I used to picture writers in a certain way: Pondering souls who wear thick glasses, cashmere sweaters and sip hot tea while scribbling their brilliant musings with creative urgency.

These writers do not have to be anywhere particular. They may sit in a quiet study where they can peer out a window from time to time. Or they may ride a crowded subway where they can still peer out a window from time to time. No matter where they are, they are lost in their work, writing feverishly as if the muse might slip away at any moment.

This writer is in a race against time. But it’s a quiet race. A secret race.

The writer I imagine is a solitary being who keeps their thoughts to themselves until the world is ready for them. When will that be? Only the writer knows. But, when it happens, readers will sing their praises, and critics will struggle to find a flaw.

Until then, however, the work remains in hiding—a prisoner to the writer. A prisoner because nobody would understand, much less admire it to the degree it deserves. That is why the work is a secret. Eventually, it will speak for itself, and then everyone will see that the writer was a genius all along. But until then, a prisoner it will remain, and that is how the writer prefers it. To be a silent genius.

Oh, the draammmaaaaaa.

And the thing about drama is that it’s not real life.

Lately, I’ve started to imagine another kind of writer—one that’s less ominous. More open.

Is this one wearing a cashmere sweater? Sure. Glasses? Maybe. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is what the writer does after they write.

It’s the same thing screenwriter and author Blake Snyder does when he’s developing an idea for a screenplay. He shares it! But not with the kinds people most of us would share it with—our friends, our significant others, that person we call a mentor who really only tells us how great our stuff is. No, Snyder shares his ideas with complete strangers.

In his book, Save the Cat, Snyder explains how these interactions go. He introduces himself to someone at a coffee shop and asks if he can pitch a script he’s writing. People at coffee shops, and most anywhere else for that matter, are usually hesitant to be a stranger’s Guinea pig, but once they give in, Snyder gets exactly what he needs: a genuine response to his idea.

Not only is this tactic ruthlessly courageous; it’s also smart. Snyder has sold millions of dollars’ worth of screenplays. 

Would you try it? Sure, it’s vulnerable, but think about it. Wouldn’t you rather realize your book or movie idea is not going to resonate with your audience before you spend two years writing it? Perhaps that kind of vulnerability is worth that kind of certainty.

The thing Blake Snyder proves to writers is this: The more you share your work, the more you’ll learn about it, your audience and yourself.

Think about that. The raw reaction from a stranger could change the direction of your book idea, which could determine whether or not it gets published, which could change your life—at least to some degree. And if one stranger’s feedback can change your life to some degree, what do you think a bunch of strangers could do?

In full transparency, I have no intention of meeting my coffeeshop critic tomorrow—or even next week.  But there are other ways we can share our work. Join a writing group, meet up with someone from a networking event, try standup. These avenues all allow you to get direct feedback on your work. And that’s what we need as creatives. Because the worst mistake we can make is to not share our work.