A Sentence So Good I Wish I'd Written It: "Their house had real hardcover books in it, and you often saw them lying open on the sofa, the words still warm from being read." --David Sedaris, "Loggerheads."
Photo of last night's sunset by me because every post should have a pretty picture.
I wish I were serene enough to say I don’t care about reviews and never read them, but I do and I do. Everyone wants to be liked, and you remember one bad review much longer than a hundred good ones. Plus, they affect sales.
I consider the source. A pan from an anonymous troll carries much less weight than from a respected critic. I’m fine with “tough but fair.” I got one of those from a reviewer I know and sent her a note that said, “Sorry you didn’t connect with this story, maybe next time.” No hard feelings.
Replying “I’d like to see you try it!” is easy but wrong. Criticism is its own skill. A good critic can put artistic work in context and render thoughtful judgment. Quality criticism is provocative and entertaining. I respect it. Still . . . It’s a fundamentally parasitical racket, isn’t it? Without creative people producing material to critique, they’d be out of a job.
My real frustration with criticism is that it’s not actionable. The work is finished, so even if a critic’s right, I can’t change it. I suppose I could learn from my mistakes and do better next time, but that seems unlikely. Like Welles’s bird, I just write what I write, draw what I draw, fly how I fly. What the ornithologists make of my plumage is not really my concern.
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