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I sat at my desk, poured myself a glass of wine, and pondered life…my profession…was it meaningless? I took a long, drawn-back swig of the bourbon and slammed down the glass. I only then noticed the stream of filtered light illuminating through the window, through the partially drawn shades. It was beautiful. I thought to myself, “I am a critic. My life is criticizing the works of others, the joys of others, the very essence of what others have toiled, agonized and gone mad over. “I am a critic. I write in a magazine about how I don’t like what someone else likes, merely because they wrote it.” Write what you love, they always say. “I am a hater,” I said, pondering the beautiful sunlight and my glass of alcohol, “…but I hate for the enjoyment of others.
