The thing is, like Scalzi, I don't really want constructive criticism. If someone wants to tell me, hey, your book sucks, or the dialogue is stilted, or the plotting leaves something to be desired, okay, fine. Maybe it does, and maybe it is, and maybe I'll think about it.

However, if some random person with no particular reason to know what they're talking about--i.e., not an editor or agent or published author--writes and tells me they think I should change the entire motivation of the main character, and when someone else writes and tells me how they think the book should end (this is while I was writing it, when even I didn't know how it would end), well, please excuse me if I don't pay attention.

This wasn't meant to be a great literary achievement, it was an exercise. It had a point--to see if I could write a book-length manuscript--and I accomplished that goal. I may or may not rewrite it at some point in the future. And when I do, I probably won't post it as I go.

I got a lot of momentum from posting it online, and I enjoyed the process, and was motivated by needing to post wordcounts on the site every day. And it was wonderful to get emails from people saying they enjoyed the book, and hoped I would keep writing it. But when I got emails from people telling me what they thought the next scene should be, it was incredibly distracting, and it was very difficult for me to get back on track with what I thought the next scene should be. I got into the habit of just very briefly scanning emails to see what they were before I actually read them. I'd kind of squint my eyes, and if it said something like, "I think you should," then I stuck in a folder to look at later, when I was finished.

Good intentions, I'm sure, but man.

Into this mix comes a story last night -- there's always a story, the blasted things follow me around like an endless supply of Serta sheep -- and this one has bigger teeth and a bad attitude.? Like most of them, it got in my face, but this one talked.? It said -- in a quasi-Clint Eastwood voice -- "Go ahead, plot me, you know you want to."? Then it hovered, just inside my peripheral writer's vision, all black leather and gunmetal and pretty white teeth.? This is where the Church Lady from SNL would say, "Oh my, is it SATAN?"