I thought I'd learned my lesson.
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, I sat with other writers, and we critiqued each others work. Some of us were 'professionals', meaning we had been paid for our blitherings 'by the word'.
One of our group was the person who wrote the adaptation for 'Escape From New York'.
I fucked his girlfriend, and smoked some genuine Panama Red with him, for which he'd traded a brand new Maytag washer and dryer set that he'd 'purchased' with his recently ex-wife's credit card.
What's the point? I swore then that I would never sit around in another circle-jerk of fragile egos, and give my opinion of 'works in progress', some of which made me cringe in embarrassment, some turning me green with jealousy, and some blackening my heart with the urge to steal...
Writing is not a team sport. Masturbation, at best, includes only one other person who you must care VERY much about. Otherwise, just shut the fuck up, paint the fence, and deal with the critics afterwards, eh?