When the first reviews for my most recent novel (Great Sky Woman, Random House 2006) started coming in, my emotions went through the usual roller coaster. The first, from Publishers Weekly, was 90% positive, but mentioned that, in their opinion, it was slow in spots. My stomach sank. Slow? In spots? Oh my Godall is lost!
The second review came in two weeks later. This one, from Booklist, used words like magnificent and engaging and adventure on a grand scale.
I sighed. Boy, oh boy, did I need to hear that. Why? Because I am an insecure artist. Because I spend, on average, two years researching and one year writing my novels. Because I care so very much about each and every one of my literary children. Because I pour my life into every project I work on, break my head open, remove the protective walls from around my heart. I have to, because that is the only way to access my talent. I CANT do less than my very bestthat would immediately devolve to hack work, and that I cannot do.
Some say to ignore reviews, that they are only the opinions of people who, often, are jealous of work they themselves could not create. I choose not to embrace that opinion. To me,...
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