When I write a book, who do I write it for?

• For myself?
• For the public (in other words, to sell lots of copies)?
• For reviewers (in other words, to win the praise of others)?

My most recent book (There Are Other Rivers) was most definitely written for myself. The format I wanted to attempt (the whole journey as one day; the journey merely a framework for an explanation of why I make these journeys) was never going to appeal to a mass market. I wrote as much in the introduction,

“It probably won’t appeal to a mainstream audience. It may not even be a good idea. But it was my idea and I am willing to stand by it.”

Secondly, choosing to self-publish still stigmatises a book in the eyes of powerful (but out of touch?) reviewing platforms such as the big newspapers and magazines.

Therefore, when the book received its first terrible review this week (in Geographical magazine) my first thought was,

“Relax! I wrote a book knowing that it would not suit all tastes. Now that has proved to be the case I should not get angry or upset.”

(That was not quite my first thought. That was more along the lines of, “let me get my hands on whoever wrote this and dump him on an ocean rowing boat far from land…”)

So I am trying to see this bad review as a positive exercise in self-restraint. It is not nice, of course, to have something you worked so hard at snubbed in public. But I might as well seek some positives from it. I’mm not going to bother pointing out that the reviewer totally missed the point of half the book, or any of my other gripes. Instead I’mve pasted the review at the foot of this post so that you can read it if you want.

If the gentleman who reviewed my book had loved it I would have been delighted. I would have embraced his opinion as gospel truth. I would have carefully plucked the nicest sentences from the review and splashed them all over this website. (In fact, I’mm going to do that anyway…)

And now I’mm going to leave the review behind and move on to highlight the impact that the opinion of other people, even people we have never met, can have on what we do or what we aspire to do.

When I go on an expedition or begin a new project, who am I doing it for?

• For myself?
• For the public (in other words, to get rich and famous)?
• For reviewers (in other words, to win the praise of others)?

It is normal and acceptable to enjoy receiving praise. Praise encourages us to do more and better things, whether it comes from the anonymous general public or from the peers who are the most respected in your niche.

However I do not think we should do things solely to receive praise. In the long run it is an empty, intangible, fickle feeling compared to the lasting feeling of quiet personal satisfaction. The applause dies down very quickly. The silence afterwards lasts much longer. (Seth Godin writes nicely about this too.)

The biggest problem comes if we worry about criticism. This is what stunts creativity and innovation and ambition before it has even begun. In the age of the internet everyone is a critic. Nameless, faceless people with little claim towards expertise can pour scorn on any creation you put online. It’s important therefore to remember the old adage about the Man in the Arena.

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood. He who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; but who does actually strive to do the deed; who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly. So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.

The brief conclusion of this is that the healthiest, most robust reason for doing something is to do it for your own satisfaction and pride. Do not be stifled by rebukes or inhibited by the possibility of criticism. The important thing is to do something because you want to do it. To do it to the best of your ability because that is what you always demand of yourself. To be satisfied and proud with the outcome. If you do that then you (“I”?) should not be discouraged by somebody’s criticism. It does not change what you have done.

Here’s a brief illustration of this point: another person who writes reviews for Geographical told me that There Are Other Rivers is the best thing I have ever written. If their review had been published instead would that change whether or not the book was actually any good? Of course not.

When we rowed the Atlantic Marin was the first Slovenian to row across an ocean. The story was everywhere – newspaper, TV and radio. He is a superstar now. He might even get a girlfriend. Meanwhile the only media interest back in the UK was when Steve bought his girlfriend some Valentine flowers over the satellite phone and the Falmouth Gazette saw a chance to fill some inches on a quiet day. Marin’s achievement was no greater than Steve’s.  The perception of achievement, the showers of praise and media attention are not a valid reflection of true achievement. Size, it seems, does not always matter.

So write your books, make your journeys and chase your dreams. Do not be cowed by bad reviews or sneering comments online. Trust yourself and do your thing in the way that you want to. Do it well, but do it for yourself. It’s the quiet way, but it is the right way.

There Are Other Rivers is on sale now, as a book and on Kindle. Geographical magazine described the book as “enterprising”… ;-)

If you have already read the book please do leave a quick review here. I won’t get mad if you write a negative one!

Geographical Magazine review:
There are other rivers: On foot across India by Alastair Humphreys

Humphreys’ account of a coast-to-coast walk across India, distilled as if it took place in a single day, is self-published, and available in various formats; as well as the paperback, there are photographic and Kindle versions and also a “mappazine”, for those who prefer to read text on a single huge sheet of paper. It’s an enterprising venture, as was the trek itself, which was deliberately off-the-cuff – here’s the expedition plan: “Fly to India and take bus to the beach. Follow river on foot to its source then continue to the coast. Go home.” And that’s pretty much what happens, though in order to give the impression of a journey that could have been made at any time, by anyone, the river is unnamed, and all place names and dates omitted. The result is to render the book both anonymous and over-personalised, with every attempt at a general statement (“There are three stages of flabbiness in life”) quickly devolving into the first person (“Despite knowing this, I … “). Indeed, most sentences in this short, uncluttered book begin “I”: it’s more a journal of reflection than of event, and while Humphreys refers to his tweets as “adventure haiku”, which is quite a neat description of what Twitter might ideally be, “300km down and no blisters – yet” doesn’t really deserve the epithet. Which is not to say that Humphreys doesn’t make for a pleasant enough companion on this nameless Indian journey. I’mm not convinced the mappazine idea will catch on, though.
– Mick Herron