When it comes to writers and objectivity, most of us like to think we’re objective about our work, and that we can see both the forest and the trees. We’re not, and we can’t.

No matter how seasoned or self-aware we are, bias creeps in—quietly, cleverly, like a cat that slips through a half-open door. We grow attached to our characters, our clever turns of phrase, our “perfect” openings. And that attachment can blur our vision faster than a fogged-up windshield.

Objectivity, in writing, isn’t about stripping emotion from your work; it’s about seeing it clearly, the way a reader will. That’s hard to do when you’ve spent months or years living inside your book’s world. You know what you meant to say. You can fill in the blanks without realizing they’re there.

Working too long without fresh eyes makes every sentence sound reasonable—even when it’s not. Distance is your best tool for objectivity. Step away for a week (or a month) and read your own work like a stranger. You’ll be amazed at what jumps out.

When you step back in, you’ll want to pay attention to a lot more than language. Even more important than gauging how your book holds up and flows is conclusively determining what your book is about. Be careful, however, not to push the theme so much that you’ve littered your manuscript with soapboxes or waving flags. Readers don’t want sermons; they want discovery. Trust subtext. Sometimes stepping back restores balance.

Your quest for perspective may also include bringing on a writing coach like me to critique your manuscript or a handful of alpha or beta readers, which can include friends and family as long as they’re willing to be absolutely honest, to give you detailed feedback. These readers are your best defense against tunnel vision. They help you separate what you meant to write from what you actually wrote. And when you’re too close to see your own work clearly, that outside point of view can feel like turning on the lights after months in the dark, as long as you ask open-ended questions like:

• Where did you lose interest?
• Did anything about the storyline or the characters (if fiction) or the content (for nonfiction) confuse you?
• Which characters (again, if you’ve written a novel) felt real (or not)?
• Were there any passages that felt overdone or unnecessary?
• What did you want more of?
  

I’ll warn you that it’s not always easy to hear criticism of one’s work, no matter how merited. Years ago, when I asked my father, a professional journalist and author, to read the draft of my book about stalking, all I wanted him to say was how great the book was and that he was proud of me. Instead, he said, “We need to talk.” I didn’t respond well–at least not at first. But he was right on every count.

Not all your readers will be. The goal isn’t to agree with every note; it’s to step away long enough to objectively evaluate the critique, and then your manuscript. If you’ve brought on several readers, listen for consensus. If three of them say Chapter 5 drags, believe them. If one reader hates your protagonist but the rest love her, that’s taste.

Objectivity isn’t a permanent state; it’s a muscle. You build it through distance, feedback, and humility. So write with passion. Edit with detachment. And when bias sneaks in—as it always will—remember: it’s not a flaw. It’s a sign that you care deeply about your work. The goal isn’t to erase that care. It’s to balance it with clarity, however you achieve that.