Uncategorized | Author, editor, caffeine-addict, wannabe ninja

Yesterday I was directed to a blog post written by a newish author (who shall remain unnamed) who was having a bit of a whinge about reviews and reviewers. This author had provided a (misnumbered) list of how they thought reviewers should go about writing reviews, especially reviews of said author’s work. Yes, you read that right.

Oh, but it gets better. This particular author loved five-star reviews (fair call; who doesn’t?), and was happy to accept a four-star review, but when it came to anything lower than that, well, things got a little creepy. If a reviewer wanted to give this author’s work a three, two or one-star review they wanted the reviewer to get in touch before posting the review so they could chat about the raising that little star-rating to an acceptable four or five-star.

The author’s reasoning? Well, once you weeded out all the ‘woe-is-me’ bullshit, it was pretty much… woe is me. It affected sales, it was mean, they don’t understand the book (ie the reader is stupid), it was mean, it hurt my feelings, it was mean, it was mean, it was mean!

If that wasn’t bad enough, the author went on to say that those reviewers who’d received ARCs should always post positive reviews, regardless of whether they’d been asked for an honest review. You see, if they give you a free book, you must write a good review. Right? Right?

No.

As someone who reviews the books I read, my back went up. Who are you to tell me or anyone else how to review a book? Not that I ever plan on reading anything this writer offers. And that’s not just based on the cluster-fuck of the blog post, but on the blurb of said book that was garnering those meany-mean-mean reviews. It was awful, that blurb, truly awful. Long-winded, confusing, and so poorly written it gave me enough insight into what lay inside.

It’s clear the author didn’t employ an editor to look over their work, but has rather written the book then chucked it up on Amazon wanting to make some quick cash. That is not a writer. A writer labours over their words, each and every one of them; a writer ensures the plot works and that the characters are more than clichéd cardboard cut-outs. From the reviews I’ve read of this book, there’s a whole lot of wrong with it and not a lot of right.

It would be these reviews that had the author throw a hissy-fit – a lot of which were removed by Goodreads, it seems. Poor form by the author and equally poor form by Goodreads.

What the author failed to understand is that reviews are opinions of readers, and no book is going to appeal to everyone. The author believed there was an implied contract: read the book and love it or don’t say anything at all. Sorry, kiddo, time you entered the real world where people can form opinions that differ from yours.

This writer appears to be relatively new to the game, and a blog such as theirs could be career suicide. Readers remember, as do publishers. There were some scathing comments, and word had spread quickly about the pomposity of the post, but the author kept defending their position, digging that ugly hole deeper and deeper.

Most authors aren’t like the one that garnered this post. They’re thankful for anyone who takes the time to review their work – good or bad. But there are those out there whose sense of entitlement eclipses good sense. You wrote a book, but you’re not alone in that endeavour. You sold a book? That’s great! You got a sucky review? Thems the breaks.

I review books for other readers, not the author. The author gets my review as a by-product only. I’m honest, hopefully amusing, and deal with the story and characters and the writing. I take my time with them – and there’s the kicker: MY time. No author has the right to demand anything from me. I paid for your book; be happy about that. If I don’t like it, then I’m the one out of pocket. You? Well you’ve still got my cash. I think you’ve got the better deal here, no?

Oh, and if you don’t like my review, you could always return the cash…

Addendum: It seems the author has seen the error of that ridiculously self-important post and removed it.

Addendum to the addendum: The author has since issued an apology for said post.

Why yes, it is review time again. Today’s review is brought to you by me, with reading material supplied by Andrew J McKiernan. And I thank him for it. Now before I go on to explain how wonderful these stories are, it’s disclaimer time:

I’ve known Andrew for a good few years, and is part of the awesome Sydney SHADOWS – a mad crowd of Sydney writers who get together for lunch and drinks and shenanigans and drinks (Fat Yak! Ahem. As you were…)

Right then, with the disclaimer out of the way, it’s spoiler alert time…

READ ON AT YOUR OWN SPOILERY RISK. MANAGEMENT IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR SPOILERS IF YOU READ PAST THIS POINT. SERIOUSLY, IF YOU READ PAST THIS POINT THEN BITCH ABOUT A SPOILER, I’LL WHACK YOU WITH THE BOOK.

I love short stories. I love writing them and I love reading them. Collections and anthologies are always a kind of crap shoot – you don’t know quite what you’re going to get, you just hope there’s at least a couple of gems inside. There’s an undeniable skill in being able to tell a complete story within a limited amount of words, and not everyone can do it. Andrew McKiernan is one of those writers who damn well can.

‘last year, when we were young’ is the first short story collection I’ve read this year, and it’s also McKiernan’s first short story collection. Put out through the Australian small press, Satalyte Publishing, this is a collection of extraordinary moments set mostly against the ordinary, where the everyday lives of everyday people, are thrust into the twisted and bizarre.

The collection contains sixteen short stories, five of which I’d previously read (and proudly published one as co-editor of Midnight Echo, Issue 8 – ‘They Don’t Know That We Know What They Know’ – it’s a cracker of a tale, full of tortuous moments and killer mysticism). There are also two original stories in the collection, and they’re two of my favourites, but I’m getting ahead of myself, so let’s start by talking about the writing.

There’s a beauty in the way McKiernan uses words, how he weaves patterns with those words to tell a story, and it’s apparent from the first tale. The Memory of Water is a story of loss, fear, regret and longing, and McKiernan grabs you as much with his wordsmithing as he does with the story itself: ‘The ocean as some intelligent mother from whom we had all crawled – finned and gilled, gasping for air – and for whom we still owed reverence.’

It would take forever for me to go into each and every story within the collection, so I’m going to go with those that most struck a chord with me. Though it’s difficult to pick a favourite, when I sit back and think on the stories, it’s always ‘Last Year, When We Were Young’, to which my mind keeps returning. It’s one of the original stories, and also the last in the collection; it’s also what the cover art is based on (which is another of McKiernan’s artistic pieces).

This story messes with your mind, in a totally good way. It makes you think, and there’s not much better than a story that makes you sit back and reflect. I so want to divulge the wonder of this story, but this is one best enjoyed without any spoilers. It really is a beautifully sorrowful tale of love, friendship, hope and hopelessness.

Keeping with the religious piety, A Prayer For Lazarus will have you rethinking humanity, religion and what some will do for those they love – not all of which is good, mind. But hey, madness is its own religion, no? Told from a child’s perspective, and in a child’s voice, there’s innocence in the horror, and that juxtaposition is one of the things that sets this story apart.

The Desert Song is another that resonated with me, and as with a number of McKiernan’s stories, there’s a base of organised religion pitted against the ‘pagan’ and ‘insurgent’ belief systems. Set after an indeterminate apocalypse, a town struggles against an uprising of the creepy that sends most to madness. Definitely one of my top five of the collection.

While I don’t read a lot of sci-fi, The Wanderer in the Darkness, sits firmly within the genre, and dragged me in from the beginning and ignited that wariness, that fear of what lays beyond the stars. And according to McKiernan, it’s some scary, scary shit. There are some very spooky Cthulhu overtones in the monsters he’s created, and that can only be a good thing, right? Right?

The last story I’m going to mention here is White Lines, White Crosses. We’ve all seen those memorials at the side of the road, marking the final spot a final breath was taken – dead or dying flowers and white crosses. McKiernan delves into the story, the legend behind the white crosses that dog a small Australian town. It’s a tough, no-pulled punches tale about the believed invincibility of youth and the truth of reality… two very different realities. It hits hard.

Not all of the stories grabbed me, mind. Calliope: A Steam Romance, left me feeling a little flat, which is odd, as I love steampunk, but… *shrugs*, it just wasn’t for me. But that’s just one story out of sixteen, and if that isn’t the mark of a great collection, I don’t know what is.

On a Goodreads scale, I give ‘last year, when we were young’, five stars.