The open book: what writers don’t tell writers about writing (part 5)

A few days ago, Lauren Hough blew up a certain segment of Twitter.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, go ahead and look*. I’ll wait here.

Caught up?

* or TLDR: Hough’s essay collection came out — by all accounts, an excellent book, except on Goodreads, where a couple of readers thought it was “good,” or, even “very good,” yanno, a 3 or a 4 star read, cuz people have opinions. Hough commented on the ratings, pearls were clutched, insults were flung, and now, Hough’s book has been dragged on Goodreads for the lolz, and rates lower than Mein Kampf.

I’m not here to judge Lauren Hough. Or her book. Or her actions.

I am not saying Lauren Hough should or should not have spoken out. Her essays were memoir, and that can feel very different than fiction. She’s clear and forthright about her trauma background. And clapping back is on brand for her sardonic, bold voice.

But I do want to tell you, straight up, right now, the honest fucking truth about reviews and ratings and and feelings, for the rest of us**.

With few exceptions***, stay the fuck away from them.

** Lauren Hough has a few things most writers (uh, me) do not have: a huge following, a major publishing house, some (meager, I’m sure, but some) budget for publicity (enough to get on NPR, etc.). And a fine book. Lauren Hough will be OK.

For most of us, however, this is the sum total of the engagement we should have with reviews: zero.

*** Exceptions include encouraging readers to review your book, sending out arcs to be reviewed, and having someone you trust (or in the employ of the publisher) collect quotes from good reviews to use in promotion.

Ignore them. Don’t look. Ignore Publisher’s Weekly. Don’t look at Amazon reviews or Goodreads or b00kL0ver89’s book blog. Stop googling yourself for awhile. Just don’t do it. Nothing good comes of this. I promise.

If the reviews are good, they will never be good enough to validate all the hours and self-doubt and fear. Good reviews feel good, for a bit. But they aren’t filling. You’ll be hungry again, a few hours later.

And if the reviews are bad, well, they’re bad, and you are going to feel like shit and be angry. You are going to feel defensive, or defeated, or just sad. You aren’t going to learn something from them.

Neither type of review is conducive to a healthy, constructive state of mind — and I know this, because I have lived in each of these states for longer than I care to admit.

And ye gods forbid either of these states inspire you to react — thanking a reviewer for a good review is, at best, awkward, and replying to a negative (or even a meh) review is an endeavor of hopelessness, on par with texting exes or stewing over someone driving like a shithead.

Here’s the thing. Any review means that someone read the book (hopefully, if they reviewed) and, honestly, really, that is enough. As a writer, I firmly believe this is the absolute best you can hope for: you made a thing and now, it exists.

You have no control over what your words mean — or do not mean — to anyone, once they’re in the wilds of the world. Every reader is not the perfect reader for you. For me. For anyone.

Now, I know, oh yes, you are 100% going to ignore me on this. At least, the first time. Maybe twice.

It’s especially difficult to completely ignore your reviews in a world where the author has to have visibility, where they need a platform. We need to, yikes, be a brand. The side effect of this is that we get mixed up as being as important as the work, and where best-sellers are made not on merit of the work, but the fame of the creator.

I also know writers, like most artsy people, are wildly curious and suffer from mild cases of exceptionalism. Been there.

But mark my words: when you’ve done it once, you’ll know I’m honest.

You don’t have to be gracious. You don’t have to be polite. You don’t have to suck it up. You just need to stay TF away.