Dying to Review

Every time I read a bad review of one of my books, I die inside a little.

It feels like, I dunno, doing something embarrassing in 7th grade, like your note getting intercepted and read out loud, something like that.

You can get 99 things out of a hundred right, but they'll still point out the 100th thing.

Bastards.

They're gonna pic Blooms apart, Set help us.

Last week A March through Hell got a five star review that happened to mention my 'habitual' mistakes. 

I just wanted to crawl inside a box.

Mind you, it was a five star review.

I expressed these sentiments to an author friend of mine who chastened me, 'Why do you read your reviews?'