Perihelion Online Science Fiction Magazine likes my novel, Under Strange Suns. No, really. Check out the review. And that’s good. It warms the outer crust of my black, stony lawyer’s heart. But it also makes me squirm a bit. I don’t receive praise well.
Stupid, isn’t it? Someone likes what you do. Say thank you. Appreciate that someone appreciates your work. And move on. But I’ve never been comfortable with it. You might think it speaks to a lack of self-confidence, a deep-seated, niggling sense that nothing I produce could be that good. Could be, but I don’t think so. My well of amour-propre seldom runs dry.
I suppose it is something to work on. To learn to accept praise in the spirit in which it is offered without it leading to either a swelled-head or to a parsing of the praise, picking it apart to look for some hidden slight or suggestion of insincerity.
There are worse problems to have.