My rules for reviewing a book I disliked

Disliking a book is easy to announce and surprisingly difficult to explain well. A quick “I hated it” may capture a genuine reaction, yet it tells another reader very little. A useful review must turn private response into public reasoning: what the book attempts, where it succeeds, where it falls short, and why the result did not work for you.

That distinction matters on an author website, where readers may arrive looking for a thoughtful conversation about literature rather than a string of star ratings. Howard G. Franklin’s work, including the novel Gideon’s Children and the memoir-travelogue An Irish Experience, invites attention to history, place, identity and personal memory. Those subjects deserve criticism that is alert, specific and humane.

A reviewer also has a responsibility to remember that a book is made by people who have invested years of thought, labour and hope in it. Respect for that labour does not require politeness at the expense of honesty. A poor review can still be frank. The important thing is to criticise the work on the page, not mock the person who wrote it.

This is especially relevant in Australia’s reading culture, where a review can influence a purchase at Dymocks, Readings or an independent shop in Fremantle, Hobart or regional New South Wales. Readers often rely on reviews before ordering from Booktopia, borrowing through a local library or choosing a title discussed on ABC Radio. A careful assessment serves all of them better than a performance of outrage.

Read far enough to judge the book fairly

My first rule is simple: finish the book whenever that is reasonably possible. A novel may begin slowly, use an unfamiliar structure or deliberately withhold information. A memoir may take time to establish its setting and emotional terms. Abandoning a book at page forty can be entirely sensible for a busy reader, but it does not always justify a definitive judgement about the whole work.

There are exceptions. If a book contains harmful material, careless misinformation or an approach that makes continued reading distressing, stopping is legitimate. The review should then be precise about its limits: “I read the first third” is more trustworthy than pretending to know the ending. Readers can distinguish between an incomplete reading experience and a full critical response if the reviewer states the difference plainly.

Before writing, I make a few notes while the response is still fresh, then revisit them after some distance. Immediate irritation may identify a real problem, but it can also come from a mismatch of expectations. A thriller that feels too quiet, a family saga that seems too sprawling or a poetic novel that resists conventional plot may be doing exactly what it intends. The reviewer’s first duty is to discover the book’s governing ambition.

That process is useful in Australia’s book-club culture, where a title may be discussed over coffee in a suburban library or during a rainy evening in a community hall in Ballarat. Saying “this is not the kind of book I usually enjoy” can open a conversation. Saying “the book is worthless” closes it before anyone has examined the reasons.

Separate personal taste from craft

A disliked book often reveals more than one kind of dissatisfaction. Perhaps its subject does not interest me. Perhaps the voice feels mannered, the pacing drags, the dialogue sounds artificial or the central argument is unconvincing. These are different criticisms and should not be collapsed into one emotional verdict.

I ask whether the book achieves the effect it appears to seek. If a writer aims for intimacy, do the details create emotional closeness, or do they become explanatory and distant? If the purpose is suspense, do the revelations build pressure? If the book addresses race, civil rights, migration or national memory, does its language give those issues complexity, or reduce them to convenient lessons?

Technical observations make a review useful. Instead of writing that the prose is “bad”, I might say that several scenes repeat the same information, that metaphors compete for attention, or that the narrator tells us what a character feels after the dialogue has already shown it. The reader can then decide whether the flaw matters to them.

I also distinguish awkward writing from a style that simply lies outside my preference. Some readers favour clean, restrained sentences; others enjoy lush description, fragmentation or a highly individual voice. Reading poetry can sharpen a novelist’s attention to rhythm, image and compression, as discussed in this reflection on reading poetry closely. A style should be assessed on its control and purpose, not its familiarity.

Use evidence without turning the review into a prosecution

A strong negative review needs examples, but examples must be handled carefully. I choose a few representative passages or scenes and explain what they demonstrate. One quotation may show clumsy exposition; another may reveal an inconsistency in characterisation. The purpose is not to collect embarrassing sentences like evidence in a courtroom. It is to connect a specific feature to the reading experience.

Plot details should be shared with restraint. A review that reveals a late twist can damage a book for someone who has just bought it from a shop in Adelaide or downloaded it before a long train journey. I identify spoilers clearly and keep them out of the opening assessment. Even when a story disappointed me, future readers deserve the chance to encounter its discoveries for themselves.

Context is equally important. A historical novel should be considered in relation to the period it represents, while a memoir must be read as a shaped account rather than a complete record of a life. I check dates, names and major claims where possible, especially when the book touches on Indigenous history, immigration, public policy or civil rights. An inaccurate review can compound the book’s errors rather than illuminate them.

The Australian context can make this especially delicate. A book may be marketed differently in Sydney, Perth and a small town in the Northern Territory, and access to specialist criticism is uneven. If a work is hard to find outside major cities, I should not assume that readers have the same opportunities to test my claims. A review ought to provide useful orientation, not merely display the reviewer’s research.

Be candid about representation and the reader’s response

When a book deals with culture, race, gender, sexuality, disability or colonial history, I pay attention to who is speaking, who is being observed and whose knowledge is treated as authoritative. A writer may have good intentions and still rely on stereotypes, flatten a community or make suffering serve as atmosphere. These concerns should be named directly, with enough detail for readers to understand the criticism.

At the same time, I avoid claiming an authority I do not possess. My response is situated. I can describe how a passage affected me and explain the assumptions I noticed, but I should not present my individual reaction as the only possible reading. Where relevant, I look for criticism from people with lived or scholarly knowledge of the subject.

This approach is important when reviewing memoir. Personal truth can include contradiction, selective memory and uncertainty. A memoir is not weakened merely because it is subjective; its form depends on the writer shaping experience into meaning. My concern is whether the shaping feels honest, whether the reflection develops, and whether the book acknowledges gaps instead of pretending to offer an all-knowing account.

Reviews also need to recognise different Australian readerships. A title praised in a Melbourne literary circle may feel remote to a reader in a regional Queensland library, while a story grounded in a local suburb may carry particular force for someone in western Sydney. I should describe my position without treating it as the universal reader’s verdict.

Write a verdict that helps someone choose

The final judgement should answer a practical question: who might value this book, and who might reasonably decide to leave it on the shelf? A book can fail for me while succeeding for readers who enjoy its period, genre, politics or narrative method. Saying so does not dilute the review. It makes the recommendation more accurate.

I also give the book credit for what it does well. A weak plot may sit alongside vivid setting. A repetitive memoir may contain one unforgettable account of place. An uneven novel may raise questions that remain worthwhile after the reading experience has ended. A fair review records these strengths because criticism is evaluation, not punishment.

Before publishing, I reread the piece for exaggeration. Words such as “always”, “never”, “awful” and “unreadable” often signal that emotion has outrun evidence. I check names, quotations, publication details and pronouns. If I received a review copy, know the author or have another interest in the book, I disclose it. Transparency protects the credibility of the assessment.

A concise rating, if I use one, comes after the reasoning rather than replacing it. Australian readers browsing a weekend review in The Sydney Morning Herald, checking a library recommendation or scanning customer responses on a bookseller’s site need more than a number. They need a clear account of the reading experience and a sense of whether the book may suit their own shelves.

A practical standard for negative reviews

These principles can be condensed into a working checklist:

• Finish the book where possible, and state clearly when you have not.
• Describe the book’s aims before judging how well it meets them.
• Separate literary craft from personal preference.
• Support criticism with representative, spoiler-conscious examples.
• Treat questions of culture and representation with care and humility.
• Name the book’s strengths as well as its weaknesses.
• End with a useful indication of the readers most likely to value it.

The checklist is not a substitute for judgement. It is a safeguard against the habits that make negative reviewing lazy: reviewing the cover, reacting to a single sentence, repeating publicity language or assuming that popularity proves quality. It also helps prevent the opposite error, in which a reviewer becomes so determined to be gracious that the actual problems disappear beneath compliments.

A good critical voice can be firm without being cruel. It can say that a book is overlong, poorly researched or emotionally manipulative while still recognising the ambition behind it. That balance is valuable in a literary community that includes established authors, first-time writers, local publishers, booksellers, librarians and readers who are simply trying to decide what to read next.

The most useful negative review leaves the book larger in the reader’s mind, even when the verdict is unfavourable. It identifies the work’s intention, measures its execution and explains the gap between the two. It may persuade someone to avoid the book, but it may also help another reader approach it with better expectations. Either outcome is worthwhile when the reasoning is honest.

A review written in this spirit belongs to the wider conversation about literature that Howard G. Franklin’s books and reflections represent: conversations about memory, place, justice and the stories people tell about their lives. Criticism should keep that conversation open. It should make room for disagreement without abandoning standards, and for strong feeling without confusing feeling with proof.

When you next write about a book you disliked, begin with the most accurate version of your response rather than the harshest one. Read carefully, quote sparingly, acknowledge your standpoint and make the final verdict useful to another reader. That is how a negative review becomes an act of literary attention rather than a dismissal.