When I write something that is published for a mass audience to read, scrutinize, and comment on, it's a bit like tossing a toddler who's only just learned to walk in front of a pack of wolves. Will the pack raise the toddler as their own, accept it and nurture it, fight along side it as if it too was canine? Or will the pack devour the toddler, flaying its skin amidst a deluge of hot, sticky blood? Of course, the former is always preferable, but, like the toddler, it can make the author a bit ferrel, albeit well fed on praise. The latter, though gruesome, has its advantages. Written in the blood is often exactly what I, or any author for that matter, needs to hear -- no matter if they admit it or not. Negative criticism is the lifeforce upon which writers must drink. I know that's the case for me. It makes me better and, more importantly, it makes me continuously push to be better. While words may not be able to break bones, they can often strike far more vulnerable areas of the body -- leaving bruises that last like meteor strikes; it may be concealed, overgrown with greenery, but the crater will always be there. But it's those craters that build character. Imperfection breeds interest. And one must always, if nothing else, be interesting.

This is why I often say that the negative comments I receive are my favorites. They don't cause me to recoil like a frightened armadillo or steam like a kettle about to boil over -- most often they make me laugh. But a few are able to fleck my thick skin and push me to be better -- to never be satisfied, never be complacent.

Because I write to impact people. Whether that impact is negative or (preferably) positive, to cause another person an emotional or mental or even a physical response is why I write. To know that the words that I've arranged in sentences that I've engineered into paragraphs that impart my thoughts and emotions onto another person is the utmost reward. And it's comments like this one from Timothy that keep me writing.

Mr. Tenney — I have read several of your more thoughtful works and I have to say, you are an excellent writer. I saved your article on Batman 3 (It Starts and Ends With Time) because I so thoroughly agreed with what you said, and I was as enrapt by the way you painted the words.

The same is true here. I don't smoke. My grandfather did. And his stash of stuff smelled sweet and aged and wise, with a hint of "leave me alone - I'm smoking". That line you wrote: "Spinning around that word were similes qualifying such a claim. Half-Blood Prince is like a fine cigar: a slow burn housing notes of brilliant character that linger long after the exhale."

That is a revelation to me. I could see it. I could smell it. I could see the smoke wafting this way and that, trailing into nothingness, while absolutely bringing home the comparison.

You are either older, British, or extremely well-read, or all three. In any case, I am still left to wonder how you are able to capture essence in this way and pass it lovingly to the masses. How?

And just for the record, I am neither an older gentlemen nor British -- and I'm not as well-read as I would like to be, but I do love to read. I am, however, a constant and avid seeker of knowledge and experience. As well as a lover of the English language. So, thank you Timothy. If I can create the sight, the smell, the emotion for even one person -- it's a victory. For millions, billons the world over -- well, all in due time.