Gut Feeling

We all get notes from editors, beta readers, and agents. Sometimes we don't agree. When you get feedback to change something that you really want to keep, how do you let it go or justify keeping it?

By Dietrich

The email comes in. The track changes open. The editor’s note says, “So… about this one part…”

Right in the middle of the feedback is a suggestion aimed squarely at the thing you want to keep most—the line that makes you smile, the subplot that feels like the book’s secret engine, or the ending you bled over.

You don’t agree. Not a bit.

So, you trust your instincts—the ones that come from deep within every book you’ve ever loved and every scene that has ever worked.

When feedback smacks into something I really want to keep, my first move isn’t to dig in. It’s to get curious and ask a few questions: What problem is this note trying to fix? Is it about clarity, pacing, emotional logic, or reader investment—or is it just someone else’s taste? If I cut the scene or make a change, does the story lose something it genuinely needs, or does it just lose something I’m fond of?

If it’s something load-bearing, —holding up the theme, the character’s core wound, or the whole vibe of the book—then I need to keep it. Other times, I need to realize I’m attached to it simply because I like it, not because the story needs it. This means the story will be happier when I let it go.

Here’s a good general rule to follow: Work with the notes instead of against them. The goal isn’t to win the argument; it’s to make the book better. Right?

If time allows, I might try the change, make a temporary version, and live with it for a day or two. Then I read the surrounding pages and ask myself, “Does the story feel tighter and clearer? Or does it suddenly feel like something important just dropped off?” This second reaction is usually more honest than the defensive one I had in the first five minutes.

I also pay attention to patterns. One person hating a favorite scene is interesting. Three different readers all flagging the same thing is hard to ignore.

At the same time, I stick to the non-negotiables—the emotional truth that has to stay, the structural choice that makes the book feel right, and the voice that would die if I polished it too smooth.

Killing your darlings might be the right call. There’s a kind of growth in cutting something I love because the larger story is stronger without it. It shows me that it’s better to serve the book instead of my attachment to a single shiny moment.

And if I do cut it, I cut it clean. I don’t want to leave a ghost of the original hanging around as a half-measure. Either it earns its place or it doesn’t.

If I do keep it, I just need a clear reason. “I just like it” isn’t enough. A good editor or agent usually respects a clear, story-first defense more than they respect instant obedience. They’re not looking for writers who never push back. They’re looking for writers who can tell the difference between ego and craft.

The decision never becomes automatic. Every new set of notes reopens the same questions. The skill isn’t in always keeping or always cutting. The skill is in coming back, again and again, to the same simple test: what actually makes the story better?

Trust your instincts. Stay open to the input that shows you the blind spots you couldn’t see on your own. And remember that the story is what matters here.

When the notes land and something you love is on the chopping block, sit with both the attachment and the suggestion long enough to hear what the book itself wants. That’s usually where the right call lives.