Closing the book on a story that had filled me with such immense hope and joy, Pulitzer prize-winning novel Demon Copperhead had rewired the way my brain viewed the opioid crisis in Appalachia. I was overwhelmed by Barbara Kingsolver’s ability to craft the tragically beautiful life of a young boy who held onto his optimism until the very end. Immediately after, with passion pumping through my veins, I did not sit silently with the story. I reached for my phone with five stars glimmering in my mind. Goodreads awaited my review of my latest read.

As I opened the app, a frightening sign-in page appeared before my eyes. The account I had begun at 11 years old for my sixth grade language arts class was deleted after my inability to prove my public school email address still existed. Every review over the past nine years ceased to exist, and with it, my memory of every book I read had vanished. Despite my many attempts to uncover the account, I hit a wall that refused to budge, and thus, the endless cycle of churning out reviews of every book I read reached its end.

When I first started my Goodreads journey, I remember five stars reviews were handed out left and right. I imagine it was similar to the happiness in the room when Oprah gave free cars to the whole audience. Less concerned with community reviews, all I wanted was to gift an author five stars because so rarely did I read a book and not walk away glowing. Yet as I got older, I looked more into the strangers’ reviews. What were their two cents on my favorite book? More often than not, even in a high review, they pointed out the shortcomings of the story. Where did the author go wrong and how could such an unlikeable novel be published? Beyond Goodreads, even my TikTok and Instagram began to fill with reviews of my most recent books. How an app knew what I had just read, I’d rather not know, but what I did know was that these various opinions were becoming deafening. No longer was I formulating my own opinions, rather I was seeking out other people to tell me how to feel. I wanted to know if my emotions were a correct and acceptable response to the words I had just read. What a dangerous thought to have. A completely subjective hobby had morphed into yet another way for me to judge. My own voice was lost when compared to the reviews I obsessively combed through immediately after finishing a book.

Through an overconsumption of voices crafted for likes and comments and hot takes since being different and original is oh so cool, an echo chamber of negativity and disappointment formed. When that part of my reading journey ended, a weight had suddenly lifted off my shoulders. Once again, I felt the enjoyment that reading had once brought me in which there were no goals or expectations—there was simply just a book. My own analysis and opinion is enough.

Reading, a hobby meant to expand the soul, returned to just that. The gold stars were no longer in the front of my mind as I gathered my data as to why no book was deserving of a five star rating. Finally, these stars were for the journey of characters who endured a tale worth telling.

Written by Thea Findlay, Photography: Mary Le, Social Media: Sadie Klement, Styling: Anaya Hooda

I Read for Gold Stars