I’m writing this after a twelve-hour shift at my day job.
My feet hurt, my thoughts are moving through treacle, and any particularly dazzling insights I may once have possessed appear to have clocked off several hours ago.
If I pick up a novel before bed tonight, I’m unlikely to choose one with three timelines, an unreliable narrator, and a family tree I need to photograph for reference.
Tonight, I need a book that asks very little of me.
What Do We Want a Story to Do for Us?
That got me thinking about what we want from the books we read—the job we hire them to do, if you will. What do we want a story to do for us? Entertain us? Comfort us? Challenge us? Help us understand ourselves, or simply carry us somewhere else for a few hours?
We often talk about the kinds of books we enjoy: romance or mystery, historical or contemporary, light-hearted or serious. But even within the same genre, readers can be looking for very different experiences. In my own genre of contemporary Christian romance, there is a whole range of flavours—from light, trope-driven stories with a gentle faith thread to emotionally layered novels in which faith is woven through the characters’ deepest struggles. Those reading experiences are far from interchangeable.
One reader wants to believe every step of the plot could really happen. She notices when a character’s decisions don’t make sense, when a conflict could be resolved by one honest conversation, or when the entire premise depends upon everyone behaving like people who have recently suffered a blow to the head.
Another reader is perfectly happy to accept a wildly improbable setup because she isn’t reading for realism. She came for the banter, the yearning, and the cosy little town where every shop sells either books, baked goods, or handcrafted candles. Please do not trouble her with questions about whether the town has a functioning sewage system.
She is there for the vibes.
And do you know what? That isn’t necessarily a failure of discernment. She may see the plot contrivances perfectly well. They simply aren’t preventing the book from doing the job she hired it to do.
Depth, Comfort—or a Little of Both?
Some readers come to fiction looking for psychological depth. They want complicated people whose choices arise from their histories, wounds, desires, and fears. They want relationships that develop gradually and consequences that feel proportionate to the characters’ actions.
Others want emotional safety. They enjoy familiar tropes, predictable beats, and the assurance that nothing will hurt too much before everything comes right. What one reader dismisses as formulaic, another experiences as dependable.
Some want to be intellectually challenged. Some want to be swept away. Some want to cry so hard they need to put the book down and find tissues. Others have endured quite enough character-building in their own lives, thank you very much, and would prefer fictional people to flirt adorably beside a Christmas tree.
Sometimes we want a story that helps us understand something about ourselves or another person. Sometimes we want to inhabit a world utterly unlike our own. And sometimes we simply want a few pleasant hours with appealing people before life comes knocking again.
None of us approaches every book in exactly the same way. The job we hire a story to do may change depending on the season—or even the day.
On holiday, I might welcome a sprawling novel I can sink into for hours. During a busy week, I may need something that lets me slip easily in and out. At other times, I want a story with enough emotional and thematic depth to remain with me long after I’ve finished it.
What Our Criticisms Reveal
Our judgements of books often reveal as much about what we wanted as they do about what the author delivered.
- “Nothing happened” may mean I wanted a stronger plot.
- “It was too heavy” may mean I wanted emotional safety.
- “The characters were unrealistic” may mean I wanted psychological credibility.
- “It was boring” may mean I wanted faster emotional stimulation.
- “It was predictable” may be criticism from one reader and reassurance to another.
- “It felt like a warm hug” may be the highest possible praise—or another reader’s warning to flee.
This is one reason two intelligent, experienced readers can finish the same novel with completely different opinions. One may praise its beautiful atmosphere while the other wonders when the plot intends to arrive. One may admire its emotional complexity while the other feels exhausted by all those troubled people making life harder for themselves.
Neither response is dishonest. The readers simply hired the book for different jobs.
Did the Book Fail—or Was It the Wrong Hire?
Of course, personal preference doesn’t make every criticism irrelevant. A book can promise a gripping mystery and fail to provide one. Characters can behave inconsistently. Plots can collapse under the weight of coincidence. Sometimes a disappointing book is simply a disappointing book.
But it can still be useful to pause before declaring that a novel is “bad” and ask a different question:
What was I hoping this book would give me?
Perhaps the book failed at its intended purpose. Or perhaps it performed another job quite well—just not the one I needed done.
As an author, I find this both humbling and liberating. I can’t write one novel that satisfies every kind of reader. A person seeking uncomplicated escapism may find my story too emotionally involved. Someone who loves intricate literary prose may wish I’d spent another paragraph describing the rain.
All I can do is understand the experience I’m offering, deliver it as honestly and skilfully as I can, and help the right readers find it.
And as a reader, I can recognise that sometimes I want depth, complexity, and a plot in which every choice produces believable consequences.
Tonight, however, I may be willing to overlook quite a lot for kind characters, a hopeful ending, and an attractive man who has mastered both emotional communication and the production of baked goods.