, too much, or too eagerly with your own ideas might feel helpful to you, but the other person often doesn’t feel helped. They either have to spend more time recovering from your push—or you’ve unintentionally taken their process away from them entirely.

This is why most people aren’t in the club—yet. But they can be.

The tells of the Uninitiated

These are the signs. The giveaways that show you’re not a member. The things that make a writer’s job harder instead of easier.

1. Hijacking & derailing

Thinking feedback is about taking the piece in their own direction and not helping the writer clarify theirs. Pulling the writer away from their core idea with off-topic brainstorming and tangents. Or worse: ‘You know what would make this stronger? If you framed it around [entirely different concept].’

If you want to develop your own idea, write your own draft. 😉

2. Not observing the stage

Not matching feedback to (or being at all curious about) where the writer actually is. Zooming in on details when the core argument isn’t clear yet or bombarding them with a flood of overwhelming suggestions a minute before the publishing deadline. I get it. You’re honored to be asked, excited to help, and have so much to say. But without the right timing, it only makes the process harder.

3. Projecting

Assuming the writer’s argument should match their own views. A great writing partner once helped me sharpen my argument—even though she completely disagreed with my point. That’s how I knew they were one of the good senior members. Good feedback helps the writer say what they mean—not what you would mean.

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Now of course, no one does this on purpose. All feedback—however clunky—comes from a good place. It’s actually quite a lovely thing when someone spends their time helping you make your work stronger.

But that doesn’t make the consequences any less painful.

It’s not their fault—they just don’t know the code.

Those who know, do this instead

The members of this secret society and the best writing partners out there follow a different set of principles. They don’t rush to fix or impose. They listen. They help sharpen. They protect what matters most to the writer they’re helping.

This is their code:

1. They reflect rather than rewrite.

There’s a big difference between offering observations (‘This part is confusing but this section really flows.’) and straight-up advising rewrites (‘I would do it like this’). Their job isn’t to reshape the work in their own image—it’s to help the writer sharpen their own. They highlight what’s working, flag what isn’t, and trust the writer to take it from there.

2. They match feedback to the stage.

In the early stages, a writer needs clarity—help teasing out their real idea. Later, they need help with structure. Only at the final stage do small details matter. They ask themselves: What does the writer actually need at this stage? Then, and only then, do they give feedback.

3. They ask before they assume.

They don’t guess at the writer’s intent or rush in with solutions. Instead they ask: What are they really trying to say? That single question often unlocks more than an hour of suggestions ever could.

Does this mean writers never need opinions? Of course not. But the best feedback doesn’t start with judgment—it starts with understanding.

The secret society skillset

If you look at these ‘rules’ together, they all point to the same thing: A great writing partner steps outside themselves and focuses entirely on what the writer actually needs.

They don’t rush to offer solutions. They don’t assume they know best. They listen. They reflect. They pull from the writer what they’re actually trying to say.

I wasn’t always aware of this. Before I was trained as a coach, I did the exact same thing. I thought being helpful meant sharing my best ideas (or offering advice, like with my friend). It never occurred to me that helping someone think through their own ideas might be more valuable than simply telling them mine.

This doesn’t mean great writing partners hold back from saying what they think. They challenge, they push, they call things out—but only in ways that help the writer sharpen their own ideas.

Because being a great writing partner isn’t about having the best ideas. It’s about knowing when to listen, when to question, and when to sharpen.

What the best writing partners do

All feedback is a gift but some gifts are best exchanged for store credit.

I once spent three hours getting ‘help’ on an essay, only to leave with nothing but a list of ‘interesting’ tangents that weren’t mine. My own ideas had taken a backseat. I went back to the drawing board, more lost than when I started.

But I’ve also had five-minute chats where a single, well-placed question opened up the whole thing for me.

That’s the difference between outsiders and members of the secret society. Some feedback pulls you away from your work. The best feedback brings you deeper into it.

Over the years, I’ve gotten better at handling feedback, even when it misses the mark. I’ve learned to filter, interpret, and hold my own.

But when I meet someone who truly observes the code, it feels like a warm blanket.

If you’ve read this far, you might be one of them.