My first review was also my first bad review. I was twenty-four, and it was my first professional production. I remember the headline was particularly damning.
The director, Joyce Piven, also my teacher, called me the morning the review of Orlando came out, and said, in her unmistakable deep voice, “I’m sorry. You took the hit for me.” I read the review, and saw that the critic had blamed me for a directorial decision that I had fought against. Then I took an empty glass of Smucker’s jam into the basement and smashed it on the floor.
I wept, then swept up the pieces and vowed to never read reviews again.