The Perils of Star-Gazing: The Less-Than-Stellar Side of Reading Reviews

I’d accomplished a lifelong goal, why wasn’t that enough?

I was out to dinner with my husband, Rich, and our teenage sons, Ben and Charlie, the night I realized I had a problem. It was a balmy September evening and we were at the beach savoring the final days of summer. Through the window just beyond our table, we watched moonlight shimmer across the waves. It was 2021and restaurant menus were available by QR code only. After Ben, 15 at the time, made his selection, he continued scrolling through his phone.

       “Mom!” He looked up from his device excitedly. “You got another five-star review. You’re now at 4.22! That’s two hundredths of a point higher than the last time I checked!” 

       Five months earlier, my debut novel, He’ll Be Waiting, had been released. Because I was often too scared to do it, I occasionally asked my son to skim ratings and reviews for me. Negative ones seemed easier to bear with him beside me, and when a good review came in he’d share my excitement and give me a high-five or shout, “Let’s go!”

       On that evening, he smiled, wide-eyed, eager to see my reaction. Typically, news like this filled me with joy as I imagined someone connecting with the characters who’d lived inside my head for years or relishing the plot twists that kept me up at night as I struggled to flesh them out.

       But on that particular evening, I didn’t experience the usual thrill. Instead, I felt ashamed. As I looked at my son’s expectant face, all I could think was, “What am I teaching my kids?” 

       By allowing this arbitrary metric to affect my mood, wasn’t I telling them that your happiness was contingent upon what other people—strangers on the internet, no less—thought of you?

       The lesson I’d intended to instill was more in line with well-worn adages found on throw pillows and kitschy signs. Things like: “Believe in your dreams!” and “Hard work pays off!” 

       My sons had watched as I spent two years brainstorming, writing, and revising my way through numerous drafts. They'd witnessed my disappointment as I fielded countless rejections before finding a publisher. But they’d never seen me give up.

       And that novel wasn't even my first attempt. I started writing a manuscript back in 2005 and abandoned it after one hundred pages when my toddler gave up napping. 

I’d wanted to write a novel since the fourth grade when I read Lois Duncan’s Ransom and Paula Danziger’s The Cat Ate My Gymsuit. (Both are solid five-stars in my book, but neither has a rating quite that high if you look at Goodreads. Sigh). In shepherding my novel into the world, I’d done it—achieved a lifelong goal one week shy of my fiftieth birthday—why wasn’t that enough?  

        Deepening my shame was the knowledge that I had a loving family, a roof over my head, food on the table. Feeling down about a negative book review seemed like the ultimate first-world problem and yet there was no denying it—those four-and-five star ratings were like hits of dopamine. When I received a positive review, my spirits soared and I felt inspired to rush back to my laptop and continue writing. When I got a three-star (or worse) rating, the sting lingered—sometimes for the rest of the day. I found it difficult to write—something that had once been as instinctive as breathing.

       Though I'm not usually in the habit of quoting Dr. Phil, one of his nuggets of folksy wisdom has stayed with me for decades. It goes like this: “It takes 1,000 'Atta boy’s' to erase one, 'You're an idiot.’”

       For me, it took a dozen great reviews to forget a single “Meh.” 

       Allie Rowbottom, author of Aesthetica, spoke about this ugly truth in a recent interview, “… for some reason, the word of some random book blogger who dislikes my novel counts as much if not more as the support of a writer or critic I deeply admire. Someone told me recently that this response to negative feedback has to do with fight or flight, which makes sense, but I’m still doing my best to override it.”

        Rowbottom and I aren’t alone. A friend from a writing workshop was ecstatic when she signed a three-book deal. She was deep into a draft of book two when her debut was released. Each good review spurred her to write faster—after all, fans were waiting! But when a negative one appeared, she found herself second-guessing everything. Fingers that once flew across the keyboard were now frozen, she said. Seeing how it affected her, her brother stepped in. He told her to stop looking. He’d screenshot her good reviews and send them her way. 

        “Brilliant!” fellow writers and I agreed, and yet I didn’t take heed. Despite my realization that September evening that checking ratings was making me a neurotic mess, I didn’t stop. I likened it to staring at an eclipse: I knew looking was bad, but I couldn’t avert my eyes.

        I tried to be rational, reminding myself that not every book is meant for every reader. I pictured the mountain of bestsellers I’d returned to the library unfinished over the years. I considered that some of my favorite novels and memoirs hang in the low three-stars. But what consoled me most was when I told myself, “You don’t know these people and they don’t know you. This is about a story. This isn’t personal.”

Until it was.

* * *

One afternoon while scrolling through Goodreads, I saw my novel had a new two-star rating. Ouch. The user hadn’t left a review but what caught my eye was their location—a town 15 minutes away from my own. In fact, I’d been there a few months earlier and had left a copy of the book in a Free Little Library. My first thought was, “Did this person find it there?”

       In addition to the location, the reviewer’s name made me do a double-take. It was strikingly similar to the name of a friend—a friend who lived in the same town as this reviewer. For the purposes of anonymity, let’s say my friend’s name is Tara D. This reviewer went by Tina D—a difference of two-letters. Would someone create an alias so close to their real name? For Goodreads?

        Intrigued, I clicked on Tina D.’s reading list. What I saw there made my stomach lurch. We’d read nearly all the same books. Yes, some were bestsellers, titles like Memoirs of a Geisha, The Five People You Meet in Heaven, and The Kite Runner. But others seemed too random to be a coincidence. Here’s a short list: A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Running With Scissors, The History of Love, On the Road. I could go on and on. 

       So how did this happen? Tara D. and I had been in the same book club for years. Just before He’ll Be Waiting came out, our mutual friend who led the club, we’ll call her Daphne, sent an email suggesting members read it for the next meeting. Tara D. declined due to a death in her family. 

       Now here it was, months later, had she gotten around to reading it and disliked it enough to leave a two-star rating at, according to Goodreads, 5:30 a.m.?

       It felt like a gut punch not only because we’d been friends for twenty years but also because she and I typically had similar taste in books. If she hadn’t liked it, fine, but did she really need to give it two stars?

Side note: As much as authors may try to ignore ratings, they matter. Having plenty of positive reviews encourages others to read your book, obviously, but also ratings affect algorithms on sites like Amazon and Goodreads and can impact other opportunities. For example, when my novel, The Perfect Neighborhood, was released last July, I reached out to my childhood library to see if they’d consider it for their book club. Before I could even offer to donate copies, I was told to call back when I had more than one hundred, four-star reviews. Like it or not, ratings are crucial.

       When I told Rich I suspected Tina D. was actually Tara D., initially he laughed at my amateur sleuthing and refused to believe it could be our longtime friend. Had compulsively checking ratings and reviews made me so paranoid I’d imagined this? 

      Fast forward to late November, Rich and I met a group of friends including Tara D. and Daphne, the book club leader, for dinner. It seemed strange to sit across a table and share a meal while harboring this suspicion.

       “Confront her!” my son Ben urged before I’d headed out the door. 

       I was tempted, but here was another opportunity for me to teach my kids an important lesson. Why seek out a confrontation over something as silly as a star rating? I was a writer, not a cast member of Real Housewives of New Jersey. And, after all, Tara D. was entitled to her opinion. But another thing nagged at me, had she even read it? Social media is rife with tales of bitter exes who leave one-star reviews as revenge. Others give a single star because delivery was a day late. In other words, who knew? Maybe Tara D. was in a bad place and this was somehow cathartic. 

       Midway through dinner, talk turned to books as I knew it would. In March, I’d recommended Sorrow and Bliss to Tara D. via email when she asked for suggestions. She hadn’t told me if she’d read it, but I’d noticed her possible alter-ego Tina D. had rated it five stars. 

       “You know what I loved?” I set the trap. “Sorrow & Bliss.”

       “That was fantastic!” Tara D. gushed as I pinched my husband’s leg under the table. 

In the car on the way to the restaurant, I’d told him I intended to bring up Meg Mason’s award-winning novel. He’d rolled his eyes as if I’d watched too many Scooby Doo episodes as a kid and my quest to “unmask” Tara/Tina was laughable. 

       “Speaking of fantastic, did you read Liz’s book?” Daphne asked.

       “I haven’t had a chance yet,” Tara D. sighed.

       “And she wrote a memoir too!” Daphne continued. “When does that come out, Liz?” 

I wanted to crawl beneath my chair—or lie. But I couldn’t when a simple google search would’ve provided the answer.

       “It came out last week,” I admitted. “But it’s an Audible Original, so right now it’s only available there.”

       “I have credits I need to burn,” Tara D. said. “I’ll check it out.”

        “Aw, thank you!” I did my best to sound genuine while wondering if I’d just damned myself to another shit rating.

Sure enough, by the next afternoon, there it was, a new two-star rating on my memoir, Sad Sacked, from Tina D. We’d hugged goodbye outside the restaurant eighteen hours earlier. Had she really spent six of those listening to me narrate the tale of how Rich and I navigated losing our jobs simultaneously?

       When I showed my husband the rating, he shook his head, no longer able to deny it. “That’s messed up,” was all he said. 

I wish I could say that was enough to make me quit “star-gazing” for good. But it wasn’t—nor was it the only time I experienced shock and hurt at the hands of someone I’d previously liked.

       About a year ago, I volunteered to help an aspiring author through a writing organization where we were both members. I provided feedback on her query letter, edits on essays, and served as her personal cheerleader whenever she felt discouraged by the industry. I was happy to do it. A few months in, she told me she wanted to build up her presence as a reviewer. She said she'd recently finished reading a novel that had been highly-praised. She hadn’t enjoyed it and asked my opinion about writing a negative review on Goodreads and other sites. I advised against it. 

       “I wouldn’t,” I told her. “As authors, it’s bad form. We know how grueling it is to write, revise, and endure countless rejections along the way.”

       Echoing the sentiments of authors I admired, I added, “Be a good literary citizen. If you don’t like something, of course, you’re entitled to your opinion, but do you need to put it in writing or tag the author? No. If you must, tell a neighbor or share your thoughts with your librarian.”

      She ignored my advice and left her review anyway. I couldn’t help but wonder, did it somehow make her feel better to knock this lauded author? I knew one thing, it made me want to distance myself from her. And I should have. But I’d made a commitment to this mentoring program and I intended to honor it.

       Eventually, she decided to self-publish her novel and asked me to read and blurb it. I did, because, again, I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to make that ask. I’ve benefited from the kindness and generosity of fellow authors; I wanted to pay it back.

       When her novel came out, she asked me to post my review on Amazon. All of a sudden, I felt a strange twinge—had she reviewed my books? And if so, had she applied that same brutal honesty that made her critiques come off like gleeful takedowns?

       Yes, reader, she had—twice. While she’d given four-star ratings, each review contained a paragraph listing everything she’d disliked. 

       Of my memoir, which I narrated, she wrote, “This Audible original was read by the author. It was intended to be funny. Unfortunately, some of the timing of the jokes didn’t quite work. For me I think reading a physical book probably would have been funnier (my inner voice has exceptional comedic timing).... I’d say actors and performers are probably better with reading than most writers.”

       She’d already told me that last remark over a Zoom call. It had stung then, but seeing it writing, where others could view it as well, felt like a fresh slap.

       “Wow, just wow,” I said to my family. “I am a fucking idiot, helping this person, giving my time, my insight, genuinely rooting for her success, only to have her mock my work in a snarky way. This was totally unnecessary. Does she fancy herself the next Harold Bloom?” 

        In what felt like a mini-intervention, my family told me what I already knew: You need to stop looking at reviews. 

       They’re right. I’m done. I take solace in knowing I’m in good company. Camille Pagan, bestselling author, book coach, and host of the You Should Write a Book podcast, often talks about not reading her reviews as a way to safeguard her mental health.

       I also think about this: Why did I start writing in the first place? Because I love it. Before I’d shared any words with the world, it had brought me joy and sometimes clarity as it had helped me process difficult situations. In reading reviews, that joy was diminishing in fractions of stars doled out by people I’d never met—and sometimes by people I’d once thought of as friends. 

       If someone has enjoyed my work, I’m thrilled. If they disliked it, I’m sorry. They’re welcome to their opinion, but I’d prefer not to read it.

       As Rowbottom wisely stated, “…as painful as it is to see a one star drag down on your goodreads page, you actually don’t want everyone to like your work. If you’ve made work everyone likes, it’s middle of the road and unchallenging.”

       I admire authors who can read their reviews, who feel fulfilled and gratified by the good ones while sloughing off the bad. I’m just not one of them.