First written: June 9, 2009
I've been thinking about reviews today, good ones
and bad ones. One reason is I was flicking through some other
author blogs and came across Stuart MacBride talking about bad
reviews on Amazon. He argues, in typically hilarious fashion, that
people who post bad reviews on Amazon are basement dwelling
troglodytes who've never seen a real person of the opposite sex
naked.
I'm completely with him in one respect: the men who post bad
reviews, (I just know they're 90% men) invariably assume that
reviewers who take a different view, i.e., they actually liked the
book, must be close family members of the authors.
Clearly no basement dwelling troglodyte has ever met my
mother.
I sent mum an advance copy of my first novel, Sacrifice. It had
taken me the better part of five years to write and was the
fulfillment of a decade's ambition. I was glowing with pride and
foolishly assumed she would be too.
Her first reaction? 'Hmmn, I think I'll have to read it
again.'
I waited, teeth firmly clenched.
Her more considered view? 'It was okay in the end, once you
stopped waffling.'
A year later - no, you're right, I will never learn - I sent her
an advance copy of Awakening.
Wait for it … 'I didn't like it as much as your first.'
This is my MOTHER, for the love of God. What happened to
maternal pride? And I'd dedicated it to her as well. I was
wittering about this the other night to a book club and one of the
women there suggested the perfect revenge. She says I should
dedicate my next book to my mother-in-law, for her 'constant
support and encouragement over the years.'
If only I were that brave.
It got me thinking though. Why is it that I really
don't give a toss what the troglodytes on Amazon say, (unlike
Stuart, I can honestly say they've never bothered me) but I do care
deeply for my mother's opinion? Steven King says that every writer
has a first and most valued reader, the one who's opinion matters
above all others. For him, it's his wife, Tabitha. For me? Well,
it's not my mother, that's for sure. It's not my husband either,
who's response on reading Sacrifice was, I kid you not, 'Well,
you're not Jane Austen, are you chicken?'
Possibly, it's my agent, Anne Marie, who always reads my stuff
first and who I can rely upon for absolute honesty. Just lately,
though, I think she's secretly in touch with my mother. Shortly
after Christmas, I sent her the first draft of what should become
my third book. A few days later I get an e mail. 'I really love the
title,' she says. 'Let's talk about the rest.'
I sometimes wonder how I go on.
If you've never read my books, I add quickly, at
this point, please don't be put off by the views of my nearest and
dearest. Some people, who know a lot about books, think they're
good. Like the critic in The Times, for example, who described me
as the "high priestess of English rural Gothic." I got rather
excited by this, for the minute and a half it took me to start
thinking, well, hold on, who else is writing English rural Gothic?
There's … no, different sub genre completely, but what about ….no,
she doesn't really fit. I suppose there's always….no, he's been
dead for thirty years. I was forced to conclude, it's just me. I am
the high priestess of a cult of one. Go SJ!
PS: Please don't tell anyone my husband calls me Chicken. A high
priestess of English rural Gothic has a reputation to keep up.