The joy and pain of reviewing books

EACH year, around two million books are published worldwide and every one of them will either change your life, leave you spellbound or offer a profound exposition of “what it means to be human”. Or so the publicity blurbs would have you believe.

Herald reviewers do their best to help readers cut through all that flyleaf hyperbole and we aim to cover an array of Scottish and international titles, mixing fiction with non-fiction and sampling everything from politics and biography to mountaineering and fine art. Sadly, finite space means we can only feature a small selection from the thousands of promising titles released each week. So, while reading books for a living can hardly be described as a tough job, having to pass over so many is a real source of a literary editor’s angst.

Then again, so is running reviews that are less than flattering. We choose titles we think will be worth reading and that will make for enjoyable copy, but critics have to be honest in their assessments. And while it’s probably a myth that John Keats died as a result of harsh reviews of his poem, Endymion, I doubt if any editor ever presses “publish” without a pang of sympathy for an author whose book has taken flak.

Reading is a subjective process, of course. Who hasn’t dutifully ploughed through a friend’s recommendation, wondering what on earth they saw in it? Reviewing is no different and, ultimately, book-buyers will judge for themselves. Vladimir Nabokov’s 1955 novel Lolita was dismissed by the New York Times as not only “repulsive” but “dull, dull, dull in a pretentious, florid and archly fatuous fashion”. Yet, within half a century, it had sold 50 million copies and although its theme is perhaps more controversial than ever, it’s still selling.

Alongside reviews, we sometimes run extracts, features and interviews, including an occasional series in which authors describe their writing methods. From these, we’ve learned that Alexander Mccall Smith often starts work at 3am, Val Mcdermid never writes a word before her second morning coffee, and Chris Brookmyre begins each novel by wandering around his neighbourhood, audibly plotting murders into his mobile phone.

By inviting us into their workspaces, these authors offer fascinating insight into the creative process, reminding us that, for all the glamour and hype associated with the £6 billion-ayear UK publishing industry, crafting a book is a solitary pursuit that requires discipline, perseverance and hard slog – often for little or no financial reward.

Few writers make grandiose claims about transforming readers’ lives or channelling the essence of the human condition (whatever that is). But if they can inform, entertain and offer a glimpse of how it feels to live in another person’s skin, their books deserve to be read.