I was going through the guest reviews on the latest story I put up on fanfiction.net. The review at the very top, started off with raw jagged negatives. I had written the part because I felt bad for one of the characters since the Manga seemed to be trampling on her happiness, and that particular guest review was a lash back at an earlier reviewer who had tried to comfort me. Something cracked inside me, something like glass that threatened to cut me deeper than the Manga had cut. And I realized, this was my first hate-mail.
Since then, even though I’ve tried to patch up the wound, it seems to have broken me somewhere deep somehow. Is that how the first hate-mail feels?
I honestly don’t know. I would think it is different for everyone.
For the same piece of writing that review came for, those who matter are beginning to see me in a new light. And I will not lie, I owe this new-found euphoria in writing from Ayn Rand’s Atlas shrugged. The writing style itself seemed to be speaking to me.
In search of more inspiration (I know, I’m still an amateur), I sifted through all the reviews I wrote on fanfiction.net in the past three years. I’ve been no better at providing constructive criticism for most of the works I’ve read there. My longest review was a ramble about an angst-filled teen romance and which pairings I want he author to augment. Not that it matters. But posting on fanfiction.net does nothing to satiate my thirst for feedback. Most people there are hopeless romantics who give me nothing but horribly concise thoughts. These people, obviously, have not thought about the nature of their feelings, or the graduation with which they build up. They have learnt only to with which these feelings build inside them. They only know the names of these feelings, and they leave it at that.
Perhaps Ayn Rand has ruined me for other writers on some fundamental level.
I have yet to find out.