The Hidden Curriculum of Creative Writing Workshops: Why Authors Need Mentors to Build More Equitable Systems of Critique

Writers are no strangers to feedback. Whether it comes from a professor in a university writing program, a group of peers in a community workshop, or even the comments section of an online writing forum, critique is part of the literary ecosystem. Writers depend on it not only to sharpen their work but also to deepen their understanding of how writing functions in the eyes of others. Yet for all its importance, critique is far from a neutral process. Underneath every workshop, every feedback session, and every peer review lies what educational theorists call a “hidden curriculum”—a set of unspoken values, cultural norms, and social dynamics that quietly shape the learning experience.

While the surface structure of a writing workshop might present itself as democratic or open, with every participant presumably given an equal voice, the reality is far more complex. The hidden curriculum influences what kinds of writing are celebrated, what kinds of language are seen as “correct,” and whose stories are considered legitimate or worthy of attention. Writers from historically marginalized backgrounds often find themselves navigating not only the technical demands of their craft but also the unspoken cultural codes that can marginalize their voices in the very spaces designed to nurture them.

For example, many workshop participants unconsciously default to literary values rooted in Eurocentric or Western traditions, often privileging certain narrative structures, character arcs, or stylistic choices. Minimalist prose, linear timelines, and “show, don’t tell” mantras are treated as universal craft wisdom when, in reality, they are culturally situated preferences. Writers who draw from oral traditions, non-linear storytelling, or rhetorical styles that do not fit these dominant models may be misunderstood, dismissed, or pressured to conform. What passes for constructive critique may in fact be a request to translate one’s voice into the dominant literary dialect—a process that can flatten the richness of culturally specific forms of expression.

Mentorship offers an important counterbalance to these inequities. Unlike the often impersonal or competitive environment of a group workshop, literary mentorship is rooted in relationship. It is an ongoing, individualized partnership in which a mentor takes the time to understand a writer’s goals, values, and cultural context. A good mentor does not impose a single vision of what “good writing” looks like but instead helps the writer articulate and refine their own aesthetic priorities. This kind of personalized attention allows writers to develop their craft without sacrificing the integrity of their voice.

Literary mentors create a space for critical conversations about the hidden curriculum of writing workshops. In a one-on-one relationship, mentors can help writers identify when feedback they receive is genuinely about craft and when it may be colored by unconscious bias or limited cultural frameworks. This kind of awareness is crucial not only for protecting the writer’s voice but also for empowering them to navigate future workshops, editors, and readers with greater confidence and discernment. Rather than internalizing every piece of criticism as a personal failure, writers learn to differentiate between feedback that serves their vision and feedback that asks them to conform to someone else’s.

Mentors can also model more equitable practices of critique. They can demonstrate how to ask questions rather than issue judgments, how to frame feedback in ways that invite dialogue rather than shut it down, and how to center the writer’s intentions rather than the critic’s preferences. These skills are not only valuable for the writer’s own development but also for the communities they participate in. Writers who experience equitable, respectful mentorship are more likely to bring those same values into the writing groups, classrooms, and editorial spaces they inhabit in the future. In this way, mentorship does not only benefit the individual writer—it helps shift the culture of critique itself.

Of course, not all mentorship is equally effective. Like workshops, mentorship relationships can also carry their own hidden hierarchies and power dynamics. A mentor who assumes they have all the answers, or who unconsciously imposes their own aesthetic values as universal truths, can replicate the very inequities they aim to dismantle. The most effective mentors see themselves as co-learners, open to being challenged and transformed by the writers they support. They recognize that mentorship is not a one-way transfer of knowledge but a mutual process of exploration and growth.

For authors seeking mentorship, it is worth seeking out mentors who are not only skilled in craft but also aware of these broader dynamics. Writers should look for mentors who ask thoughtful questions, who respect the writer’s agency, and who are willing to engage in honest conversations about culture, identity, and power. Equally, mentors who are committed to equity should make their values explicit, signaling to potential mentees that they are aware of the hidden curriculum and are prepared to support writers in navigating it.

The goal of mentorship is not to replace critique but to transform it. Writers need feedback to grow, but they deserve feedback that meets them where they are, that respects the complexity of their voice, and that challenges them to reach toward their own vision of excellence—not someone else’s. By investing in mentorship relationships that foreground equity, writers and mentors alike can work together to build a literary culture where more voices are not only heard but truly understood.