Goodreads doesn't allow it.
Period.
If you're reading horror stories about heinous threats on the website that hosts literally millions and millions of readers and thousands and thousands of authors, that's just what they are: stories. Or, in words of one syllable, lies. Just plain lies.
Goodreads is a wonderful place, full of fun and laughter and kindness and sarcasm and honesty (sometimes brutal honesty, but still honesty) and all kinds of different people with all kinds of different opinions.
I wish I had found Goodreads years ago, but I'm glad I've found it now.
Do I like everyone there? No, I don't. Do I agree with everyone there? No, I don't. You won't either.
Would you like the truth about what happened last week on Goodreads? The truth as supported by actual evidence rather than shrieks and wails of people who adamantly claim they saw something but have no evidence to back up their claims?
Try going here to get some more information, complete with screen shots of what actually was posted on Goodreads. Not satisfied? Try this one.
I'm one of the so-called "bullies" of Goodreads. I'm a "bully" because I dare to tell the truth and some people just can't handle it. The writing business isn't for sissies, and that hasn't changed since the days of the bone stylus on a tablet of soft clay.
But the writing and reading business isn't for bullies either. It's not for threats of physical harm, it's not for retaliating against people you don't agree with by publishing their private information, it's not for accusing people of crimes they never committed. None of that is allowed on Goodreads, because that's really bullying.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
Sunday, August 18, 2013
A word or twelve about bad books
Sometimes, my dear, it's not all about you. Partly, maybe, but not all. And sometimes it really and truly has nothing to do with you.
Someone just read your book, hated it, and left a scathing review. And you immediately take it personally because -- gasp! -- it couldn't possibly be about the book! No one reads books they hate!
Uh, sorry to tell you this, my dear, but sometimes people most certainly do read books they hate.
Sometimes it's really fun to read something horrible. Sometimes a reader is just in the kind of mood that she wants to read something so badly written that she feels like gouging her eyes out. Maybe her personal life is in turmoil and she needs to take out some frustration. Maybe she's a writer who's in the middle of self-doubts and she needs to read something just ghastly to remind her she's better than someone. There are a lot of reasons why people actually enjoy reading books they hate. The Eye of Argon is still out there because crap is sometimes fun. And ripping the crap to shreds can be as cathartic as chopping wood or running a marathon or piecing a quilt or burning 25-year-old bank statements. Different strokes and all that.
Unfortunately, there are still people today who are uploading to Kindle and Smashwords books and stories and novellas that are every bit as craptastic as that 1970s sword and sorcery tale written by 16 year old Jim Theis. These writers probably didn't intend their works to be craptastic, but some of their readers see them that way. And they review accordingly.
Is there sometimes an element of personal animosity against the author, to the point that the shitty review seems to be a personal attack? Perhaps sometimes there is, and sometimes perhaps it's even justified.
But that's a determination the author of the book receiving the bad review can't make. She can't get into the mind and motives of the reviewer; she has no way of knowing what's going on in the reviewer's real life that prompted her to write the snarky review. Maybe her favorite aunt died or she lost her job or she burned the chicken or her kid threw a tantrum because he wanted to wear his pajamas to school. Who knows? There could be any reason at all . . . including that she thought it was a shitty book.
Ultimately, those reviews, as mean-spirited as they may seem to be, are still of the writing. They may appear to suggest that the writer is a moron for writing such shit and thinking it's worthy of the time the reader gives to it, but it still goes back to the writing. That's what the reviewer sees, that's what she reads, that's what she reviews.
When the writer can't separate herself from the writing, when she takes that negative review personally and lashes out at the reviewer and denies there can be any validity in the reviewer's mean comments about the writing, she cannot hope to improve her writing. She's locked herself into defending the indefensible.
This same principle holds if the author does other things (sock puppet accounts, plagiarism, shill reviews) to counter that negative review. She's not being honest, especially with herself, about the need to improve her product. She has taken the mean words as being about her, rather than about her writing. She knows she's not a bad person, therefore the mean words are meaningless. Ergo, she doesn't have to fix her writing and she's really a great writer after all, just like Aunt Eleanor told her! Everyone who tells her she isn't a good writer is just a mean person, a bad person, a troll, a liar, a jealous failed author, a psychopath, a rapist, a murderer. (Yes, Virginia, reviewers have been called murderers for writing bad reviews. I kid you not.)
Sometimes it is, however, at least partly about the author. And sometimes the reviewer's anger is justified.
Was I being mean in 1990 when I called Romantic Times and told them Sylvie Sommerfield had stolen Jan Westcott's The Hepburn? I suppose so. Did I get a malicious thrill from sending photocopies of relevant pages of both books to RT? Yes, I did. I was furious at Sommerfield, and furious at Zebra (who had just become my publisher!!) for allowing that shit to happen. Did I get a certain satisfaction when I posted the review to GR 20+ years later? Yeah, I did, because it pissed me off that the Sommerfield book was still getting 5-star ratings from people who probably didn't know the truth.
It all goes back to "If you didn't want comments on it, you shouldn't have published it." Period. End of discussion. STFU. Because you don't -- you can't -- know what motivates the reviewer.
And that's why reviews from real readers have to be untouchable. And by real readers -- no quotation marks -- I mean anyone other than the author, provided they disclose any relevant information regarding connections they may have to the author. Paid shill reviews? Sure, as long as they do so with full disclosure. Let them post reviews so long as the world knows that review is essentially a commercial paid for by the author. Let the readers see that the author is so desperate to be read that she's willing to pay people to read it and review it. (If she weren't desperate, she wouldn't be doing it.) Friends and family? Yeah, let them post reviews so long as the world knows there's a connection and they can't be unbiased. Editors? Illustrators? Sure. With full disclosure, so the readers know who's who and who to trust as unbiased.
Ultimately, the reviews have to be untouchable, regardless what the reviewer's intent may be. No one can determine that but the reviewer; the reader of the review might have an idea or an opinion, but the reviewer is the only one who really knows. If I review a self-published historical romance and shred it from page one to The End, people may think I'm just trying to hurt my competition. They should be allowed to think that. But I should also be allowed to write the review. Readers aren't stupid. They can figure out what's going on.
They can also read the book for themselves and make up their own minds. Because that's who reviews are for: They're for other readers. A review is one reader's opinion, offered to other readers so they can make their own decisions whether to read the book or not. A review -- which is not the same as a critique -- is not for the author.
An author who claims she doesn't mind negative reviews as long as they're constructive is missing the point entirely. Reviewers don't owe the author anything. Nothing. And that includes the readers who are angry at being spammed on Goodreads, on Amazon, on Twitter, on Facebook, on personal blogs, via email. That includes readers who are tired of seeing the exact same cover template used on book after book after crappy book. That includes readers who feel misled about the content of the book. That includes readers who feel they've been overcharged for the book. That includes readers who have just had a really shitty day and need to vent their frustration on something, someone. That includes readers who are nit-picky grammar dragons who go ballistic when there are sixteen tense changes, three POV flips, and twenty-seven misspelled words on the first page, and who go on to read the whole fucking book just because they want to rip the terrible writing to shreds. They have the right to do that.
Not that it makes any difference to many people, but I will defend a reviewer, even if she (or he) is vicious in a review long before I will defend a writer who says the vicious review hurt her feelings. Because maybe the reviewer had a reason that had nothing whatsoever to do with the author. Nothing at all.
Sometimes, my dear, it just isn't about you at all.
Someone just read your book, hated it, and left a scathing review. And you immediately take it personally because -- gasp! -- it couldn't possibly be about the book! No one reads books they hate!
Uh, sorry to tell you this, my dear, but sometimes people most certainly do read books they hate.
Sometimes it's really fun to read something horrible. Sometimes a reader is just in the kind of mood that she wants to read something so badly written that she feels like gouging her eyes out. Maybe her personal life is in turmoil and she needs to take out some frustration. Maybe she's a writer who's in the middle of self-doubts and she needs to read something just ghastly to remind her she's better than someone. There are a lot of reasons why people actually enjoy reading books they hate. The Eye of Argon is still out there because crap is sometimes fun. And ripping the crap to shreds can be as cathartic as chopping wood or running a marathon or piecing a quilt or burning 25-year-old bank statements. Different strokes and all that.
Unfortunately, there are still people today who are uploading to Kindle and Smashwords books and stories and novellas that are every bit as craptastic as that 1970s sword and sorcery tale written by 16 year old Jim Theis. These writers probably didn't intend their works to be craptastic, but some of their readers see them that way. And they review accordingly.
Is there sometimes an element of personal animosity against the author, to the point that the shitty review seems to be a personal attack? Perhaps sometimes there is, and sometimes perhaps it's even justified.
But that's a determination the author of the book receiving the bad review can't make. She can't get into the mind and motives of the reviewer; she has no way of knowing what's going on in the reviewer's real life that prompted her to write the snarky review. Maybe her favorite aunt died or she lost her job or she burned the chicken or her kid threw a tantrum because he wanted to wear his pajamas to school. Who knows? There could be any reason at all . . . including that she thought it was a shitty book.
Ultimately, those reviews, as mean-spirited as they may seem to be, are still of the writing. They may appear to suggest that the writer is a moron for writing such shit and thinking it's worthy of the time the reader gives to it, but it still goes back to the writing. That's what the reviewer sees, that's what she reads, that's what she reviews.
When the writer can't separate herself from the writing, when she takes that negative review personally and lashes out at the reviewer and denies there can be any validity in the reviewer's mean comments about the writing, she cannot hope to improve her writing. She's locked herself into defending the indefensible.
This same principle holds if the author does other things (sock puppet accounts, plagiarism, shill reviews) to counter that negative review. She's not being honest, especially with herself, about the need to improve her product. She has taken the mean words as being about her, rather than about her writing. She knows she's not a bad person, therefore the mean words are meaningless. Ergo, she doesn't have to fix her writing and she's really a great writer after all, just like Aunt Eleanor told her! Everyone who tells her she isn't a good writer is just a mean person, a bad person, a troll, a liar, a jealous failed author, a psychopath, a rapist, a murderer. (Yes, Virginia, reviewers have been called murderers for writing bad reviews. I kid you not.)
Sometimes it is, however, at least partly about the author. And sometimes the reviewer's anger is justified.
Was I being mean in 1990 when I called Romantic Times and told them Sylvie Sommerfield had stolen Jan Westcott's The Hepburn? I suppose so. Did I get a malicious thrill from sending photocopies of relevant pages of both books to RT? Yes, I did. I was furious at Sommerfield, and furious at Zebra (who had just become my publisher!!) for allowing that shit to happen. Did I get a certain satisfaction when I posted the review to GR 20+ years later? Yeah, I did, because it pissed me off that the Sommerfield book was still getting 5-star ratings from people who probably didn't know the truth.
It all goes back to "If you didn't want comments on it, you shouldn't have published it." Period. End of discussion. STFU. Because you don't -- you can't -- know what motivates the reviewer.
And that's why reviews from real readers have to be untouchable. And by real readers -- no quotation marks -- I mean anyone other than the author, provided they disclose any relevant information regarding connections they may have to the author. Paid shill reviews? Sure, as long as they do so with full disclosure. Let them post reviews so long as the world knows that review is essentially a commercial paid for by the author. Let the readers see that the author is so desperate to be read that she's willing to pay people to read it and review it. (If she weren't desperate, she wouldn't be doing it.) Friends and family? Yeah, let them post reviews so long as the world knows there's a connection and they can't be unbiased. Editors? Illustrators? Sure. With full disclosure, so the readers know who's who and who to trust as unbiased.
Ultimately, the reviews have to be untouchable, regardless what the reviewer's intent may be. No one can determine that but the reviewer; the reader of the review might have an idea or an opinion, but the reviewer is the only one who really knows. If I review a self-published historical romance and shred it from page one to The End, people may think I'm just trying to hurt my competition. They should be allowed to think that. But I should also be allowed to write the review. Readers aren't stupid. They can figure out what's going on.
They can also read the book for themselves and make up their own minds. Because that's who reviews are for: They're for other readers. A review is one reader's opinion, offered to other readers so they can make their own decisions whether to read the book or not. A review -- which is not the same as a critique -- is not for the author.
An author who claims she doesn't mind negative reviews as long as they're constructive is missing the point entirely. Reviewers don't owe the author anything. Nothing. And that includes the readers who are angry at being spammed on Goodreads, on Amazon, on Twitter, on Facebook, on personal blogs, via email. That includes readers who are tired of seeing the exact same cover template used on book after book after crappy book. That includes readers who feel misled about the content of the book. That includes readers who feel they've been overcharged for the book. That includes readers who have just had a really shitty day and need to vent their frustration on something, someone. That includes readers who are nit-picky grammar dragons who go ballistic when there are sixteen tense changes, three POV flips, and twenty-seven misspelled words on the first page, and who go on to read the whole fucking book just because they want to rip the terrible writing to shreds. They have the right to do that.
Not that it makes any difference to many people, but I will defend a reviewer, even if she (or he) is vicious in a review long before I will defend a writer who says the vicious review hurt her feelings. Because maybe the reviewer had a reason that had nothing whatsoever to do with the author. Nothing at all.
Sometimes, my dear, it just isn't about you at all.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
the lowest thief of words there is
This is a short update to a previous post about plagiarizing reviews.
As I said at the end of that post, I will never ever forgive someone who steals another's words. And if it's possible for one kind of theft to be worse than another, then I guess the theft of reviews is even lower than theft of a book or story or other original work.
Posting a stolen review on Goodreads or Amazon or your blog or anywhere else has absolutely no excuse. None.
There can sometimes be some justification for stealing bread or stealing money or stealing ... whatever, on the basis of need. That, after all, is at the heart of so many classic stories, because there is an underlying injustice that creates the need that can only be satisfied through theft.
What is the underlying justification for stealing a review, for crying out loud? There is no compensation involved to either party. Is it ego, a need to be recognized and praised for one's contribution to the already enormous mountain of readers' responses to published works? If so, then why steal? Do you think you're not going to be found out?
Perhaps it is a genuine mental illness that requires professional treatment. Perhaps. Perhaps. If so, then the person needs to find professional help -- or a friend or loved one needs to find it for her -- and get the problem taken care of.
Stealing a review is a conscious act. It's not an accident, not when it happens a dozen times or more. There is premeditation in the setting up of a user account, selecting the books to be "reviewed," and then choosing which reviews to actually steal.
How much more unforgivable can the theft be than when it is committed by a writer? Does that writer not value her own words? How would she feel if her words, her creation, her thoughts, her soul were stolen from her?
No doubt the account will be deleted from Goodreads, If the reviews that have been stolen were also published elsewhere, on a blog or on another website, they will be identified and removed also.
When I wrote in another previous blog post that it's okay to write a review out of anger or revenge or spite, I meant it. Sometimes there are authors whose behavior outside the pages of their books is so offensive that the reader just can't set it aside. For me, one of those behaviors is stealing another person's words. For me, that is simply not forgivable, and any author I learn has done it will be fair game for my revenge review.
DO NOT STEAL. Period.
As I said at the end of that post, I will never ever forgive someone who steals another's words. And if it's possible for one kind of theft to be worse than another, then I guess the theft of reviews is even lower than theft of a book or story or other original work.
Posting a stolen review on Goodreads or Amazon or your blog or anywhere else has absolutely no excuse. None.
There can sometimes be some justification for stealing bread or stealing money or stealing ... whatever, on the basis of need. That, after all, is at the heart of so many classic stories, because there is an underlying injustice that creates the need that can only be satisfied through theft.
What is the underlying justification for stealing a review, for crying out loud? There is no compensation involved to either party. Is it ego, a need to be recognized and praised for one's contribution to the already enormous mountain of readers' responses to published works? If so, then why steal? Do you think you're not going to be found out?
Perhaps it is a genuine mental illness that requires professional treatment. Perhaps. Perhaps. If so, then the person needs to find professional help -- or a friend or loved one needs to find it for her -- and get the problem taken care of.
Stealing a review is a conscious act. It's not an accident, not when it happens a dozen times or more. There is premeditation in the setting up of a user account, selecting the books to be "reviewed," and then choosing which reviews to actually steal.
How much more unforgivable can the theft be than when it is committed by a writer? Does that writer not value her own words? How would she feel if her words, her creation, her thoughts, her soul were stolen from her?
No doubt the account will be deleted from Goodreads, If the reviews that have been stolen were also published elsewhere, on a blog or on another website, they will be identified and removed also.
When I wrote in another previous blog post that it's okay to write a review out of anger or revenge or spite, I meant it. Sometimes there are authors whose behavior outside the pages of their books is so offensive that the reader just can't set it aside. For me, one of those behaviors is stealing another person's words. For me, that is simply not forgivable, and any author I learn has done it will be fair game for my revenge review.
DO NOT STEAL. Period.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
...And just a few discouraging words -- for reviewers
DON'T STEAL.
If you wanta be mean and nasty, if you wanta lie and cheat, if you wanta slash and burn, that's okay. You hated the book, okay. You don't like the author's politics or choice of spouse, okay. You'll never read the book but you'll give it 100 stars anyway, fine.
But do not steal another reviewer's review. Just don't do it.
It's plagiarism, it's copyright infringement, it's stealing the soul of the person who wrote, who owns those words.
I love words, I love writing, and even if I don't like what they write, I have at least an understanding of what a writer goes through. Writing a review of someone else's writing is still writing.
DON'T STEAL.
I will not forgive you. Not ever.
If you wanta be mean and nasty, if you wanta lie and cheat, if you wanta slash and burn, that's okay. You hated the book, okay. You don't like the author's politics or choice of spouse, okay. You'll never read the book but you'll give it 100 stars anyway, fine.
But do not steal another reviewer's review. Just don't do it.
It's plagiarism, it's copyright infringement, it's stealing the soul of the person who wrote, who owns those words.
I love words, I love writing, and even if I don't like what they write, I have at least an understanding of what a writer goes through. Writing a review of someone else's writing is still writing.
DON'T STEAL.
I will not forgive you. Not ever.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Where seldom is heard an encouraging word. . . . for reviewers
I tend to address more of my blog posts to my fellow writers than to any one else, and I'm frequently scolding them for bad writing or bad behavior. Today I'm going to look in the other direction.
Except when we're writing just for ourselves, we writers depend on you, our readers, to make our stories come alive in your minds and your imaginations. It's our job to provide you with the tools -- the words -- to do that, and then it's your job to tell other readers whether we succeeded or failed.
No, it's not your job to tell us we didn't do it. We had our chances to get critiques before we published. We had the responsibility make sure the research was right, the words were right, the spelling was checked, the plot was seamless, the characters fully fleshed. Regardless how you acquired the book -- free, purchased, ARC, contest give-away, borrowed from a friend or the library, even illegally downloaded -- you invested your time in reading it. You have a right to your opinion because you made that investment.
Did you quit after the first page because the writing was so poor? You have a right to say so. You have a right to write a review that's longer than the portion of the book you read.
Were you so enchanted by the story that you never noticed how often the Regency heroine referred to the mysterious lights "left on" in the tower window? You have a right to say so.
You're allowed to say you didn't like the cover, that you're tired of characters named after objects like Link and Star and Storm and Blade. You're allowed to be snotty and snarky and mean. By the same token, you can gush and give it five stars (or whatever the highest ranking is) just because it's set in Paris and there's a dog in it somewhere.
Readers and reviewers can write revenge reviews. Is it kinda juvenile and silly to do so? Yeah, I suppose so. But we writers need to understand and accept that readers have all kinds of reasons for reading (or not reading) a book, for liking (or not liking) a book, and for liking (or not liking) an author. When we put our books out there and ourselves with it, we are inviting you to read them and we should not think that we have any control whatsoever over the reasons that motivate a person to pick up a book and read it. That includes anger or resentment or jealousy or spite.
Do you owe us anything? Nope. Nothing.
You don't owe us a review or a rating at all. You don't owe us a critique. You don't owe us a reading of the whole book. You don't owe us perfect grammar or spelling. First of all, you don't owe us anything because any review that you write isn't for us anyway. Reviews are for other readers. And it's okay to tell other readers that you couldn't get past page one. There are some really crappy books out there, and you shouldn't be surprised if you encounter a few. It's okay to tell other readers the author can't write her way out of a wet paper bag. Your job as a reviewer is not to be kind to the writer who threw that garbage; it's to let other readers know you think it's garbage. Reviews are for other readers. It's okay to correct each and every grammar error. It's okay to fill your online review with pictures and GIFs and videos and music and whatever else you want.
You didn't hang over our shoulders and tell us how to write our books. And we damn sure shouldn't be hanging over your shoulders telling you how to read them or how to review them.
Dear readers and reviewers, please don't ever be intimidated, harassed, or threatened by an author (or her friends, fans, or sockpuppets) who tries to tell you what's wrong with your review. Tell 'em to sod off. And if they won't, then tell 'em I told you to tell 'em there's no such thing as a stupid question, and there's no such thing as a wrong review. There is no "right" way to review and there is no "wrong" way to review. There is only your way.
Not liking a book, for whatever reason, does not make you a bully. Telling the author not to quit his or her day job does not make you a bully. Pointing out errors of fact does not make you a meanie or a troll. Reviewing a book you couldn't get past page 3 does not make you a criminal. You don't have to provide constructive criticism, and you don't have to be gentle with the tender sensibilities of the writer. If she didn't think she could take criticism, she shouldn't have published the thing.
You, the reader/reviewer, do not have to have perfect grammar and spelling. (Although if you correct someone else's and you're wrong, well, be prepared to have that pointed out!)
You don't even have to review. Did the author give you a free copy in exchange for a review? If there's no contract involved, if there's no exchange of benefits, you don't have to do it. Can the author get mad and not give you any more free books? Yeah, she can. But she also needs to know that readers are not obligated to do . . . anything. They don't even have to read it.
But by the same token, don't be afraid to say you really liked a book that others found fault with. Some of us are really picky readers. Maybe it's because some of us are also authors and we do tend to look for and see the technical problems more often and more easily than the casual reader. Maybe some of us are just jealous meanies out to destroy some poor writer's career. (I highly doubt that, but it's possible.) But maybe readers just didn't like that book and you did. If you liked the book everyone else hated, that's okay, too. Something in that book touched you, and that's a good thing. You don't know how many other readers out there might be just as touched by that element, that style, that setting, that. . . . whatever.
And yes, there are readers and reviewers who love everything they read, who never have a criticism, who dole out 5-star ratings like candy corn at Halloween. Are they being dishonest? I don't know. Maybe they really do love everything they read in all genres and all styles. Maybe they really do. Maybe their mothers taught them if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all and they took it to heart. Maybe they're just uncritical readers. Maybe they want a lot of free books to sell on eBay. Maybe they're greedy for fame as a top reviewer on Amazon or Goodreads. Maybe they're frustrated writers who are living vicariously. Maybe they just want to be loved.
But as far as I know, they have a right to do that, too. Readers are savvy people, and they'll figure out which reviewers to pay attention to and which to ignore. Remember that: Readers are savvy people. They'll quickly figure out if you're reviewing just for the sake of reviewing or if you're a good analyst whose judgment they're going to trust when making their own book buying decisions.
Oh, to be sure, there may be guidelines set up by the place you're posting your review, and those have to be adhered to because the guys who provide the space do get to set the rules. But it's still your opinion and your review.
Go for it!
Except when we're writing just for ourselves, we writers depend on you, our readers, to make our stories come alive in your minds and your imaginations. It's our job to provide you with the tools -- the words -- to do that, and then it's your job to tell other readers whether we succeeded or failed.
No, it's not your job to tell us we didn't do it. We had our chances to get critiques before we published. We had the responsibility make sure the research was right, the words were right, the spelling was checked, the plot was seamless, the characters fully fleshed. Regardless how you acquired the book -- free, purchased, ARC, contest give-away, borrowed from a friend or the library, even illegally downloaded -- you invested your time in reading it. You have a right to your opinion because you made that investment.
Did you quit after the first page because the writing was so poor? You have a right to say so. You have a right to write a review that's longer than the portion of the book you read.
Were you so enchanted by the story that you never noticed how often the Regency heroine referred to the mysterious lights "left on" in the tower window? You have a right to say so.
You're allowed to say you didn't like the cover, that you're tired of characters named after objects like Link and Star and Storm and Blade. You're allowed to be snotty and snarky and mean. By the same token, you can gush and give it five stars (or whatever the highest ranking is) just because it's set in Paris and there's a dog in it somewhere.
Readers and reviewers can write revenge reviews. Is it kinda juvenile and silly to do so? Yeah, I suppose so. But we writers need to understand and accept that readers have all kinds of reasons for reading (or not reading) a book, for liking (or not liking) a book, and for liking (or not liking) an author. When we put our books out there and ourselves with it, we are inviting you to read them and we should not think that we have any control whatsoever over the reasons that motivate a person to pick up a book and read it. That includes anger or resentment or jealousy or spite.
Do you owe us anything? Nope. Nothing.
You don't owe us a review or a rating at all. You don't owe us a critique. You don't owe us a reading of the whole book. You don't owe us perfect grammar or spelling. First of all, you don't owe us anything because any review that you write isn't for us anyway. Reviews are for other readers. And it's okay to tell other readers that you couldn't get past page one. There are some really crappy books out there, and you shouldn't be surprised if you encounter a few. It's okay to tell other readers the author can't write her way out of a wet paper bag. Your job as a reviewer is not to be kind to the writer who threw that garbage; it's to let other readers know you think it's garbage. Reviews are for other readers. It's okay to correct each and every grammar error. It's okay to fill your online review with pictures and GIFs and videos and music and whatever else you want.
You didn't hang over our shoulders and tell us how to write our books. And we damn sure shouldn't be hanging over your shoulders telling you how to read them or how to review them.
Dear readers and reviewers, please don't ever be intimidated, harassed, or threatened by an author (or her friends, fans, or sockpuppets) who tries to tell you what's wrong with your review. Tell 'em to sod off. And if they won't, then tell 'em I told you to tell 'em there's no such thing as a stupid question, and there's no such thing as a wrong review. There is no "right" way to review and there is no "wrong" way to review. There is only your way.
Not liking a book, for whatever reason, does not make you a bully. Telling the author not to quit his or her day job does not make you a bully. Pointing out errors of fact does not make you a meanie or a troll. Reviewing a book you couldn't get past page 3 does not make you a criminal. You don't have to provide constructive criticism, and you don't have to be gentle with the tender sensibilities of the writer. If she didn't think she could take criticism, she shouldn't have published the thing.
You, the reader/reviewer, do not have to have perfect grammar and spelling. (Although if you correct someone else's and you're wrong, well, be prepared to have that pointed out!)
You don't even have to review. Did the author give you a free copy in exchange for a review? If there's no contract involved, if there's no exchange of benefits, you don't have to do it. Can the author get mad and not give you any more free books? Yeah, she can. But she also needs to know that readers are not obligated to do . . . anything. They don't even have to read it.
But by the same token, don't be afraid to say you really liked a book that others found fault with. Some of us are really picky readers. Maybe it's because some of us are also authors and we do tend to look for and see the technical problems more often and more easily than the casual reader. Maybe some of us are just jealous meanies out to destroy some poor writer's career. (I highly doubt that, but it's possible.) But maybe readers just didn't like that book and you did. If you liked the book everyone else hated, that's okay, too. Something in that book touched you, and that's a good thing. You don't know how many other readers out there might be just as touched by that element, that style, that setting, that. . . . whatever.
And yes, there are readers and reviewers who love everything they read, who never have a criticism, who dole out 5-star ratings like candy corn at Halloween. Are they being dishonest? I don't know. Maybe they really do love everything they read in all genres and all styles. Maybe they really do. Maybe their mothers taught them if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all and they took it to heart. Maybe they're just uncritical readers. Maybe they want a lot of free books to sell on eBay. Maybe they're greedy for fame as a top reviewer on Amazon or Goodreads. Maybe they're frustrated writers who are living vicariously. Maybe they just want to be loved.
But as far as I know, they have a right to do that, too. Readers are savvy people, and they'll figure out which reviewers to pay attention to and which to ignore. Remember that: Readers are savvy people. They'll quickly figure out if you're reviewing just for the sake of reviewing or if you're a good analyst whose judgment they're going to trust when making their own book buying decisions.
Oh, to be sure, there may be guidelines set up by the place you're posting your review, and those have to be adhered to because the guys who provide the space do get to set the rules. But it's still your opinion and your review.
Go for it!
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
A few words about a jacket
Several years ago I made myself a quilted jacket.
Most of the women in my circle of acquaintances had lots more money to burn than I, and they all had nifty little jackets to wear on chilly days. I didn't have any such jacket, and certainly not a closet full of them. So I searched the Internet for a design. After I found several that I liked, I created a pattern that incorporated elements of each, and made myself a jacket.
The prototype turned out all right, but it wasn't perfect. I knew where I'd made mistakes, where I should have made adjustments to the pattern to make it fit better. But that's what a prototype is for -- to work out the bugs.
The first time I wore the jacket, someone wanted to buy it, literally right off my back. I told her I could make her another, though it wouldn't be quite the same fabrics, but it would be better constructed, wouldn't have flaws. She said she didn't care about the flaws. . . . . until I pointed them out to her. A misplaced buttonhole. A too-narrow seam. I told her I wanted to make sure any jacket she got from me was properly made for lots of comfortable wear. When I delivered the jacket to her a week later and showed her the improvements I'd made and how much better quality this was than the prototype, she thanked me for my honesty and promptly ordered another as a gift for a friend.
Not too long after that, some friends invited me to go with them to the local "swap meet," which is one of those big commercial operations with several hundred vendors hawking everything from belts to golf clubs to cactus gardens to artisan bread to surplus cosmetics to toys to books to you name it. In one of the "shops" featuring imported clothing, we stopped to look at . . . jackets. Some were actually quite similar to the design I had used, but of course close inspection revealed seams that were already coming apart, mismatched buttons, loose threads, poorly stitched hems. Though the jackets were priced about 75% lower than the two I had made and sold, they weren't even worth that bargain price. They didn't look like they'd stand up to a single hand washing; mine were made to be thrown in the washer and dryer with no special treatment.
As one of the women remarked when we walked away from the display, "You'd think people would have more pride than to put that kind of junk out for sale. And why would anyone buy that crap? I'd be afraid it'd fall apart the first time I wore it."
And that's even taking into consideration that the people selling it are not the people who made it.
But I replied to her, as someone whose arts & craft products (Remember? I make jewelry and stuff) directly competes with that flea market merchandise, "Many people don't know any better. The stuff is cheap, and they buy it because they can. And when it falls apart, they shrug and go out and buy another."
So there's all this cheap junky clothing in our flea markets and our stores, and thousands of women die because someone has to make an obscene profit off it. No one seems to deny that a lot of it is garbage, and yet neither is anyone driving that point home: People die so other people can buy garbage. And we know this doesn't make any sense, so why do we do it? And I don't want anyone to think I'm blaming the workers for producing a shoddy product. They do what they're told with the material and equipment they're given. And if the boss says to cut the seams a quarter inch narrower to save a bit of fabric, they do it. And if the boss says to set the sewing machine for eight stitches per inch to go faster instead of 12 to make a stronger seam, they do it.
The point is, few will argue about the quality of the end product. It's very often crap. And that's the simple truth. The colors fade, the stitching unravels, the buttons fall off, the zippers break.
What's wrong with pointing out the obvious?
I happen to love the imported rayon dresses and skirts that are commonly found at the flea market, but I've learned to be very careful when buying them. Often they have stains or fade streaks from being in the sun. I check all the buttons, because even if I am perfectly capable of sewing on a loose one, I can't always match the missing ones. And I'm not going to pay even $15 for something I essentially have to remake.
I don't buy appliances that don't work. I don't by clothing items that are obviously poorly made. I don't by rotten tomatoes or sprouted potatoes or moldy bread or bald tires. Nor does anyone treat me like a leper for saying so.
But if I dare breathe a word about the absolute garbage that's being "published" these days by eager but woefully unskilled "writers," I'm called a hater, a bully, a scary troll, a jealous failed writer. (Why would anyone be jealous of crappy writing? Never mind.)
I don't care if it's a crocheted pot-holder (I've made more than a few of those in my lifetime) or an amethyst crystal wrapped in sterling silver wire (I've made quite a few of those, too)
or a quilted jacket
or lathe-turned ironwood bowl
or what it is. If it's crap, it's crap. Saying it's wonderful isn't going to make it so.
Most of the women in my circle of acquaintances had lots more money to burn than I, and they all had nifty little jackets to wear on chilly days. I didn't have any such jacket, and certainly not a closet full of them. So I searched the Internet for a design. After I found several that I liked, I created a pattern that incorporated elements of each, and made myself a jacket.
The prototype turned out all right, but it wasn't perfect. I knew where I'd made mistakes, where I should have made adjustments to the pattern to make it fit better. But that's what a prototype is for -- to work out the bugs.
The first time I wore the jacket, someone wanted to buy it, literally right off my back. I told her I could make her another, though it wouldn't be quite the same fabrics, but it would be better constructed, wouldn't have flaws. She said she didn't care about the flaws. . . . . until I pointed them out to her. A misplaced buttonhole. A too-narrow seam. I told her I wanted to make sure any jacket she got from me was properly made for lots of comfortable wear. When I delivered the jacket to her a week later and showed her the improvements I'd made and how much better quality this was than the prototype, she thanked me for my honesty and promptly ordered another as a gift for a friend.
Not too long after that, some friends invited me to go with them to the local "swap meet," which is one of those big commercial operations with several hundred vendors hawking everything from belts to golf clubs to cactus gardens to artisan bread to surplus cosmetics to toys to books to you name it. In one of the "shops" featuring imported clothing, we stopped to look at . . . jackets. Some were actually quite similar to the design I had used, but of course close inspection revealed seams that were already coming apart, mismatched buttons, loose threads, poorly stitched hems. Though the jackets were priced about 75% lower than the two I had made and sold, they weren't even worth that bargain price. They didn't look like they'd stand up to a single hand washing; mine were made to be thrown in the washer and dryer with no special treatment.
As one of the women remarked when we walked away from the display, "You'd think people would have more pride than to put that kind of junk out for sale. And why would anyone buy that crap? I'd be afraid it'd fall apart the first time I wore it."
And that's even taking into consideration that the people selling it are not the people who made it.
But I replied to her, as someone whose arts & craft products (Remember? I make jewelry and stuff) directly competes with that flea market merchandise, "Many people don't know any better. The stuff is cheap, and they buy it because they can. And when it falls apart, they shrug and go out and buy another."
So there's all this cheap junky clothing in our flea markets and our stores, and thousands of women die because someone has to make an obscene profit off it. No one seems to deny that a lot of it is garbage, and yet neither is anyone driving that point home: People die so other people can buy garbage. And we know this doesn't make any sense, so why do we do it? And I don't want anyone to think I'm blaming the workers for producing a shoddy product. They do what they're told with the material and equipment they're given. And if the boss says to cut the seams a quarter inch narrower to save a bit of fabric, they do it. And if the boss says to set the sewing machine for eight stitches per inch to go faster instead of 12 to make a stronger seam, they do it.
The point is, few will argue about the quality of the end product. It's very often crap. And that's the simple truth. The colors fade, the stitching unravels, the buttons fall off, the zippers break.
What's wrong with pointing out the obvious?
I happen to love the imported rayon dresses and skirts that are commonly found at the flea market, but I've learned to be very careful when buying them. Often they have stains or fade streaks from being in the sun. I check all the buttons, because even if I am perfectly capable of sewing on a loose one, I can't always match the missing ones. And I'm not going to pay even $15 for something I essentially have to remake.
I don't buy appliances that don't work. I don't by clothing items that are obviously poorly made. I don't by rotten tomatoes or sprouted potatoes or moldy bread or bald tires. Nor does anyone treat me like a leper for saying so.
But if I dare breathe a word about the absolute garbage that's being "published" these days by eager but woefully unskilled "writers," I'm called a hater, a bully, a scary troll, a jealous failed writer. (Why would anyone be jealous of crappy writing? Never mind.)
I don't care if it's a crocheted pot-holder (I've made more than a few of those in my lifetime) or an amethyst crystal wrapped in sterling silver wire (I've made quite a few of those, too)
or a quilted jacket
or lathe-turned ironwood bowl
or what it is. If it's crap, it's crap. Saying it's wonderful isn't going to make it so.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Words as therapy, words as dreams
One lovely Sunday morning in August of 1963, I hopped on my bicycle and pedaled to the little drug store near my home. I purchased an ordinary spiral notebook there and pedaled home. With pencil in hand, I sat down on the front porch of our house, opened the notebook, and began to write:
Sunday, August 11, 1963 (Morning entry)
I won't bore you with the teen-aged drivel-and-angst the followed. After all, I was two months shy of fifteen so there was a lot of teen-aged drivel-and-angst to be written.
This was not, of course, my first foray into writing. At a considerably younger age -- perhaps 9 or 10 -- I had started a number of the almost obligatory horse-and-girl fantasy stories, but by the time I reached junior high, my range of reading material had changed. I was only in sixth grade, so not yet 12, when I began writing a pirate story in the style of Rafael Sabatini's Captain Blood, with a bit of treasure from The Count of Monte Cristo thrown in for good measure. The summer before the diary was born, I had started what would today probably be called a dark ages historical romance, set during the barbarian invasions that collapsed the Roman Empire. Though none of that manuscript remains in existence, I remember enough details of the story to know that my historical research for that period was pretty much non-existent! Can you spell "anachronism"?
Sometime between the summer of 1962 and the summer of 1963, however, I began work on yet another novel, a contemporary mystery romance titled A Party of Ghosts. The plot is kind of not really there and the main character is very Mary Sue-ish. But there are themes of murder and sexual violence and non-marital sex and there may even be an illegal abortion. This was pretty strong stuff for a 14 year old. I'm not sure how far along I was on this novel by August of 1963, but I had definitely made a healthy start on it. Writing the diary was not a new adventure for me.
Interestingly, though, I kept at it. And I kept at the other writing, too. Eventually, perhaps in the summer of 1964, I finished A Party of Ghosts. The first draft -- chapterless and single-spaced on an ancient Remington manual typewriter -- is about 100,000 words, and I still have most of it. There are a few pages missing, and I'm not sure why, but most of it resides in the file cabinet next to my desk as I write this. Like the diary, it's filled with a lot of teen-aged drivel-and-angst.
I continued to write through high school, through my first stab at college at the University of Illinois, through my wanderings to New York and France and Spain and back again, but none of my fiction reached the completed manuscript stage. And again, I still have a lot of it, tucked neatly in file folders or three-ring-binders. Most of it is, um, not very good.
With my marriage in June of 1969, I vowed not to write fiction any more and instead to put my energy into being a wife and eventually a mother. That vow lasted a few months. But I had never promised to give up the diary, and it went on. Yes, by that time, the diary was almost six years old. It had gone beyond that spiral notebook and now filled several.
As the years went on and I continued to write fiction, I continued to keep the diary as well. It now, almost 50 years later, comprises 23 spiral notebooks of various sizes and has recently entered the 24th. I spent a great deal of spare time over a period of about eight years actually transcribing it all, often horribly embarrassed in the process. Was I really that angst-ridden at that age? And "that age" wasn't necessarily as a teen-ager!
Would I ever want the diary published. Good goddess, no! I'd be mortified. As Susan Douglas writes in the "Introduction" to Where the Girls Are: Growing up female with the mass media: "Reading the diary I kept as a teenager is now excruciating, so mortifying that, if someone were to find it, I think I would blind myself with hot coals or simply commit hara-kiri. I look back at my former self . . . the words she wrote in her spiral notebooks obsessed with two topics -- boys and sex -- and I wonder: Who are you? How could you have been so insipid? Are you related to me? How did you become me?"
When I read the first page of Douglas's marvelous, witty, and yet devastatingly honest book, I knew exactly what she was talking about. But I also felt she had missed one point: The importance of being able to look back at that former self. Douglas's book, however, is not about the value of keeping a diary. And keeping a diary is not a luxury everyone has or wants to have.
But as recent events have unfolded regarding the publication of unedited, authentic personal accounts, lost in the legal ramifications is, I believe, the true empowerment value of being able to express, without reservation and without qualification, one's feelings, all the drivel-and-angst that assails all of us at any age.
I cannot remember a time when I didn'twant to write. It was never a matter of wanting to; I simply did it. And I can understand that there are people for whom writing isn't the joy it is for me. But as I've read some of the personal accounts of people who have endured traumatic personal events, more and more often I've read that they found some comfort, some relief, some healing in the venting of their feelings through writing.
This kind of personal satisfaction doesn't rely on good grammar or perfect spelling. The writer doesn't need to know or care about the difference between affect and effect, accept and except, writing and writting and written and wrote. None of that matters, and it shouldn't. That's the kind of writing that is for the writer. She and only she is going to read it, and she knows what she means and what she wants to mean. Eyes off and hands off her words. They don't belong to anyone else.
That's how I feel about my diary. When someone once read a part of it, I felt absolutely and totally violated, as though he had drilled a hole in my head and not only entered my thoughts and feelings but took them away from me, claimed them for himself, deprived me of my most personal possession. For that reason, I never ever ever violated my children's privacy. I never listened in on their phone calls. I never looked through their dresser drawers. When I found a little "diary" that my daughter had written at the age of about 13 or 14, I returned it to her unopened and unread -- and it didn't matter that she was by then in her 30s! The privacy of thoughts was sacrosanct.
When a writer decides to share her words, whether it's with one other person or with "the public," all those things that didn't matter before suddenly do matter. Grammar and spelling and punctuation and using the right words. All that stuff. Why? Because now she wants someone else to read her thoughts, and she has to use the tools of language to make those thoughts as clear as she can. And the more people she wants to share it with, the more important her skill with those tools become.
As angst-ridden as my diaries from those teen-age years are, they are at least competently written. As shallow and plotless and Mary Sue-ish as A Party of Ghosts is, at least a reader would understand what I was trying to say. The verbs are right, the pronouns have proper antecedents, words are spelled correctly, commas are used where they're needed and not used where they aren't.
But that's because I always wrote. I took the lessons learned in "language arts" class, as it was called at South Junior High in Arlington Heights, Illinois, and I used them to hone my storytelling skills. These were the absolutely essential tools of the writing craft. In all the years since then, I have often wondered if they might not also be the absolutely essential tools of living.
Maybe not. Maybe now, in the days of Twitter and texting, when speed and brevity are more important, when feelings deeper than a :-) or a :grr: have no emoticons, when "IKR" is a whole sentence, what difference does writing make?
Writing makes a difference because we can't dream in emoticons and acronyms. We still say "I know, right?!" in a way that means so much more than "IKR." Maybe that will change with some future technology. Maybe someday there will be tablets that you touch an icon and a whole emotional paragraph will appear on the screen or be broadcast through the speakers. Who knows? But for now, words are all we have to take what's in our hearts, our souls, our dreams, and make it real enough to share with someone else.
Sorrow shared is sorrow cut in half; joy shared is joy doubled.
Sometimes it helps to share our sorrow, our grief, our fear, our anger, even if the only one you can share it with yourself. Write it out, put it on paper or on the computer screen, and even if you don't share it with anyone else, even if you don't send that angry email or post that vicious comment or publish that scathing blog, just getting the words out can help. Maybe it's just a vent for pressure and steam, or maybe it puts ideas into context, or maybe it helps understand. If it's for yourself, that's enough.
But when the time comes to share the dreams and fears and joy and pain, then it matters how you write it. It matters if you want someone else to be able to understand and feel what you felt.
We do that, we who write, by following conventions so everyone is on the same page (pun intended). Some of those conventions are so obvious they don't seem to need much explanation. We all use the same alphabet, for example. We all know what most of the common words mean: a, the, and, book, story, large, small, running, walking, eating. We know, as both readers and writers, that something that doesn't follow those conventions won't make a whole lot of sense.
For example:
Deer Sirr:
I seed yoo wokkin outer the pos offiss yessaday an is hoppin yoo fown mi wollet gotz sum munny init.
Can you figure that one out? Would it have been easier to read if I had written
Dear sir:
I seen you walkin outta the post office yestiday and I is hopin' you found the money what I lost.
In creating fiction, the writer has lots of options for re-creating the differences between what we consider standard English and non-standard. Does the exact same feeling come across? Maybe, maybe not. But the compromise gives the same impression -- the person who wrote the note is not well educated and probably doesn't speak any more literate than he or she writes -- while still leaving the text intelligible for the reader without forcing her to back out of the reading experience to understand it.
This is part of the "invisible manuscript" technique that's so important for every writer. You want the reader to forget she's just looking at letters and words on a page. You want her to enter into the experience you're describing.
Some of us are lucky enough by fortune and experience to have acquired the language skills necessary to do that, and to have acquired them before we embarked on anything resembling a writing career. For those who didn't, however, there are options. Not everyone, of course, plans to become a writer. Many who never wanted to write or who even actively disliked writing when they were in school find themselves years later wanting or needing those skills. Some never had the opportunity to learn. But no matter what the reason, failure to write in a manner that allows the reader to enter the story rather than struggle to discern the meaning pretty much guarantees that the work will not find an audience. If you want your story read, if you want people to get your message -- whatever that message may be -- you must make sure your writing conforms to the conventions established.
Does this mean you need an editor? Yes, it does.
The necessity for a good, competent editor is never more apparent than when a good story that's been badly written is published, and all the world gets to see how terrible the writer is. No matter how wonderful, how powerful, how emotional the story is, if the reader can't read it, all that wonder and power and emotion are lost.
Again: If you are writing for yourself, if you are writing to get out the pain and fear and joy and frustration and excitement, none of it matters. When you want to share that pain and fear and joy and excitement, it matters a lot. And only a fool thinks it doesn't.
Sunday, August 11, 1963 (Morning entry)
I won't bore you with the teen-aged drivel-and-angst the followed. After all, I was two months shy of fifteen so there was a lot of teen-aged drivel-and-angst to be written.
This was not, of course, my first foray into writing. At a considerably younger age -- perhaps 9 or 10 -- I had started a number of the almost obligatory horse-and-girl fantasy stories, but by the time I reached junior high, my range of reading material had changed. I was only in sixth grade, so not yet 12, when I began writing a pirate story in the style of Rafael Sabatini's Captain Blood, with a bit of treasure from The Count of Monte Cristo thrown in for good measure. The summer before the diary was born, I had started what would today probably be called a dark ages historical romance, set during the barbarian invasions that collapsed the Roman Empire. Though none of that manuscript remains in existence, I remember enough details of the story to know that my historical research for that period was pretty much non-existent! Can you spell "anachronism"?
Sometime between the summer of 1962 and the summer of 1963, however, I began work on yet another novel, a contemporary mystery romance titled A Party of Ghosts. The plot is kind of not really there and the main character is very Mary Sue-ish. But there are themes of murder and sexual violence and non-marital sex and there may even be an illegal abortion. This was pretty strong stuff for a 14 year old. I'm not sure how far along I was on this novel by August of 1963, but I had definitely made a healthy start on it. Writing the diary was not a new adventure for me.
Interestingly, though, I kept at it. And I kept at the other writing, too. Eventually, perhaps in the summer of 1964, I finished A Party of Ghosts. The first draft -- chapterless and single-spaced on an ancient Remington manual typewriter -- is about 100,000 words, and I still have most of it. There are a few pages missing, and I'm not sure why, but most of it resides in the file cabinet next to my desk as I write this. Like the diary, it's filled with a lot of teen-aged drivel-and-angst.
I continued to write through high school, through my first stab at college at the University of Illinois, through my wanderings to New York and France and Spain and back again, but none of my fiction reached the completed manuscript stage. And again, I still have a lot of it, tucked neatly in file folders or three-ring-binders. Most of it is, um, not very good.
With my marriage in June of 1969, I vowed not to write fiction any more and instead to put my energy into being a wife and eventually a mother. That vow lasted a few months. But I had never promised to give up the diary, and it went on. Yes, by that time, the diary was almost six years old. It had gone beyond that spiral notebook and now filled several.
As the years went on and I continued to write fiction, I continued to keep the diary as well. It now, almost 50 years later, comprises 23 spiral notebooks of various sizes and has recently entered the 24th. I spent a great deal of spare time over a period of about eight years actually transcribing it all, often horribly embarrassed in the process. Was I really that angst-ridden at that age? And "that age" wasn't necessarily as a teen-ager!
Would I ever want the diary published. Good goddess, no! I'd be mortified. As Susan Douglas writes in the "Introduction" to Where the Girls Are: Growing up female with the mass media: "Reading the diary I kept as a teenager is now excruciating, so mortifying that, if someone were to find it, I think I would blind myself with hot coals or simply commit hara-kiri. I look back at my former self . . . the words she wrote in her spiral notebooks obsessed with two topics -- boys and sex -- and I wonder: Who are you? How could you have been so insipid? Are you related to me? How did you become me?"
When I read the first page of Douglas's marvelous, witty, and yet devastatingly honest book, I knew exactly what she was talking about. But I also felt she had missed one point: The importance of being able to look back at that former self. Douglas's book, however, is not about the value of keeping a diary. And keeping a diary is not a luxury everyone has or wants to have.
But as recent events have unfolded regarding the publication of unedited, authentic personal accounts, lost in the legal ramifications is, I believe, the true empowerment value of being able to express, without reservation and without qualification, one's feelings, all the drivel-and-angst that assails all of us at any age.
I cannot remember a time when I didn't
This kind of personal satisfaction doesn't rely on good grammar or perfect spelling. The writer doesn't need to know or care about the difference between affect and effect, accept and except, writing and writting and written and wrote. None of that matters, and it shouldn't. That's the kind of writing that is for the writer. She and only she is going to read it, and she knows what she means and what she wants to mean. Eyes off and hands off her words. They don't belong to anyone else.
That's how I feel about my diary. When someone once read a part of it, I felt absolutely and totally violated, as though he had drilled a hole in my head and not only entered my thoughts and feelings but took them away from me, claimed them for himself, deprived me of my most personal possession. For that reason, I never ever ever violated my children's privacy. I never listened in on their phone calls. I never looked through their dresser drawers. When I found a little "diary" that my daughter had written at the age of about 13 or 14, I returned it to her unopened and unread -- and it didn't matter that she was by then in her 30s! The privacy of thoughts was sacrosanct.
When a writer decides to share her words, whether it's with one other person or with "the public," all those things that didn't matter before suddenly do matter. Grammar and spelling and punctuation and using the right words. All that stuff. Why? Because now she wants someone else to read her thoughts, and she has to use the tools of language to make those thoughts as clear as she can. And the more people she wants to share it with, the more important her skill with those tools become.
As angst-ridden as my diaries from those teen-age years are, they are at least competently written. As shallow and plotless and Mary Sue-ish as A Party of Ghosts is, at least a reader would understand what I was trying to say. The verbs are right, the pronouns have proper antecedents, words are spelled correctly, commas are used where they're needed and not used where they aren't.
But that's because I always wrote. I took the lessons learned in "language arts" class, as it was called at South Junior High in Arlington Heights, Illinois, and I used them to hone my storytelling skills. These were the absolutely essential tools of the writing craft. In all the years since then, I have often wondered if they might not also be the absolutely essential tools of living.
Maybe not. Maybe now, in the days of Twitter and texting, when speed and brevity are more important, when feelings deeper than a :-) or a :grr: have no emoticons, when "IKR" is a whole sentence, what difference does writing make?
Writing makes a difference because we can't dream in emoticons and acronyms. We still say "I know, right?!" in a way that means so much more than "IKR." Maybe that will change with some future technology. Maybe someday there will be tablets that you touch an icon and a whole emotional paragraph will appear on the screen or be broadcast through the speakers. Who knows? But for now, words are all we have to take what's in our hearts, our souls, our dreams, and make it real enough to share with someone else.
Sorrow shared is sorrow cut in half; joy shared is joy doubled.
Sometimes it helps to share our sorrow, our grief, our fear, our anger, even if the only one you can share it with yourself. Write it out, put it on paper or on the computer screen, and even if you don't share it with anyone else, even if you don't send that angry email or post that vicious comment or publish that scathing blog, just getting the words out can help. Maybe it's just a vent for pressure and steam, or maybe it puts ideas into context, or maybe it helps understand. If it's for yourself, that's enough.
But when the time comes to share the dreams and fears and joy and pain, then it matters how you write it. It matters if you want someone else to be able to understand and feel what you felt.
We do that, we who write, by following conventions so everyone is on the same page (pun intended). Some of those conventions are so obvious they don't seem to need much explanation. We all use the same alphabet, for example. We all know what most of the common words mean: a, the, and, book, story, large, small, running, walking, eating. We know, as both readers and writers, that something that doesn't follow those conventions won't make a whole lot of sense.
For example:
Deer Sirr:
I seed yoo wokkin outer the pos offiss yessaday an is hoppin yoo fown mi wollet gotz sum munny init.
Can you figure that one out? Would it have been easier to read if I had written
Dear sir:
I seen you walkin outta the post office yestiday and I is hopin' you found the money what I lost.
In creating fiction, the writer has lots of options for re-creating the differences between what we consider standard English and non-standard. Does the exact same feeling come across? Maybe, maybe not. But the compromise gives the same impression -- the person who wrote the note is not well educated and probably doesn't speak any more literate than he or she writes -- while still leaving the text intelligible for the reader without forcing her to back out of the reading experience to understand it.
This is part of the "invisible manuscript" technique that's so important for every writer. You want the reader to forget she's just looking at letters and words on a page. You want her to enter into the experience you're describing.
Some of us are lucky enough by fortune and experience to have acquired the language skills necessary to do that, and to have acquired them before we embarked on anything resembling a writing career. For those who didn't, however, there are options. Not everyone, of course, plans to become a writer. Many who never wanted to write or who even actively disliked writing when they were in school find themselves years later wanting or needing those skills. Some never had the opportunity to learn. But no matter what the reason, failure to write in a manner that allows the reader to enter the story rather than struggle to discern the meaning pretty much guarantees that the work will not find an audience. If you want your story read, if you want people to get your message -- whatever that message may be -- you must make sure your writing conforms to the conventions established.
Does this mean you need an editor? Yes, it does.
The necessity for a good, competent editor is never more apparent than when a good story that's been badly written is published, and all the world gets to see how terrible the writer is. No matter how wonderful, how powerful, how emotional the story is, if the reader can't read it, all that wonder and power and emotion are lost.
Again: If you are writing for yourself, if you are writing to get out the pain and fear and joy and frustration and excitement, none of it matters. When you want to share that pain and fear and joy and excitement, it matters a lot. And only a fool thinks it doesn't.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)