Why I Waited An Entire Year to Read My Book Reviews

As Taylor would say, “It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me.”

Apr 22, 2024

First, because this is the Internet, a disclaimer: I believe many authors can read their reviews and not be affected by them, or even find the feedback useful, entertaining, helpful, what have you. Knowing my unique heart (which is to say: my propensity to seek approval in the feedback of others), along with all the ways God has graciously untangled my worth from my accomplishments in recent years, the decision to steer clear of book reviews for a year felt like the right choice for me personally. Of course other writers have all the freedom in the world to choose differently. I do not believe one approach is morally or spiritually superior in any way.

I promise you I didn’t title this post to get clicks, but I will also simultaneously confess: nothing makes me click on a link faster than a writer discussing their own book reviews. I have long been fascinated by this part of the publishing process. Do authors read their own reviews obsessively? Ignore them completely? Or—what I assume most do—secretly read them obsessively while pretending to ignore them completely?

Like you, I’ve seen it all. I’ve watched authors copy/paste their 5-star reviews into pretty Canva graphics and post them to Instagram as part of their marketing efforts. I’ve seen other authors read their one-star reviews aloud on Reels, a la Jimmy Kimmel’s mean Tweets. I’ve seen authors go on full-blown rants, beg their followers to counter bad reviews with good ones, laugh, cry, and everything in between.

On the day of my book release, I told my husband I didn’t want to read any book reviews for six months.

“Hold me accountable,” I joked, “if you see me in the fetal position scrolling Goodreads, please take my phone away.”

I ended up waiting an entire year, and—much to my own surprise—it wasn’t even hard.

Apparently, ignorance IS bliss.

At first, I didn’t read the reviews because my skin was paper-thin. I still felt too tender, too close to the work, too sensitive. Ignoring the book reviews altogether became a form of self-protection, a way of safely ducking into my turtle shell.1

When the six-month mark rolled around, I contemplated doing a virtual drive-by. I hemmed. I hawed. (I had to admit, I was a tiny bit curious.) By that point, there was enough emotional distance between me and the book that a few bad reviews wouldn’t have spent me spiraling.

And still, I waited.

Oddly enough, the longer I stayed away from the Goodreads listing, the easier it got. But there was something else, too. Something even better, something even more miraculous: the longer I held off on reading my book reviews, the more I found myself resting in the only approval that matters.

My personality type struggles with approval. And by struggle, I mean: my default, fleshy Enneagram 3 self craves it, all of the time. Heart unchecked and left to my own devices, I become the very hungry caterpillar. Only instead of chasing pears and plums and chocolate cake and salami, I chase likes and hearts and trophies and gold stars, hustling and striving and working myself into the ground until I have a stomachache. This never-ending appetite defined me for most of my twenties and into my early thirties, until I finally hit burnout and ended up in the fetal position on the floor where God gently pried open my tightly-closed fists and said, Darling daughter, let me show you a better way.

In other words, if I am not careful, I can easily go searching for my identity in accomplishments and accolades (see also: what people think about those accomplishments and accolades). I am the type of person who—without Spirit-ignited discipline and self-control—could spend hours upon hours reading my own reviews and obsessing over the feedback. I am the type of person who, in a moment of weakness, could easily let a complete stranger’s criticism on the Internet dictate my own feelings about the work I prayerfully poured three years of my life into.

With every passing day that I managed to avoid the commentary on Amazon and Goodreads, the worth and value of Create Anyway became more and more intrinsic to me. In a roundabout way, avoiding the reviews altogether rooted me in the truth: that regardless of the star rating, or the praise, or the criticism, I can remain at peace with what I’ve published. Not because the book is perfect (it is not) or because there’s nothing I would go back and change now (there absolutely is), but because, at the end of the day, writing Create Anyway was a sheer act of faith and obedience.

By God’s grace, that was—and is, and will always be—enough.

I write in the introduction:

Creativity is not a simple commodity, something we shuffle around buying and selling at the market square. Creativity is a fundamental part of being human, of being an image bearer, of being alive.

Throughout the book I write about the necessity of play, and rest, and the importance of keeping a “mission over metrics” mindset. I write about creativity being a gift, an offering, something we do as part of our call to seek beauty among brokenness, to bring glory to God, and to stay hopeful in a groaning world.

On page 206, I write:

When we focus more on the worldly outcome of our efforts than the inner rewards of using our God-given gifts, we’ve put our treasure in the wrong place.

In a very full-circle moment, the act of *not* reading my book reviews became a profound invitation to truly practice what I preach.

My skin is a lot thicker one year out. And still, the day I pull up the Amazon listing, I feel a flutter of nerves. Not because I think the reviews will be terrible or scathing, but because it simply feels vulnerable to read what people think of something I poured so much of myself into.

I cannot remember where I heard this, but a few years ago, I stumbled across the advice that you should never let praise go to your head, and never let criticism go to your heart.

I say a quick prayer along those lines, then scroll down and begin to read.

I can’t help but smile at how many names I recognize. Friends in real life. Women from my book launch team. Readers I’ve never met but whose names ring familiar, women who have encouraged me over the years through emails and comments and DMs.

The reviews are overwhelmingly kind. For a split second, I think maybe I should have read them sooner, like the last time I considered quitting writing altogether, which was, by my recollection, exactly eight days ago.

I would be remiss to not end this post with a sincere thank you to those of you who have left generous reviews. Please don’t take my review avoidance as anything more than It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me. Reviews are highly influential in convincing people to take a chance on a book, and I am forever, abundantly grateful for everyone who took a chance on mine.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you.2

To be clear: I did receive some very very very kind feedback in my personal inbox and Instagram DMs. In this post, I am specifically talking about public online reviews, not personal correspondence or messages.

And hey, while we’re here and talking about it 😜 — it’s not to late to leave a review on Goodreads or Amazon, or wherever you purchased it, if you feel so inclined!