🪓 Mission Critical

Last week, Jenny and I went to a new restaurant. We sat at the bar, hit it off with the bartender, and everything was perfect—until I spotted a typo on the cocktail list.

“Pomagranite.”

A tiny flaw in a flawless evening. Should I mention it? Would it feel like nitpicking?

I thought about how I feel when someone writes me about a typo in one of my essays. I don’t mind—I’m grateful. It means they’re paying attention, that they trust me enough to point it out. It feels like collaboration, not criticism.

So I told him. He thanked me. Sincerely.

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My own response to critiques has matured over the years.

When I was in school, I seethed at the red marks my teachers made on my papers. I viewed their input as a devastating insult, an indication that I was failing. It was a missed opportunity; I could have certainly gotten more bang for my tuition buck if I’d paid attention to their suggestions — but it was more important to protect my fragile ego.

Early in my advertising career, I treated every client edit as vandalism of my “vision.” My supervisors even pulled me aside to say everyone could see my scowl when changes were suggested.

But once I moved into management, I realized my job wasn’t just to defend my work—it was to build trust. Collaboration mattered as much as copy. The input wasn’t always helpful, but my willingness to adapt kept clients invested, which in turn kept the work alive.

When I began publishing books, I remained fairly receptive to editorial comments — not just copyediting but also structural suggestions that would improve (though sometimes disembowel) the manuscript. After all, Hemingway and Fitzgerald had Maxwell Perkins polishing their work. I hoped my editor might do the same for me.

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Critique is an art — both giving and receiving it. When someone asks me for feedback, I try to gauge what they really want: encouragement, reassurance, or candor. There’s no use being blunt if it only wounds.

When I put my work into the world, I expect responses from strangers. Some are generous, some are trolls—but I’ve learned to tell the difference and not hand my self-worth to the latter.

And when I ask for critique, I try to be specific: it works best when both sides know what the conversation is for.

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I live with my biggest critic, and I’m lucky for it. JJ doesn’t pull punches, but her feedback always makes me better. On Draw with Me, viewers sometimes notice our teasing or bickering, but what they’re really seeing is trust—her bluntness works because I know she’s on my side. She’s also seasoned at giving critique; as a producer, she worked with countless creative people who came to rely on her candor. And at home, I get the benefit of that same sharp eye—for free.

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While writing this essay, I’ve thought a lot about where my struggles with criticism come from. My mum likes to say I like to blame her for everything, but in this case, she’s not wrong.

When I was a child, my mother and various stepfathers didn’t see my efforts as theirs to encourage; they saw them as something to compete with.

If I stumbled, it proved their superiority.

If I succeeded, that success was waved away—trivial, patronizing, beside the point. The game was rigged. After enough rounds of that, giving up seemed smarter than playing a contest designed to demean me.

So I looked for another path.

They were academics, so I chose business. At least there I wouldn’t be encroaching on their turf. But that too was derided: craven, manipulative, capitalist — beneath us.

Years later, when I began helping people to make art, those students were dismissed as pathetic, amateurs, not worth serious attention.

Whatever I chose, it could be demeaned.

The message was clear: achievement was never safe. That imprint lingers, which is why even today, a simple critique can feel less like a helpful suggestion and more like the echo of those moving goalposts.

But I’m not that child anymore.

These days, when I get a critique, I can feel the old reflex rise—defensiveness, shame, the impulse to quit. My shoulders tighten, heat rises in my chest.

And then I pause. I take a breath and remind myself: this isn’t a competition, not a punishment. It’s free advice, a fresh chance to refine what I’ve made. That small distance gives me back my better self. What emerges after revision is still mine, still my voice, only stronger for having passed through someone else’s eyes.

It isn’t automatic—I have to will myself into that pause every time. But it keeps me from walking away. And that act of staying with it feels like my real accomplishment.

Your pal,

Danny