My vocation is writing, but my avocation is painting, mostly portraits. I belong to a Facebook group dedicated to showing the work of artists who are trying to create loose watercolor paintings. Members range from people whose pieces could be displayed at a prestigious museum to beginners who are asking for comments and helpful tips on their first attempts.

A self-avowed beginner posted several portraits online. Using vivid colors and bold strokes, her paintings portrayed purple bruises, blood flowing, and anguished expressions. Each portrait revealed the artist’s compassion for the difficult lives of her subjects, but not in a gratuitous way.

Her work evoked a strong, affirming response from group members, except one person. That member found the work disturbing and said so in an unkind way. She demanded the woman’s entries be banned from the forum.

The novice artist felt crushed and expressed her distress online. She received many responses, including mine, which was something like, “Don’t accept harsh criticism from anyone you wouldn’t normally choose to go to for advice, someone who doesn’t necessarily care about you or understand your work.” I wish I’d included, don’t let her comments break your creative heart.

My advice received lots of “likes,” clearly striking a chord among group members. It harkened back to a lesson I’d learned the hard way, when, early in my writing life, an esteemed author had delivered a withering and global assessment of my work—before letting me know I couldn’t be part of her writing workshop.

My first two years of writing, I had enjoyed beginner’s luck. Without much effort, I placed several essays and three short stories. One story won first prize in a statewide contest. Those small successes cheered me, but at my core, I felt like an imposter.

Despite my self-doubt, I gathered the courage to apply to a ten-session fiction workshop led by the well-known author. She had a stellar publishing history that included novels, short story collections, and individual stories landing in impressive places, like The New Yorker. As requested, I submitted a writing sample, a short story that just had been published by a literary journal at a local university.

The workshop was limited to five participants. Given my lack of experience, I expected to be rejected. What I didn’t expect was a phone call from the writer saying that not only was I not accepted, but also that I didn’t grasp the basics of short story writing. She delivered her pronouncement in a neutral tone, then hung up.

I cried for a couple days, so devastated by her assessment that I vowed to give up writing entirely.

A week later, the writer phoned again. Cool as ever, she invited me to join the workshop. I found the call so stunning that I cannot remember the reason she gave for changing her mind.

I was terrified but said yes anyway. Turned out, I enjoyed the weekly sessions and my fellow attendees, who were warm and welcoming. They gave kind and beneficial insights on my work and on one another’s work. Our teacher facilitated the workshop well and gave good guidance.

At the last session, she took me aside and said, “You have the most publishable writing that’s come through this workshop in a while.” She gave no further explanation.

I accepted her words as a compliment. But later, I wondered if she meant them as a passive-aggressive dig, that my work had commercial but not literary appeal. (For the record, I am happy producing work that has both commercial and literary appeal.)

I decided I didn’t care.

My life’s calling is to write. I couldn’t stop myself from writing if I tried—evident by the random thoughts jotted on old envelopes, on the backs of grocery receipts, and in the margins of crumpled newspapers strewn in my car, in my gym locker, and on my bedside table.

It is my clear sense of calling, of knowing why I write, that gives me the fortitude to face both rejection and the rare harsh comments from individuals who don’t care about me or the body of my work. Of course, this quiet assurance can be rattled—the truth is I’ve just barely survived some brutal knockdowns—but my central conviction remains constant.

I’m also grateful for the kind of feedback from colleagues and professionals that helps me shape and polish my work and enjoy a happy and productive writing life.

As for that writing teacher from years ago? I appreciate all she taught me, including the hard lesson, the one that helped me gain the confidence to embrace my vocation, no matter what.

Blessings all around!

Deborah M. Prum’s non-fiction has appeared in The Washington Post, Southern Living, Ladies’ Home Journal, Streetlight, and Huffington Post. Her podcast, First Kiss and Other Cautionary Tales, is on Spotify and Apple Podcasts. Her humorous radio essays have aired on NPR affiliates. Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, The Virginia Writers Centennial Anthology, and McQueen’s Quinterly. Her articles on the craft of writing have been published in Brevity, The Writer, and The Writer’s Handbook. (More info at www.deborahprum.com). This essay first appeared in Brevity under the title, “When to Care and When Not To.”