I must admit that having my work critiqued by strangers pisses me off most of the time. “What do you mean my book’s timeline is not clear? It’s clear to me, butt breath!” Oh, crap, there I go again taking critiques personally.
My first critique ever was from a schoolmarm that lives in California. She said my writing was at the ninth grade level, but that it would target a great range of readers around the world.
Another good thing about writing at that level is that it keeps the PhD’s critiquing. After all, if it were not for writers like me, they would be mummified in their library chairs, with a glass of expensive scotch wasted, cigar cold and lifeless with an old phonograph needle skipping like a rock on a pond, repeating the same scratchy opera musical phrase over and over.
Don’t get me wrong, a person with PhD worked hard to reach that level. I just wish they would have some appreciation for those of us who have PhD’s in the school of hard knocks. We worked hard too, but with no recognition.
Does it piss off the PhDers’ to know that I don’t like Dr. Phil? Probably not, but that’s no sweat off my gonies!