A REVIEWER’S LAMENT

by Steven Steinbock

Of all the regular Criminal Brief columnists, I’m the only one who doesn’t publish fiction. I read mysteries, collect them, chronicle their history, and review them. But I don’t write them.

I’ve been reviewing mysteries for more than a dozen years. I started out in newspapers, and moved on to magazines. I did a brief stint as a reviewer for The Armchair Detective. (Three issues after I began, that magnificent magazine folded. I hope my reviews had nothing to do with it). I’ve had a long, enjoyable career writing for AudioFile Magazine (reviewing audiobooks, interviewing authors, and writing feature stories).

I know there are still people out there who consider listening to books as a form of cheating. Oh, you short-sighted ones, listening to a book has several advantages over “eyeball-to-page” reading. When listening, you hear every word, while with a print book, all readers inadvertently – or intentionally – skim, skip, blink, and miss words, lines, and entire paragraphs. Some say that when we listen to another person read a book, we’re hearing that person’s interpretation and not exercising our own imagination. There’s some truth to that, but I would argue that hearing Frank McCourt read his own work adds far more to the experience than it detracts. The interpretations of professional narrators like Edward Hermann, George Guidall, and Will Patton can beautifully reveal the words on the page while leaving characterization up to the imaginings of the listener. Besides, oral storytelling existed for millennia before the first words ever appeared on page or parchment. But I digress.

I enjoy reviewing. I get to read (and listen to) books that would not normally cross my path. Publishers send me advance copies. I often pull a paperback off a bookstore shelf and find my own words staring back at me in the form of a blurb. More than a few times I’ve caught myself reading a review on Amazon only to discover that I had written it.

But reviewing isn’t all wine, roses, and free books.

My first job as a reviewer was with the Portland (Maine) Press Herald. It was a good experience, and gave me the training and confidence I needed as a writer. My bibliophile sensitivity was offended each time my editor commandeered the dust jacket, or ripped the cover right off a paperback so the art department could use the image. My job was to review mystery novels, true crime, and horror that was published by Maine authors, or that were set in Maine. (For reviews of non-Maine books, the paper could download from the wire services cheaper than paying me). At first, this was a blessing. I got to know many local authors and soon became an expert on Maine mysteries. But into the fourth year, I was reviewing my fourth book by so-and-so, and found myself having to re-read all my previous reviews to make sure I wasn’t repeating myself.

Cliché and redundancy are curses for a reviewer. In my reviews for Audiofile Magazine I need to devote more than half of the review on audio, narrator, and production aspects of the audiobook, and cover it all in less than 125 words. It’s an ongoing challenge to find new ways of saying the same things. I’ve exhausted the synonyms for describing a narrator’s performance. (“So-and-so renders/interprets/delivers/performs/ reads with sincerity and skill”).

It’s tough to keep it fresh. I suppose that’s why reviewers sometimes become jaded. Oscar Wilde once wrote, “I never read a book I must review; it prejudices you so.” I assume Wilde was being at least partially facetious, but it’s true that many reviewers go out of their way to be supercilious, mean-spirited, and uninformed. Last year I read a review of Michael Chabon’s The Yiddish Policeman’s Union that was so utterly unfair that I wrote a review of the review on it. (You can read my critique here).

It’s often been said that all reviewers are frustrated authors. As unfair as I find this statement, I’m finding that in my own case there may be some inside-out truth. In the past dozen years I’ve occasionally felt the muse to write fiction, only to lift the pen and find that my writerly energy is already exhausted.

Reviews are important. I’m not ready to stop altogether. But perhaps I’d be a better, happier writer if I spent less time writing about other people’s books, and devote a little time on my own.