Not every book is for every reader. And you know what? That’s okay.
But can we hone down on the topic of book reviews?
As an introvert, I enjoy writing a whole lot more than talking about my writing. Even more awkward is asking for reviews. That’s about as pleasant as learning I need a root canal.
Yet with millions of new books coming out each year, writers need reviews. Algorithms, baby. Algorithms. But readers benefit from thoughtful reviews, too. Some things to consider:
What do readers get from book reviews?
Book reviews can help link like-minded readers to books they’re more likely to enjoy.
Writing reviews gives readers a voice. (Fingers crossed for a thoughtful, not hate-filled voice.)
Reading reviews can save readers time in making an informed decision on what to read next. (Why pick up a rom-com if you prefer literary historical fiction?)
Writing a review provides a way for a reader to support a writer without spending a dime. Sometimes I write reviews on books I got on loan from the library or as gifts. It’s my way of being a good literary citizen and saying “thank you” to the writer.
What do authors get from book reviews?
Book reviews (yikes! – even the negative ones) can help an author get noticed. Of course, positive reviews can boost a writer’s self-confidence and creativity.
Reviews can help a writer know what resonates about their work with readers.
Reviews lend to an author’s credibility.
Authors are businesspeople. Whether just starting out or having already achieved bestseller status, they need reviews to drive sales. This applies to traditionally and self-published authors in hardback, paperback, audiobook, and/or eBook. In this digital world, reviews drive sales.
So…what exactly is a book review?
A review is not a master’s thesis or a synopsis. It can be short, as in one sentence. I loved this book! Of course, a little more depth can make a review more meaningful to others.
I came across a three-sentence review formula and tested it out with the delightful NEENA LEE IS SEEING THINGS by Sheila Athens. (I shared a longer review of this in my April 2024 newsletter.)
Sentence One: Recap of story and genre.
Meet Neena Lee, a travel writer who’s approached for help by the ghost of JFK Jr. in this blend of contemporary fiction sprinkled with history and magical realism…and a pinch of romance.
Sentence Two: Share three to five things you liked about the book.
I enjoyed (1) how fifty-something Neena Lee overcomes grief and anxiety and agism by pushing beyond her comfort zones, (2) the charming ghost story, (3) the lush descriptions of Cumberland Island, (4) reliving parts of history through a fictional character’s eyes.
Sentence Three: Tell who else might like the book (in general terms) or perhaps share a comparable title.
If you enjoy fiction about characters confronting personal demons, rising above difficult times, and learning the art of self-forgiveness, this one’s for you.
Bonus: Add an optional headline; it may be all the reader stops long enough to read.
Enchanting ghost story…and so much more.
Some thoughts on star ratings:
Maybe you’ve heard it said that no one should earn a five of five star-rating (the BEST) unless they walk on water. That’s one viewpoint.
Another comes from a writer friend of mine, who points out that writers love their five-star ratings, so why not? (The write-up itself carries more weight than the number of stars, in her mind.)
Yet another writer friend never gives five-star ratings to writers she knows lest Amazon (or other review sites) think she’s playing favorites.
I can see points to each of the above. Personally, I used to practice a tough-love approach to reviewing, but these days I work more from a mindset of abundance. I rarely post books I’d rate three. Books I’d rate two or one are pretty much moot as I rarely finish them. Life is too short to read books that aren’t my jam. Same goes for sharing on-line snits over books I don’t like. Life. Is. Short.
But that’s me. You need to do you.
A final note:
If you’re ready to share a review, please remember to post to all the places that might help a reader find a book to enjoy. Consider Amazon, BookBub, Goodreads, or wherever you purchased the book. Cutting and pasting the same review to multiple sites is not just acceptable, it’s thoughtful.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering what to do if a friend writes a book you don’t care for...
Be honest but kind with your words. Smile. Maybe say, “Congratulations; I’m happy for you.” (Note: If you’re famous for your snarky tone, maybe find a Plan B?)
Just a thought here—okay, make that several thoughts—from a debut novelist.
Here’s wishing you many happy (or scary or sweet or poignant or whatever-you’re-looking-for) pages to come! Thanks for reading.
Note 1: Halloween in July? Kinda, sorta. I asked for folks to share their personal ghost stories as I prepare for my debut novel / ghost story to launch this fall. It only seems apt that I should share some of my favorites, right as they come in. This one’s a sweet tale from sister writer and book coach Monica Cox, who “helps communications professionals honor their creative dreams, apply their skills to fiction, and finish their novels.” You can find out more about her by clicking the green button here:
YUP, SOUNDS LIKE GRANDPA ~ A Ghostly Tale by Monica Cox
One summer when my kids were little (think 5 and 2), we went to visit extended family in Rhode Island. One of my aunts lived in my grandparents’ old house (my grandparents long since passed), and so we stayed with her there. They lived on a lake, and my sister and I often went to stay with them for a few weeks every summer when we were growing up.
One night during our visit, my aunt and the kids went to bed early. My husband and I settled into the same furniture my grandparents had since I was probably my kids' ages to relax and watch a little TV before bed. The only TV still had a turn dial on it. We clicked through the sparse offering of channels and settled on the Olympic opening ceremonies that were on that night.
About a half hour in, we heard some noises from the kids' room--someone needed to go to the bathroom or required a glass of water or simply turned over and didn't recognize their surroundings. My husband volunteered to check on them. As soon as he left the room, the television changed channels to the Red Sox game. I instinctively looked around for a remote and actually did find one. On the other side of the room on a table.
I figured maybe the dial was sensitive, and my husband walking by the television had caused it to "jiggle" over to the next option. But when I got up to return to what we were watching, I realized that the game and the ceremonies were several channels away from each other on the dial.
Weird, but whatever.
My husband returned. When I told him what had happened, we shrugged it off to ancient technology.
Then it happened again.
I told my husband how when we were kids and staying with Grandma and Grandpa during the summers, the only way we could stay up late was if we were watching the Red Sox play. I became a lifelong fan as a result. (Hard to do growing up in the south!).
My husband got up and clicked the dial over to the station we had originally been watching. (The game was a blow out one way or the other and not super interesting.)
“But,” he told me, “if the TV acts up again, I’m out.”
Sure enough, two minutes later, the television returned to the Sox game.
"Grandpa insisted we could only stay up to watch the Sox," I reminded him. "His house, his rules."
My husband went to bed. I watched the end of the game. The television never changed channels again.
The next morning, I told my cousin who lived a few doors down about our evening.
For a beat or two, he just looked at me with no words.
Then he laughed. “Yup,” he said. “Sounds like Grandpa."
Note 2: Hope you enjoyed Monica’s story. Look for more personal ghost stories to come (shared with permission and anonymously upon request). I’m finding it fun to collect and share others’ tales as I prepare for the September 6th launch of my debut novel, SECRETS OF THE BLUE MOON! It, too, features a ghost story.
Don’t be scared, though. Ghosts aren’t real. (Or are they…?)
Cheers ~ J
FUNNY. That’s the F-word I usually focus on in my monthly blog post. But this month, on my way to writing something funny, I hit a detour—a detour named Rice, who was in the midst of shredding old files we’ve hung on to for far too long. He came across a piece I’d published in The Atlanta Journal/The Atlanta Constitution—long ago, back in the days when the paper ran morning and afternoon editions. He suggested I share it in a 2024 blog, as he still found it eerily timely. It’s about FEAR.
Before I share more, let me give you some context: I originally wrote this piece in the year Ariana Grande and Pete Davidson were born, the same year Bill Clinton got sworn into office after his first run. Jurassic Park, The Firm, and The Fugitive sold out at the box office, where tickets ran $4.14 a pop. Only 32 percent of the population owned cell phones then—the kind that had to be flipped open to use.
My kids attended elementary school when I wrote this, one and a half years before the Oklahoma City bombing, five years before the Columbine shooting. It was 1993, eight years before the terror of 9/11, twenty-eight years before the march on the capital of January 6th.
The piece first ran in the Op-Ed section of The Atlanta Journal / The Atlanta Constitution on Wednesday, October 20, 1993. I’d be honored if you’d check it out today.
***
LIVING WITH FEAR ~ THE ULTIMATE PARENTAL HORROR
In Atlanta and its suburbs, the fear of random violence striking down children is causing parents to question their own lifestyles and beliefs.
10/20/93 ~ My sister teaches pre-primary “at-risk” kids at an inner-city school. She’s been kicked and hit and called names that would make our mother blush. Their mothers? They’re rarely seen at the school. It’s located across from an alleged crack house, and occasionally sounds of gunshots echo through her classroom. I ask if she’s afraid. She says she doesn’t think about it much.
I think of her when I visit my children’s school. It’s shiny and new, located on a big chunk of suburbia. The kids are clean and well-fed. Parents are present, helping in classrooms, the media center, the school store. Test scores are high. Field trips are plentiful. We parents grouse about fundraisers and requests for money. We do our part, though. No one asks if we’re afraid.
Most of the schoolkids live in our subdivision. It’s a well-groomed “country-club community.” We have homeowners’ guidelines regarding when to put our trash out and providing us two color choices for storm doors. Overall, it’s a nice place to live. We chose it carefully. We felt our kids would be safe here.
Yet fear abounds.
A mother at the bus stop is concerned. A second-grader is harassing her kindergartner. Someone suggests she help her child learn to handle the situation himself. Yet considering recent news stories of violence in schools, she’s uneasy.
A neighbor tells of a visit to the nearby Kroger. She and her nine-year-old witness a man stealing a carton of cigarettes. The child wants to report this to store management. Mother, however, is anxious. The thief has seen them. He may find a way to retaliate.
Statistics tell us that anger and violence are increasing in the suburbs. Theories thrive as to why. Television. Overcrowding. Deteriorating family values.
Some say it’s a mere swing of the pendulum, pointing to eras such as the 1920s, when violence prevailed. They say the apprehension sensed by suburbanites stems partially from the erratic way in which violence strikes. A mass murderer hits a fast-food restaurant. A student is slain in a school cafeteria over a personality clash.
I share the fear of random violence that could touch my children. It’s perhaps the ultimate parental horror. Yet I carry another worry, less hair-raising, certainly, but still strong. It boils down to this: Will I deny my children, and myself, access to experiences where I cannot be in complete control? My answer, like that of most parents, lies one situation at a time.
Recently, after shopping, I found a note on my windshield. It said I was stupid, idiotic, and dangerous. What prompted this? My bumper sticker, supporting one of the candidates from the last presidential election. I found the note irritating and irrational.
I chalked It up to the heat, but my husband voiced concern. Perhaps I should remove the sticker. The next person taking offense might be carrying something more lethal than a pencil.
I considered whether he may be right. Perhaps I should refrain from commentary on my beliefs—all to keep my children “safe.” Yet it occurred to me that then I’d then be bowing to the ghastliest fear of all. The fear of living.
It’s a consternation I’m trying to learn to live without.
***
Jan again, in the here and now: Thanks for reading this blast from the past. Not sure about you, but it made me think. Funny how the more things change, the more they stay the same.
That said, I usually aim for another kind of FUNNY for my blog posts. I’ll try to get back to the business of being less serious soon. Promise. I’ll try.
