FIVE STARS

on reading, rating, and a book so good it's why this letter was late.

After I shared this list of favorite books, my friend Jane asked how I manage to read so much.

“This is a serious question!” she said. “I often feel I am mismanaging my time, and would love to know more about your daily schedule.”

I fear that a day-in-the-life post would either bore you to tears (a lot of typing, alone) or else expose the lengths I will go to procrastinate said typing, but her request did make me consider when and how the reading happens.

There have been seasons without much space to devote to reading — and when I did find the time, I felt guilty, like it should be spent writing. Then somehow, my phone would inform me how much of my life had been lost to scrolling. I couldn’t account for those hours (I barely remembered experiencing them), yet there they were.

Like a lot of people, I’ve grown accustomed to taking my phone everywhere with me — from room to room, not-always-but-sometimes into the bathroom. Now, when I am home, I keep my phone right on top of my current book. (They’re both next to me as I type this.) When I leave, I slide them into my tote, to accompany me wherever I go. And in those stolen moments when I feel the urge to scroll, I’ve started to read instead.

I read on public transit, or whenever I find myself waiting for an appointment. I prop a book open in front of me while I blow-dry my hair, or on the counter while I wait for water to boil. Lately, I’ve been getting in bed half an hour earlier (book in hand, phone safely out of reach), a shift that has resulted in more reading and better sleep.

These moments don’t feel like much compared to the kind of languorous stretches one might devote to reading on vacation — is it still a beach read if you read it on the subway? — but they do add up.

In truth, I read a lot more than I advertise. But the majority of what I read I don’t enjoy, at least not enough to recommend.

You’ll never find one of those “what I read this month” roundups here, with a photo of the stack, because inevitably someone would ask what I thought, and I’d feel torn between offering an honest response and potentially damning an author’s creative work with my subjective opinion.

It seems everyone is angling to die on a hill these days, so let this be mine: I am not in the business of badmouthing books. Sure, I’ll share my honest opinion over coffee, but I’m not going to trumpet it all over the internet. Unless something is truly offensive, I will keep my thoughts to myself.

Because at the end of the day, I may be an avid reader, a freelance editor, a former publishing professional. But I am not a critic. And no matter how many stars the internet lets us brandish or withhold, neither are most people.

I recently caught up with a novelist friend who received a less-than-stellar review from a trade publication known for its snark. It’s the kind of outlet where even their raves contain at least one cutting barb. My friend was devastated.

“I don’t care what random people on Amazon have to say, but it matters what critics think!” he lamented.

I found this interesting. A critic’s role is to be critical — it’s right there in the name. They’re trained to evaluate, to poke holes, to peer down from on high and proffer a judgment. Now that everyone’s a critic (if they want to be), does it give the anointed gatekeepers-with-a-media-badge more or less weight?

Are you more likely to check out a show, movie, or book based on a critical rave or a friend’s recommendation? Do you care how many stars something has on GoodReads? Would you be less likely to order something with a collection of “meh” reviews?

These are all honest questions, and things I ponder more than I probably should. Part of me wants to embrace the democratization of it all, while another part feels wounded by a faceless population seemingly hell-bent on shredding others’ creative work.

I’ve spent a fair amount of time dreaming up the ideal negative review. It goes something like this:

This book was not for me.

The author is a talented writer, and I found the story well-paced, the world well-drawn, and the prose occasionally poetic. I had a clear sense of their vision and the points they were trying to make. My failure to enjoy this book is really about me—my preferences, as informed by my own life choices, which are admittedly very different from the protagonist’s. Like a lot of readers, I often come to art with a subconscious desire to see myself projected back to me in a way I find validating, and I did not find that here. I enjoy feeling stretched, at times, but not necessarily challenged. This story made me notice and question certain facets of my world, and that made me uncomfortable.

My enthusiasm lagged at some points, which may be due to my shortened attention span in a world where thirty-second videos are the primary means of sharing information. I was invested enough to read until the end, but as soon as I finished it, I walked it directly to the little free library at the corner of our street.

I know that probably sounds like I hated it, and in some ways I suppose I did, but I’m giving it five stars because despite my own subjective opinions, it’s a quality piece of writing. Even more than this, it is a work of art, an offering from the author’s heart, and that deserves the chance to reach the widest audience of those who will appreciate it. Who knows? Maybe that’ll be you.

One can dream.

So, the measure of art is highly subjective. It is baked into this caveat that I recommend a (brand new) book I read last week, a book that made me audibly laugh and cry multiple tears, a book that I, personally, would label as remarkable.