One of the  great things about blogging is that while people sometimes criticize the ideas in a post, they never criticize the writing. As in, ‘this is really poorly written.’

This is good for me since I have almost no tolerance for criticism about my writing unless it’s the tiniest little pebble wrapped in oceans of velvet hidden behind a heavy drape of compliments. And even then I can’t fathom it, sitting calmly and reading criticism of something I so painstakingly crafted in the thirty minutes between finishing a project and dinner being ready. If a comment ever gave off even the smallest puffs of negativity, I’d obliterate it without even reading the whole thing. I’ve been told I’m overly sensitive to criticism.

I’ve published a couple of pieces that have brought some really vitriolic responses. I was once raw meat for a bunch of adoptees in Australia who hated me for being an adoptive mother who complained about her adoptive kids. Too bad my kids had all left home before the Aussies set out to rescue them from me. Still, as mad as they got and as lengthy, they left my writing alone. There was no ‘you’re a terrible writer’ to go along with ‘you’re a criminal for snatching those poor children from their true parents.’ No advice to go easy on the adverbs or tighten up the character descriptions. They were mum on that front. I could have written the whole piece in crayon as far as they were concerned.

It’s freeing. That idea. Very freeing. Crayons.

A long time ago, a man told me that no smart person would ever tell a woman she wasn’t a good lay, a good cook, or a good mother.

Yes, I lived in the Stone Age. It was pretty there. The caves were beautifully appointed and everyone wore furs.

Anyway, before my misogynist-hating friends and relatives get fired up about the aforementioned nugget from my friend, let me just say that I would add this: don’t ever tell a woman she isn’t a good writer.

No, wait, let me be more specific. Don’t ever tell this woman she isn’t a good writer. She would dissolve into nothingness like the Wicked Witch, leaving only empty jeans and hiking boots in a puddle of writer tears.

It’s a good thing that nobody criticizes the writing on blogs. This protects my giant but fragile ego. But it also creates an unreal world where we, the blogging nation, seem to overlook the 400-line paragraphs, the misspelled words, the strained comparisons, the precious, breathless confessions, and the never-ending self-absorption because, after all, we all write ‘what we know’ and what we know is us, right?

Don’t mistake this for a faux plea for criticism. I am only observing, not issuing a request for critical attention.

I’m way too tender for that. Weak. Vulnerable. Like a blade of grass. Don’t mow me.