I'm going over critiques on my thesis novel. I can't help it- even after nearly 20 years of critiques-I always feel as if my story is Cinderella and the critiquers are the wicked stepsisters pulling apart the dress the little mice and birds made for her.
I know it has to be done. I know I'm very bad at commas and spaces and then vs than. But all the little things they find make me sigh. The small child in me who likes the "let's play pretend" of storytelling wants to say-but, wasn't it fun? didn't you like it? Wasn't it cool how the scene played out? "Of course," they say. "We're only making it better."
But they also pick away the magic of the mice and birds.
I guess that magic is only for me. The gift I get from God for practicing my talent. The tearing the work apart to make it better is what must happen to create a "professional" work so I can shared the gift with you.