I’m the worst book reviewer ever. I recognize it, and I’m mostly okay with it.
It’s not just that I’m bad at coming up with pithy one liners, which I am, but also because, well, truth is, I give everything I review five stars. How can you possibly trust a reviewer who adores everything? Well, gosh, you probably can’t. But, in my small defense, if something is atrocious I don’t bother reviewing it. Otherwise, I have a lot of respect for the work that went into writing the book in question, and I tend to legitimately like the authors I’m reviewing, if only as people, and I don’t enjoy hurting feelings. There’s not a lot of meanness in me.
Should I be more discerning? Maybe, I don’t know. I’m comfortable that everything I review is worth buying though, and, at least to me, it doesn’t matter if I think it’s worth buying at a level three, four, or five. It’s kinda like the way someone can’t be a little bit pregnant. I don’t think any of the books I review are a little bit worth buying; rather, I think they’re all worthy of being read. And I urge everyone to read more.
So, take my reviews with a grain of salt. And maybe a shot of whiskey if that’s what you’re into.