Criticism Without Reading:

The Epidemic of Uneducated Commentary

There’s a particular kind of critic that deserves its own taxonomic classification. Not the thoughtful, engaged kind. Not the peer who’s willing to sit down, read your work, and have a real conversation about it. No, I’m talking about the breed that swoops in with a smug take without having read a single damn word.

I’ve run into two of these specimens recently, both close enough to call “friends.” Past tense. They decided to unload their opinions on The Manual, my current project, despite never reading the script or its manuscript version, never asking about the process, and never once being invited to critique it. Their insights, if you can call them that, weren’t based on the actual work. They were cobbled together from scraps of my social media posts. That’s like writing a restaurant review, but only ever seeing the sign.

Here’s the thing: I’ve got the receipts. I’ve published six books, short stories in literary journals, and articles in magazines. I’ve written and maintained a blog, THE CREATURE DESIGN. I’ve authored training manuals while I was in the service. I earned a master’s degree in literature. That’s called experience. Now, that doesn’t make me untouchable, but it does mean I’ve been in the trenches, finishing projects and putting them into the world, repeatedly.

My critics? One of them has never published anything. He’s sitting on a “novel” no one’s ever seen but himself. Somehow, by the magic of self-delusion, that makes him an expert. The other has written a couple of scripts that placed in local, small competitions. That’s not nothing, but it doesn’t make him the expert he sees himself as.

This isn’t a pissing contest. I don’t care about credentials as some hierarchy of worth. But I will show my experience when I being torn down by those who have credentials themselves. So, if you’re going to weigh in uninvited, maybe bring more to the table than zero experience. Maybe actually read the thing you’re so eager to tear down.

Here’s what both of these “friends” had in common: they came in swinging at the idea of The Manual, not the execution. They saw the word “manual,” or picked up on the political undertones in social media posts, skimmed the general theme, or saw concept art, and decided they knew the whole beast. Their criticism wasn’t about my story. It was likely more about envy or narcissism.

That’s not feedback. That’s projection.

And here’s why it stings, though not in the way they think: I’ve never claimed The Manual was perfect. It’s my first script. I’ve been upfront about that. I’ve been open to notes, revisions, restructuring. Hell, I welcome the grind of improvement. But I have zero patience for drive-by criticism that’s rooted in ignorance.

If you want to critique my work, great. Pull up a chair. Read the pages. Let’s get into it. Tell me where the dialogue drags, or where the structure buckles, or where the emotional core doesn’t land. That’s real critique. That’s respect. What you don’t get to do is lob uninformed grenades and then pretend you’ve contributed.

Let’s zoom out. This isn’t just about my script. This is cultural. We’ve bred an ecosystem where loud uneducated opinions carry more currency than informed ones. Social media rewards the hot take, not the thoughtful analysis. Everyone’s a critic—especially of things they haven’t read, watched, comprehend, or experienced. And it’s poison to the creative process.

For artists, writers, filmmakers, hell, anyone making anything: this matters. Because unsolicited, uninformed criticism is worse than useless. It doesn’t sharpen you. It doesn’t make the work better. It just drains energy. It distracts. It forces you to spend time doubting yourself when you should be building something.

The sad part is, these weren’t strangers. They were friends. People who, I assumed, knew enough about the grind to at least keep their mouths shut if they weren’t going to engage seriously. Instead, they opted for ego over empathy. They wanted to be right, not helpful.

So, here’s my line in the sand. If you want to weigh in on my work, you’ve got to read it. Not the logline. Not the social media fragments. The work itself. Otherwise, your criticism goes straight into the void. And if you’re a “friend” who can’t respect that, then you’re not a friend at all.

Because here’s the truth: I didn’t get this far by chasing validation. I didn’t put in the hours, the failures, the rewrites, and the scars just to be talked down by people who’ve never finished a thing or taken a change that wasn’t a safe bet. I’ve built my career on making, on taking chanced, on doing the hard thing—not the safe and neutered path. On completing. On doing the work when others stalled out. That’s the difference.

It’s easy to be a critic. It’s hard to be a creator.

The Manual may not be perfect. In fact, I know it isn’t. It may get ripped apart in a workshop or reshaped during production. That’s the natural life of a creative work. But that will be done by professionals who’ve read the material.

Meanwhile, the non-reader critics will still be polishing their invisible manuscripts, still entering tiny safe contests, still circling the runway without ever taking off. That’s the real tragedy. Not their words, but their lack of doing.

So, the next time someone wants to “critique” my work without reading it, I’ll save us both the trouble. You don’t like the sound of The Manual? Cool. Don’t read it. Don’t watch it. Don’t come see it. But don’t pretend you’ve engaged with it when you haven’t.

Creators deserve better. We owe it to each other to have conversations based on the actual work, not assumptions. Anything less is just noise. And I’ve got better things to do than listen to noise.

Tell me the story of when this or something similar happened to you? I’d love to hear from you.