I grew up acting in school plays and community theater productions. If you know any actors, you know we love applause. Some folks shy away from the spotlight, but performers crave it for validation: Am I good enough? Do people think I’m talented? What if someone doesn’t like me?
I’ve discovered now that writing falls into the same general category. Once an author publishes their work, it’s OUT THERE for anyone to consume, judge, and publicly share their opinions about—good or bad opinions. It’s part of the process. But boy, is it nerve-wracking! And what I’ve written is my own creation. My words. My experiences (even if fictionalized), my feelings, my mistakes. When I was on stage playing Lucy Van Pelt in “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown,” or Aldonza in “Man of La Mancha,” I was reciting and emoting other peoples’ words and ideas. This writing a book thing feels very vulnerable.
My mother was a brilliant theater reviewer for our local newspaper, The Poughkeepsie Journal, in New York. In time, she developed a thick skin. She even came to enjoy the hate mail, as she called it, when someone wrote a Letter to the Editor and tried to shame her for her opinion. (To the young people reading, waaaaaaay back in the old days, community members could send in letters—via posted mail!—to newspapers to share their thoughts about things going on in their towns. Sometimes people used that opportunity to voice their dissent about reporters’ columns or city council members’ proposals.) When someone wrote in and publicly disagreed with my mom’s critiques (usually family members of actors she had “panned” in a recent production), Mom felt like she’d “made it.” Hate mail meant that people were reading her work. They’d thought enough about it—even if their opinions differed violently from hers—and took the time to respond. Reaching people, as a writer, meant having your own voice, and if you sparked conversation, you were contributing to a collective experience.
So now, it’s my turn, I guess. I always told my mom she should write a book. She had such a beautiful way of expressing herself, but it wasn’t meant to be, and now she is gone. I miss her terribly as I forge my path as a published author now. I hope she would be proud of me, but I’d also love her advice.
When my debut novel, “Forks & Knives” was released on Amazon in late August, I was thrilled to see multiple 5-star ratings and several thoughtful and very positive reviews. (The difference between ratings and reviews, I’ve learned, is that people can just click a star—one to five—and that’s a rating. But if they write a few sentences about the book—what they liked or didn’t and how the story resonated with them—that’s a review. People can do one or both things.)
But…just days after the book was released, I noticed a single 2-star rating floating there like a lonely gray cloud waiting to burst open in a storm. The person who assigned that low “score” didn’t take the time to say why they rated the book so poorly. Not only was I hurt, I was also frustrated. I wondered if the person who clicked that button actually read the book. If they didn’t, a 2-star rating feels vindictive, not valid. Maybe they just didn’t like my Facebook page or my last name? Maybe their rating has nothing to do with the book’s content at all? How would I know? And more importantly, how would potential future readers know? That’s what reviews are for: to help others decide if they want to read the book.
The other thing that bothers me: As opposed to the old Letters to the Editor forum, today’s Everyday Joe or Jane can be anonymous in their “opinion.” Just hit that low-level star. No explanation is needed. People who READ books, often take the time to write reviews. With words. Most will share their real names or some handle that links in some way to their social media profile. If one of those people doesn’t like my book, OK. I’d be curious to hear WHY. I’d welcome a dialogue, the chance to discuss perspectives
I wish my mom were here to help me center my emotions. She’d be able to calm my fragile ego. But I think I know what she’d say: “That’s just one person’s opinion. Who knows why they didn’t support their rating with an explanation. Focus on the other people who took the time to SAY something.”
Indeed, this is a perfect time to focus on the three wheels that roll properly and move the vehicle along, not on the one squeaky wheel that refuses to cooperate but demands attention. Concentrate on what’s working.
So, friends, if you are, indeed, reading this blog, and if you’ve read my book, I thank you. It can be lonely writing in cyberspace, so if you ever have an opinion, thought, or feeling you’d like to share with me, or if you’d like to open a dialogue about whatever, I’d love to hear it. Your feedback is welcome! Feel free to email me at Mimi@AuthorMimi.com.
And after you read “Forks & Knives,” your rating AND REVIEW—even a single sentence counts!—would be awesome. You can leave reviews through any/all of these links:
AMAZON:
GOODREADS:
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/210208305-forks-knives
BARNES & NOBLE:
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/forks-knives-mimi-wahlfeldt/1145139629?ean=9781685134655
BOOKBUB:
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"Forks & Knives" was born as part of a long journal entry, a cathartic release. In 2003, despite being happily married to my second husband, insomnia visited me regularly. My brain pushed and pulled, working through hurtful and confusing memories that defined the rocky journey of my first marriage and its ultimate demise. The finished document sat inside my computer, unread, for seventeen years.
When I retired in 2021, I revisited the document, hesitantly. “Is this worth reworking into a novel? Would anyone care about this?” I asked my best friend, my husband Stephen, to read it. Bonus for me: He taught American literature for more than twenty-five years (!), so I knew I could trust his opinion. Happily, he confirmed, “Yes, it’s good. You should work on it.” Then he introduced me to Brian Kaufman (www.authorbriankaufman.com) and Penpointers, the Northern Colorado writer’s group that Stephen had belonged to years before I met him. Over the next year and a half, my self-focused monologue transformed into a work of fiction that would appeal to people outside my immediate circle of friends and family. At least that’s my hope.
Whenever I mention what this book is about, I'm invariably met with, "Yeah, my mom was a drinker," or "My son was sober for a while, but . . ." There are millions of stories like mine out there -- people who have loved/lived with alcoholics/addicts and struggled to hold on through the pain. But there are ways we can help and support those we love without losing ourselves. This novel alone can't help those still working through those dark days, but maybe some of the resources here can play a role.
