This happens quite often: I start reading a book, and within a few pages I find myself thrown out of the story. Maybe there are too many grammatical errors, or the story doesn’t make sense, or possibly the writing is bland and uninspiring. I’ve read too many books in need of an edit, and sympathise with those who moan at the amateur nature of independently-published books.
But I don’t like to give up on books, so I plough through to the end, inwardly moaning about the hours of my time I’m wasting.
Then I’ll pop on to Amazon or Goodreads, interested to read what others thought of the book. And I’ll be confronted with pages of five-star reviews. They’ll praise the exciting story (that I considered tedious and predictable), or the wonderful characters (that I found to be cardboard cut-out cliches). These reviews talk of the enjoyment they got from the story, and how much they’re looking forward to that author’s next book.
This happens often enough that I wonder if I missed something, or if my judgement on books is awry.
But it isn’t. What I think of a particular book is what I think of it. It’s my personal opinion.
There is no right or wrong here. Everyone is different. What I look for in a good book will not necessarily correspond with others’ idea of an enjoyable read.
Other people will have different opinions.
Some readers can’t get past more than a handful of grammar issues, but others don’t even notice the mistakes. Some readers are turned off by bland descriptions, while others are enraptured with the dialogue in the very same book. Some people enjoy the richness of the language, while to others the words are nothing more than a way of getting the story across.
Everyone is different, in both their preferences and what they expect from a book. An author like Dan Brown is often frowned upon by those who prefer more intellectual books (whatever they are), but he has far more readers than any of the year’s Booker nominees. James Joyce’s works are considered classics by some, and undreadable nonsense by others. Some people relate to Twilight‘s Bella, and others find her a nonentity.
This doesn’t only happen in books, of course. A new art-house film might receive outstanding reviews from film critics, but it will never come close to making as much money as the latest big-budget effects-driven spectacular. The latest pop music sensation will easily outsell a band that is pushing the boundaries of music. Sometimes, a musician might straddle both ‘popular’ and ‘experimental’ music, but they are rare indeed. Bjork continues to produce challenging music, but she is no longer the ‘popular’ artist she was when she had hits with tracks such as ‘It’s Oh So Quiet’ or ‘Human Behaviour’.
So if her older music was more popular, is it better than her latest stuff?
That’s not a sensible question. It’s different. Each album is what it is. Just as each book by each author is what it is. As every author is individual, so is every reader. Every reader is seeking something different from a book.
So no, I’m not in the wrong if I don’t enjoy a book that others view as a classic. I might not have the same opinion as the majority of others, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Just different.
And that is why reviews can only ever be guidelines. For all the importance placed on them, especially in the independent-publishing field, they are not fact. A load of good reviews might mean that the book is popular, but they are still only the opinions of individuals.
Of course, reviews have their uses. If a review favourably compares a book to one of your favourites, of it that reviewer has given positive reviews to other books you like, then you might want to check the book out. If the reviews talk about plot twists, or evocative language, or snappy, sarcastic dialogue, and you enjoy these things, then it’s more likely that you will agree with their opinion of the book.
Negative reviews can be ‘positive’ in guiding a reader to a book too. If you enjoy violence and lots of swearing in your books, and a negative review decries the coarse language and gore-filled descriptions, this might be the book for you. If the reviewer moans that the sappy relationship gets in the way of the mystery, but you like romance stories, that could be a good sign.
So is there a lesson in this? If there is, it is probably to take reviews with a pinch of salt. Read them, yes. Take note of the thoughts of others. But don’t take their word as anything other than their personal opinions. Understand that when you read the book, you are doing so for yourself, not for them. Remember that you can think for yourself, and you can reach your own conclusions.
If you disagree with a review, it’s not a case of right and wrong, just a difference of opinion.
One measure of worth is money, so how much do we pay for books? In the UK, a paperback is generally between five and ten pounds, and a hardback around twenty. E-book pricing varies considerably—there are the free or 99p books, right up to about twenty pounds.
Think about what it takes to turn a story into a book. There is all the work the author puts in—planning, research, writing, re-writing and editing. There are external editors and proofreaders. This goes for all books, electronic and physical.
Books, as a means of conveying a story, have a value in the words themselves, and the artistry and craft that are displayed in the writing. What we value in a book is the experience of reading.
Which gives us another issue to consider—everyone is different. One person’s life-changing entertainment will be wasted hours to another. The same books could be considered a thrilling roller-coaster ride or a hideous excuse for gratuitous violence and bad language. A thrilling tale might be gratuitous violence and bad language to someone else. One person might value well-crafted prose, but another might find more of value in a finely-tuned story. One person might get swept up in rich descriptions, and another might be drawn into snappy, sarcastic dialogue.
I’m a fan of the 
Horror is a strange genre. It used to be a sub-genre of ‘speculative fiction’, along with fantasy and science-fiction, and writers like Lovecraft blended all three. But now, it doesn’t quite fit. Where some science fiction is considered serious and literary, horror is more likely to be thought of as ‘nasty stories’. Where fantasy creates whole new worlds, horror is (generally) stuck in the real world, with a few supernatural elements thrown in—and ghosts aren’t in the same league as dragons and elves.
I used to work at outdoor activity centres, and as part of this I would take people abseiling. Grabbing hold of a rope and leaning over a drop isn’t a natural thing to do, and many people would (quite sensibly) be scared. They’d be shaking. They’d need coaxing over the edge. Despite all the assurances that it was perfectly safe, they’d imagine the worst.
It explains why roller-coasters are popular. We know they are safe (again, the accidents are reported because they are anomalies), but they give the illusion of danger. Hurtling around a twisting track, being thrown upside-down, with the screams of others in our ears, gives us an adrenaline rush. And afterwards, we can smile and laugh about it, because we’ve survived.
Some people never read a book more than once, arguing that there is no enjoyment if they already know the ending. Others have their favourite books that they return to time and time again. Some people read Lord Of The Rings every year. I’ve met someone who appeared to be reading Fifty Shades constantly (must be some S&M thing).
I’ve read Hitch-hiker’s Guide To The Galaxy so often that now I only have to look at the page and the words flow from my memory. And every so often, I will binge re-read the Discworld books. I know what’s coming, but I still enjoy the storytelling and the humour. They make me smile, no matter how many times I read them.
It can be interesting revisiting books we enjoyed when we were growing up. Sometimes the books seem too childish, and we wonder if we were ever really taken in by them. Sometimes we are disappointed by the book (as I was when I re-read the original Star Wars novelisation a bit ago). And sometimes we see new things. When I revisited ET recently, there were things I was sure I’d missed before, simply because I’d been too young to understand what William Kotzwinkle was hinting at.
Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance is the most obvious example. This book is a journey into ideas, set against a father-and-son motorcycle ride across America. At times the thoughts and questions it poses are almost too dense, and every time I read it I pick up on something new. Between my first and second readings, I spent a bit of time reading Plato, and this influenced how I understood Prisig’s inquiries into the meaning of quality. Later, the relationship between the father and the son had a greater impact on me, simply because I was able to relate to that situation. And having recently found out that Prisig’s son was murdered some years after the book came out, the next time I read it I am sure that will colour what I take from it.
The narrator for this chapter did his best, and I don’t mean to mock him. I know I could do no better with, say, a Texas accent. I don’t even know if the narrator had ever heard a Yorkshire accent before attempting to read Stoker’s text. But the accent he narrated in didn’t work. You know Dick Van Dyke’s ‘cockney’ accent in Mary Poppins? Imagine that combined with the occasional Scottish twang, and you’ll have a rough idea what this Yorkshire character sounded like.
Another book comes to mind here, and although it’s not written ‘in accent’, it is still relevant. That book is Iain M Banks’ Feersum Enjin. Take a little time over that title, and you’ll get an idea where I’m going with this.
I had a good friend who studied English at A-level. I was a little envious of that, until he told me that it pretty much put him off reading for pleasure. Whenever he read, he’d start analysing the sentences, and searching the subtext. He’d find himself comparing that book to others. Reading became an exercise, one that he no longer wanted to do. He said it took him years before he could pick up a book and simply enjoy it.
This isn’t the first time I’ve experienced something like this. I can recall, years ago, watching the third Nightmare On Elm Street film in a cinema. There is one scene where one character has tendons pulled from their hands and feet, turning them into a puppet. When this came on screen, there were definite sounds of discomfort around me, but I can clearly remember thinking ‘how did they do that and make it look so good?’
So, there you have a few of the things I picked up on while reading the Tube Riders trilogy. As you can no doubt tell, I was impressed. I’m going to be following Chris Ward from now on, reading more of his books (and his newsletters — he asks some interesting questions). He’s my kind of author—exciting, entertaining, and instructive.
TW Iain 