As a slush reader, one of the most heartbreaking things I’ve experienced is seeing a story I loved—a story that stood out from the pile, that felt fresh and alive—come back as an R&R (revise and resubmit)… and lose everything that made it special.
It’s not that the writer lacked talent—far from it. The original version was strong enough to catch an editor’s eye, after all. But in the process of revising, of trying to mold the story into something more “publishable,” the author stripped out the spark. What returned often felt hollow, mechanical. You could almost see the bones of writing advice poking through—the “show, don’t tell” scaffolding, the rigid adherence to pacing rules, the carefully inserted character arcs. Technically improved, maybe. But emotionally gutted.
I get it. That R&R email feels like hope. After rounds of silence or rejection, this one says, “We’re interested.” That can feel like a lifeline. You want to get it right. You want to please the editor. You want this story to finally make it.
But here’s the thing: when an editor asks for a revision, it’s because they already saw something they loved. Not something broken. Not something needing to be rebuilt from scratch. And if you try too hard to second-guess your vision—or worse, to follow everyone’s idea of what a story “should” be—you risk killing what made your story yours.
The same goes for feedback from critique partners and beta readers. I’ve ruined more than a few stories by overcorrecting in response to comments. Not because the comments were wrong, but because I treated them like commandments instead of suggestions. I stopped asking myself: What do I want this story to be? and started asking, How do I make everyone happy?
The answer is: you can’t. And you shouldn’t try.
Feedback is a gift. It shows you how others engage with your work. But it’s not gospel. Not every reader is your reader. Not every critique aligns with your voice or vision. Read the comments. Sit with them. And then ask yourself: Does this resonate with me? Does this serve the story I want to tell?
Sometimes the answer will be yes. Sometimes a piece of critique will click something into place you couldn’t quite name. But other times, it will ask you to make a change that feels wrong—one that makes the story cleaner, but less alive.
That’s when you have to trust your gut. The best revisions come not from trying to “fix” a story into acceptability, but from digging deeper into what you were trying to say all along.
So yes, consider the R&R. Revisit the draft. Reflect on the feedback. But don’t betray your voice in the process.
You don’t need to write the “correct” version of the story. You need to write your one.
Has feedback ever thrown you off? How do you filter into the good, the bad and the ugly? As always, feedback welcome in the comments below!
Gideon P. Smith 