When bad reviews happen to aspiring writers: a pep talk

It's finally happened...every writer's worst nightmare. The time when someone who doesn't know you has something negative to say about your book. Or, in my case, gives a 1-star rating without a review (yet) that affects the overall star average on Goodreads. For those of us who have spent our entire lives dreaming of becoming writers, this can be tragic.

Or is it? On the one hand, negative book reviews can provide opportunities for growth. If something about my plot really was weak, a constructive critique can help me improve as a writer. But sometimes there is nothing helpful to be gleaned, and that is a time when I need to realize that I can't please everyone. What some readers hate about my book(s), others may love the most about them. There are negative reviews for JK Rowling, Stephen King, Jane Austen, and other writers that the majority of society considers "great." But then there are books that many bibliophiles admit are not very well-written, yet they still sell in droves (even Snooki from Jersey Shore is a "best-selling" author now).

So this raises a valid question...what is good writing, and how can I learn it?

The answer to that question is highly subjective, and always will be. But part of solving that mystery lies in what genre you choose to write about. Certain genres demand certain expectations. As a YA writer, that's not easy to pin down, as young adults can find themselves in mysteries, romances, fantasy, etc. I know what I like, and it's rare for me to read a book in a genre I enjoy and hate everything about it. But clearly, not every enjoyable book is classified as a favorite.

For me, "good writing" is more about the author than the structure. If the author really enjoys what they do, it will show up in their work. Guaranteed. It's the difference between having a teacher who truly loves her students, and an older, tenured professor who keeps showing up just to collect his retirement. Writers see the world differently, and hopefully our books will attest to that fact.

There's no such thing as a truly original plot; only repeated plots with unique twists. I enjoy those books, but I also enjoy books that are more focused on character development than plot, and affirm the human experience...books that expertly capture love, loneliness, anger, and personal growth as only someone who has been there can. A book doesn't have to be "original" for me to enjoy it; if I can relate to a character, and close the book with a comforting sense that I'm not alone, the author has done his/her job well.

It's easier for me to characterize "good books" over "bad books." Obviously I'm biased when it comes to my own. I write about what's important to me, which is all I can do. All books have traits that are quirky and interesting to some readers, and complete turn-offs to others...just like people do.

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 4

Enjoy chapter 4 of "Public Displays of Convention"! Catch up on previous chapters here.

     Spring-cleaning has come early this year. It felt so liberating to take down all the pictures, delete all the emails, and erase Jared’s contact information from my phone. However, there are still the contents of my “memento box” to deal with. Much more personal than photographs and text messages, this is a box that contains artifacts from every person who has ever meant something special to me: birthday and Christmas cards from Tess, the collar that belonged to my first pet, even the ticket stub from the movie I saw with my first boyfriend back in ninth grade.

     The majority of the contents in this box actually aren’t from Jared, but there are enough birthday cards and pictures of him to keep me away for now. I don’t trust myself to throw those things away without reliving the way I felt when I first received them. Doing so would crush me all over again, even though he’s been nothing like the person who sent them for a long, long time.

     After another tiring day of class, I come back to the dorm with the intent of going to bed early. My plans are thwarted by an unexpected distraction: Collin is in the lounge, talking to a guy who lives down the hall. To say I’m shocked is quite an understatement. I wait in the stairwell for a few minutes, but it doesn’t seem like he’s leaving any time soon. There is no choice but to walk briskly past him, and pray I’m not recognized.

     Just when I think I sneaked by unnoticed, I hear him call out “Hey, AK-47! What are you doing here?”

     I grit my teeth and stiffly reply, “I live here.”

     “Oh yeah? Well I live here too, three floors up! I was just visiting my buddy Eric here.”

     The guy I presume to be Eric stands up, informing Collin he’s stepping outside for a smoke. How convenient. Once he leaves, it’s just the two of us alone in the lounge. I can’t explain how or why, but I think I’m starting to smell trouble.

     “Nice pin” Collin tells me, pointing to the mockingjay on my bag. “Big Hunger Games fan, huh? That’s cute.”

     I’m about to defend my strong devotion to the series, but decide against it at the last second. Now that we are out of the cold, he’s wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt. “Says the guy with Lion King characters tattooed on his arm,” I retort.

     “Well I’ll have you know that Lion King was the last movie I got to watch with my grandpa before he died. Mufasa reminds me of him.”

     Holy crap. “I…wow, I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry –”

     “Psyche! My grandpa is still alive. I just wanted to see your reaction.”

     “You’re an ass-hat.”

     “Aww, come on now. Can you at least admit I’m a cute ass-hat?”

     “Well,” I stumble. “I guess, since you said my pin was cute…”

     Wait wait wait – am I flirting with this guy? Someone I only met two days ago? And is he flirting with me? What am I doing?

     It’s quite shameless, open flirting. There is no way to deny otherwise. I am completely without excuse, other than having my heart blasted to smithereens by the man I loved for the last four years, rendering me temporarily senseless. I’m not the sort of girl who goes looking for rebounds, but I can’t stop myself from feeling oddly flattered by Collin’s unexpected attention. Dangerously, dangerously flattered.

     Having stood up and moved closer to me during this exchange, I realize Collin is close enough to kiss me. Something in his manner tells me if I were to look up at him the right way, it could happen. If I were truly calculating and shameless, I could play this so we end up not only making out, but going back to his room or mine, for God knows what.

     With a clearer mind now than when we first met, I notice he is attractive, in a nerdy sort of way. The giant Mufasa tattoo on his bicep is kind of a turn-off, simply because it’s too big for my taste; the thought of what that will look like in twenty years makes me cringe. This banter has been amusing, but something in my gut is telling me Collin is more of a charmer than a serious dater. I don’t need any charmers right now.

     Clearing my throat, I tell him “We should go to bed.” His eyes widen, and I instantly realize my idiot mistake. “Go to bed separately,” I clarify. “It’s almost ten o’clock.” Good grief, could I sound dumber if I tried?

     “Right, right,” he replies, laughing. Honestly, I don’t get the impression that he would have objected if I meant what I’d originally said.

     Reaching out with both hands, he holds my arms like he’s about to pull me toward him. My breath quickens, and I keep my gaze focused on the floor so there’s no temptation to kiss him. Before I can say anything else, he folds me into a quick hug that almost turns me to Jello. He breaks away just as quickly with an abrupt “Goodnight!” and disappears down the hall, toward the elevator. I do the same, to my end of the hall, not allowing myself to think too deeply on what just happened, or could have happened.

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 3

Catch up on previous chapters under the "Books by Sarahbeth" tab. 

After two weeks of sulking, I resolve to start positive today. I think I cried more during those two weeks than I did in the last year. At first it felt good to let out that pent-up, overdue grief, but after a while my body ached, and I actually began to crave productivity.

     Or at least I thought I did. I made the mistake of checking my email before class this morning, something I don’t usually do because it ends up making me late. My heart leapt into my throat when I saw a new message from Jared, and without Tess there to hold me accountable, I knew I wouldn’t have the strength to delete it without reading it.

     My day had barely started, but these words have now been seared into my mind: “You’re just going to act like a child and delete me from your life, is that how it’s going to be?” I can’t imagine what more he has to gain by keeping me around. He has someone else now, what does he need me for? Does he really think I’ll be fine with simply being “friends”? Or, more likely, does he enjoy the hold he knows he still has over me?

     I won’t respond to his message now, if at all. Not when my emotions are all stirred up again. Turning off my computer, I grab my bag and head to class, but at the end of the lecture, I barely remember any of it. I’m angry all over again; just when I thought the worst part of the grieving had passed.

     This is how I know just how deeply I am wounded: after changing into sweatpants and an old T-shirt, I walk briskly toward the campus track and start jogging. I hate jogging; Jared knew this. The only thing that can propel me to move faster than speed walking is someone chasing me with a sharp object.

     I probably look like a crazed idiot, but adrenaline compels me to keep pounding against the pavement, not caring who sees. I imagine fleeing from every dark moment with Jared that made me question my worth, and I imagine that I’m running him over.

     Actually, I do succeed in running someone over. It must not be a great idea to run when your heart is splintering, when all you see in front of you is pure red. The unexpected thud of my face meeting someone else’s chest happens so suddenly, we both collapse on the ground in an ungraceful heap. Wind bursts out of my lungs so painfully I can’t respond for several minutes when a male voice asks, “Are you okay?”

     Completely embarrassed, I fervently nod yes. “I – I’m all right. Just a…a little shocked.”

     How sad that this man should know I’m a terrible liar before even knowing my name. “You don’t look all right. You look upset.”

     His concern is not unwarranted, but it irks me anyway. “I’m just not used to jogging.”

     “Yeah, well I’m not used to running into pretty girls who look like they’re about to implode. What’s your name?”

     Did he just call me pretty? “I’m Anna-Kate.”                               

     “Nice to meet you, Anna. I’m Collin.”

     I sigh heavily, having to correct someone yet again for not understanding my double-barreled first name, the bane of my miserable existence. “No, it’s Anna-Kate. It’s hyphenated.”

     “Ahh, one of those girls. Okay, Anna-Kate. Is it okay if I call you AK? No, wait.” A menacing twinkle sparkles in his eyes. “I think I’ll call you AK-47 for the way you clobbered me.”

     On a better day, under completely different circumstances, I might have found this amusing. But not today. “Umm, yeah, whatever.” Not like it matters. After this confrontation, the most awkward, literal confrontation of my life, it doesn’t matter what he calls me since I’m highly unlikely to ever see him again.

     Reluctantly, I allow Collin to help me up. “Shoot straight next time,” he says, and with a strange wink he proceeds to sprint away, leaving me to hobble on a scraped knee back to my dorm. I hope I never run into – I mean, see him, again. It’s a decent-sized campus, so I suppose the odds of that are in my favor.

     After I’ve showered and made myself a cup of tea, I sit down to tackle Jared’s email. After careful consideration, I type, “We both know that what we had wasn’t healthy, and I need to get over you. So if you love me like you say you do, please just leave me alone.” Without any hesitation, I click the “send” button. Still, I wonder now if I said too much, or perhaps not enough to accurately convey the hurt I feel. As furious as I am, I don’t want to appear scathing or vindictive. I can’t let him think that I’ll wither into a bitter, shriveled excuse for a woman because I don’t have him anymore. I should be done caring what he thinks.

     Perhaps I should have been clearer that this separation is meant to be permanent. I should have left no doubt that he is not welcome in my life anymore, with or without a new girlfriend in the picture. But even if he tries to crawl back into my good graces, hopefully by then I will reach a point where the thought of taking him back is not the slightest bit tempting.

No heritage left behind? Post-"conversion" thoughts

My first book "Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter" has undergone a slight makeover recently. I finally got around to correcting the grammatical errors that aren't uncommon for a first-time, self-published author's debut. This meant re-reading the entire manuscript with fresher eyes, and as I did so, I realized a few things. Mainly, I don't quite have the same strong beliefs as I did when I first wrote it. I'm also more confident in other beliefs that I was still unsure about at publication time.

Considering the book is barely two years old, it surprises me how much has changed since then. But living at seminary will do that to you. As a "baby Christian" explaining how my spiritual turnabout happened, I wrote as if I was trying to convince myself that Christianity was the ultimate fulfillment of Judaism. This is what my new Christian friends told me, and it made me feel slightly better about myself. I didn't have to compromise as much as I thought. Christianity and Judaism cross paths with each other in history: no one can argue that. The change would not be as radical if, say, I was going from Judaism to Hinduism.

But the "Jewish Christian" or "Hebrew Christian" label never sat well with me. In fact, I didn't really understand why it was so important to hold on to something -- anything -- Jewish in the first place. Never in my life have I ever been a "religious Jew." I suppose it had more to do with appeasing my family and remaining Jewish friends; I didn't want them thinking I went completely off the deep end.

Then seminary happened. My immersion into Christian culture has been, shall we say, not so graceful. "Christian-ese" language, and pretty much everything having to do with Christian culture, drove me nuts. And that makes sense, considering I spent most of my life making fun of it. Now I'm a Christian, and I'm supposed to forget how it made me feel to hear people talk about me being a "non-believer," as if I didn't believe in anything, and hearing phrases like "bathed in the blood," which just sounds cult-ish and creepy to people outside the church? This language was so off-putting to me then, and it still is now. In addition to not knowing what any of it meant, it also implied an air of exclusivity: "First you join our club, then we'll let you know what we're talking about."

Okay, so it's not like Jewish culture doesn't have its own "air of exclusivity," with words like "kvetch" that sound like a sneeze to gentile ears. What can I say? I know I'm biased.

I started to long for my Jewish culture again -- because there's more spice and history in words like "chutzpah" than in any other "ism" I've heard in church (personal opinion). Quite honestly, I miss having Jewish friends: to joke with, to commiserate with, to bond with. But to miss the culture is to ultimately miss the religion itself: something I didn't completely internalize until my father got really sick this summer, and I had to fly back to Ohio. It felt like a metaphorical return to my roots: something I owed to myself after trying to assimilate in foreign territory for so long.

Long story short: it just isn't that easy.

Some of my Christian friends at seminary will still try to convince me I can have it both ways: they try to tell me I'm a "completed Jew." I've been called a heretic for strongly disagreeing with that wording. Only those who have grown up Jewish, or studied the religion immensely, can understand just how much one gives up when they decide to embrace Christianity. I don't regret this decision at all, because I love the Christian theology of God becoming man so he can relate to me on my level. I love that so much, I am now willing to accept that such a theology is incompatible with Jewish theology. Maintaining a love for Jewish culture and being a descendant of Jewish heritage are one thing, but spiritually speaking, I know I cut myself off.

It's irrelevant to me that Jesus didn't intend to create another religion when he started his ministry. Judaism and Christianity evolved in separate directions anyway, and that is the reality we must work with.

It's not enough to convince a Jewish person that Jesus is the real Messiah: the Jewish teachings about sin are different from Christianity's, as are the doctrines about the afterlife, suffering, etc. It makes me angry how "Messianic Jews" (in my experience, the people who use this title are actually full-blooded gentiles who "have a heart" for Judaism) dismiss all that, as if it's all so simple. It's not. Theology -- any theology -- is already messy, but combining two religions as one is even messier. Not to mention impossible.

Of course, people who disagree are free to believe what they want. I just have to put my foot down when it comes to the evangelism tactic that Jews can become Christian and not lose Judaism. Yes, talk about Jesus' Jewish ancestry and what he set out to do, but couching Christianity in Jewish terms is deceptive, plain and simple.

I still wonder about the "What is a Jew" debate, and how much of Judaism, if anything, I can still claim as my own. But that doesn't mean I can't still appreciate it for what it is, and "visit" my roots by rereading my collection of Jewish books. It feels good to be somewhat more at peace with what I believe, even if complete contentment is highly unlikely in this life. Such is the summary of every conversion story: you can't ever leave your heritage behind.

"Public Displays of Convention" chapter 2

The paperback version of "Public Displays of Convention" is undergoing some maintenance, but the ebook version is up and running on Amazon. Here's chapter 2 (all previous chapters will be posted under the "Books by Sarahbeth" tab).

     I crashed on Tess’ couch that night. After only three hours of sleep, my appearance in the morning matched the way I felt. I would have slept longer, skipping my morning class, if only there wasn’t a quiz.

     My day is miserable. I wander absent-mindedly through campus, ducking into every restroom I pass when I can’t maintain a straight face. I wish I could be the kind of woman who may be going through hell, but is able to put on a façade of complacency so no one suspects a thing. But there is no way I can ever be that person.

     Back at Tess’ apartment, she has prepared an evening of sappy chick flicks and not one, but two cartons of Ben and Jerry’s. I wear my designated “fat pants” for this night of unabashedly consuming my feelings. I also haven’t showered in two days, so now I know I look as gross on the outside as I feel on the inside.

     Nonetheless, I’m surprised I can actually laugh at the movie we’re watching. Tess’ roommate brings over a small group of friends later that evening, and I am instantly embarrassed. Had I known that more people would be coming, I would have made more of an effort to look somewhat presentable. I think, judging by some of the looks I got, they are able to see that something isn’t right. Thankfully, no one asked or said anything to me.

     When the movie ends, I’m still stuffing my face with Doritos, which Tess has to forcefully pry from me – “Enough, Anna-Kate!” She then has to literally pull me up off the couch. “You and I have something we need to do.”

     “I can’t move,” I tell her. “I think I gained ten pounds in the last two hours.” Surprisingly, the other guests laugh, though somewhat cautiously.

     “Glad to see your sense of humor is back,” quips Tess. “Now up!”

     Reluctantly I stand, and a pile of crumbs fall from my lap (which I promise to clean up later). We leave our friends in the living and go to Tess’ room, where she closes the door and pulls out her laptop. “You ready for this?” she asks as it boots up.

     “No, but what choice do I have?” We sit on the floor, and I draw my knees up to my chest, trying in vain not to start up the tears again.

     “Do you want me to do it?” she asks gently.

     “Please.”

     The most I do is log in to my Facebook account, praying Jared is not online and hasn’t left me any messages that will cause me to lose my nerve – but I don’t think Tess will allow that to happen. Once that’s done – no messages waiting in my inbox – the rest is up to her, and I turn away so as not to catch any unwanted but curious glimpses of recently uploaded pictures of this new woman of his. With just a few clicks, Tess has ceremoniously removed him from my friend’s list, and un-sarcastically tells me “All done. I’m proud of you.”

     “I didn’t exactly do anything,” I say.

     “Well, you provided your account information, so if nothing else, that makes you an enabler of long-anticipated closure.”

     “Long-anticipated” is an understatement. Breaking up with Jared should have been done years ago. There are so many regretful “should have” thoughts swirling in my head that I decide against contacting him by other means to speak my final piece; some kind of well-scripted monologue about how I’ll be a better woman without him, after which I saunter off with unmistakable confidence. That’s not the woman I feel like right now. I doubt I could even pretend to pull it off.

     It helps to have friends like Tess – friends who aren’t afraid to tell you that the man you loved for four years really was a scumbag; that the woman he’s with now is probably a ditzy airhead blonde with a ditzy, airhead name like Candy, who never graduated college and works part-time at a tanning salon. More than that, the now-nameless man I used to love has damned himself to a lifetime of grief with this new woman, who has undoubtedly trapped him into a relationship by getting knocked-up accidentally-on-purpose.

     It’s nice to have friends like Tess, who draw up these ridiculous stories to make you feel better, even if you think the real reason the love of your life left you is because you aren’t good enough.

Free Preview Friday: Public Displays of Convention, chapter 1

Starting this new idea to advertise my third book, Public Displays of Convention: now available on Amazon! Every Friday will be a "Free preview Friday," where I'll post a chapter excerpt -- first half of the book only. Enjoy chapter one this week for free!

Today marks the beginning of my New Normal.

     Today, my worst nightmare is confirmed. The bottom half of my world drops instantly after reading the following message, barely an hour old on my phone: “Just wanted to tell you I’m seeing someone else now. Still care about you, though. Jared.”

     I stare at the message for a full ten minutes, thinking over and over, is this real? Our conversation from the previous afternoon is still fresh in my mind. If he cares about me as much as he claims to, how could he not have told me about this then? How could he drop this revelation on me in such a flippant, undignified way? The humiliation of this – the lack of an honorable face-to-face explanation – is more painful than the breakup itself. Anger simmers in my gut; boils into my lungs. Four years, wasted. My entire college experience.

     It’s late, but sleep is completely out of the question tonight, and there’s only one person to call.

     “Tess?” I say when she answers.  “Can I come over? I – I need to talk.”

     In best-friend-speak, this clearly means “I’m in the middle of an emergency.” Never mind that it’s barely been a few hours since we last saw each other. I feel terrible for imposing like this, but am not surprised when she says, “Of course you can, honey. You can even stay over if you want.”

     She’s a godsend, Tess Olsen – my best friend since fourth grade, and the only person I know who talks about Jesus the way most people talk about their crushes. Under her photo in our senior yearbook, where students shared their career goals, all she wrote was her ambition to become a “Proverbs 31 Woman,” with a husband and football team of children. She still has a box of letters to her future husband underneath her bed, per our teenage youth group assignment. I did that too for a while, but then gave up because…well, I had Jared.

     As her devotion deepened with age, mine seemed to waver, but she’s never judged or condemned me for it. So, somehow, our friendship still works.

     I can’t stop shaking as I pack my school bag with some overnight necessities and a change of clothes. With uneven breath, I dive straight into snowy oblivion.

     Tess’ apartment would only be a five-minute walk in normal weather, but the thick wall of snow – unusual for the end of March – makes each step heavy, and I’m a little disoriented with the wind whipping brutally at my face. Still, adrenaline keeps me trudging on.

     As tears begin to freeze on my cheeks, only one thought repeats: Why couldn’t I be the one to move on first? It sounds shamefully petty, but it’s devastatingly true. I knew Jared could never be “The One,” but I clung to him anyway, thinking it was such an honor to be chosen by a visually stunning, impossibly charming, seemingly genuine man like him. Yet, there was never a time I felt secure enough to believe I was good enough; the thought of being cast off for a woman who could match his allures was always imminent. What a self-fulfilling prophecy that was.

     Finally, I see Tess through the glass windows of her apartment lobby, and that’s when I officially lose it. Once inside her apartment, she places a box of Kleenex and a glass of water in front of me on the kitchen table, and waits for the story to begin.

     Once I start talking, the words come out in such a sloppy, tangled mess. I’m amazed she can comprehend any of it. She knows the basic story: how we met at the party of a mutual friend early in my freshman year. I was barely legal; he had just turned twenty-one, and it was love (infatuation? lust?) immediately after “Nice to meet you.”

     But there is much that she doesn’t know; much I made sure she’d never know: the way he’d tell me my opinions were ridiculous; my clothes were either too loose or too tight, revealing too much of a tempting figure, or too much of a too-fat one. The way he refused to introduce me to his other friends, or tell me anything about his family.

     I expect Tess to be angry for withholding all this from her. For a while she’d had inklings that something “wasn’t right,” but I was so careful about keeping his dark side a secret, I don’t think she had enough evidence to stage an intervention with me. By the time I finish speaking, she looks very near tears herself.

     “I feel so worthless,” I whisper.

     She shakes her head. “If only you could see what I see, Anna-Kate” she whispers back. Like a child I lay my head against her shoulder, tears still gushing. I can’t believe it’s happening like this. I knew the end had to happen sometime, and soon – but not like this. I always thought I would handle it with tact and grace. This is just pathetic.

     “Does anyone else know about this?” Tess asks.

     I don’t quite know how to answer without sounding like a fool. There were other friends, like Carrie and Liv, who knew bits and pieces of this anti-love story as it tragically unfolded, but not any more than Tess knows. I rarely talk to Carrie since she transferred schools, and I stopped mentioning Jared to Liv when, sensing my love for him was greater than his ever was for me, she told me “You’re such a smart girl, AK. But you’re acting really dumb right now.”

     Actually, that comment was enough for me to distance myself from her entirely. Now I realize how true it was, but it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

     I shake my head at Tess to say “No.”

     “I know you’re feeling worthless right now,” she says. “But your worth does not depend on him. Please believe that.”

     I want to. I really, really want to. But Liv was right – I was a smart girl acting very, very stupid. Every date, every kiss with a man I knew all along was not “The One” was all to feel a little less lonely, a little more secure. And it worked for nearly four years, most of the time. I disgusted myself then; I’m more disgusted now.

Check back next week for Chapter 2!