I didn’t plan to stop reviewing books; it just happened.
At first, it was a little break, permission to read without analyzing every plot point, to form opinions that didn’t have to be hammered into coherence, to decline the grueling cadence of promotional campaigns. I told myself it was just until work slowed down and life became less hectic; I’d carve out the time after we moved or finished the next house project, but it soon became evident that I wasn’t just taking a step back; I had entirely checked out.
Stepping back into this space is an intimidating prospect. Book blogging, the kind I used to love, is quieter now. The format has been overshadowed by flashy social media trends, aesthetic reels, and condensed promotional content on platforms I don’t have the energy to navigate. There’s pressure to be not just a reviewer but an entertainer, a curator, and a brand.
The realities of this landscape make me hesitant to put myself out there and have me second-guessing my relevance in this space. I know I won’t be the most polished voice in the book world, I don’t expect my reviews to go viral, and I know it will be hard to find community without jumping on the new release bandwagon. Still, I miss talking about books and connecting with readers who share my love of historical fiction. And so, despite my inhibitions, I’m starting again.
Slowly, imperfectly, but with intention.