Joy...Criticism Time...
Love it, hate it, don't-leave-home-without-it, it's Criticism Time for the writer—I mean, **cough, cough**—the writer's work.
So, you've just completed a draft of the book. And you've read it over once or twice, maybe even completely read it, sorta, from front to back since you first flash-wrote in a hungover stupor the sloppy hamburger you call a novel. And now, you say to yourself: "I'm a'ready for some criticism!"
So, you search "beta-reader" and "book editing services" on your search engine of choice (I mean, uh, there's just Google anymore, right?), and you scroll through the many, many, many blogs (all getting more blog traffic than yours...) about wannabe beta-readers, why oh why can't I get a good beta-read for Xmas, and—oh...people offering editing services? (for just a wee $-price per word that multiplies out to...ohmigod—call the dentist and cancel that crown appointment!) and after it all you throw up your hands and proclaim: "Who needs a damn editor!?!"
Yes, I've done that.
And I don't really know if you need to pay for criticism or not. Maybe swapping beta-reads is the thing for you, or at least, try it first before you put your mortgage payment down on a for-profit editing service. But, this is the main gist of what you're looking for: criticism.
That's right. It's a bad word, in some circles (and most ever trapezoid I've ever come across, but not so much in triangles...) and it's deplorably, unconstitutionally, heinously necessary.
"Why?" you ask. "Why is criticism—constructive or destructive, feedback, professional advice, whatever you want to call it—necessary?"
Well, it's like Christmas...
**cue eyeroll**
You see, when Christmas rolls around each year, we think of giving (and receiving) presents. We give what we think are sound, useful, fun, wished-for, hoped-for gifts to the people we appreciate. And we receive, or take, what is given and say, "Thank you for thinking of me, and merry, merry Criticism to you too..." even if what we have received is unsound—"I'm burying it in the backyard and drawing a crucifix over it as soon as we get home."—or not useful, nor fun, nor wished-for, and certainly, certainly not hoped-for. "Not in a million, billion years did I want used undershorts for Xmas..."
But, hey, you say thanks and take it home anyways. Shove it away till spring. Then, you realize..."Those used undershorts are actually the perfect rag to wipe my windshield with—No spots!" And that demonic kid's toy from Aunt Marple, buried only halfway in the frozen ground with the nether-end sticking up, makes for the perfect birdbath holder.
So, you never know.
Even the worst gifts—such as unsightly, unprofessional, ungainly and—shouldn't this reviewer be committed?—criticism may just prove useful.
Or can 'em. Cuz I know, for sure, that fruitcake that's been getting passed around in my family for the last ten or twenty years has only got one use: to pass on, yet again, next Christmas...