I'm pretty used to reviews, although I still can't understand why people bother to write them. I understand why people like to read them, of course; the purpose and usefulness of reviews is pretty obvious. What I will never understand is why people feel the need to write them. Then again, I suppose I could try to answer why I feel the need to publish every random thought I have on this web site and in The Inner Swine , instead of pompously wondering about other people. But if I did that there wouldn't be anything left for me to write about. 
    Reviews happen. People have been telling me what they think about The Inner Swine since the first issue dribbled out into the world. And I have been ignoring them. Growing up we all hear about the value of constructive criticism, and as we worm our way through the colon of semi-professional writing you get a lot of begging for feedback and lecturing on the value of feedback. But I don't agree, mainly because most of the reviews I've read about my zine either very clearly don't get the joke, or are just being bastards. There are plenty of people who are bastards in this world, have no doubt, and a lot of zine reviews are just harsh because their authors want to prove their hardassedness. 
    Don't get me wrong; there's plenty to complain about The Inner Swine and there are plenty of reviews out there which have made coherent, valid complaints against my zine. Not all reviews are useless. I just don't have time to figure out which is which. I believe that writing in general, and putting out a zine in specific, requires an ego the size of Texas and a myopic arrogance which could power a small city were technology developed to harness it. Reading reviews just erodes that sense of omnipotence. Even the positive reviews can be disconcerting if the reviewer totally doesn't get it, because it makes you wonder if you're really that terrible a writer that no one seems to get the point. 
    Still, I'm used to it. I reprint every review of TIS I find in the zine, as most of you know well. It's one of the least understood features of my little publication, and the subject of the most questions from people, who think I'm either a raging egomaniac (probably true but beside the point) or just desperate for material to fill a zine they probably find bizarre and useless (also probably true but beside the point). The reviews don't bother me, basically, because the aforementioned arrogance and egomania allow me to easily believe that anyone who doesn't think I'm a genius is: dumb. 
    Recently, however, my novel has been getting reviews. Desperate for any hint of publicity or indication that someone is actually purchasing my novel, I read these reviews as I find them and post them to my web site. The discussions concerning my talent as a writer don't bother me overmuch. What bothers me is the glee with which reviewers keep pointing out the logic errors and inconsistencies in the plot. 

    I've never been he most organized or coherent person. This is a charming personality trait when you meet me in person, but becomes a dangerous frailty when you're trying to plot a story. Still, the book got sold, didn't it? The plot holes couldn't have been all that glaring. But plenty of people have been joyfully shoving my bad plotting in my face, and it's getting a little depressing. I've been told privately that in one sequence where the main character is switching people's security passcards around in an attempt to steal one unnoticed, I get the sequence wrong and it makes no sense. I've been told in a review that I state that one character has no knowledge of the antics of other characters, and then two chapters later they demonstrate such knowledge. I've had it suggested to my face in private - by a fellow who actually liked the book - that the manuscript could not have been copy-edited at all. It was. Or so I was told, and I believed it. 
    In other words, I'm an idiot. 
    I suppose it could be a lot worse. People could be pointing out my physical deformities, or publicly burning my book. Most of the reviews, after all, have been modestly positive. So why bitch? And why do these reviews bug me in a way that every single review of my zine has not? Simple: my zine is thrown together in a last-minute panic every time, and I not only tolerate a high level of errors in it, I expect them. Oh, I make some effort at getting my zine to look good: I try to have a pleasing layout, I try to proofread it, I have Karen Accavallo run her blue pencil over it. But I still assume that when I send it out to my waiting public, it's a mess. And I'm usually right. But for some reason none of the reviews of TIS have ever mentioned the misspellings, the grammatical errors, or the continuity gaps. This is probably because in the world of photocopied zines, people expect such errors, and may even be displeased if they do not find them. 
    In the novel, though, I made a conscious effort to remove such errors, and relied on the kind professionals at the publisher to help me. That we all failed bothers me. That total strangers are rubbing my face in it bothers me even more. 

    Oh well. I think that if I ever establish myself as some sort of literary genius, suddenly these ‘errors' will become ‘mysteries' and students will write complex papers about them, explaining them away more eloquently than I ever could. Or perhaps I could publish a new edition with the errors corrected and 300 pages of new material. All it will take is a huge amount of success and someone declaring me a (insert literary icon here) for the 21st century. How hard can that be? Bret Easton Ellis is still selling manuscripts. Some of those literary types are: not smart. So we ought to get along swimmingly. 
    New column in about two weeks. In the meantime, please feel free to drop me a note .