I remember back when I first started using it, reviewing was fun. There was a bit of a thrill: getting a book for free, when all I had to do was write about it. Which usually, I did anyway. It was a way for me to get my name out there, build some credits and get to read new books along the way. I liked it.
But somewhere, I lost my way.
It began to feel like an obligation, an “oh, everyone is writing about the new Torrey Peters novel, I guess I better do it, too” sort of feeling. It got to where I felt like I had to keep up on new releases, crawling the listicles on The Millions or Buzzfeed and looking for stuff that seemed relevant, new and like it had to be covered. I’d see people on Twitter tweeting about something and, seeing it’s buzz, I’d jump on too, sometimes even buying the book because I couldn’t get a copy. Which is fine, except I don’t get paid for my reviews and sometimes I’d find the book wasn’t worth writing about, and I’d be out $25, $30 and a week’s worth of reading time for nothing.
But I have to wonder now, what exactly is my endgame with all this? I used to daydream I’d someday get a paying slot in a magazine or website where I’d get sent galleys, write them up and someone else would send me money. But that future seems remote these days: paying gigs are hard to come by and there’s a lot of competition out there.
But I keep at it. I’ve even built a small following. Sometimes other critics tell me they like what I’ve written, once or twice a writer has reached out to chat, too. I’ve even gotten a few review copies this way. But it makes me wonder: is so-and-so only saying hi because they want something from me?
If I was smarter, perhaps, I’d have a ground rule that I wouldn’t take books from the authors themselves. But then, how else would I get galleys? If I want to try and place a review somewhere that pays, I need to have the book read and reviewed, let alone pitched, way before publication date. And if an author offers to send me something, that’s an easy way for me to get that early access.
But at the same time, I constantly remind myself of something. Mutuals on Twitter and other social media are not my friends simply because we follow each other. As one person recently reminded me, I only exist in most people’s minds when I’m in their direct line of sight. Not many people on Twitter really care about me one way or the other - to them I’m just somebody that posts about jazz and books and maybe posts a good joke once in a while. As someone once described themselves to me, I’m just some asshole.
In a way, this should be liberating. I should feel like I’m free to be whoever I want on social media, to write about whatever I want and to hell what anyone thinks. But that’s not how it works. I still approach each review like it’s a job application: like maybe the right person will read it, be impressed enough to read some more and maybe reach out with a job opportunity. You know, a review that pays me for my time and effort.
But that doesn’t really happen. And it makes me wonder what I’m doing this all for. Not the pay, that’s for sure. But I don’t know if it’s love, either. The more I write, the more I feel like I have to be good for the smart people and writers who follow me. I have to have the right opinion, review the right books, be the person that these people think I am. I feel like there’s no room to fail.
Right now, a few feet away from me, is a copy of the new Beth Morgan novel, A Touch of Jen. It’s a book I found through writers on Twitter, and one that’s getting some buzz. It’s probably going to be the next thing I review, if I can ever work myself up to reading it. I haven’t even started it yet, and it’s already August, and people will soon move on to the new Zoe Whittall book, and then something else after that. I feel like I can’t keep up, but I’m already working so hard.
The other day, I had something of a breakthrough. I will never make it as a fiction writer because I don’t want it enough. It’s true: if I really wanted to write novels for a living, I’d be making time to write every single day, probably setting goals like “one hour, one thousand words,” or something. Instead I work at a day job for eight or nine hours, then I go home and watch the Jays game and go to bed. I’m not saying this to put myself down, but because it’s true. I feel like I’m burning out.
Recently, Emily VanDerWerff wrote about having “the yips,” which she said was when “muscles that know how to fire have been misfiring a lot lately,” and it’s something I can sympathize with. I’ve been meaning to write up a Bill Evans record for over a month now, and while usually I can do that in an afternoon or two, I’ve really been struggling with this one.
I don’t think I’ve hit a wall - this newsletter has been easy enough to write - but I think it’s time for me to scale down a little. All the books, music and other stuff I feel like I’m supposed to write about (I still have an unpublished essay about Isabel Fall I wrote because it felt like something I was supposed to have opinion on) have been wearing on me. I don’t know if my endgame is realistic anymore, but since I enjoy writing, I think I’ll still be doing it, just as a slower pace. I hope you understand.