Deni Dietz

A couple of weeks ago Sarah Weinman talked about blogging. Her whole post was interesting (Sarah is always interesting), but then she said: "Think of it this way: if the entire population of my native Canada – roughly thirty-three million people – each had a blog, that’s still less than the total number actually out there…"

Sarah started me thinking. First I thought about the population of [my adopted country] Canada. Only 33 million? What’s the population of California? Anybody Know?

And then I thought about "when I was a kid."

When I was a kid I hated writing essays, so I didn’t. There would oft be essay contests with subjects like: "What Memorial Day Means To Me" (it meant riding in a parade, in my dad’s Impala convertible, along with my fellow Girl Scouts, my beauty-pageant-banner badges gleaming in the winter sun, and — the best part — being rewarded for being a "good scout" afterward with bubble gum and an ice cream soda, not necessary in that order). Or the essay would be called: "Why your Teacher [policeman, Lifeguard, Best Friend] is your Best Friend."

The winners would be published in the Bayside Times.

Friends, especially adults, would come unto me and say, "Deni, you write so good, why don’t you enter the essay contest?"

And I would respondeth, "Jeeze, I hate writing essays.’"

It has now suddenly occurred to me that I write an essay every week.

So…why am I doing this? Certainly not because I "write good." Hey, maybe there’s a dim hope in the back of what’s left of my mind that people will like my "voice." And maybe if they like my voice, they will check out the excerpts on my website, then call their libraries and request one of my books and try it on for size.

Maybe.

This week my Quibbles & Bits designation is: DO BLOGS SELL BOOKS?

That very question was asked on one of my email loops by, I presume, an author who was thinking of starting up a blog [well, duh!] and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

Do they? Sell books, I mean?

Or do the people who read my weekly Quibbles & Bits already own my books? Or borrow them from libraries, which is great — as you may have noticed, I pitch libraries as often as I can.

Blogs are hard work — at least writing mine is. I try to be somewhat amusing week after week (which, in truth, keeps me from being politically hostile), so I keep setting the bar higher and higher. In the olden days, it would take me 24 hours to write and edit a letter to my mom, and unless I’m pissed off — whereupon I almost always open mouth, insert foot — I "draft" every email I write. Which is to say that I start writing my Tuesday Murderati blog on Wednesday. So…

Do blogs sell books?

Or do they have the opposite effect and over-hype an author?

I’ll be honest. I usually read blogs by authors whose books I already own [and adore]. Case in point: Paul Levine. If I ran into an author I adored in a public place (oh, say, the ladies room – well, I probably wouldn’t run into Paul there, so let’s add an elevator), I’d either be tongue-tied or gush. I shared an elevator with Walter Mosely, just the two of us, and I was tongue-tied; I ran into Susan Isaacs in a restroom and gushed (poor Susan).

But reading a blog by one of my favorite authors is different. I’m rarely tongue-tied because I write my comments rather than talk out loud, and gushing is limited to how many words I can fit into the "comments square" before my fingers tire or my brain fries.

So, let’s do an informal poll. How many people have bought — or borrowed — books because they like an author’s blog?

And/or how many people have been tongue-tied [or gushed] if/when they’ve met a favorite author?

And what the hell IS the population of California?

Next Tuesday, just for fun, I think I’ll blog an essay about a real live actress — my sister Eileen — who played The Demon and many of the possession scenes [for Linda Blair] in The Exorcist. And I’ll include photos. And a movie poster for Eileen’s latest film.

Maybe the Bayside Times will print it.

Over and Out,
Deni

by Pari Noskin Taichert

(Hi all. I bet you thought I’d be posting about the marvelous Con Misterio. Well, I will . . . eventually. I’ve got to go through the pictures, find the links for the authors’ mugs — I like to give them the additional plug — and see if I can decrease the red eyes so that they don’t all look like vampires. Since I’m typing this late on Sunday night after just getting off the plane . . . I’ll save my report until next Monday.)

I originally wrote this article for my Bad Girls Press website. It’s targeted to a general audience — but the lessons are important and I hope you all will benefit from them.

How to Pitch to a Reporter

When you’re cooking dinner, nudging the dog from the kitchen with one foot and chasing the cat out of the garbage can with the other, the last thing you want is a salesman with a long-winded patter, even if you’d normally be interested in his product.

Think of your phone call to the news media in the same way. Any reporter, news director, or assignments editor with whom you speak is busy, very busy.

Put your ego aside. Don your mental running shoes and entice that person with a juicy pitch — one she can’t resist. To be successful, you have to frame your information so that it focuses entirely on her wants and needs rather than your own.

Don’t get it? Here’s an example of common mistakes people make when approaching a reporter on the phone.

Wrong:
Reporter:  Thompson.

SS: Hello, Ms. Thompson. My name is Sally Swagger and I’m the executive director of the Save the Pennies Foundation. Our purpose is to ensure that pennies remain in circulation — both for historical and practical reasons. Did you see that report on XYZ news last week about the government phasing out pennies? Well, we were simply aghast! Frankly, we feel the poor penny has been so long neglected and ignored that —

Reporter: Excuse me, I’m working on deadline.

SS: Well, this will only take a minute. As I was saying — aren’t pennies just lovely? We think more items should be bought with these beautiful copper Lincolns rather than using other coins. People waste so much by hoarding their pennies and that’s why . . .

******Do you think the reporter is still listening to Sally? Don’t bet on it. Chances are, if a reporter isn’t responding or asking questions — and you’ve been able to take more than two breaths in your pitch — you’ve already lost her.

What’s the lesson here?
Rather than blather, cut to the chase. Be prepared to quickly point out the something special that makes your event (or book) worth covering. For radio, you need to be sure it’s got a good audio component. For television, you want to make sure the pitch contains a strong visual potential rather than BOPSA (bunches of people sitting around).

Let’s say Sally’s lengthy intro is leading up to a description of a special Paying with Pennies Day where all the Foundation members plan to use pennies to buy everything for 24 hours.

Let’s replay the conversation.

Right:
Reporter:  Thompson.

SS: Hi, I’m Sally Swagger with Save the Pennies Foundation. Do you know what $1000 worth of pennies weighs?

Reporter (caught off guard): What?

SS: About 150 pounds. Our first Paying with Pennies Day is this Saturday. One of our members will buy his new car with nothing but pennies.

Reporter:  You’re kidding, right?

SS: Nope. He’s been saving for twelve years. We know he’ll need several wheelbarrows — and a couple of pickup trucks — to haul them into Bill ‘s Buick over on 12th Street. And another one of our participants plans to go to the Ritz for a champagne brunch. I wonder how many pennies that’ll take?

Reporter:  Hold on. (The reporter is now opening a computer file, or writing notes, or motioning her assignments editor over to her desk. Her eyes are twinkling. She’s got visions of her story hitting television stations across the country.) What was your name again?

See the difference?
Sally got right to the point. But even more important, she was ready with an attention-grabbing angle. She didn’t bother to talk about her organization’s purpose in the phone call; that can be covered in a short information sheet when the reporter or cameraman arrives to film one of the events. Since Sally wanted television coverage, she spotlighted the visual aspect early. She also was smart to present choices — that’s like offering two kinds of dessert.

Coverage in a scary world:
Right now, most news outlets are focusing on the war in Iraq, avian flu and other crises. Garnering publicity for your product/event/book may seem even more difficult. And you might be right. There simply isn’t as much radio, television or print space dedicated to non-tragedy related news. But don’t let that stop you.

Of the many people trying to get media attention, you’ve got an edge. You know what to do:
Be smart — work your pitch to meet reporters’ needs.
Be brief — don’t waste his or her precious time or attention.
Be prepared.

You’ll have a much better chance of attaining your publicity goals.

******* If any of you can give an example of a quick pitch you made to a reporter/reviewer etc. I’d love to read it in the comments. This would be an opportunity for us to help each other crack an increasingly tough nut.

cheers,

Pari

Jeffrey Cohen

A couple of weeks ago, I passed my 21st anniversary as a freelance writer, or as I like to think of it, I began my 22nd year of unemployment. It’s a strange life we freelancers lead, as we’re not quite self-employed (many companies must hire us for us to make a living), we’re not quite employed in the traditional sense (we don’t list an employer on our tax records, and we don’t report to an office every day) and then again, we are still working. Whenever possible.

The anniversary made me think about the writer’s life, which is a curious one. We do something that isn’t really like anything else: it’s not the kind of art that people can see, really. Oh, they read the words on the page, but if we’re doing our job right, they seem to be natural and inevitable, which means they don’t draw attention to the person putting them there. Freelance reporters are even more anonymous: nobody reads the byline; they just assume our work is generated by some monolithic entity. “Did you see what the Gazette said today?”

Writers would be missed if we all vanished, but then, so would dog groomers, since it would be a truly bizarre occurance if an entire class of people vanished based solely on profession. But I digress.

Writers, particularly those who traffic in fiction, have a remarkably strange place in society. Those who connect with the largest numbers of people are well-known, extremely well-compensated, and their names (if not their faces) are recognized the word over. Stephen King has practically become a genre. John Grisham is a brand name. J.K. Rowling actually owns Venezuela.

The rest of us are more anonymous, and that’s fine. When someone asks me if I want my novels to make me rich and famous, I usually remark that “famous” is entirely optional. I have no desire to be a household name, although my name is so common it appears in more households than I care to think about. I’m perfectly happy if people buy my books, read them and enjoy them, and remember my name only well enough to buy the next book when it comes out. That’s plenty for me; I don’t need the best table at Wolfgang Puck’s latest restaurant. Although the occasional free dessert would not be refused.

What constantly strikes me, though, is that people I know, people I’ve met (and I’m talking almost exclusively about people outside the publishing and mystery worlds), when confronted with the fact that I make my living rearranging words, seem to find this astonishing, as if I invented freelancing–and writing, for that matter–all by myself.

It happens in social situations, when friends and acquaintances gather at someone’s home or a restaurant and chat. I arrive, disguised as a normal person, doing my best to maintain the illusion that there’s nothing especially noteworthy about me. I have myself convinced, anyway, but there’s obviously something wrong with my disguise, because someone invariably sees through it and approaches. Quite often–more often than I care to think about, frankly–I am asked a question for which I have never been able to devise an adequate answer. You’d think that after countless repetitions I’d have come up with a stock line that would defuse the question, or put it to rest, but there’s something about it that really puzzles me. It startles me every time I hear it:

“So. You still writing?”

Is there any other profession on this earth that elicits that question? Are bank tellers constantly having to reassure casual acquaintances that they haven’t decided, against all odds, to become skydiving instructors? Is there an unreported rash of freelance writers suddenly giving up the ink-stained life to go into upholstery? Or is this a subtle dig at me in particular, perhaps? A way that the questioner is asking whether I’ve finally come to my senses and decided to get a real job?

I’ve been married for 19 years to an attorney who works for the state of New Jersey. I’ve seen her in any number of different social situations, ranging from small dinner parties to enormous gatherings of people in both professional and personal contexts. I have never, not once, heard anyone ask my wife if she’s still a lawyer. They don’t assume that just because they haven’t seen her in six months or so they need to check if she’s decided: “you know, the heck with the education, the law degree, the bar exam and the decades of experience. I’m going to clown college.”

So, why me?

I think it’s because people think writing is a hobby. They think it’s something one does to kill some time after coming home from work, to unwind. It’s a cute little avocation, not something intended to create income. It’s certainly not an identity, like being a college professor, an accountant or a steampipe fitter. It’s something done in those magical “extra” hours that I’ve never been able to identify. It’s something one does to boost one’s ego (hah!), to dispense with the odd creative impulse that might have otherwise interrupted a perfectly good day of work.

Defensive? Moi? Well, maybe. My father owned and operated a store that sold paint and wallpaper for 40 years. Well, to be totally accurate, my father was the one who sold the paint and wallpaper. The store did remarkably little beyond housing the paint and wallpaper. I’ll have to ask my mother, but I’m reasonably sure nobody every walked up to him at a bar mitzvah and asked him, “so, you still selling paint? Didn’t decide to become an airline pilot in the past week, did you?”

Anyone who reads this blog or dozens other, who follows publishing (and mystery publishing in particular) knows that this is no business for wimps. It’s not for people who are going to change their minds and go into some other line of work when the first hint of adversity shows itself. And it’s certainly not something one does on a whim.

So when someone asks me if I’m still a writer, I’ve had a number of canned responses I’ve tried. I used to say, “that’s what I do,” but that seemed a little bland. I toyed with, “no, haven’t you heard? I’m prime minister of Lichstenstein now!” But that just got me odd looks, and I get enough of those already. These days, I’m going with “yes I am. Would you like to buy one of my books?”

What the hell. A sale’s a sale.

I can finally announce it.  Ink has dried.  Hands have been shaken.  Checks have been cut.  The deal is done.  I’ve signed a contract with New York publisher, Dorchester Publishing.  They will be publishing my novel, Accidents Waiting To Happen, next March in paperback under their Leisure imprint.

Wow.  I’ve finally cracked the big leagues.  It only took me just under eight years.  And it only seems like an eternity.  J

And I almost blew it.  Like all adventures in my life, nothing happens without a little drama.  In publishing, good news arrives by phone.  Bad news arrives by self-addressed envelope.  The editor called–but I was in the shower.  I didn’t hear the call, and my answering machine didn’t feel like recording it either.  When I got home that evening, the message light was flashing.  I hit play and got:

“Hi, Simon, it’s Don.  I’m calling about the b–”

He was calling.  That meant good news, right?  But he’d only had the manuscript a few days.  He might be calling because he spilt coffee over it and needed another copy.  Or maybe it was so monumentally bad, he wanted to break protocol to call me personally to tell me how much it sucked and how he wished he could have those hours back that he’d burned up reading it.  I wanted to call, but it was nine o’clock on the east coast.  I don’t think he would have appreciated me calling information to get his home number.  But if he had good news, I figured I should return his call, otherwise, what would he think?  Hey, that Simon Wood guy didn’t return my call.  He sounds like a bit of a dilettante.  We don’t need his kind here at Dorchester Publishing.  Worse still, his message could have come with a time limit. 

“Hi, Simon, it’s Don.  I’m calling about the book.  I love it, I want it, but you have to return this call in the next hour or the deal is off.”

How bad would that be?

At this point, I might have begun obsessing, but don’t quote me.  I think Julie may have punched me too.  I think she got a little bored with my theories–or craziness, as she liked to call it.  I went to bed and decided to lay awake thinking about what he would say when I called him back.  Who needs sleep when faced with the important phone call of their writing career?

So I called early the next morning and got the good news that Dorchester did want the book and none of my imagined scenarios applied. 

Don hit me with, “So what do you think?”

I was so out of emotion at this point that all I could muster was “sounds good.” Yeah, I know, but it was the best I could come up with.

Now I understand why authors have agents.  We shouldn’t be allowed outside without a handler.

After all that, Dorchester still wanted to give me a contract.

It goes without saying that this is a huge writing career boost for me that will propel me out of the small press world.  Leisure books have great distribution.  All the major chains carry their titles prominently.  It will no longer be an issue for my readers to obtain my books, and it will be easy for new readers to discover me.  This is what I’ve always wanted.  Journey’s end.

This doesn’t mean I can slack off.  No way.  All that has changed is that my work will be more available and more affordable.  Writing a damn good story and getting the word out is just as tough. 

While having a book coming out in mass paperback is a great opportunity, it’s also a burden.  My book and I will be in the spotlight.  No longer will I have the excuse that my book just isn’t seen.  My publishing reputation is mine to lose.  It’s a worry, but it’s also a challenge and it’s a challenge that I relish.  I can’t wait for this book to get out there and see how far it will go.

Does this mean I’ll forget those people I’ve worked with in the small press?  No.  I owe my reputation to the small press.  I’m hoping that the wider net Accidents Waiting To Happen will cast will draw new readers to my small press titles.  The reason for this is twofold.  First, I want to repay the faith those small press publishers had in my work.  Second, I’m not finished with the small press.  I have plenty of other projects that will appeal more to small press than NY publishing, because of their subject matter, word length, genre, etc.  For me, this will be the best of both worlds.  I want to have venues where I can tell all my stories.

I’m not sure what will happen from now on.  Hopefully, it will lead to foreign rights sales or something nice like that.  I’ve always wanted to see my work and not understand a bloody word of it.  I just hope that this is the start of a beautiful relationship. 

See you on the bookshelves,

Simon Wood

Deni Dietz

I was going to sub-title this week’s Quibbles & Bits: "Do Blogs Sell Books?" But I think I’ll write that one next week and, instead, talk about a recent newspaper survey.

My local Canadian newspaper, The Times Columnist [based in Victoria, B.C.], has never reviewed my books. That’s probably because my books aren’t International bestsellers, nor lit’ry enough, nor are they written by someone named Dan Brown (note to self: use the pseudonym "Dani Brown" for future books).

A few weeks ago the paper had an article called "Sexes divided on literary loves." The article included a survey of 3000 Canadians. That’s a lot of Canadians, folks—trust me. [Unless, of course, you’re counting calls/votes for Canadian Idol; then it goes up to around 3 million.]

Asked by Indigo Books to name their favorite books, male readers strongly preferred action-packed titles.

And this is news because…?

The majority of males chose J.R.R. Tolkein, Dan Brown [sigh] and Chuck Palahniuk. [Note to self: Change name to non-gender-specific Denny Dietz; change title of half-written "Toe of Frog" to THE DA VINCI TOAD.]

Sonya Gaulin, a spokeswoman for Indigo, said, "The books that women chose are more sentimental, whereas the ones men chose tend to be a bit more in the fantasy, adventure and mystery-thriller genre."

Well, duh!

The top seven books chosen by men in order of preference were: Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkein, The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk, How To Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie (for some reason, that one made me laugh for approx five minutes straight), and Angels and Demons by Dan Brown [sigh].

Women chose Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austin, He’s Not That Into you by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo [Is that a new erotica?], Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden, Confessions of a Shopaholic [great title!] by Sophie Kinsella, The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood and Outlander by Diana Gabaldon.

I’ve actually read those last two, and, a long time ago, P and P [I didn’t like it, so sue me].

According to the survey, only 8 titles overlapped as favorites of men and women alike: Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus by John Gray, The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown [sigh], Tuesdays With Morey by Mitch Albon, The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albon, A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry, and I Know This Much Is True by Wally Lamb.

Notice the lack of crime fiction. And of the 8 titles listed, I’ve read TDC [I didn’t like it, so sue me] and Mockingbird.

How many have you read? And, for that matter, what books would YOU have chosen? Top three will do; 8 is a bit much.

Last Sunday’s Times Columnist had an interview with Lee Child, cribbed from an Associated Press article. When talking about how he named his protagonist Jack Reacher, Lee said, "Every time I go to the supermarket — without exception, every time — because I’m tall and look approachable, a little old lady comes up to me and says, ‘You’re a nice tall gentleman. Will you reach and get me that can?’ So my wife said, ‘If this novelist thing doesn’t work out, you can get a job as a reacher in a supermarket.’ And I said, ‘Good name!’ So that’s where it came from."

So now I’m curious, Lee. Where did the name "Jack" come from?

In conclusion…

Notes to self:
1 – Change Denise Dietz to the non-gender-specific Denny Dietz, or even
better, Dani Brown or Denny Brown.

2 – Change titles of "diet club" mysteries THROW DARTS AT A CHEESECAKE, BEAT UP A COOKIE, and CHAIN A LAMB CHOP TO THE BED to:

THE MICHELANGELO MANIFESTO [after all, the Weight Winners diet club meetings take place in a church!]
IN SEARCH OF ALAN ALDA
INTENSITY [one-word titles seem to do well]

3 – I’m 5’2" and no one would ever ask me to reach for anything, but I am a free-lance editor, so name next protagonist "Freelance [Lance] Editor."

Over and Out,
Deni/Dani/Denny
author of the new Lance Editor mystery series, co-starring a vicious killer cat named Grateful Dead

by Pari Noskin Taichert

I’ve been thinking about sea lampreys this week. You see, I’ve been searching for animal images to embody my ideas about an often ignored subject: Overmarketing. Though books on promotion exhort us to use every trick we can, they rarely caution about overusing them. Yet, I’d bet all of us have met the author who overmarkets to the point of turning sweet to sour.

It comes down to this: there’s a difference between telling people about your book and pummeling them with it.

At its best, overmarketing comes off as annoying and pathetically desperate. At its worst, it offends. It repels and turns potential allies into gossipy ennemies.

Here are the three types of overmarketers I can define easily.

Sea Lamprey
This parasite has a big mouth, too many teeth and sucks the joy of a purchase right out of you.

Picture yourself going into a bookstore. An author walks up to you and starts talking about his books. You nod politely, perhaps ask a question, smile and start to walk way. The author accompanies you, still working to engage in conversation, interpreting each of your sighs as a confirmation of interest. You try to escape behind a bookcase. He finds you. Finally, you buy his damn book just to get rid of him. Sure, he made the sale, but I bet that $15 won’t cover the compounded negative stories customers will tell about him to other people.

Megamouth Shark
Though harmless enough, the megamouth inspires even the kindest person to hide — ducking into convenient bathrooms or jumping off cliffs — until this animal has cleared the waters.

This author has a mouth the size of Cuba. It’s the sheer volume of information gushing from her maw that initially tranfixes, and then horrifies, the poor person in its path. She can — and will — recite every blurb and review her books have ever gotten . . . verbatim. She turns every conversation, no matter how far the stretch, right back to her work and accomplishments. When attacked by this animal, you’re tempted to check if she has functioning ears; there appears to be no ability to listen.

Australian Cane Toad
Cane toads tend to be more experienced authors who’ve forgotten their beginnings, suffer from too much insecurity, or who think "humility" refers to the amount of moisture in the air.

Cane-toad authors sit on panels or in discussions and take them over in a poisonous way. This can be done by never answering the question asked (responding only about their books) or killing the competition through rudeness including clever insults, blathering and not listening. Within minutes of encountering a cane toad, the literary environment is out of balance and remains toxically so.

How do you avoid becoming one of these ugly animals?
It’s about balance, baby. Well, that, and common courtesy.

Know your audience.
Yeah, this sounds simple. Believe me, it isn’t. You have to work at it. Strive to be aware of the people with whom you hope to communicate. Know both their spoken and unspoken rules of etiquette no matter what the medium — be it face-to-face, the phone, in print or online. If you don’t take the time to understand your audience, you’ll always blunder.

Listen.
Talk WITH, rather than AT, people. An upside to doing this is that you’ll get unexpected ideas for your future marketing efforts. Also, you’ll learn to avoid the mistakes that irritate your main allies. Guess how I started thinking about overmarketing in the first place? It was because of the comments I heard from readers — and booksellers — about this or that author’s inappropriate behavior.

Watch (a.k.a. study).
A year before THE CLOVIS INCIDENT came out, I started going to mystery conventions and booksignings. Like a cultural anthropologist, I studied what worked and what didn’t. I noticed behaviors that engaged potential readers — and those that revolted them. In that first year, I encountered all of the human equivalents to the animals mentioned above.

Respect.
Today, audiences are far more marketing savvy than they used to be. Never forget that people can detect the sulphorous scent of condescension and the slimy textures of manipulation. Please, refuse to succumb to the temptation of arrogance.

In nature, lampreys, megamouths and cane toads can’t help what they are.

In our business, authors can.

cheers,
Pari (who’s feeling a bit like a brine shrimp today)

Jeffrey Cohen

I once asked a very famous person how to deal with bad reviews. The very famous person said, “Generally I say something like, ‘Oh, that? I barely read it.’ Or ‘Well, that’s merely one person’s opinion.’ Or ‘Hey, can’t win ’em all.’ Then I lock myself in the bathroom and sob loudly into a throw pillow I take in there with me for that purpose.” This is an accomplished professional whose career has been the absolute template for success in a field.

The relationship between authors and reviewers is a very complex one. Having done both, I can tell you that neither is easy, neither pays especially well except at the very top of the profession, and both are done for the sheer love of the form in almost every case. I’ve written reviews that I wish I could take back (all negative ones, even when the film/book/play/record in question was truly awful–I was snarky and shouldn’t have been), some that I would hold up for all the world to see and some that, well, I had a deadline and it was a slow week.

I’m proud of every novel I’ve written, which admittedly isn’t that many just yet (I’ve written five; three have been published, one is on its way and the other is still looking for a home), and have been happy to send each one out to book reviewers. Then I hold my breath, take some Maalox and make sure there’s a throw pillow within grabbing distance.

Book reviews are to authors what Snausages are to my dog: a hoped-for reward for a job well done. Granted, his job is somewhat easier than mine–it involves taking care of a bodily function in the right place–but the concept is similar. He does what he’s supposed to do, and we give him encouragement and approval.

That’s when the reviews are good. When they’re not, it’s more like we’ve done something we shouldn’t have in the house.

I know many book reviewers who are extremely scrupulous about their work, and making sure there’s no hint of favoritism (which is an interesting concept, since reviewing is by definition subjective, and you’re going to have favorites), who won’t let an author buy them a beer at a convention, citing conflict of interest. Most of the reviewers I’ve met are very serious about what they do, understand it has an impact on the work, and are dedicated to the genre and to books in general. They are, in my limited experience, remarkably conscientious about their work.

I don’t like to brag (no, wait a minute–I LOVE to brag), but my books have been almost uniformly well reviewed. I’ve been lucky, and since my Aaron Tucker novels have been published by a very small press, remarkably so, to have been reviewed in so many venues. There have been extremely generous comments in newspapers and magazines, and on a great many web sites. And I have been flattered by each and every one.

But the one I remember most clearly is the single outright pasting I took on a web site whose reviewers love virtually every book they can find (and whose name you may just as well not expect to see mentioned here). This review of my most recently published book AS DOG IS MY WITNESS was an eyelash short of violent, a pan of epic proportions that stopped just before the reviewer was to suggest I apply for a job at Home Depot and give up this writing thing before I did some real damage.

I could quote you whole sections of that review from memory. I read and read it, even as I told myself that it was wrong, that there were factual errors, that the reviewer got a major character’s name wrong, that all the other reviews had been very positive.

I took every word to heart. Finally, the world had caught up to the fraud that I am. Someone had discovered my secret–that I don’t know what I’m doing–and said it out loud. I was a hack, a pretender, a lightweight idiot who didn’t know his noun from his verb (actually, the “lightweight” didn’t seem so bad–I could lose a few pounds). It was all true, and I felt I should quit this business and move on to my true calling, whatever that was. Maybe this Home Depot idea wasn’t so bad. I hear they have dental.

After fifteen minutes or so, my blood pressure returned to normal. I forwarded the review to my publisher with the snide suggestion that he might like to pull a quote for our next praise sheet, suppressed the urge to call my mother so she could tell me how brilliant I was, and moved on to my next actual paying gig. Okay, so maybe I read a few of the positive reviews in the interim, just to remind myself that I had fooled some of the people some of the time. And that was the day I asked the very famous person about bad reviews.

Reviews should be a tool used by readers if they trust the reviewer’s judgment and not just because the reviewer has a tower to shout from. These days, everybody and his pet dog can post a review on the Internet, so readers need to be selective, reading carefully considered reviews from people like Sarah Weinman (who has never reviewed one of my books, so I can say so) and Oline Cogdill (who has). Read a few reviews of books you’ve read, and see if you agree with the reviewer. I tend to pay attention to reviews by Janet Maslin of the New York Times because I agreed with her even back when she was writing about movies. Those critics with whom I tend to disagree obviously won’t have as much influence on my consideration of a book, a movie or a whatever.

But I’ll never make a decision not to read or see something based on what a critic says. I might be persuaded to give something a try if I read that it’s something special, but if I’m interested in something I’ll make my own decision no matter what the critics said. I honestly don’t think Ishtar was all that bad (it’s no classic, but it’s also not the biblical disaster you’d think from the reviews), and I’m not that crazy about The English Patient despite the raves and the awards. That’s my taste; it might not be yours. Doesn’t make either one of us right.

The idea is to make up your own mind, and good reviewers will be the first to tell you that’s what you should do. Their job is to provide information and some perspective. My daughter went to see the latest Pirates of the Caribbean movie Friday night, as soon as it was released, despite disappointing reviews. She didn’t love it as much as the first in the series, but she still wants to see it again. Her brother told her the critics didn’t care for the movie, and my daughter shrugged.

“What do they know?” she asked. “They’re part of the audience, just like me.”

(If you want to know why The English Patient doesn’t make sense, feel free to email me at jeff at aarontucker dot com.)