As I’m immersed in — and blown away by — Liz Gilbert’s new book All the Way to the River: Love, Loss and Liberation, I’ve been reflecting on what makes a good writer. People often say to me, “I can’t write,” or, “I’d love to write a book, but I don’t know how to start.” And sure, there are techniques, there’s style, there’s narrative — writing is a craft that can, and should, be practiced and honed.

Of course, the concept of good writing differs for everyone. But for me, there is one ingredient that makes writing truly exceptional: raw honesty. That, together with authenticity, passion, and vulnerability. Too often, a writer tries to appear good or heroic in front of their audience, forgetting that what moves readers most is not perfection, but humanity. When we dare to reveal our flaws, our doubts, and our contradictions, something magical happens — the words breathe, and the reader sees themselves in them.

This is where Liz Gilbert excels. In All the Way to the River, she lays it all bare: her love and sex addiction, her struggles with substances, her overgiving in order to receive love. Her shame, her low self-esteem, her anxiety, her unhealthy relationship patterns. And she does it so beautifully — never in a self-pitying or, conversely, a self-blaming way. It’s simply real, and therefore exquisite. It makes her relatable and, ultimately, deeply lovable. Because we’ve all been there, in one way or another.

“Everyone has a public life, a private life, and a secret life,” she quotes Gabriel García Márquez — and then dives straight into her own: the messy brokenness she had long hidden beneath the dazzling success of Eat Pray Love. And that, to me, is deeply courageous. It’s the kind of transformational writing that has the power to change lives. Liz Gilbert was a huge inspiration for my first book, Meeting Shiva, which explored childhood trauma and my own journey through — and healing from — unhealthy relationship patterns. Looking back, it was my willingness to be vulnerable and authentic, even when it didn’t make me look good, that touched readers the most.

Another writer who embodies this kind of honesty is Roberto Saviano. For those unfamiliar with him, Saviano is a well-known Italian journalist and writer who has dedicated his life to exposing organized crime, particularly the Camorra. You might know him from the Gomorrah series on Netflix, which is based on his book of the same name. Since 2006, Saviano has lived under constant police protection — the Camorra was, unsurprisingly, not impressed by his relentless revelations. That’s almost twenty years under strict security protocols — a lifetime for a man born in 1979.

Yet despite his incredible success as a writer — Gomorrah sold over 2.5 million copies in Italy alone and was translated into 52 languages — his private life tells a very different story. To some, having bodyguards might sound glamorous. But it’s anything but, as he describes vividly in his article “My life has been hell since mafia bosses blamed me for their downfall“. He writes about his isolation, his fear, the loss of spontaneity and privacy, and the breakdown — or sheer impossibility — of romantic relationships. After all, who could bear such strain? “Enough of this half-existence — neither fully alive nor dead,” he concludes, alluding to his longing to free himself from this ordeal, even at his own risk.

My respect for him went through the roof after reading that article. It takes immense strength to say, Yes, I was courageous. I stood up to the Camorra. And it ruined my life. His readers may see the heroic truth-teller in him. But he’s clearly tired of that label — he just wants people to understand the personal cost of his courage. And that — this raw, unguarded honesty — is what defines good writing for me. And, ultimately, true humanity.

Perhaps it’s finally time for society to evolve to that level. More and more people are dropping their masks, becoming more real, more trauma-sensitive. Perhaps we’re all beginning to understand that masks don’t truly serve us. Yes, on the surface they keep us “safe” — and sometimes, that makes sense. But it becomes problematic when they keep us isolated from others, when people can’t see our real selves but only the image we present to the world.

And perhaps that’s what truly makes a good writer: the courage to be real.