Of course, I kept writing. Frankly, I have a large enough ego that I can take some criticism and not fall down. But I wonder how many tender plantings have died from a barrage of perhaps well-meaning but damaging comments. Ideas are fragile things. It's easy to step on them. I've seen it happen; God forgive me, I've even stepped on a few myself. I meant well, but an idea needs time to grow, to put down roots, raise a few leaves to the sun. We rarely give them time.
I have only a handful of what I call my Positives. My Positives like me, like my writing, like my ideas. They don't immediately attempt to point out shortcomings, they don't try to make anything better, they just support. And they are precious to me. Very precious. I'm willing to put up with a lot from them because of that rare stream of encouragement they provide.
I have critics. I carry within me the worse critic. The critic inside would have me curl up and die. He's unrelenting. Nothing I ever do is good enough. I've learned to live with him, to slip books past him, and to ignore when I have to. He's always there, so I've got criticism covered.
But that support, that wind for my sails ... now, that's a treasure. One I hope I always have.
I hope you have a strong wind for your sails, too. How is life treating you? Well, I hope. Talk to you later.
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