Why I (occasionally, randomly) rank fellow-writers out of five

In a short break from some intense editing (draft ninety-five or something really depressing like that) I hopped over to Fiona Wood’s blog (she of the wonderful YA novel Six Impossible Things) to read her article entitled Why I Don’t Rank Fellow-Writers Out Of Five. You should read that first. I’ll wait here.

As I was saying…

Goodreads rankings have been on my mind a few times lately and I’ve engaged in some short-but-sweet chats about it with publishing folk on Twitter. I really like what Fiona has to say in her post. In fact I agree almost 100%, which is why it might seem odd that I’m now writing a post with the opposite title. Bear with me.

Goodreads is kryptonite for the new, nervy writer. Not perhaps for the highly successful and established writer with thirty books in circulation and healthy royalty cheques – they’re too busy collecting awards and being fabulous to log on and see if that single person who’d marked a book ‘Currently Reading’ has finished yet. (How tragic, who would DO that?)  But it’s a place where readers should be able to speak freely, without the image of that crazed new author in their minds. They should be able to give a star or two (or five, please five) and write anything from “This was quite boring” (actual quote from a review of my book) to “This was the best book I’ve ever read in my WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE (sadly, not an actual quote from a review of my book). They shouldn’t be worried about who sees it. It’s a place for readers, not writers.

But what happens when you’re both? Before I was published I merrily rated things out of five. Three, four, two, five, I can do what I like, woo-hoo! (= me, merrily rating.) I also wrote reviews for the cracking website Vulpes Libris. Back then I was writing manuscript reports and editing fiction. I was basically judging people’s writing at every stage of the process. What a Judgey McJudgerson I was. I can still remember some of the books I gave three stars to on Goodreads. I liked those books a lot. Three stars meant it had been an enjoyable read, with a few flaws that I might or might not choose to go into. Fast forward a few years and I happen to know that to many authors three stars is a sneer. “Three stars?? THEY HATED IT THEN!”

When my novel was published I deleted my Goodreads account. I decided I had no place judging people any more. How could I when the very first review I read of Girl Aloud made me burst into floods of tears? They were tears of relief as it happens, but the fact that I could imagine someone breaking down like that because of something possibly off-the-cuff I’d said really struck me. I stopped reviewing and turned down editing work so that I could be on one side of the fence.

Turns out there is no fence. I think it may have collapsed under the weight of so many writers who have to make a living doing things other than writing – editing and reviewing and critiquing and agenting. Plenty of people seem to manage to do all of these things without becoming hysterical. Some writers produce scathing reviews for newspapers and don’t feel bad about it (maybe they are only allowed to feel bad privately because it doesn’t go with their image, or maybe they just don’t feel it at all). So I told myself to get a grip. I reconsidered Goodreads and made myself an author page. A few people (not many but that’s okay, I’m really really FINE with that) rated my book and when I peeked I felt either delighted (4 or 5 stars) or dejected (2 stars) or a bit meh (3 stars).

And then a few weeks ago I suddenly felt like someone who invites a lot of people to a party, runs upstairs to open the presents and then stays in her room playing with them (I’m quite young in this analogy and am being given toys to play with instead of things like decorative jars). I thought, but I’m not just a writer – I’m first and foremost a reader. I should be able to give something back. For the reasons Fiona gives in her post, I knew I couldn’t give low star-ratings or pick holes in books I’d read. So I made a snap decision to get on there and randomly add the first twenty or so books that came to mind. I didn’t consult my shelves, just reeled them off – I thought that was as good a test as any of how much a book had stayed with me. These were books I felt joyful about giving 5 stars to. God it felt good.

There is a big difference, I’ve discovered, between the way I feel about what I now do for a living (read for agents, write manuscript reports) and a simple thing like rating a book on Goodreads. In the former I feel like it’s not the end of the road, it’s the beginning and maybe, hopefully, something I say will help. In the latter it doesn’t seem useful to anyone. I know my reading isn’t influenced by Goodreads. I’ve never based a decision to read a book on how many 5 or 1-star ratings it has. But it might be the final straw in someone’s day, for no good reason.

I could change my mind again about Goodreads at any moment. It doesn’t really matter. There’s only one factor in this that does and that is the fact that I peek at ratings of my own books. For shame! I get why I do it (book came out two years ago, second book still only 7cm dilated) – if I’m bored and tetchy and nervy and twitchy and there’s nothing on telly then before I know it I’m on there. It’s not even that I get upset if I get a bad rating – I don’t love it or anything but there are far worse things than someone I don’t know giving me/my book (we’re supposed to separate these – if you find out how, tell me) two stars. But the fact is that I shouldn’t be looking. I should be concentrating on getting to 8cm (don’t worry, I’ve finished with that image).

If I can’t just be a reader on Goodreads, I shouldn’t be there at all.

And that, my friends, is why Fiona Wood is so very, serenely right.