I'm a writer first, and a reviewer second.  It's difficult for me to imagine the word 'critic' after my name, as in Evelyn Sharenov, 'book critic,' restaurant critic,' theatre critic,' opera critic.'   There is hypocrisy in this - I admit it.  I write reviews and literary criticism for money.  And I'm a card-carrying member of the National Book Critics Circle (well, they don't send out cards, but you know what I mean), and I'm not inclined to apologize for it.  I always try to find something positive to say about a book - a charm for good karma that Alice Hoffman's reviewer also observed.     

But here's a newsflash: reviewing what's already written is easier than writing what does not yet exist - because of the nerve, energy, resilience, ability, blind leap of faith it takes to write something and usher it into print.   

There are two contexts for my ambivalence on reviewing: Mel Brooks and my experience as an editor of the Oregon Literary Review.

I've written about my love of Mel several times in past blogs.  I recall mentioning his movie 'History of the World, Part One.'  ((I can think of few writers (or groups of writers) who have earned the creds to be tasteless, silly and hypercritical at the same time.  Mel Brooks is the first.  Monty Python is the  second.))  

But back to 'History of the World, Part One': in Mel's world, evolution moves rapidly from the birth of the artist, to the afterbirth: the critic.  This stayed with me - from the time before I ever wrote a word for publication, let alone considered reviewing someone else's book.  

There are reviewers whose work I admire to the extent that I'm very careful when I buy the books they review - their prose style is robust and the reviews so lushly written that they are better than the books themselves.  Then there are reviewers whose work I read but wouldn't think to rule out the book on the basis of the review - because of the towering reputations of the reviewers and the power their wordy reviews wield.

I admit I have never been able to read one of Alice Hoffman's books all the way through.  I know she's popular, but her work just doesn't align with my taste in books.  Neither does the work of Jodi Picault or Alice Sebold, but all have their place in popular fiction.  It's a matter of  personal preference.  Their fans will read their books and see the movies made from those books, no matter what I think.  They don't need me.

As an editor at the Oregon Literary Review, I once rejected an essay from a woman whose piece just didn't make the grade, in any number of ways.  I received a hateful email back from her - she accused me of being one of those 'snub-nosed New York Jews'  (?!!! - just look at my photo - it's obvious I've never had a nosejob)who wouldn't know a piece of great writing if I tripped on it.  She then wished that I might 'die die die in a concentration camp.'  It was obvious to me that there was something wrong with her the night she wrote and sent me that email - probably some alcohol on board.  I sent a copy of her email to the publisher and let him handle it - which he did.  Perhaps she's in rehab or therapy or has found another avenue of personal expression, something other sending nasty emails to editors who've rejected her work and advocating genocide.  I hope she's feeling better.

We make choices as writers and reviewers.  There was nothing egregious in the review of Hoffman's book.  Hoffman's response gave in to her worst urge.  I can empathize with her feelings but cannot empathize with her behavior.  I hope she can find what help she needs to move forward and go on writing, as there are millions of readers waiting for her next book.