Meg Murray was one of my first literary heroes. I remember sitting on a park bench when I was twelve, ignoring the vivid greenness of the trees that rustled around me because I was too immersed in A Wrinkle in Time to care about nature. As an awkward child who never quite fit in, I saw so much of myself in Meg. She was odd-looking and smart in ways she couldn’t understand, and she didn’t have any friends beyond her family. But the book opened my mind to so many perspectives I had never considered. There was something awful about Camazotz, where all the people always did the exact same thing at the exact same time. It whispered that “fitting in” could be taken too far. Perhaps the desire to belong could squelch the freedom inherent in being oneself. And Meg would never have gotten to go on her amazing journey of tessering through space if she weren’t different from all the other kids. Maybe the misfits were the ones who got to have real adventures and become someone fantastic, and maybe I only had to wait, like Meg, to come into my own personal beauty.

I encouraged my daughter to read A Wrinkle in Time when she was around twelve. She’s a voracious reader, but she didn’t finish it. I’d like to think it’s because she’s already embraced our family motto: “Weird is a side effect of awesome.” Maybe the girl who boldly wears rubber ducky earrings and a blobfish sweatshirt on school picture day doesn’t need to learn the same lessons I learned.

The truth is that not all stories are written for everyone. That’s why there are so many different genres and styles and types of books. As readers, we understand this. There are stories that are transformative for us. Stories that suck us in and fill us with a longing we can’t define, and when we come to the last page, we feel different somehow. There are other stories that we just can’t get into no matter how hard we try, regardless of how much others have raved about them.

As writers, this can be hard to accept. We want our work to appeal to everyone. And when it doesn’t, sometimes we’re crushed. Maybe you’ve gotten discouraging feedback on your writing from beta readers or publishing professionals:

The feedback might echo in your mind and drown out everything good anyone has ever said about your writing. It might make you want to toss your manuscript in the fire—especially if the advice all conflicts. Beta reader A says the pacing is too slow. Beta reader B says the pacing is too fast. Agent A doesn’t connect, Agent B loves it but doesn’t offer representation, and Agent C doesn’t respond at all. At best, it’s confusing. At worst, it can make you consider giving up writing altogether.

It’s possible there are aspects of your writing that need to be improved. The story in your head might not be coming out on the page the way you were hoping. Maybe your plot needs developing or your sentences need polishing. If you’re getting consistent feedback about issues in your manuscript, revisions are probably warranted. Sometimes we’re too close to our stories to recognize the problems.

But if you get feedback that doesn’t resonate with you—feedback that would change the core of your story—consider it, but don’t blindly follow it. It doesn’t matter if the feedback comes from a friend or an industry professional. Your story is important, and it needs to remain yours. A good editor or critique partner will help you bring out your vision for your story, not turn it into something else.

I’ve experienced this myself. My YA fantasy manuscript that’s currently on submission features a grief-stricken atheist on a camping trip with a church youth group. A professional editor kindly suggested that the story would be more marketable if I changed the backdrop to a grief camp and took out the faith-related aspects. She meant well, and, to be honest, she was probably right. The story would have broader market appeal if it didn’t grapple with issues like whether a good God could allow intense suffering. It would likely have secured me an agent—and a publisher—faster.

But it would have changed the core of my story. The themes would have been unrecognizable, and it wouldn’t have said what I wanted it to say.

It wouldn’t have been my story.

So get feedback on your work, whether that means hiring a professional editor or finding the right beta readers. Make changes to improve your writing. But don’t let anyone change the heart of your story in a way that mutates it into something that you don’t want.

It took years for  A Wrinkle in Time to find a publisher, to the point that Madeleine L’Engle’s agent gave up on it. But L’Engle didn’t change it even if publishers didn’t understand the concept. The book went on to win awards such as the Newbery Medal and—more importantly—to inspire thousands of children to accept their own uniqueness.

Sometimes, we need to keep going until we find our audience, even if it means abandoning our bestseller dreams and publishing with a small press or independently. Sometimes we need to set a story aside and move on to something else.

But don’t change your story in an attempt to cram it into the nebulous, narrow concept of “marketability.” Stay true to yourself.

After all, if it’s the story you need to write, it’s the story that someone out there needs to read.