A few weeks ago, a member of a Facebook book group mentioned that the last five books she read were books she had to grade as three stars. Why was she going through this sudden drought? It made no sense to her. In a way, I think she blamed authorkind.
After I read this, I understood that readers like me had become the silent minority.
You see, before (and after) I became a writer, I was a reader. A voracious reader devouring any book in just about any genre. Fantasy, crime, middle-grade, biographical, humorous, historical… Urban fantasy quickly became a favorite. When I wasn’t reading, I’d reinvent the worlds I’d visited in these books, tweaked events and characters.
I fed on stories.
If I liked a book, I’d recommend it. Sometimes I would talk to my friends about it. In return, they’d recommend books to me, or I’d walk into a shop and read the description on the back of a book.
And yes, some novels were better than others. Book A played in my head for days, book B had quirky characters that I related to, book C had a predictable but well executed plot, book D made me laugh a few times. Perhaps none was perfect, but each had elements I enjoyed. Some I remember fondly fifteen years later, others I forgot within six months. (BTW, I probably had three DNFs (Did Not Finish) in my life.)
I didn’t care about ‘perfect.’ Each book came with a new world. What more did I need? If I had to rate my reading experience for each novel, I’d give it a five out of five, every time. Not four stars, not three, two or one, but the full house. Because even a mediocre book gave me new fodder with which to fill my dreams.
Amazon came along and offered me books at a better price. It was like Christmas online. One click, and a day later you could soar away to far-away places. What would the next book bring? A cool book boyfriend? A baddie who gave me the chills? Trivia about the life expectancy of ladybirds?
But while I was reading privately in bed or on my sofa, the reading community outside my four walls changed, and a new, more ferocious breed of reader was engineered. Meet the reader/reviewer.
This started when Amazon and other retailers passed the job of quality control from trained staff on to the users of their products. Suddenly, the average person on the street was called on as an expert.
Books were no longer just to be enjoyed, but to be judged. How did book A fare when compared to book C? Which aspects did you enjoy? Which parts could have been better? Soon, readers’ expert testimony related no longer just to the enjoyment of a book but to its literary shortcomings, whether they had a writer’s insight or not. How was the author’s writing style? Character development? Pacing?
No area was safe from analysis. Like judging the work of a surgeon. The layman might tell if something went wrong, but suddenly they also knew the precise nature of the physician’s malpractice. And it’s fun, talking with authority about a subject. People listen. Not just people, but your peers.
For this new breed of readers, talking about books they hated is just as exciting as discussing the minutiae of stories they loved. Yet even the few books that stand out don’t escape unscathed, because reader/reviewers simply must nitpick and highlight flaws even in great books. After all, this is the job they were given by the powers that be, and by golly, they will rise to the task.
Opinions about books and ratings now guide readers from one book to another. But make no mistake, they’re just opinions. If twenty reviewers decree the heroine to be whiney, does this automatically mean that I will hate the book? If not, what value are strangers’ opinions to me? And if I agree that the lead character could learn a trick or two from Superwoman, could I not enjoy my Me time, aka kicking back and reading a book that is flawed, anyhow?
Where is the joy of reading? This sense of excitement at opening a new book, not knowing what it will bring? The back cover blurb sounded intriguing, and now I get to spend a few hours with characters I might hate or love, will discover new mindsets, sink into new romances. Even if the plot isn’t as refined as I’d like, and even if the hero sports a look that won’t make my legs turn to jelly. That’s not what Me time is about.
I can’t remember the last time I heard someone say, “I enjoy reading.” Nowadays the catchphrase is, “I enjoy a good book.”
But the pure joy of reading comes from a different place than a listing of a book’s pros and cons. A place deep within ourselves that we open wide to allow a variety of stories inside. It comes from the reader’s immersion in a different world on Monday, finding that one gem of a line in an otherwise forgettable read on Wednesday. Children still have the capacity to do so. Every time my friend’s son starts a new book, I smile. He reads widely and avidly. Yes, on occasion he won’t ask his mom to buy book 2 in a series, but you won’t find him detailing the positives and negatives. Not when he can spend that time picking out his next adventure.
Reviewers perform a valuable service for me, the reader, and for me, the writer. No point disputing that, just as I won’t dispute the merit of continuing this tradition.
My one concern is the joy of reading, and how many deprive themselves of this joy. I have read thousands of books and remember a relatively small percentage. But with the exception of my three DNFs, I enjoyed reading them all. When was the last time you enjoyed reading without putting pressure on yourself to dissect a book? Or has the dissection become part of the process for you?
The real test for a book comes once it is available for purchase by strangers. Some of these strangers might love my book. Some won’t. It is part of the writing and publishing business to accept critical feedback, and my skin has grown thick. In fact, I’d worry if all my reviews were positive.
