If You’ve Nothing Nice to Say . . .

Remember that old saw: If you’ve got nothing nice to say, say nothing? Your mom probably trotted out that old bromide when you were mercilessly torturing your brother or being likewise cutting in some dastardly way. In other words, you were fighting, and your mom was either trying to stop your brother from beating in your brains or ruining all that nice orthodontia.

I’m always reminded of that whenever I’m faced with writing a review of any sort, or asked to do a blurb for a book. I used to do regular reviews of books I’d read but only the ones that I liked. Long ago, I decided that to do otherwise was not only to invite very bad karma . . . it was a little unfair because unless there’s something just plain WRONG with a manuscript (as in bad editing, poor spelling, bad grammar, bad facts), the story either works, or it doesn’t—and that judgment is highly personal. Something’s either your cuppa, or it isn’t.

For example, all you Sherlock Holmes lovers out there? I’m talking the stories, not anyone swoon-worthy currently on TV, okay? (Although Benedict Cumberbatch? Seriously?) Well, I hate those stories. I always have. I’ve never understood how Holmes got so popular, or why people still find them appealing. For me, these stories aren’t mysteries so much as extended meditations on how much smarter Holmes is than the normal, raggedy Joe. He’s always got some special knowledge, something arcane to pull out of his hat that you, the regular reader, would never know or see coming, so it’s impossible to actually feel like you’re a partner in these stories. You’re an observer. You’re invited to stand alongside Holmes and simply marvel the way Watson does. Sure, I understand the stories’ historical importance. I can even see the appeal because Holmes was, in some ways, the Victorian equivalent of Batman, though only a little tortured and not as muscular. If crime’s rampant or the Empire’s under threat . . . how reassured a reader might have felt, and of course, in so many ways, the stories were a celebration of science, of the mind over only brawn or brute force. But I just can’t get excited about them.

So if I’m not just wowed by a book, I tend to keep mum. I’ll usually let someone else talk about a book, and if their opinion meshes with mine, maybe then I’ll say something. If I’m not bowled over by a book I’m supposed to blurb, I’ll simply say that it’s not cuppa and sorry, and everyone can move along. It’s way better than saying what I REALLY think, and I also feel uncomfortable lying. You can, of course, give only faint praise and then everyone says thanks and passes you on by, which will then make you wonder why you ever spent the time with the book in the first place. But, in general, better to remove yourself from the equation.

I was reminded of all that this past week when I made what you might consider the humongous mistake of posting an honest review of a bed and breakfast. If you’ve followed the whole saga on Facebook (scroll down to Aug. 21), then you know that I gave the place four stars instead of five and mentioned only one flaw: that there was way too much light pollution in the room. Now, the owner had been in touch after I’d posted the review.  When I mentioned the light, the owner got right on it, switched out the shades, all that.  (So, clearly, the owner thought I had a point.  The owner didn’t take a poll to see if I was fibbing.  The owner believed me.)

But then the review came out.

To paraphrase George Takei: oh my.

This simply blistering email appeared in my inbox the next day. The thing really stank up the place. I was unfair; how could I do this; blah, blah. Mind you, I gave the place four stars. I didn’t savage it; I prefaced everything by saying how nice the whole thing was. (Thank heavens, I didn’t mention that the beds were like rocks; I’ve learned not to get too torqued about beds because, you know, that’s so individual. But light is light; if I can see my way around the room at midnight and the hubby and I are sleeping with towels or face masks . . . it’s too damned bright.)  For the record, I never sent a reply. I couldn’t see the point in doing so.

Now, the back and forth on FB was really interesting, with some people suggesting I amend the Tripadvisor review to reflect the owner’s unprofessionalism; others saying to back off. Me, I was so pissed that the desire to sling off a fast reply was nearly overwhelming. I didn’t, though; I pulled an Abraham Lincoln instead. In case you don’t know, Lincoln got pissed on a regular basis. (We can agree he had a lot to be pissed about.) But he always did something very smart: instead of sending off that nasty-gram, he’d write a blistering letter then file it away in his drawer. He wrote it, forgot about it, got it out of his system. After his death, they found scads of unsent letters in his desk.

So I did the same thing, although I posted my measured reply on my FB feed (never named the B&B, never hinted where it was). Then I let it go—because this also entered into my calculus: nothing good could come of sending this to that B&B owner. We’d descend into a pissing match, and yes . . . I had fantasies that this person might find my books and start to post savage one-star reviews. So long as you don’t tear the WRITER a new one, you can say whatever you want on places like Amazon (and even then, you can sometimes get away with ripping a new one). Would the owner have done this? Who knows? I didn’t want to find out.

As you can imagine, this whole experience doesn’t leave me eager to ever leave another “honest” Tripadvisor review, I can tell you that (so the rest of you: beware; you have no idea if all those glowing reviews you’re reading isn’t because other people have been browbeaten into silence). It’s too easy for people to find and barge into your inbox, where they’ve no business being in the first place.

Part of this is that the immediacy of social media—that instant gratification of slinging off a nasty-gram and pressing send—is way too tempting for a lot of people. No one takes a step back to cool off. Think of the flame wars you’ve read (or heard about); I’m always reminded of the very famous one between Anne Rice and her readers that was splashed all over the Amazon review pages. I’m reminded of the savage reviews of my books on Amazon or other places–and how very much I’ve wanted to reply. I don’t/haven’t because a) they’re opinions; b) everyone’s entitled to one; and c) I’ve learned that reading reviews unless they’re sent by my publisher is just too soul-sucking. But do they hurt? Sure—that’s why I stopped reading them, and don’t ever believe any writer who tells you he doesn’t care. That’s absurd. I remember this one writer—again, very famous—whose second book in a series got pounded by a few readers on Amazon. Well, what the writer did was actually go on Twitter and complain about all the meanies on Amazon. He effectively corralled a bunch of fans to go fight for him because, all of sudden, not only was he getting a lot of supportive Tweets, but these glowing reviews started showing up.

See? Took it personally, and then thrashed around, in public. Does this point out that he’s got a powerful fan base? Sure. Does it also point out that he made his fans feel important and empowered? You bet. Come fight for me; you’re important; you can make a difference; I NEED YOU: that’s what he was saying.  He stroked his fans and for him, it worked.

Now, the fact that I decided to do an Abe Lincoln doesn’t mean that I’m all hunky-dory here. I’m still kind of shocked by the B&B owner’s behavior. I ACHE to take some sort of revenge–and I think, again, it’s because her email was a missile that blew itself into my inbox. It’s like she came into my house and took a dump on the kitchen floor. What started as a review of a place morphed into something personal, an attack–and no one likes taking a punch and not punching back.

I’m thinking of this now because I’ve gotten myself into a spot. I do NetGalley on occasion because I’m like everyone else; I wouldn’t mind reading a good book on the cheap. (There; I said it.) But I don’t do it often because I know that it’s not right; I won’t post a review unless I’m just IN LOVE with the book because I know what bad reviews feel like. For me, they are personal because this is a product I’ve put out there; there’s no way to take it back and fix it. Writing is hard enough as it is. So when it comes to books and reviews (and blurbs), I employ my mother’s advice.

Here’s the thing, though, and it has to do with what I wrote about last week: that glaring error in this best-selling writer’s book that I just can’t seem to shake loose.  For the first time in a LONG time, I am SO tempted to write a blistering review. I won’t because I know myself well enough to understand that my animus is fueled by other things, not the least of which is envy. Pointing out the mistakes wouldn’t be unprofessional, but my doing so also wouldn’t matter. Writing a review would be a wasted exercise. No one would care, least of all that writer. Airing my opinion would influence virtually no one. It probably wouldn’t even make me feel all that much better because I understand that the kind of power this writer has, I never will.

And this is where I come back around to that B&B owner and her response and what I believe is a real problem with social media: that it fosters the illusion that you—your opinion which you can sling off at any time—really has weight and matters. I think it can and does; think back to that writer who corralled fans to go to battle for him. You can always make something personal and then get a bunch of friends to hop on board.  Whip up enough support, and you can make an awful lot of noise.  Whether this truly changes anything . . . who knows?

But like anything else, I think it’s important to understand why the impulse to air an opinion occurs in the first place. Take the B&B: I wasn’t trying to get back at the owner; I was posting something relatively objective (and remember, she got a four star review, for God’s sake).  But, in the end, I was saying that the person’s product wasn’t FABULOUS.  It was good, but it wasn’t great–and that struck a nerve.

The writer . . . that would be different. Yes, I’d post something objective—facts with which no one could argue—but I’d probably strike no nerves.  My opinion wouldn’t even be seen or taken seriously.  But, more to the point, I’d be reviewing something out of annoyance as well as envy and jealousy. In effect, I’d be trying to get someone to notice that, nyah-nyah, that writer’s not as great as all that; I could do better and here, I’ll prove it.

Which isn’t a good reason to post a review, IMHO.

Don’t get me wrong. Deep emotions, particularly those that make you uncomfortable, can be terrific motivators for change, and everyone wants to matter. Everyone wants to count for something. That’s one of the reasons people post reviews. The trick is in figuring out when a review is, in the end, all about you.