Naked in the Mud Puddle: on the Vulnerability of Critique

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I confess that I’ve never taken a mud bath.  The closest I’ve ever come was being buried under some very hot enzymatic sawdust.  The cedar flakes went everywhere, and I can only imagine mud gets even more up-close and personal when you bathe in it.  Maybe that’s okay.

I like mud.  It’s rich, it’s fertile, it reminds me of primordial soup.  Mud is the kind of fecund mess that life comes from.

And so is criticism… (Read more on the FFnP Blog, where I am the guest.)

 

Photo courtesy Jonathan Isaacs.

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