Reading a bad review about your book really stinks. (And by “a” I don’t mean to say that I’ve only had one. Trust me.)
Some of them hit me harder than others. And when a hard-hitting one comes along, immeditately the cloud settles over my head and I stop for a moment or 27 and say to myself a few times over, “What the heck am I doing? Why do I spend so much time and give so much of my life to something that someone - anyone - can quickly read through and then casually sit at their computer and with a few clicks of the keyboard tell the world how much they disliked what I’ve written? Why do I do that to myself?”
What. The. Heck. Am. I. Doing? (Insert pity-party with a high-calorie treat and impulsive trip to the mall here.)
I do know that eventually the cloud will clear away, though, and I’ll see a bit of the sun again. It never stays completely dark for too, too long. (Unless of course you live where the sun doesn’t come up for six months or more of the year. Sheesh. I don’t even want to begin imagining the symbolic connections to that.) And when that first pin-prick of light does comes back; a day, a month - gulp! - SIX months later, I fully remember why the heck I’m doing what I’m doing –> Because I love it. Because it gives me satisfaction. Because it’s what I’m wired up to do: I can’t not do it.
And because there are readers out there who do like what I write. End of sentence.
Ah, yes. Face up. Shoulders back. Return those unnecessary purchases and put the tub of ice-cream back in the freezer. Here comes the sun.