When I first started The Relentless Reader I thought I knew what made a book blogger: book reviews. Lots of them.
But after a couple of years I noticed that I didn’t like to write book reviews. I found myself being repetitive and trying to force a new spin on a book that may have been reviewed dozens of times. I began to feel stale, unoriginal, uninspired.
On top of that I noticed that review posts received almost no love. Comments were few, shares were nearly nonexistent. I felt as if I were speaking into a void. Reviews take effort, as you know. It seemed to be for naught.
So, if I didn’t like writing them and people didn’t bother reading them I was left with this question: Why bother?
Do I have to write formal reviews to call myself a book blogger? My last few reviews were few and far between. My very last was months ago. The world didn’t stop turning. My bookish peers haven’t excommunicated me. I still receive books in the mail.
I feel like a more effective book pusher when I’m talking with people instead of at them. That’s what works for me. It’s immeasurably more rewarding to talk about books on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, or The Socratic Salon.
What will the future look like here on The Relentless Reader? I don’t know. Maybe one day I’ll go back to formal reviews. Maybe not. The beauty is that I get to define who I am. And I am a book blogger.
I just want to talk about books. I sure hope you’ll indulge me.