As an author, I try to
always keep my reader in mind as I work.
Will they like this character?
Will the storyline live up to the reader’s expectations and deliver the
kind of feels they are looking for?
In a romance that’s the
warm, fuzzy Awww! In a mystery,
it’s the mind puzzle. In a thriller it’s the heart-pounding, edge of the seat,
nerve-jangling suspense and excitement.
Authors care about
readers and their opinions. What worked
in this story? What didn’t work? What would you like to see more of?
That’s why it’s so
important to leave a review of the books you enjoyed on either Amazon,
Goodreads or Bookbub. It doesn’t need to
be a book report, and please don’t include spoilers or give away the
ending. A simple, ‘I really loved these
characters and their story’ warms the author’s heart on those cold, lonely days
when the words don’t flow and we wonder why we are even bothering.
The other reason
reviews matter pertains to advertising.
Too few reviews, or a low ranking with reviews, can curtail an author’s
bid for coveted advertising spots. You
might think advertisers will take any author’s advertising dollars, but that’s
not always the case. The platforms that
deliver a good return on an author’s investment are really choosy about what
they advertise to their followers. There
are far more authors clamoring to be seen than spots available.
Think about that, also,
when you post your next review. Did the
book really deserve 1 star? It doesn’t
happen often, but I’ve been given 1 star because the reviewer didn’t like the
subject matter or heat level, which is really unfair. That one bad review drags down my average and
well could prevent me from reaching readers who will enjoy the story.
A story that is poorly
written, unreadable and full of typing and grammar mistakes might warrant 1
star, but I would opt to skip reviewing it all together. I recently judged a contest of unpublished
stories and most were really good, but there was one that I found problematic
and difficult to follow. I tried to be
constructive and explain my reason for the lower scores. To my surprise, the story obviously resonated
with the other judges because it went on to the final round. And I was glad. Just because it wasn’t for me didn’t make it
a bad story. After all, judging, just
like reviewing, is totally objective.
As many of us heard
growing up, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” It’s so easy to be negative. But a few kind words about an author’s work
really do go a long way.
To chase away the
winter gloom, I’ll be releasing a new series of sweet contemporary romances soon,
starting with ONE CINDERELLA SPRING.
Cindy clambered up the ladder, stretched up on tiptoe to
replace the shoe box on the very top shelf, then inched her way back down and
reached the floor with a semi graceful hop.
When she looked up, Prince Charming stood before her. She hadn’t heard him
enter the shop over the drone of the electric fan that was doing its
halfhearted best to stir the muggy air. He stood watching her, an admiring half smile on his face. He’d probably
been looking up her skirt. Good thing she had her bike shorts underneath.
“Can I help you?” She glanced at the
clock on the far wall. Why did people wait until five minutes before closing to
wander in?
“If you can’t help me, then I am in big
trouble,” he said with a disarming smile.
He could save the charm for someone who
appreciated it. Someone who’d swoon at the lethal combination of linebacker
shoulders, tousled dark hair, chiseled cheekbones and a killer smile. Rather
than swoon, Cindy ran a hand through her haphazard tangle of wavy blond hair,
which she kept short in hopes it would stay tidy.
“I’m on the hunt for a pair of shoes.
For my sister,” he added.
“Anything in particular?” She noted
that the sister line had been tagged in quickly. Lingerie shops or women’s
shoes. Men didn’t seem to realize that Cindy didn’t much care if he was
planning to wear the purchase himself, or if it really was for his sweetheart.
The sister, though. That was a new twist.
He pulled a scrap of paper from his
pocket. “She wants a pair of red leather pumps. Size eight, narrow. Do you have
any?”
Cindy gave him a long, searching look
before she spun around, so quickly she could feel her skirt flutter across her
thighs. “Over here.”
There’d been a surge of interest in red
pumps ever since she’d posted on the Madronna Beach Local Facebook page that
she’d lost a shoe of the same description. Despite the flood of comments on the
Cinderella’s dilemma post, the missing shoe had yet to surface.
And here’s a snippet from Madison’s
story in ONE STOLEN SUMMER:
As Madison started down the rutted driveway toward the main
residence, she noticed a swath of light through the front window. Must be the
Hardy Boys. As she sauntered past the house, trying not to stare but hoping to
catch a glimpse of the new residents, she let out a startled cry and fell
headlong over something lying on the ground.
The porch light winked on seconds later, revealing that she
had been tripped up by a miniature mountain bike lying in the middle of the
driveway. A short, shadowy figure on the porch was staring in her direction as
she clambered to her feet.
“Dad, someone’s trying to steal my bike.”
Madison dusted off her hands and knees and took a tentative
step forward to make sure her limbs were in full working order. A much taller
figure appeared behind the short one.
“I wasn’t stealing it,” Madison said. “But that’s a dumb
spot to park it.”
“The lady’s right, son. Come and make sure she’s all right.”
The man descended the three steps to ground level but even then, she had to
crane her head to meet his gaze. Madison was five-foot-four, a fact she was
reminded of by the man before her, who stood nearly a foot taller.
“I’m fine,” she said. “You’ve probably already figured out
that I’m Coach’s daughter, Madison.”
“That was my first guess.” Her hand was swallowed up in a
firm, masculine grip. “Greg Hardy. We were going to mosey over tomorrow and say
hello. Contrary to appearances, my son knows better than to leave his bike
lying around, don’t you, Ty?”
“Aw, Dad.”
“Move it or lose it,” Greg said. He had a nice voice,
Madison noticed. Deep and sexy.
“I work nights at the pub down the road.”
“So Coach told me.”
Madison laughed, trying to cover up how suddenly awkward she
felt. “He kept referring to you as the Hardy Boys. After my favorite teenage
detective books,” she added.
“I know who the Hardy Boys are.” His voice was dry. They
could have been discussing the weather. Because the light was behind him, she
couldn’t tell much about his looks beyond his height. Dark hair. Broad
shoulders. Great voice. Hunky Hardy.
“Sorry about my bike, ma’am.” Hunky’s son stooped to pick up
his bike. When he turned sideways, the light fell across his face and Madison
felt her insides give a lurch. The little boy from the party today was living
here. The one who wished his father wasn’t so sad.
I spend a lot of time in the Wild West writing about cowboys, so it's always fun to mix things up a little. Do you read across a variety of genres or mostly stick to one time period and setting?
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