Before I start, I should say one thing. I don’t have any published books and therefore no reviews. Positive, negative or in between. I do, however, have thoughts and if that ain’t what this fucking place is for, I don’t know what is.
So. Reviews. They come in different forms but at the end of the day they all say that this piece of entertainment is the fucking bomb or a total pile of shit. Or even some kind of mixture. It’s part of producing something, be it television, a book or music. Whatever. Not everyone will like it. Just accept that fact. Hell, at this point in my non career, I’m more surprised when people do like stuff then if they told me it sucked. But anyway, your book, let’s say, will have people who love it and people who hate. Or people couldn’t care, which is actually worse. So just love that people love it, try to put aside the stuff from those who don’t and keep on working. Unless there is actual constructive criticism, things you may be able to work on. Then do that. Most authors improve from book to book anyway.
Ok thats the writer’s side of things. What about the reviews? I sometimes think we need better terms then positive and negative reviews. A review should go over a bit of the book, maybe say how it worked or didn’t and have some personal opinion of the reviewer. It’s there to provide information. And if you tend to agree with a particular reviewer opinions, that part may hold value as well. What shouldn’t happen is attacks and rants. (I know, I know, that’s some people’s bread and butter.) It’s possible to dislike a thing and still recognize it’s quality for those who may appreciate it more. Say that. There’s no need to trash the thing or it’s author.
I know some reviewers on Twitter and I know how hard it is for them when they are reading a book that just doesn’t work for them. But they are never nasty about it. And I suppose the option is always there to just say nothing about it. Sometime’s Thumper’s momma was right. “If you can’t say nothin’ nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.”
His feet pounded the ground as he ran along the trail, shirt stuffed into the waistband of his shorts. The sun was all ready bright and it was barely eight in the morning. His iPod was strapped to his bicep, earbuds shooting Copperhead Road into his brain.
The sun lessened as he entered the tree lined section of the trail, the breeze feeling even cooler in the shade. He glanced at his watch again. It was almost time for the judge to come down the trail, walking that fucking yappy little dog. The man left his house at eight on the dot every morning. Must have never learned better. Ah, there he was, coming out the gate in his backyard fence. Right on time.
The runner ran a few more strides then slowed to a stop, kneeling on one knee to tie his shoe and nodding at the judge as he approached. He reached into his fanny pack as the judge passed, hand wrapping around the butt of the .22 automatic. He had it half pulled out of the pack when he head the cell phone tone that signalled a text message. Only one person had that number and it was not a person who could be ignored.
“Abort mission. Bill paid.” His eyes narrowed but the runner shoved the phone back in the pack beside the pistol and zipped the pack. He pointed his fist at the judge’s back in the shape of a gun. “Pow,” he whispered then started running again. Might have to stick to this path, he thought.