Occasionally, I feel like I need to cut Moffat a break. Granted, he has a lot to answer for lately; many of the narrative choices he’s made have been self-serving, at best. However, to a certain degree I feel a little sorry for him; I can empathize with the problems he has.

Before anyone goes jumping down my throat, here, let me clarify. I’m not talking about the “problems” he has with fans calling him out on questionable scripting decisions (whether they be with plot, characterization, or representation). I’m talking purely from a creative standpoint.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, as I struggle to complete the latest revision of my first novel. (As an aside, if anyone cares, I also blog under my pen name about that creative process, though less regularly.) But it occurred to me, as I’ve been fighting to pull all the newly-adjusted plot threads together in the final chapters, that the issues I’m facing must be very similar to those Moffat faces every series, and I found myself suffering a pang of sympathy for the poor bastard.

As a writer myself, I totally get it: you have all these great ideas, these grand schemes, and then when it comes down to it, you just can’t execute it as well as you’d envisioned. That, as I see it, is effectively the issue that plagues Moffat’s grandiose plotting machinations. The nugget that sparks it all (reportedly, he wanted some epic battle at the end of this Doctor’s life to be echoing back down his timeline, but the Doctor would have no idea what was going on or why) is good—possibly even brilliant—but when the moment comes, all those ingenious intrigues so painstakingly laid simply don’t come together smoothly.

I’ll be the first to admit that I struggle with plot, so clearly I’m not one to be giving master classes. However, a writer doesn’t work in a vacuum. Just as I get feedback from my critique partners, so must The Moff get feedback from the other writers on the show. Surely somewhere along the way, someone must have said, “now, Steven, I know you want to tie everything up in sixty minutes, but surely the fans deserve more than a two sentence explanation for something you’ve left hanging for years,” mustn’t they? (Apparently not. Or they got the same, “you’re just not clever enough” brushoff he’s given in interviews.)

It’s hard to hear criticisms of something you’ve worked on for so long, especially someone telling you your denouement isn’t satisfying. So I can understand if Moffat didn’t want to change anything (“It’s exactly how I wanted it!” is a natural reaction to such a critique)—I totally empathize with the desire to dig one’s artistic heels in and refuse to budge. But the thing is, good art (whether that be scripts, novels, or some other medium entirely) doesn’t come without sacrificing things you, the artist, liked if said things hinder the overall quality of the piece.

So while I “get it” that Moffat doesn’t like to listen to all the critics, and feels compelled to tell them to piss off (I’m not sure he’s actually done so in so many words, but some of things I’ve read that he’s said may as well have been), it seems to me that’s bad writing. That is, the Practice of Writing requires one to sacrifice ego for the sake of craft. When a writer refuses to acknowledge perfectly valid commentary and concerns—especially when the same ones crop up again and again—it’s time for some serious introspection.

Obviously, Moffat has done some great work, and there are a lot of folks out there who love what he does (to varying degrees). I can only wish ever to meet even a small fraction of the success he’s had. But I hope that if I ever do “make it” as a writer (whatever that means), that I never forget the importance of constantly stretching myself to be a better storyteller, and that I never ignore my fans’ honest critiques, hard as they can be to swallow. Because in the end, what we all really want is great stories.