What Book Review Language Really Means

Published in Mediabistro.com, 2/3/2009. Read the original (w/ comments) here.

Self-publishing is a risky proposition that most writers would like to avoid. Many authors self-publish only after receiving numerous rejections from editors and agents. Others use these rejections as guides for rewriting their work, making it stronger and more saleable. As a former book reviewer for Kirkus Discoveries, the paid review division of Kirkus that handled self-published and print-on-demand works, I saw many of the same fixable mistakes in book after book. These mistakes often got soft treatment by reviewers who assumed that self-published authors would not, or could not, learn to write better. Without agents or editors, there were few other people giving these writers usable feedback. Here is a quick guide for translating this review-speak into actual critique, with advice from authors, editors and agents on how to fix these mistakes and make your book more saleable.

“An interesting beginning”
“Interesting” is always a loaded word in reviews — a way of saying “different” when different means bad. The beginning of your book is the most important part, since those opening pages determine whether an agent (and eventually an editor and reader) are going to buy the book or put it back on the table.

“The most common mistake I’ve found is the first chapter front-loaded with backstory,” says Kate Angelella, assistant editor at Aladdin/Simon & Schuster. “Often times, too, the story doesn’t start in the right place. There should be a reason the story begins where it does — why have you chosen this particular moment to begin your story? It’s the oldest advice in the book, but a first chapter, a first paragraph, even a first line should draw the reader in and never let go.”

“Exposition is a real pitfall,” says Rebecca Chace, visiting assistant professor at Bard College, professor of creative writing at CCNY, and author of Capture the Flag and Chautauqua Summer. “If you don’t start your story with something strong and compelling, we aren’t going to keep reading.”

Her recommendation for avoiding an opening chapter that drags? “The best way to avoid early/clunky exposition is in media res — it’s never a bad idea to start in the middle of an event.” Though explaining things simply and clearly can help, (i.e. let the reader know that this story take place in 1977, in New York City), start the story with some action to draw the reader in, and fill in the important details as you go.

“Terse, minimalist style”
Books I reviewed were frequently set in worlds with extremely limited sensory input: no textures, tastes or smells, and only the occasional visual detail or sound. Color often seemed like the subtlest of descriptors. Whole chapters could go by explaining the action to the reader, without ever describing a single scene. Minimalism can be beautiful, but the art is in choosing the telling detail, not avoiding description altogether.

Angelella says that in her experience going through the pile of unsolicited manuscripts that she considers, one of the biggest “pitfall[s] of writing is when people tell action, rather than showing it.”

“Instead of explicitly declaring that a character is sad, show us a character who’s sad,” says Bret Anthony Johnston, director of creative writing at Harvard and author of Corpus Christi and Naming the World. “And show us a character who’s sad in an interesting or singular way.”

“Elaborate, emotional prose”
On the other hand, some authors seemed to have never met an adjective they didn’t love. In their haste to be as descriptive as possible, authors of the books I reviewed often included pairs of words that were subtly (or glaringly) at odds with one another. The room wasn’t “yellow,” it was “the color of sun-drenched butter, like the peel of an orange or the dappled wing of a Monarch butterfly.” Cluttering up your work with useless verbiage is as bad as not providing any description at all, since the end result is the same: the reader is left with nothing to hold on to.

Johnston has a trick for dealing with this problem. “I read the offending passage aloud while the members of the workshop close their eyes,” he says. “I ask them to see what the prose is describing. Usually, the indulgent language compromises rather than illuminates the surface or emotion or action that’s being rendered; the words muddy the vision. From there, we strip the prose down until we find its core, the most elegant and powerful combination of words that will enable, rather than undermine, the reader to see.”

“Unusual and inventive plot structure”
Sometimes I reviewed books whose characters moved across the page with no motivation — other than a burning desire to fulfill a pre-conceived narrative arc — even when it made no sense with their stated impulses, personalities or histories. These books read like the stories told by small children. “And then this happened, and then this happened, and then this…”

This is a common issue with Johnston’s students at Harvard. “I ask my students to give their protagonists something specific to want.” Why is motivation so important? “Once a character wants something, the reader wants it too.” To keep your audience reading, Johnston says, “once you make [them] want something, make them wait for it.”

“A thorough exploration of the author’s ideals”
A few of the books resembled propaganda more than fiction. These were in some ways the saddest, as they often showed the most promise at the beginning. Indeed, having a unique voice is one of the things that Angelella says gets her most attention: “If I read a manuscript with a compelling voice, if it draws me in and makes me miss my train stop (as one, recently, did), that is a manuscript worth pursuit.”

But there is such a thing as going too far. The author’s point-of-view should not get in the way of a believable or well written story. In many self-published books, there comes a point at which the demands of good writing and the demands of the author’s political (or moral, or medicinal) agenda were at odds, and good writing always lost. Intricate plots and subtle worlds were built up, only to have a happy ending slapped over them as soon as the characters accepted [insert savior] as the solution to all their problems. Remember, your character’s desires — not yours — must drive the book, or it won’t make sense to the reader.

Posted on June 25, 2009 to Mediabistro