There are two kinds of people in the world. (I love saying that. No matter what, there are always TWO kinds of people. Always.) Those who don't read and those who complain that they aren't getting as much reading done as they'd like to be. I think literally every single person on earth who enjoys reading has probably said at some point, "I'm not really reading as much as I should be," or, "I'm really falling behind on my reading," and the like. For those of us in tha latter category, the critique of the written word is terrifying, because it's just going to pile more and more onto that work load.

Of course, reviewing the written word scares the hell out of me. Most artists hate the critic because here's someone who doesn't hold a candle to the artist in the field, but still has the brass to tell other people what to think about the work. What the artist sometimes fails to understand is that the stress goes both ways, and for many a critic, especially the critic that aspires to be the artist, trying to express opinions, and reasons for said opinions, often causes extreme tension, even terror that they'll be exposed as someone who doesn't understand even the most basic points of art, which of course would invalidate them as a critic as well as curtail any aspirations of being an artist.

That's how I feel about reviewing books. I want, someday, to write my own, to be an artist, a man who, through the written word, moves the souls of humanity. So instead of seeing these reviews as merely critiques of which I am probably not worthy to be making in the first place, look upon them instead as explorations, attempts on my part to better understand the art of literature, to figure out what makes a piece good or bad to me, to comprehend what makes it good or bad to others, to learn enough that I might one day be worthy to write works that go alongside those I have reviewed.