Yesterday this sickness of mine took my voice, so today I’m going to come clean. I’m going to admit that I can’t get anyone to review my books.
And, you know what? It isn’t the end of the world, and it isn’t a failure in friendship. It isn’t a critique of my content, style, or appeal. Ultimately it’s just one of those things.
My husband remains devoted to me. My mother still adores me. I have a variety of friends who graciously put up with me. They just rarely if ever review my books or any books at all, readers though they tend to be.
If you’re anywhere on the spectrum of emotions regarding your book(‘)s(‘) reviews or lack thereof, this post is for you. There is no secret to getting reviews. Love and guilt both fall short motivating them, it seems, and just maybe reviews aren’t worth the tactics we sometimes revert to in our desperation to get them. And, if we want to write as much as we (likely) want to write, we can’t always wait to count stars!
Henceforth I will continue to hope for reviews, but I will also have more realistic expectation. At least I will try. 🙂 I will wish the same for you.
Likewise, we are not failures if it is hard to find initial readers, feedback, critique, writing groups, etc. We’re just in a more lonesome field than we sometimes think, since, well, reading and writing, reading and editing, reading and responding at all in any way are just different things.
I wish you a happy day and your very own voice. Whether others can hear you or not and whether you can actually speak or not. 🙂
PS. If you take this as a passive aggressive reminder to review my books, I’ll totally accept them, wicked as I am. But I really do plan to grow up about this stuff. No reason for it to hinder me or any of my relationships. No reason to let it add a criticizing voice to my otherwise already occupied mind.