Amanda Peet has a terrific piece in the NY Times about why she doesn’t read reviews, and how strange it feels when rest of the world knows something you don’t:

The morning after we opened, nobody called me. When I talked to my mom, she sounded like a cheerful acquaintance who isn’t sure if she’s allowed to know about your terminal cancer diagnosis. My agent said he was coming down with something and had to get off the phone. As I made my way to the theater, every newsstand I passed was a test of my resolve. I felt like a reformed gambler who had been air dropped onto the Vegas strip.

I don’t read reviews either, but I’ve made a compromise: my husband reads them and gives me the gist.

At least for me, this strikes a helpful balance where I’m not paralyzed by the actual criticism or the imagined criticism.