Harold and Maude - Biased Critics

I wrote previously regarding critics. I have a definitive lack of trust in people, sometimes. It may sound strange, but this particularly refers to people that I’m proximal to. I don’t distrust their integrity, or their honesty regarding most things, only those commentaries upon my own person.  I don’t think this characteristic is exclusive to me, but I’ll pretend like it is for the sake of explanation.

                Say a good friend of mine, Harold the Hippo, saunters up to me and notices I’ve purchased a new pair of glasses. I feel a little self-conscious about them, and no one else who’s seen me today has mentioned them, perhaps they are reluctant to admit they aren’t particularly flattering on me. Harold the Hippo, however, is staunchly in favor of them. “Top of the morning to you, Ben! My, those glasses look keen perched ‘neath your brow.  What a splendid style! I heartily approve, my good fellow!”  He’s a good friend, Harold the Hippo, and I know he means well, but why should Harold argue in favor of said googly-goggles while everyone else avoids the topic? Certainly he’s only flattering me. Do these framed lenses obviate my protruding nose or embellish my lazy eyes?
                Surely you jest, Harold. You humble me with your words, but I pray thee not lie on my behalf, I stutter.

                Harold stammers in shock, trying to entrench his opinion, desperately digging. His frantic fight for proving his compliment is valid only solidifies my own self-conscious fortification. My discomfort increases. Shortly thereafter, another friend, Maude the Giraffe, also approaches in the wake of Harold’s ashamed retreat.

                “Why, Ben, I do believe you’ve invested in some new article. Hold a moment, tell me not. Is it not these fabulous rims so excellently framing your eyes, matching your irises and masterfully showing off your greatest features without ostentation? Well chosen, my good sir!”

                Thank you Maude, for your kind words. I wish they were honest, I really do. But you are simply taking Harold’s side, trying to cheer me up. I should never have worn these glasses, I think.

          

                While extreme, I believe this pattern of thinking and reacting comes naturally to me. People say, “you’ve performed so well!” or “this story is really fabulous!” This only makes me more competitive, as I believe them not. Why would I believe people who love me? Does not their love cloud their vision?

I think that everyone needs a critic who has no reason for niceties, no obligation towards the person in question. Unbiased, perhaps a little critical: these are the people I want to evaluate my writing and give me an authoritative explanation of where my weaknesses reside, and where my strengths lay. My mother would love my writing even if she couldn’t understand it (which, most often in my stories, she may not… my fault). So would my best friends. Without impartiality, what hope have I of improvement?