Over a decade ago, when I started to consider writing seriously, despite not being very good I also knew I could become better. I never had a grand idea of what ‘writer’ I wanted to be; it was simply based on a road not taken much earlier in my life. If I could get to a point where I was writing, as opposed to trying to write, that would be an accomplishment.
Every year I would set myself a modest goal: get into this or that magazine, see how well I could do in a competition. Then it was to publish a book with a small press, after that, try and break into mainstream outlets and get paid for writing about books. All of this I did, and will be the first to tell you it wasn’t easy, but then, as the old saying goes, is anything that is worth it?
Since using social media regularly from about 2014, I, like countless other women, have been subject to a certain kind of man. Not the reply guy, though they are legion. I mean the type that, once they know you write, want you to read their writing. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t ask, never spoke to them or even know them bar in some cases relatively meaningless ‘mutual’ status. You were chosen. You just seemed like the kind of girl/woman that would understand them. I’ve been asked to read poetry and illness diaries (in some cases, just given), been subject to personal details that should have been disclosed to a professional, or at least not me, an internet stranger. I give off neither Mother Teresa nor Manic Pixie Dream Girl energy online, and I’m somewhere in between the two in age, so why me is something I can’t tell you. I suspect the answer is, once again, I was just chosen.
Something I’ve learned over the years is that you can’t win, communicating online or via email with men like this. You can be brief, polite, even friendly or funny, while maintaining a professional distance, but it won’t matter if someone projects their idea of what you are onto you. Then that politeness and friendliness are interpreted as wanting something else, whether it be your writing or more communication you might not want. Being yourself is a minefield, because you are never you to these men; you are someone completely different. After a while, it becomes easy to spot who’s who: they aren’t talking to you, they’re talking about themselves.
Let me be clear. Most men I have encountered online professionally, and a few personally, have not been like this. In my life I have met and conversed with people in the strangest and unlikeliest of ways, who have gone on to be a part of my life, whether regularly or not, and I appreciate the peculiarity of life throwing up situations like that. I think those people know who they are and wouldn’t have any fear of what I’m writing, for the simple fact that they have always spoken, and continue to speak to and with me for who I actually am.
In my professional emails, I am direct. I may have a brief exchange if a relevant subject is being discussed, but that in itself never means a wish for continuance, especially personal. My reviews are work, even if I get pleasure from it, which I do. It doesn’t matter if they were non-paying jobs, which are rare now, or paying. Me taking on a book means I find the book something that is worth further exploration, whether that in the end is positive or more critical. It is not a personal favour nor a kindness. It is simply work.
I expect nothing, and want nothing in return from an author or publisher – I don’t write for them. Indeed, reviewers shouldn’t. If you want that kind of validation as a reviewer, you really chose the worst kind of writing. Writing is solitary, which is a reason why I like it. Every so often I am thanked publicly – that’s nice, but I write for the challenge of it, and yes, to become better still (and don’t forget getting paid).
We know there are different ways of approaching reviews. If you’re freelance, with large outlets, you pitch/are commissioned. With smaller ones, it isn’t much different, but if you’re writing for those you’re probably more likely to be approached by a small publisher or an author directly as well. I get approached by small publishers and large, as well as authors. Mostly, I don’t respond. Not to be rude, but because a) I get too many, and b) often no response is the best one; I don’t wish to be drawn into the whys of something not being interesting as a potential review to me, not to mention the precariousness of freelance writing, which means I don’t have a definite place I can go to that will take me on. Most of my reviews now come from scouring catalogues and pitching or being asked by an editor.
There is also certainly etiquette regarding whom you review. Friends and colleagues are, it should go without saying, off-limits. I’ve had a cases where I’ve reviewed a book, and later on, met the author or translator, and we’ve become friends; yes, men amongst them. If I do, they’re off-limits to me in the future. I know that does get, let’s say, bent, if not broken by people; I think we’ve all seen a review somewhere where you can play a very short game of Six Degrees of Separation between reviewer and author. But I tend to think as a woman, I’m going to held to account more closely than some male reviewers, so I stick to the rules and my additional ones very closely indeed.
I come back to an earlier point: reviewing is work. It is not pity or kindness or personal interest. I am not going to bed or fall in love with you, I’m not thinking about being your friend, nor am I going to review or read all your subsequent work. It should not be on me to say this; you should have the professional and personal intelligence to know this. It should also be self-evident that a reviewer, having done once, is not going to review your work again. This gets slightly complicated with things like translators: I see no particular conflict in reviewing a book with x translator who might go on to write a book under their own name; these are two very separate creative and professional endeavours. I expect those streams don’t often cross. However, in the event of doing so means they are then done, as far as my reviewing is concerned. And I wouldn’t ever do it for a paid publication; that’s where some smaller non-paying outlets have more room to manoeuvre.
Something highly unprofessional is being asked by an author to review another work by them. I don’t care if it’s ten years down the line or two months, although if it’s the latter, and the reviewer is a woman, please ask yourself why that is. Do you consider female reviewers of less professional consideration than a male? We may not always like the rules, official or non, that are in place in reviewing. But exist they do, so the chance of favouritism and exploitation are little to none. It’s in place for both authors and reviewers. There is nothing about being a woman that would exempt them from those rules.
I worked hard to get to the point I have. It would very much be a mistake to assume I would be happy to ruin what little reputation I have for professionalism. But as I said before, you can’t win as a woman who happens to be a writer in an online world. It’s going to be assumed you’re good to be used professionally, or that if you’re remotely friendly, that you’re not woke and so of course you want personal relations, whatever form they might take; reading bad poetry or relationships. So what do you do? I tend to engage once, then walk away. If it’s evident you don’t understand what I’ve politely tried to convey, then I shut down all means to communicate with me. It isn’t burning bridges; it’s maintaining my professionalism and ensuring I continue to do precisely what I wish to. The review was never for you. It was for the book. Never conflate the two.
Image: Susan Sontag screen test by Andy Warhol, Fondation Louis Vuitton. Photo by me.