A Witness May Influence the Journey, but I Remain the Athor
A Witness May Influence the Journey, but I Remain the Author
Why I Invite Others Into My Writing Before a Chapter Is Complete
I do not always write a chapter alone and present it to others only after I have reached my conclusions.
Sometimes I write by listening to what returns.
I begin with a memory, a question or something unresolved within me. I write what I presently understand. Then I may invite someone to read the chapter—not to correct my life, decide what I should think or give me permission to tell my story, but to witness what the writing awakens in them.
Their response may reveal something I have not yet seen.
This is especially important because much of my writing concerns relationships. I write about remembering, forgiveness, regret, family stories and the possibility of healing. These are not subjects that exist only within the mind. They live in what I call the relational field: the space between one person and another, where words, silences, memories and interpretations meet.
If my writing enters that field, it seems natural to me that listening should be part of its creation.
What I Mean by Witnessing
Witnessing is not the same as editing.
An editor may look for repetition, weak structure, unclear sentences or gaps in reasoning. A witness listens for something else:
· What moved within me as I read?
· Where did I feel recognition, resistance, tenderness or discomfort?
· Did the chapter invite me to examine my own life?
· Did anything feel unnecessarily exposing or harmful?
· Was there something important beneath the words that had not yet been fully expressed?
A witness does not have to agree with me. In fact, agreement alone is not particularly useful. What helps is an honest response offered without trying to take possession of the story.
The witness tells me what happened within them. I then decide what, if anything, their response asks of the writing.
What Happened While I Was Writing Chapter 13
Chapter 13 of my book asks a difficult question:
Does it help or harm to remember and reveal the stories we inherit?
As I gathered memories and responses, the chapter kept developing. Yet something continued to trouble me. I sensed that something was missing, but I could not name it.
One of my witnesses, Sandy, wrote about her relationship with her adult son, the pain of using what is sometimes called “tough love,” and the limits of being able to help another person. As I read her response, I became aware of my own immediate reactions.
Part of me wanted to help her.
Part of me wanted to ask whether she was working on forgiving her son and forgiving herself.
Another part of me became quietly self-righteous. I wondered why she was not asking how she might have contributed to the situation she was describing.
Then I realised that the question I was asking in the chapter—Does it help or harm?—also had to be turned inward.
Before examining what another person remembers or reveals, I must examine the energy within myself as I listen. Am I moved by compassion, curiosity or genuine concern? Or am I trying to advise, rescue, judge or prove that my way of understanding life is the more conscious one?
That recognition became a new section in the chapter: Turning the Question Inward.
It helped me distinguish self-examination from self-blame. We can ask how we may have contributed to a relationship without accepting responsibility for everything another adult has chosen or become. We can also recognise that “tough love” may sometimes express a necessary boundary and, at other times, conceal anger, punishment or helplessness. No single method can be declared the only right one without considering the people and circumstances involved.
After reading the completed version, Sandy specifically mentioned that she appreciated how emotional intelligence had been defined in that new section. She told me she believed the book was going to be amazing.
Her response mattered because it showed me that the insight discovered through witnessing had become meaningful to a reader. The process had not diluted my voice. It had helped me find what my voice was still trying to say.
When an Invitation Is Declined
Recently, I asked permission to invite someone known to be clear-thinking and fair to witness Chapter 13. I hoped she might notice flaws in my reasoning that I could not see myself.
The invitation was declined.
I was disappointed. I also began questioning my entire writing process. Should I stop inviting people to witness chapters before they are complete? Should I consolidate all my thoughts alone and ask others to read only after everything has been laid bare?
For a while, I began battering myself with these questions.
But one person’s preference does not have to become a universal rule for my writing.
There is nothing wrong with completing a chapter privately before showing it to anyone. That method protects the solitude in which some writers hear their clearest voice.
But it is not the only way to write.
My writing often grows through relationship. I express something, listen to what returns, examine my reaction and decide whether the chapter needs to deepen or change. This does not mean that every response must be included or that every reader should be invited into every unfinished chapter.
It means that, for me, witnessing can be part of discovering what the chapter is truly about.
Discernment Is Still Necessary
I do not conclude that every chapter should be shared widely while it is developing. Nor do I believe that every friend or family member can be a helpful witness.
Family members may be part of the story themselves. They may hear an invitation through the history of the relationship rather than through the intention with which it was offered. A person may also lack the desire, capacity or distance to enter an unfinished piece of writing.
That must be respected.
I am learning to ask myself:
· Why am I inviting this particular person?
· What kind of witnessing am I seeking?
· Am I asking about emotional resonance, clarity of thought, narrative flow, factual memory or the possibility of causing harm?
· Can this person respond freely, including saying no?
· And am I prepared to receive their response without surrendering my own judgment?
These questions protect both the writing and the relationship.
Witnessing Does Not Remove Authorship
The integrity of my voice does not depend upon excluding all other voices. It depends upon remaining responsible for what I finally choose to say.
A witness may illuminate a blind spot. A witness may misunderstand me. A witness may offer a memory that complicates my own. A witness may ask the question that leads me into the heart of the chapter. A witness may also remain silent or decline the invitation.
All of these are responses from the relational field. None of them dictates what I must write.
I listen.
I examine what moves within me.
I discern what belongs.
Then I choose.
That is authorship.
My witnesses do not write the chapter for me. They help me hear whether the chapter is alive, whether it reaches beyond my private explanation and whether it invites another human being into greater understanding.
Their responses may influence the journey, but I remain the author.
Perhaps that is also why I continue to write: not because I already possess the final answer, but because writing, witnessing and listening help me discover the truest answer I can presently give.
Date written: 8th September 2026