After yesterday’s blog post, I didn’t expect another lesson in the phrase, “The juice ain’t worth the squeeze” quite so soon. BUT HEY, HERE WE ARE.

Authors: just as I have suggested it may not be in your best interest to write negative reviews, it’s probably not in your best interest, or that of your readers, to respond to negative reviews.

To recap:

A blog said something about an author’s books, the author got on the blog, everyone started out semi-reasonable but it swiftly descended into rage-face and Molotov cocktails and fecal-pitching, and then another website said something, and the author went there too, and then the original blog did an update and the author went to that post as well, and by the end of it everyone has poop on their shoes and now nobody’s happy.

It was a total shitshow.

I’m not linking because it’s no longer worth the attention, and I’m sure you can scare up the links somewhere if you’re really Jonesing to rubberneck at this particular car crash.

https://twitter.com/knight_francis/status/379390620416348160

Author Francis Knight said, wisely, that authors not responding to reviews is a guideline, not a law — and she’s right about that. This isn’t hammered into stone. But a guideline, it remains.

Here’s why it’s a guideline:

Because it’s usually not worth the response.

It can be! Once in a while, an author can — with the right measure of politeness, kindness, and diplomacy! — actually respond to a negative review. This is especially true in forums that encourage this (some bloggers, for instance, are comfortable with writers swinging by their bloggery huts and talking about their work, even on negative reviews).

For the most part, however, assume this isn’t true.

Assume that it’s not commentary meant for you, and so you’re not welcome. Assume that your response will do little to engender the community’s response. Assume it’ll corrupt the discussion. Assume that you will accidentally read more defensive than you sound or that you might be more defensive than you actually think. Assume that people are going to think what they’re going to think, and that’s that. Assume that no good can come of your response.

Bare minimum, your response should be: “Hey, thanks, sorry you didn’t like it.”

Or, if you’re really itchy: “Hey, thanks, sorry you didn’t like it; I’d be happy to discuss this further, but no harm, no foul if you’d rather me not engage with the conversation.”

You think: I’m a reader, too! I want to talk about my work! I want to engage with you, the people who took the time to read that book I worked so hard to produce — it’s like you’re out there talking about my kid, and it’s my kid, so I wanna talk about my kid with you. But it’s not your child. It’s a book. And your book has to stand for itself. I know! I know. You want to respond! You want to correct details that you feel were stated incorrectly. Or you want to disagree with their assertions. Or offer up some behind-the-scenes information. Or serve up a personal anecdote! Or, or, or. Don’t! Don’t. Don’t. Seriously. BZZT! Do. Not.

Okay. Now, with all that being said…

A couple-few times you can probably — maybe, no guarantees — get away with it.

First, you know the reviewer or have corresponded. I know some bloggers who, if they gave me a negative review, I could probably engage with ’em and we’d all be super-cool about it.

Second, the commentary after the review can engender a larger discussion about important things (sexism, racism, politics, book culture, whatever). Note: this is tricky, especially if you will come across in any way defensively. More to the point: if criticism regarding those things is pointed at you or the book, do not engage. Repeat: do not engage.

Third, you genuinely liked the review and want to say so. Hey, some negative reviews are interesting and/or clarifying. No harm in saying so, throwing around high-fives.

And, as always, kill ’em with kindness.

Oh, and duh. Don’t be a dick.

Because, as I said before:

The juice ain’t worth the squeeze.

It really, really isn’t. Hey, listen. Bad reviews happen. They’re a shame, and you feel like — “AAAGRRBLE NO WAIT DAMNIT, STOP TURNING PEOPLE OFF OF MY WORK” — especially if it’s a review that you feel maligns the book unfairly or gets stuff wrong or whatever. It is what it is. Not everybody’s going to like your book. That has to be okay. The review might not be nice. It might be snarky. It might be downright nasty. (Note: nasty as it may be, it isn’t bullying. It may not be friendly, it may not be welcoming or wise, but it isn’t bullying.)

Be happy they took the time to write the review.

Understand that you are potentially not welcome, unless they state otherwise.

Disengage. If you have to, bite a leather belt, punch some drywall, eat a pint of ice cream.

Just the same —

Writers are expected to be professional. The prevailing wisdom says that, just as a writer wouldn’t traipse into a discussion with, say, a NYT critic or an EW review and engage, the writer probably shouldn’t do the same thing on someone’s book blog. The river flows both ways, though. Book blogs, nine times out of ten, are incredibly awesome spaces. Friendly and welcoming and inclusive of everyone, including writers. (Book blogs are some of my favorite places, and my experiences with sites like My Bookish Ways and My Shelf Confessions and countless others have been nothing short of wonderful.) Sometimes, though, book blogs can get a little nasty — very exclusive, very cliquish, very mean-snarky. My advice to those bloggers is the same: don’t be a dick. Just as the writer is expected to be polite and professional, you should do the same, because that whole idea of ‘fighting fire with fire’ actually just creates more fire. If the writer should engage with you in the same way she should engage with a NYT critic, then you should attempt to act with a modicum of professionalism even if the writer will not.

Everybody, repeat after me:

The juice ain’t worth the squeeze.

The juice ain’t worth the squeeze.

Der Saft ist nicht wert, den Squeeze.

El jugo no vale la pena el apretón.

Exprimendum sucus est non tanti.

Juice. Not worth. The squeeze.

*drinks juice*

*makes a face*

*shudders*

Last go around: POC Non-US SFF.

This time:

We’re dropping the hammer.

THE BIG HAMMER.

The hammer called “epic fantasy.”

I suspect this’ll be a big one. I’m guessing you guys have lots of passionate opinions about what counts as essential epic fantasy, yeah? Time to get into it, then. Your job: drop into the comments, give us your top three epic fantasy reads that you consider critical in terms of the subgenre.

Later on, we’ll compile and put up a top ten list here.

Feel free to discuss what epic fantasy even means or is to you, as well.

Top three epic fantasy reads (series or individual books, your call).

Go.

https://twitter.com/vilutheril/status/379261653595877376

That tweet generated some interesting discussion on Twitter this weekend, but I feel like that discussion still needs a bit of unpacking in a space that lets me talk in bursts more than 140-characters at a time. (Twitter is good at starting discussions and not as good at finishing them or making them clear. Twitter is also most excellent at tweeting pictures of tacos, toddlers, dogs, as well as spreading Vine videos of apathetic twerking. USE IT WISELY.)

My argument (read: opinion) is that authors negatively reviewing the work of authors authors is not the best idea in the world. You can! You’re free to. But the value proposition there is a bit shaky. As my wife’s boss has been wont to say: “The juice ain’t worth the squeeze.”

(To clarify, when I say “negatively review,” I mean that in the strictest sense — a review that is, by its definition, a “pan.” I do not mean a positive review with critical qualifications.)

Here’s my thinking on the subject — and you are of course free to agree, disagree, or ragetastically headbutt your monitor into a sparking pile of glass and plastic. As always: YMMV, IMHO, and other fun acronyms that mean, “You do as you like.”

Be A Fountain, Not A Drain

Above all else, I find it’s far more interesting to everyone else — and more constructive to your own mood — to put forth positive vibes into the world than negative signal. Certainly not suggesting you be a robot shouting chirpy cherub-cheeked propaganda all the time, or always be manically happy happy eeeeeee, but negativity also has a seductive, multiplicative quality. It gets attention. In Internet terms, it gets “clicks” and it earns response. But that’s not always a good thing, and you’re probably better off trying to be relatively positive and further, writing your own stories than trying to tear someone else’s apart.

Losing Potential Fans

I say, “I thought Danny Flarngbaum’s newest novel, Whale Thong, was an exercise in sloppy characterwork, poo-bucket plotting, and narrative dick-punching, and I suspect Mister Flarngbaum’s time would be better spent working the Fry-o-later at McDonald’s than poisoning our library shelves with his toxic claptrap.” I go on and on in my review.

You read this review.

And then you say, as a fan of Whale Thong, “Gosh, I really loved that book, and Chuck is being really critical of it.” And then, you might think the next time you see one of my books, “Ehhh, he and I don’t really agree on what makes good story,” and so you pass my books by. Or, you’re more offended than that, and you counter my negativity with your own — maybe you negatively review my book, maybe you just say shit about me on Twitter, maybe you try to argue, whatever.

Again: what’s the value here for me as an author?

What’s there to gain?

Authoritative, Yet Subjective

I’m a writer. Or —

An author, said with nose raised in the air and a snifter of brandy swirling in my hand. And with that comes the illusion that I’m an authority on what makes good writing, good story, good characterization and plotting and cover design and publishing strategies, blah blah blah.

Again: total illusion. I’m not an expert. I am probably strongly opinionated on the matter but for every opinion I have about All These Things, I can surely dig up plenty of examples that exist in opposition of my opinions — and, in fact, that do so quite successfully.

And yet!

When I offer my review, you might take it more seriously than, say, one from Goodreads. Not saying that’s fair or reasonable, only that it’s possibly true. Which means my negative review — which sounds authoritative but is entirely subjective — carries more weight. And I have an audience, to boot! So I’m using my reach and my (again: illusory) authority to do what?

To do harm to another author and their work.

Food Outta Mouths

When I say “do harm,” what I actually mean is:

Potentially rob that author of one or many sales. I don’t want to do that. Writing a book is hard goddamn work. You’ve got rent to pay. Or a mortgage. You’ve got a food bill. And cats or dogs. Maybe one or several kids. I don’t like the thought that my review is going to take money out of your pockets, or snatch food out of your kids’ mouths. Fuck that. I’m not “Internet Famous” or anything, but I have a blog and a social media feed that gets a substantial echo. Do I really want to use my social media reach to drink your milkshake or piss in your cereal bowl? No, I do not.

I’ve Got Hurt Feelings

Some people say that writers don’t have feelings. We have feelings!

Ahem.

Point is, you write a bad review of someone’s book, how are they supposed to feel about it? The easy answer is: “They should harden the fuck up and accept it.” Which is probably accurate. But maybe they don’t. That’s how hurt feelings work — they’re not logical. You feel what you feel. So, you give someone a negative review, you maybe just burned a potential future relationship — and this is a much smaller community than you think. It’s still one based on those relationships, on authors helping authors.

Plus, it goes back to that authoritative thing — a negative review from a fellow author is going to sting more than a negative review from a book blogger, or a critic, or somebody on Goodreads.

(And never mind the fact that authors have been known to play dirty pool from time to time — purposefully writing negative reviews of books by authors they don’t personally like.)

Again, not saying this is fair or reasonable.

But that question again: is the juice worth the squeeze?

What are you getting out of writing a bad review that matches or exceeds the potential negative ramifications for doing so?  What’s the takeaway for you?

Go Write Your Own Thing

It takes energy to write a bad review. Energy you could probably use elsewhere. Like, say, writing more awesome books. Go do that. Contribute word count to your own fiction.

My two cents: that’s where you’re going to get far greater mileage.

Your own stories are a juice forever worth the squeeze.

Last week’s challenge: “WTF Is This Thing?“

This week, simple enough: I’m going to give you twenty different potential conflict prompts to dominate your flash fiction story. Roll a d20 or find a random number generator and boom, you’ve got your conflict. (Or, if you see one you really like, hey, just pick it. ESCHEW CHAOS.)

You can interpret these prompts as you see fit.

(Any genre will do.)

You then write ~1000 words of fiction.

You post it on your online space. Link back here.

Due by next Friday, the 20th, noon EST.

Here, then, is your list:

1. Killed, returned to life to claim vengeance
2. Betrayal by a lover
3. Monster invasion!
4. Lost in a strange place
5. Owe money to some very bad people
6. The bomb is counting down!
7. The apocalypse has arrived
8. A threatened home
9. A spiteful child
10. A crippling disease with a rare cure
11. Stolen identity!
12. Man becomes monster
13. Machines are taking over
14. Dark secrets, exposed
15. A difficult funeral
16. Friend becomes enemy
17. A tragedy of one’s own making
18. Redemption for past sins
19. Nemesis attacks!
20. Power corrupts!

Barry Lyga has a hit YA series on his hands — I Hunt Killers — and so it’s interesting to see that when he had an adult novel ready to roll he juked left and decided to publish it himself (becoming one of them “hybrid authors” they grow in labs in the Pacific Northwest). Here is is to talk about the book:

TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF: WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?

I’m just a guy who writes shit, and for some reason people — actually, big corporations — are crazy enough to pay me. Which is nuts because I’d pretty much do it for dark chocolate M&Ms and health insurance.

Before doing what I do now, I spent ten years working in the comic book industry, occasionally writing comics, mostly trying to get the public to remember that comic books still existed. Now — thanks to the movies — friggin’ Iron Man is a billion-dollar franchise. I’m going to take some of the credit for that, even though I absolutely do not deserve it. But let’s see how powerful the reach is of Terrible Minds. Let’s see if we can get the culture to believe I’m responsible for Iron Man. It’ll be an interesting test of virality and meme theory.

GIVE US THE 140-CHARACTER STORY PITCH:

Randall Banner — depressed, frustrated author — sells his soul to the devil in exchange for a hit book. Hilarity, horror, and sex ensue.

WHERE DOES THIS STORY COME FROM?

I love “deal with the devil” stories, but I’ve always felt like they fall into certain patterns. They become redemption stories or cautionary tales. For years, I imagined telling the story of a Faustian bargain that turns those notions on their heads. A story where the lines between good and evil, right and wrong, seem clear, but really aren’t, and where the devil gets all the best lines. And with a twist at the end that changes everything that has come before.

I mean, I carried this thing around in my head for something like a decade, maybe more. And finally I said, “Fuck it, I need it out of my head and out in the world where it can bother people.”

HOW IS THIS A STORY ONLY YOU COULD’VE WRITTEN?

Hmm. Unlikeable main character? Cynical worldview? Don’t give a fuck if all the “right people” approve of it or not? Radically different than anything else I’ve written? Takes shots at my industry and my profession?

Here’s the thing: At the end of the day, I have this bizarre, misunderstood empathy for bad people. Not necessarily evil people, mind you — just bad people. People who don’t get along. People who are outcasts, usually due to some personal failing to which they’re blind. I get these people. I don’t know what that says about me, but there it is. I get them and I can’t stop writing about them. And really, truly: I believe there are things we can learn from them. Not every character has to be boyfriend or girlfriend material. Sometimes we learn as much from the people we hate as we do from the people we admire.

WHAT WAS THE HARDEST THING ABOUT WRITING UNSOUL’D?

Other than finding the time to do it in between all the other stuff I’m writing? Probably the concern that some people would completely misinterpret crucial aspects of the book, leading to the usual call for my head. But at some point you just have to say, “Hey, not every book is for every reader.” My career has been a crazy-quilt of different genres, different age groups, different topics, different styles and voices… If people don’t dig this one, maybe they’ll dig the next one. I write for myself, really, and I’m so damn lucky that there are enough people out there who are similar to me that I can make it a career!

WHAT DID YOU LEARN WRITING UNSOUL’D?

That writing sex can be exciting and depressing at the same time. That the guy you thought was “you” in the story sometimes turns out to be someone else. That everyone you speak to — upon hearing the soul-for-hit-book premise of the novel — will feel obligated to say, “So is that what you did?” Oh, and that my fianceé is the single coolest person in the world because she still loved me after reading this thing.

WHAT DO YOU LOVE ABOUT UNSOUL’D?

I love the sheer id of it, man. It’s about a guy who sells his soul for the pettiest of reasons, really, and the whole book is a wallow in creature comforts, self-pity, and sex. With no apologies. If you were the sort of person who would sell your soul in the first place, you wouldn’t be all that nice or all that pleasant, I figure, and I wanted to be honest about that. So Randall is just the kind of guy who would sell his soul, get everything he ever wanted, and still bitch about it.

I get that people identify more with characters who are like them or who are likable, but I think there’s real value in exploring people who aren’t quite so gooey at their centers. Like I said before, I think we can learn things from examining the sad, pathetic bastards of the world.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO DIFFERENTLY NEXT TIME?

I think I’m still too close to it to have the perspective necessary to answer that, honestly. With every book I write, I look back at some point and think, “Oh, crap, I missed X, Y, or Z.” Sometimes it’s little things and I just want to tweak a sentence or a bit of dialogue. On one occasion, there an entire book I wish I could just rewrite from scratch.

But for me, I always need some emotional and temporal distance before I can get to that point. And Unsoul’d is still too fresh for me. I’m still in love with it. It’s still our first night together. I haven’t woken up next to it and smelled its terrible hangover breath yet.

GIVE US YOUR FAVORITE PARAGRAPH FROM THE STORY:

Oh, man… I don’t even… I don’t know where to start! I’m tempted to say the opening of the book is my favorite paragraph because I think it just sets up the story to absolute perfection. I’ve always been hypercritical of my openings, but this one time, I think I nailed it. And almost every time the devil opens his mouth, I love what comes out of it.

That said, I can tell you the paragraph that made me giggle like a demented schoolboy when I wrote it. It’s not just a paragraph, though: It’s a single sentence that stands alone, and it’s actually an entire chapter unto itself:

“I have no words.”

Trust me: In context, it’s a killer. 😉

WHAT’S NEXT FOR YOU AS A STORYTELLER?

I’m still cranking away on the I Hunt Killers series, wrapping up revisions on the third and final book. And there’s a middle-grade dark sci-fi-ish sort of thing bubbling up right now. I’ll probably write an epic fantasy after that because this is how my brain works.

Barry Lyga: Website / Twitter

Unsoul’d: Read First Half For Free / Buy Here

I gush about Gwenda because she’s Gwenda, and she’s awesome, and a helluva writer. Have you read Blackwood? Seriously? I’m eager to tear into her newest, and I imagine, so are you (and if you’re not, you will be). Happy to host her here, answering questions about her newest, The Woken Gods —

TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF: WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?

I am Gwenda Bond, the author of now two, count ‘em two, young adult novels, with a third on the way next year. I also sometimes write other things like feature articles and reviews, and still cling to the honest old-fashioned art of maintaining a blog. I live in a hundred-year-old house that was originally a doctor’s office in Lexington, Kentucky, with my husband (Christopher Rowe, also an author), two unruly dogs (Puck and Emma, not authors), and one unruly cat (Hemingway, named after an author — he came with it).

GIVE US THE 140-CHARACTER STORY PITCH FOR THE WOKEN GODS:

The gods of mythology awoke five years ago. Now Kyra Locke has to navigate scary trickster intrigue in a transformed D.C. to save her dad.

WHERE DOES THIS STORY COME FROM?

The twisted innards of ma brain. But, more seriously, I’ve always loved mythology–especially its odder, dustier, less explored corners–and tricksters and urban fantasy. I like secret organizations that have to come out into the light, and I like stories where politics play a role, be they larger societal ones or smaller familial ones. So, this story comes from my own desire–as a reader and a writer–to have all those things at once, plus some monsters.

HOW IS THIS A STORY ONLY YOU COULD’VE WRITTEN?

I think The Woken Gods, over the course of a few drafts, really did become my specific brand of weird. Though I hope all the things I mentioned above also interest other people and so will the story. Lewis Hyde’s Trickster Makes This World is one of the most significant books in my mental landscape (and The Gift too), the time I’ve spent around politics, the character who keeps people at a distance to protect herself, the value of friendship in many of the kinds of stories I love–all those things went into this book, and the same ingredients would result in something completely different by another writer. I think that’s almost always true of any story. Ideas are easy and general. Execution is hard and specific. (Hopefully. If we’re doing it right.)

WHAT WAS THE HARDEST THING ABOUT WRITING THE WOKEN GODS?

Do you have some whiskey and an hour or two? I kid. But it was a hard book. There are reasons you don’t see as many books mixing up a whole bunch of pantheons, rather than focusing on one or two, and that’s because it’s difficult to make work. Honestly, the hardest part about this book was getting to the above–the story only I could tell and the story I wanted to tell. It took several drafts, and it only came together near the end, deadline loooooming. I had written in third person past tense, and I realized I needed to scrap it and tell (most) of the story from the first person present in Kyra’s voice, with a few dips into third person present. But once I started over (from scratch! looooming deadline), it finally started to feel right.

WHAT DID YOU LEARN WRITING THE WOKEN GODS?

I learned a lot about pushing past fear and panic by tracking the story like a detective, with a singular focus, to shut out the consequences of failing to find it. It would have been easy to be paralyzed, had I stopped to realize the cliff I was about to step off.

WHAT DO YOU LOVE ABOUT THE WOKEN GODS?

I love my gutsy girl, Kyra Locke, going toe to toe with scary gods, even though it terrifies her and she’s no hero.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO DIFFERENTLY NEXT TIME?

Probably ask for a slightly more generous deadline up front. Lesson learned. Although it worked out, I think/hope.

GIVE US YOUR FAVORITE PARAGRAPH FROM THE STORY:

Okay, favorite not-too-spoilery paragraph!

“Only a few gods can walk through all time,” Legba interrupts before she can answer. “I am one of them. I was tracing threads back–not with my feet, but with my essence–and I encountered your mother, trapped in a moment. Looking at a terrible thing that had been done, and seeing its ripples. The past is that butterfly halfway around the world, always flapping its wings and causing what happens in front of our faces, Kyra. The past and present are linked. When the link is strong, when it’s trouble, well, that’s what prophecy is.” Mom hasn’t taken her eyes off Legba. He says, “Tell her what you can. Give her a glimpse of why you left. She’ll never ask it.”

WHAT’S NEXT FOR YOU AS A STORYTELLER?

I have a book called Girl on a Wire due out next year from Skyscape, about a 16-year-old girl who’s a daredevil high wire walker from a legendary circus family, and who has to team up with her archrival when mysterious accidents begin plaguing her and the circus. I’m super-excited about it.

Gwenda Bond: Website / Twitter

The Woken Gods: Amazon / B&N / Indiebound / Robot Trading Co