To some certain degree--I'm not sure which degree that is--anyone who
elects to be a published author is open to some form of criticism.

Having grown up with a step-father who was a harsh task master, I
developed a fairly thick criticism shield early on. This shield was
hardened yet some more since 1991 thanks to public discussion
experience in such places as FidoNet, and certainly on the Internet.

This preamble is meant to demonstrate that I understand that I should
not let certain things get to me. Indeed, when someone reads a story
of mine and hates it, and says so, I am often quite amused by some of
the feedback this gets me. Certainly, my time editing others' work
taught me a thing or two about how to OFFER such criticism ... and I
believe I was always a humane editor.

But something happened back in January that bruised me emotionally. It
reared its ugly head again for a short while in July, just at the time
I had finally more or less recovered from the first round. I was at
the receiving end of a different kind of attack ... and attack of my
moral and ethical system. It reached the point where someone -- don't
know who, but someone who claimed to be from the national press --
phoned my home directly one Sunday. (This was a while back.) No longer
was I simply being criticized for being a crappy writer. Instead, I
was being challenged for my decisions, and being called a fraud, a
liar, a con-man, and a bullshit artist. It was no longer about my
work, my output ... it was about my character.

I haven't been able to shake the crappy feeling these two bursts have
left me with. I know I should have been able to ... but I haven't.
I've been called worse things to my face, and have forgotten worse
incidents. For some reason, however, this hasn't lifted.

When I receive an email from someone I don't know now -- I delete it
or file it away and forget about it -- without replying -- even if it
is from a reader and/or fan. I just file it away and feel like I need
to take a shower. In the past, I've always replied to such emails with
at least a thanks-for-the-kind-words. Now, I do not trust strangers
any more.

I can't explain this feeling articulately ... but if I were to try, I
would say, "I feel like I have been mugged and beaten." This is not to
down play what a mugging victim must go through ... and even comparing
the two makes me feel guilty. I have developed a bad case of
netoraphobia (the cyber equivalent to agoraphobia?). I post only in
those places where I feel absolutely safe, and even then, only rarely.

This cannot be a way for a writer to go about his day. There must be
something I can do (I keep telling myself) to shake this murky
feeling. If I let strangers with no names do this to me, I have let
the faceless defeat me. That idea angers me, and I do not like to be
angry. What angers me even more is that I allow myself to feel this
way.

How is it that nameless, faceless people can do to me what those with
faces haven't been able to do? How can a vapor shake me, when those
who spat on me and kicked me in person never broke my resolve? I am a
somewhat of a loss ... which is why I am telling you what I've been
going through. Is this just something EVERY published writer must
endure? Have I failed the entrance exam?

Humbly submitted,

--
Quinn Tyler Jackson
http://members.shaw.ca/qjackson/
http://members.shaw.ca/jacksonsolutions/

--- Rachel's Little NET2FIDO Gate v 0.9.9.8 Alpha