Thick Skin is an interview series featuring authors talking about negative reviews, from critics and (anonymous) readers alike

See all of the Thick Skin installments.

Episode XXIV: “A very empty take on the novel”

Published 2/2/22
In this installment, I speak with James Han Mattson. Topics include ignoring his first bad review, investing (or not) in horror, “leech[ing]” on nostalgia, “on the nose” cultural commentary & more.

Today I'm with James Han Mattson. His second novel, Reprieve, came out late last year (William Morrow) and garnered some pretty superlative praise: "Insightful and gripping" (New York Times Book Review), "Sure to spark conversation and debate at book clubs across the land" (Los Angeles Times), "Unrelenting and unforgettable" (Esquire).

But in this interview, we're focusing on the not-so-great reviews, both by professional and everyday readers. First: Can I take it for granted that you've read every review? How about the reviews on Goodreads et al?

I've read all the press reviews, but not all the reviews on Amazon and Goodreads. I've looked through enough to get a sense of where people's grievances lie though.

Aha. Well, before we start, can I ask you to provide, as succinctly as you like, your sense of these "grievances"?

Sure. Quite simply: they were bored. They read the book thinking it would be an unrelenting dread-fest inside a full-contact haunted escape room but instead got a character-driven novel about race and sexuality. Some thought these larger-scale ideas would've been more impactful had they not been so explicitly discussed in the text (totally fair critique), but I think most of these readers just felt aggravated by the shortage of scares.

There was, definitely, emphasis on the choice you made to highlight the characters' individual stories over the centralizing plot. And we'll get to that later. But I want to start with your Kirkus review, which may be your most negative—and also probably the first review (or one of) you received.

The reviewer seems to take most umbrage at your ending: "This is a worthy attempt at a complex psychological thriller, but it fails to stick its landing. The characters’ motivations are often opaque, and their behavior sometimes defies logic, particularly when life-altering decisions are at stake. The plot developments building to the climax will occasion much head-scratching. Despite some haunting scenes, a frustrating read."

Do you remember what you felt when you first read this?

Haha, yeah. I remember reading that, and to be honest, I found the review silly, not because it was negative, but because it so brazenly avoided the topic of race—and that's a thing, you know? People not wanting to talk about race even when the book is extremely about race. The reviewer didn't mention that Bryan and Kendra, the murder victim and the victim's cousin, were Black. In fact, this reviewer didn't mention the races of any of the characters, and that's quite ridiculous when the entire plot hinges on interactions that are very clearly racially coded (painstakingly, perhaps). Thankfully, this was the only press review that did that, so I just mentally discarded it. Overall, it just felt like a very empty take on the novel.

I did notice that as well. It has always struck me as odd that Kirkus and Publisher's Weekly post anonymously—especially when some of the reviews seem so ... personal? Subjective?

Anyway, in an overall positive review, The Guardian seemed, at the very end, to somewhat agree with the Kirkus review: "The only frustration here is that Mattson is a very good horror writer who doesn’t seem entirely to approve of horror. The more the novel disaffiliates itself from the genre, the less satisfying it becomes, although the heady plotting means the holes don’t show till very late on. A surprising number of “whys” and “hows” remain at the end, and thematic questions get left dangling too."

Did this give you something to think about? Or is this opinion simply counter to what you wanted to do with the novel?

I found those lines very interesting, especially the bit about disapproving of horror. This reviewer, and others, have said that I wasn't as invested in the horror as I should've been, and that's probably correct. I mean, I like horror. I read a ton of horror when I was younger. I enjoy horror movies. I really love writing horror scenes. But I'm more interested in the unease evoked from discussing uncomfortable truths than the raw fear induced by some lurking psychopath, and that definitely shows in the book. In the end, I thought the expansive horror arising from the commentary would trump the more immediate horror rendered in the Quigley House, so I spent more time outside the haunt than inside it. But I certainly could've balanced it out more. Food for thought going forward.

It sounds like you're very open to feedback. I wonder: Was this (investing more in the horror aspect of the novel) something brought up by any early readers of the books (i.e. editors or friends)? Did you consider it while writing and editing?

It wasn't! In fact, they often told me to downplay the horror even more. These weren't avid horror readers—they all swayed more towards literary fiction—so maybe I should've expanded my early reader search. I'm in a writing group now that's composed completely of genre-bending writers, so I'm excited about that.

I think the novel's sense and genre choices are so perfectly brought out in the cover, which conveys creepiness while still being thoughtful.

Before we jump into reader reviews, I want to ask about something said in your (again, largely positive) review in NPR, which seems to meet you on your terms: "The novelette-sized chapters about each character are so lengthy and detailed that it's easy to get lost and forget about not only the horror, but also the other characters."

Do you think this is a fair critique?

A sense of disorientation almost always occurs when you start to read a novel, and that's fine. The question is whether or not I, as the writer, let that disorientation last too long. I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. The chapters are long and detailed, and there are certainly ruminations that don't directly serve the plot, but again, my interest in character and idea outweigh my interest in the macabre, so I leaned into the backstories more, sacrificing some momentum, I suppose. I'm not sure if this hurt the novel overall, though. It's just a matter of how you approach it. I will say, however, that if you're still forgetting about characters by the second act, then yeah, there could be a pacing problem.

You seem to have a pretty healthy mindset about all of this. Does this come with already having a debut under your belt? Do you think you are particularly adept at taking criticism?

Criticism can certainly sting—and the customer criticism can sting worse because it's often more savagely personal—but for me the sting is usually overwhelmed by the fact that people are reading my work in the first place. I never thought it'd happen, so even if someone disliked the book, I'm enormously grateful that they took the time to read. I also think thoughtful reviews can act as a free workshop session: you can ignore or discard any criticism thrown at you, of course, but more importantly, you can identify general trends in critique and relate them to the next project with the aim of improvement.

And on that thoughtful note, let's dive headfirst into, as you say, customer criticism.

This review, from Goodreads, underscores the word "customer": "First of all let me point out what I've said few times already - Im honestly so tired of authors setting their horror books in the 80s and 90s to leech on our nostalgia. There is honestly no real reason for it, except to make us starry eyed and more likely to spend our money."

Had you seen this before? Do you think it's worth considering?

Yeah, I saw this, and think it's a bizarre take. It's asserting that the sole reason any contemporary horror author sets their book during the 80s and 90s is to amplify commercial success via nostalgic references to slashers. Well, first off, if that works—great! This reviewer seems to have given in. But really, the whole idea is absurd. You choose a time and place for a book based on a large number of factors, commercial appeal being way down the list, if it's present at all. Also: a good percentage of name-brand contemporary horror authors today (I'm thinking people like Grady Hendrix, Joe Hill, Josh Malerman, and Stephen Graham Jones) came of age during the 80s and 90s, so it makes sense that they'd have an affinity for the horror that came out of those years. I too came of age during the 90s (a much weirder time for horror than the 80s, but whatever), and while I'm often nostalgic for that time, I certainly didn't intend to make anyone so "starry-eyed" for Jason and Freddy and Michael Myers and Ghostface (all of whom reincarnate every few years anyway) that they felt an overwhelming compulsion to purchase my book. But if that's the case, then so be it! Buy away!

One thing I've learned over and over again through this series is that how a reader comes to a book is crucial in their reaction to it. For Reprieve, this is certainly the case.

One review: "The blurb of this book was so intriguing and I was so sure this book should have been right up my alley. Unfortunately is failed to deliver and it failed hard."

Another: "Not gonna lie, I picked this up because I thought the cover was fantastic. And well, they say not to judge the book by its cover..."

Another: "My first piece of advice if you're considering picking this up, is don't read the blurb, it will make you think this is more horror than it really is."

Another: "Unfortunately the plotline does not live up to more enticing blurb"

You get the point. Given that the book uses horror but may not be considered traditionally within the genre, do you feel the marketing of the book (cover, blurb, everything else) may have led some readers astray?

Eh, yeah, probably, more noticeably in the UK market though. The cover and marketing campaign over there leaned into the horror aspects of the novel quite heavily—the special edition even had blood-sprayed edges.

So there's the horror aspect and then there's the meat of the novel—what I'll call, for simplicity sake, cultural commentary. Of the readers on Goodreads who recognized the novel's true focus, not all appreciated it. One wrote, "I’m not going to lie, I really disliked this novel. The social commentary is so on the nose I felt patronized and the scares simply don’t work." Another: "The social commentary is about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face." Another: "I respect the attempt at political commentary but even that was hamfisted."

Do comments like these in any way influence how you feel about the novel, its purpose, and techniques?

Hmm. Not many of the reviews like this actually discuss specific instances where I lacked subtlety, but I can guess which passages they're referring to, and those passages, to be honest, are some of my favorites. So while they may indeed be too "on the nose", I don't particularly mind the critique. It's those passages, I believe, that'll probably spark the most interesting conversations.

You have been such a sport, James. You seem blissfully indifferent to any and all haters, in a way that makes me feel like you have a great therapist or have never needed one. I'll let you go now with just one final question: What do you think is your secret for being so calm and composed?

Haha, I'm not completely indifferent—I certainly have reactions to criticism; they just don't last very long. In general, I'm of the mind that what I say and what I write is filtered through my own very limited lens of experience, and while my writing is important to me, it certainly isn't important to most people. So when someone likes it, I'm very happy, but if someone doesn't, I'm not all that hurt. If someone offers constructive feedback, that's awesome, but if someone says it's the worst book they've ever read, well that's fine too. What does it matter? I've probably said as much about books that people adore—why would I think it'd be any different with mine? I'm just happy I get to contribute.