On Reviews

I'm a baby author, less than a year old.

I hate to admit it, but I stalk reviews. I'm at that point where I crave feedback. I lap it up, a kitten to a saucer of milk.

Every morning can find me sorting through the various author platforms, searching for new approbation and fearful of anything too critical. Theoretically, I understand that bad reviews are part and parcel of the process. Not every book will appeal to every reader.

Emotionally, I shrink at the thought of anyone butchering my book baby.

I've been lucky thus far, with reviews hovering in the 4 and 5 star range with the occasional 3 thrown in. Yesterday, though, I found my first 1 star rating here on Goodreads. Two, actually.

They were ratings, rather than reviews, shoved down into the rank of stars rather than standing boldly at attention amid the other reviews.

I stared at them, confused. What had I done? What had my book lacked? There were no words of explanation, nothing to reveal the thoughts of the raters. Just that line of stars, 1 filled, 4 empty.

Bereft.

For several hours, I thought I might sink into the bowels of depression. I clicked each rater's username, hoping their profile or rating habits might provide some insight. One of the raters did tend toward rating everything as a 1 or 2, which gave me some comfort. One tended toward a library of super-sexy stories, which they weren't going to find with mine. I'm only moderately sexy.

Ultimately, though, there was nothing to help me understand where my book had gone wrong for these readers.

And today, in the dull winter light of a new morning, I'm okay with that. Because I don't like every book I read, either. (Generally, I refrain from a bad review, simply because I think it's bad karma as an author. But I digress.)

So...deep breath. I'm over the hump: I received my first (and second) one-star reviews.

And I didn't die.