Between Applause and Resonance

Why being published feels different than being heard—and why one small comment can mean the world.

Do writers write to be published … or to be heard?

And does being published truly mean you've been heard?

I don’t know the answers.

As to the first question, I suspect it’s a combination of reasons that compel writers to write—and to seek publication. Being published certainly provides an opportunity to be heard. But how would we ever know?

I suppose one way is through response. If a reader offers feedback, or engages in some small way, there’s a signal. Otherwise… how do you truly know if your words reached anyone?

I think of fishing.

If I cast my line and feel a catch—or even a tug or two—it tells me something’s out there. Something responded. The water acknowledged me. I’ve been heard, in a way.

But if I cast my line and get nothing—not even a ripple—I don’t even know if there are fish in the pond.

A ♡ on a Substack post makes me smile. A comment elates me. I feel seen, and—more than that—I feel heard. There’s a quiet sense of fulfillment. Someone read my words and responded.

Not long ago, I received notice that a poem I submitted for a contest had made the finalist list. It would be published in their anthology. I remember thinking, “Well, that’s nice.” I don’t recall if I smiled.

It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the acknowledgment. It was just … oddly hollow. I had no idea what the judge felt when they read the poem—what moved them, if anything. There was no response. Just a result.

A copy of the book arrived this weekend. Nice cover. And there on page 87 was I Sense by JL Tooker.

But who will it reach, beyond that judging panel?
Does it matter?

For me—it does.

It feels like sending a message in a bottle I’ll never know the fate of—unless, perhaps, I receive a bottle of Irish apple whiskey on my birthday, per instructions.

But when I write on Substack, and someone clicks a ♡, I know someone was there. Someone took time from their day to engage with something I offered. And in this day of distance, that means the world to me.

Writing, for me, is about connection.

It’s about delivering a message—and knowing, somehow, that it was received.

To be read is the first step in successful communication.
To be felt—that’s the gift of resonance.

And when a reader comments? That’s the moment of true connection. The words didn’t just land. They stirred something.

That’s why I write.

Not just to be heard, but to touch. To reach.
To offer breath in a breathless world.
To help others feel a little less alone.

As the world grows more distant, I write to stay alive.
To breathe.
And to remind myself—and anyone listening—that we’re still here. Together.

So yes, being published in a contest anthology is a meaningful milestone.
It means my work passed through editorial eyes and was deemed worthy.

But being read—being received by a real person who pauses in their day and says, “Yes. I felt that”—
that’s intimacy.

That’s resonance.

That’s connection.

Have you felt that difference too—between being acknowledged and being truly heard? I’d love to hear your thoughts, if you feel like sharing.

To those who’ve ever paused with me here—who’ve read, felt, or replied—you are the reason I keep writing.

Thank you for listening.

Thank you for letting me know I’ve been heard.