Why Recognition Is So Important
As writers, recognition is not just a mere acknowledgment. It’s a profound emotional need. I had a poignant realization during one of my weekly Thursday lunches with my wife. As we were leaving the restaurant, I noticed a young man holding a sign by the side of the road that read, “At least give me the finger.” Initially, I chuckled at the cheeky humor, but then it struck me—he craved acknowledgment. In a way, aren’t we, as writers, yearning for the same thing? We long to be seen, recognized, and validated, and the emotional impact of this recognition is profound.
Psychologists have been saying this for a long time. In fact, I’ve read so many books on how recognition and validation are essential to human well-being. And it makes sense, right? We pour our hearts, thoughts, and ideas into our writing. It fuels us when someone takes the time to recognize that work—whether through a review, positive feedback, or even a few extra book sales. It keeps us going. Research shows that recognition increases motivation, and it’s the same in writing as it is in any other field. It’s not just about getting by; it’s about getting better, getting bolder.
Writing, let’s be honest, can sometimes feel like an isolated process. But that moment of acknowledgment from a reader, peer, or editor? That’s where the magic happens. It builds trust, respect, and connection. And isn’t that what we’re all after? As writers, we want to be trusted and respected. When someone reaches out and says, “Hey, your story really touched me,” it’s not just about the work anymore. It’s personal. It’s human. It’s a reminder that we’re not just shouting into the void.
Conversely, it can be challenging when there’s no acknowledgment. Maybe we want to say, “At least give me the finger!” It’s easy to feel invisible or question why we’re doing this. That young man on the side of the road probably felt invisible too, and his sign was a way of saying, “Notice me.” When we lack recognition, it can lead to burnout or even depression. But a single positive comment can shift that entire feeling. It boosts our confidence and mental health—something I’ve seen firsthand from working with writers at Killer Nashville. We all need that little nudge sometimes.
Recognition validates our work and ignites our creativity. When our work is acknowledged, it paves the way for more risk-taking and innovation. It’s like the more people say, “I see you,” the braver we become. We delve deeper into our characters, making our plots more intricate and thrilling. We even evolve as writers through this feedback loop, and the transformative power of recognizing our creativity is truly inspiring.
Now, here’s the thing: Recognition doesn’t always have to come in the form of big awards or a spot on the bestseller list. Sometimes, it starts at home—maybe it’s your partner, your kids, or even a close friend acknowledging your dedication or new idea. I’ve found that the support I get from my family often keeps me going. And, of course, social media also plays a role in today’s world. A like, share, or comment may feel small, but it’s still acknowledgment. Then, there’s the reader feedback, which is the most rewarding. Every message and email that says, “Your story or blog or presentation mattered to me,” reminds us that what we do is seen.
Just like the man by the road, writers crave acknowledgment. It’s not selfish—it’s essential. It’s what keeps us going, keeps us creating, and keeps us growing. So, if you’re feeling invisible right now, know this: You matter. What you’re doing matters. The words you put into the world have power, and they’re making an impact, even if you can’t always see it immediately.
Let’s not forget the importance of mutual recognition. Let’s continue to acknowledge each other's work, building connections and pushing forward in our creativity. You’re seen, I’m seen, and together we’ll ensure that the words keep flowing—without needing to hold up a cheeky sign to do it. This mutual recognition is what keeps us connected in our shared journey as writers.
