Fear and Loathing at the Keyboard

By Barbara D'Amato


The story goes like this:

Your first book comes out. The critics say, “Not bad, but shows some of the problems of the beginner.”

Your second book comes out and the critics say, “Not up to his usual standard.”

Is it any wonder writers have deep doubts as they write? One of my first books was set in a retirement community in New Mexico. One critic said, “She certainly knows New Mexico, but the plot line was weak.” Another said, “Great puzzle plot, but she is not familiar with New Mexico.” Most of us have had this kind of thing happen, haven’t we?

Everybody is entitled to criticize you. It’s like standing naked at the corner of Adams and State Street and letting people jeer. Except it lasts longer. And—cliché alert—the worst critic is yourself.

I start with some glowing, golden idea of what the new novel is going to be—fast-paced but rich [maybe not possible to be both], characters so rounded they practically jump off the page and hit me, deep social consciousness but a light touch of wit. Well, it never comes out quite like that.

In twenty years I’ve met only one author who liked her books when she was in the middle of writing them. She was Mary Shura Craig, who wrote children’s’ books under the name Mary Francis Shura, espionage under the name M. S. Craig, and mysteries under the name Mary Craig. I would meet her at an MWA dinner and she would say, “I’m about halfway through with the most wonderful story.” I would just stare at her in amazement. When mine are half done they are recalcitrant, sagging, stupid, and will never come to an end. I’m pushing a chain uphill. And why did I think this was a good idea for a book, anyway?

Probably one of the best moments in life is the Aha! When you get the idea that will not only solve a plot problem but be a vivid, effective scene. But the worst is to be stuck. The more you reread the thing, the less fresh it seems.

And there are all those critics out there waiting to attack you.

This is some scary job.

Can't We All Get Along?

By Barbara D’Amato

This week, on one of the mystery lists, I came upon an extremely hostile reviewlet of a new crime novel. It brought back thoughts of a specific type of comment about books that has puzzled me for years.

I’m not talking about negative reviews. They’re legitimate. A good reviewer is able to say, “This isn’t my favorite kind of novel, but it’s a good example of its type.” I’m talking about the comment in which the reader or reviewer is angry that such a book even exists.

It would be understandable if the reader were upset that a book dissed his religion or ethnicity. It’s even reasonable to have a distaste for a book that appears to the reader to be gratuitously bloody or cruel -- although in those cases I would say just don’t read it. But these, oddly enough, are stylistic objections.

Intentionally, I am not going to quote from any of these diatribes, nor name names or publications. It seems unprofessional to leave out all the proof of what I’m saying, but I’d rather not add to the back-and-forth. And anyway, we’ve all read some of them, haven’t we?

It’s not the writers who come up with these angry blasts. Virtually all the writers I know are supportive of other writers. They know how hard it is to write a book, and they are appreciative of others who do it, even the book isn’t what they like to read.

These are readers who are outraged that noir, or chicklit, or whatever they can’t stand, even gets published. They are outraged when a fast-paced adventure novel is low on characterization. Or they are furious that a chicklit book may be “light.” Or they can’t stand it that a traditional puzzle mystery is more intellectual than emotional. Hello? What were you expecting?

A sentence from the 60s comes to mind. Let a thousand flowers bloom.

If books had misleading cover descriptions, so that you paid money for an updated Rambo and got a knitting boutique, anger might be understandable. But mostly that isn’t the case, and, in addition, a lot of the outrage comes from reviewers and critics who get advance reading copies free.

What in the world triggers this anger? Maybe it comes from fear of the foreign, a kind of xenophobia: how can any person be so different from me as to enjoy this book?

I’d be interested in your thinking.