Not so very long ago, a site came online called Stop the Goodreads Bullies. I would urge you not to google this site right now, and I’m not going to link to it, but I am going to note its name straight up. Fuck Voldemort. I’ll name the blog that shouldn’t be named. They claimed they were taking a stand about the big meanies on Goodreads who had the temerity to write bad reviews; uppity bitches and all. The very first posts on the site were a series of profiles of Goodreads reviewers outing their real names, the names of their spouses, editorializing on their parenting skills, and, in at least one instance, noting the places they lunched, avowedly so they they could “get a taste of their own medicine”. This, friends, is a direct threat to readers, and more specifically on female readers (which they all were), offering up personal details of people to silence them with the possibility that psychos might call them at home. Which, again, happened in at least one instance.
Now, while I wasn’t targeted by the STGRB freaks in their initial outing, many of the people targeted were my friends, and I was afraid for them. Due to swift action, STGRB ended up scrubbing their site pretty fast of the most egregious and probably legally actionable content. Also, they were forced by a national organization against school bullying to take down the banners they had festooned all over the site. Unfortunately, the post I had that detailed the screencaps of their most terrible shit has gone down, but I saw all this stuff with my own eyes, and if my google skills were better, I could find documentation. (ETA: There’s a round-up of dozens of blog posts about STGRB and their tactics here.) There’s a lot wrong with STGRB’s tactics and philosophy, but one of the biggest problems is that it reduces the critical dialogue to personal threats. When I say, “I don’t like your book,” the response “I know where you live” is a critical non sequitur with teeth. I’ve fought with all kinds of readers about interpretation. I hate with a white hot intensity when people say that Lolita was complicit in her rape, for example. But a rebuttal of that nonsense that hinges on the other person’s address is no rebuttal at all.
So while I wasn’t targeted, seeing these posts scared me, because I know I’d be on the list eventually. Pretty much any woman who says anything in public is going to have to deal with rape and murder threads, from lobbying for Jane Austen on currency, to being a Labor MP, and daring to support said Austen money, to criticizing video games. I guess what I’m getting at is that there’s a scope creep inherent in any “outing” enterprise, and there are real world consequences of said outing. Mostly I practice security through obscurity, because while I may be one of the top ten reviewers on Goodreads, I’m not harboring any delusions of my wider influence or importance. Thank Christ I’m not actually famous, because just a little fame will garner me rape and death threats all day. And get this: I’m just a fucking person.
Which is where I am at the start of my read of The Goodreads Killer. I’m kind of irritated just at the outset because this book is serious fucking click-bait, absolutely designed to get people like me – highly placed Goodreads reviewers – to download this shit, read it, and snark. It angers me that I’m doing just that, because while I think The Goodreads Killer is kinda brilliant in its ability to get me raging on the Internets, which will no doubt translate into click-throughs and downloads, it’s not actually any good, you know? I’m not even kidding when I say my husband and I just spent about an hour arguing about this book. My initial reaction was so personal, so fuck you, that I’m glad he talked me down, but be it known that those feelings thrum though this entire review. I am not a lit-crit machine or a blurb generator. This is an emotional response.
Some fucking tosser goes down to the river to burn his self-published books because critics, is confronted by a smelly dude, and told to go see some Red Headed League or dire consequences. He and league guy talk about how critics are RUINING ARTISTS with their HONESTY AND BULLSHIT and eventually set on plan where self-pub dude is going to kill the critic Bryan. There’s an interlude at this point involving Mr. Writer getting what I think is a reverse cowgirl from a secretary, but the physicality is weak, and maybe it’s just a regular cowgirl. Frankly, I’ve read better sex scenes in monster porn. Also, I skipped every single word of the excerpts from writerman’s novel, because who gives a shit, seriously. Bad examples of “good” writing, if that’s what they are supposed to be. Writer psycho hunts down the critic and kills him in a full on abattoir. The end.
After giving my husband this run-down, his eyes lit up in little hearts. “That’s brilliant!” he exclaimed! “He’s like totally baiting you with breaking the fourth wall and that set-up is amazing!”
“Sure,” I said, hedging towards the back door so I could smoke contemplatively in the ridiculous late-August heat. “But it’s not like one thing in that book was intentional. He believes what he’s writing, I think, even if there’s this half-assed satirical gloss.”
“When have you ever given a shit about intentionality?” I style for a minute, refilling my glass.
“If this had been written by Vernon D. Burns, I’d know exactly where I stand in terms of latent misogyny and general fuckitude, but that’s not where we are. Michel Foucault in the essay “What is an Author? speculates:
Our culture has metamorphosed this idea of narrative, or writing, as something designed to ward off death. Writing has become linked to sacrifice, even to the sacrifice of life: it is now a voluntary effacement that does not need to be represented in books, since it is brought about in the writer’s very existence. The work, which once had the duty of providing immortality, now possesses the right to kill, to be its author’s murderer, as in the cases of Flaubert, Proust, and Kafka. That is not all, however: this relationship between writing and death is also manifested in the effacement of the writing subject’s individual characteristics. Using all the contrivances that he sets up between himself and what he writes, the writing subject cancels out the signs of his particular individuality. As a result, the mark of the writer is reduced to nothing more than the singularity of his absence; he must assume the role of the dead man in the game of writing.
The author becomes a self-annihilating particle, a trademark logo at the edge of the interpretation, receding into the distance, stripped of personhood and imbued with categorical insight. But here the author murders the critic, laying his inevitable annihilation on some twat in Surrey or whatever. Readers don’t wreak the author; the author wrecks himself, because he should and does cease to exist in the work. If he doesn’t, he’s a self-insert looking for a reverse cowgirl from fangirls.”
“Whoa,” my husband said. “There’s no way you actually quoted that shit to me, plus this whole conversation thing is kinda trite, don’t you think? A little obvious and playing for the cheap seats?”
“Sure,” I say. “But it’s my fucking review. Look, I get that there’s some wiggle room here of interpretation, and maybe this is supposed to be a mordant satire of whackadoos who think that it’s okay to kill people because they drank some haterade about a book…” My husband breaks in.
“But what about the prologue!!” He yells!! (This is the only part he’s read.) “Obviously he’s funning. He’s joking around about his revenge fantasies. How many times have you read a review you hated because you thought it was wrong?”
“Every day? I hate reviews every day. But you know what I don’t do? Fantasize about getting cowgirls and then murdering someone. I imagine writing brilliant fucking retorts and then posting them. Sometimes I go so far as to write them, only I never post them. Because if I can’t bring myself to like a review, I’m not allowed to comment.”
“How is this different? How is posting a hater review different?”
“Fuck, I don’t know; maybe it’s not different. But I see a difference between what I feel like are my personal codes of conduct and and what is acceptable. While I think punitive shelving is lame, I don’t really care if it goes on if it doesn’t cross the line into threats. And while I think bagging an author’s appearance is lame (and usually gendered), I think that’s hella different from posting their address and entreating fucking lunatics to ‘give them a taste of their own medicine’. Which would be what, exactly? Strongly worded email? At the place I fucking lunch? I don’t think so.”
“You’re back on STGRB, conflating them with the ‘pro-artist’ group in the book.”
“You bet my ass I am. Also, you are going to be so mad I’m putting words in your mouth, again.”
“I love you, babe.”
“I know. Anyway, all I’m saying is that this book is shitty on multiple levels, and maybe it’s trying to be clever, and maybe it isn’t, but because it’s so fucking shitty I can’t actually ascertain said cleverness. And I’m pissed I’m writing the review right now, because I’m in a house of cards of click-throughs and likes, where I feed off this bullshit to stay up in charts, and he eats my hater push, and it’s like a dance of the douches. I feel like a douche.”
“You should write that thing about Stephenie Meyer that you said because I kept calling this ‘brilliant’”
“Oh yeah! So, I think the birthing sequence in Breaking Dawn is fucking terrifying, but that book is a nuclear disaster, and I wouldn’t call a minute of it intentional. Meyer managed to hit a third rail there, managed to touch on something that I felt was profound, but I wouldn’t call it good, and I don’t think she planned it. She was writing from her lizard brain. Which is right where The Goodreads Killer is coming from. It might have hit me in a sweet spot because I’m one of however many people on Goodreads who gives a shit about shelving arcana and reviewer/author politics, but I think it’s mostly an accident, and I don’t like what I think it’s saying.”
“Reading is a passive event. It’s undertaken in interstitial moments, alone, and it’s accompanied by musing and dreaming. That this one book reached out, whether intentional or not, and shook you personally where you live is a notable thing. It’s a fascinating, unintentionally brilliant thing. It’s a fourth wall breaker that can only work for a specific number of people, and that you are member of that demographic, and that you read it, is really something. It’s a brilliant use of social media marketing bait. It doesn’t even matter that it sucks. If it were good, it wouldn’t have the same effect.”
“Yup. But still it sucks.”
I’m going to dispense with this scenario while I grope to a coda. I am able to see why my husband thought the whole click-baiting, sloppily meta fourth-wall thing was neat, but then he works in advertising, so that sort of thing appeals to him. And I’m not in any way saying that the author of this book is threatening me personally, or that I think it’s some kind of incitement to violence. I’m not new to the concepts of damaged narrators or satire, thank you. I am also not clutching my pearls over cowgirls – forward or back – and I love well done goopy gross-out body horror. But I am way too close to the target of this little “revenge fantasy” – in fact I am the target, categorically speaking – and I have seen ideation like this result in real world consequences often enough for me to think it’s not fucking funny.
My boy Freud observed that some jokes are masked aggression, and here the mask has slipped, and the anemic “just kidding” appended to the proceedings figleafs over some very misplaced rage. This is the “kicking up versus kicking down” distinction that Patton Oswalt makes in his essay about rape jokes. This book is kicking down. I don’t think reviewers are inviolate, and there’s a lot about Goodreads reviewing culture that I find tiresome. There is super fertile ground here to say some pointed things about all kinds of fascinating topics: anonymity, publishing trends, even the concept of citizen reviewing. Instead this reads like a petulant screed by a psycho who has some serious issues with women. I feel like I do after hanging out with racist family members at the holidays, putting up with a series of ethnic jokes that are as tired as they are hateful. Just kidding! Har har! No you’re not. And that I don’t find them funny doesn’t make me humorless, it makes me a person with working empathy.