Growing up, my appetite for reading was insatiable. Every weekend, I’d beg my parents to take me to the library where I’d dedicate hours curating stacks of books to take home—only to breeze through them within days. As I got older and my academic obligations (and admittedly, use of social media) grew, the time I spent reading waned, and years passed where I didn’t so much as pick up a book for leisure. After years of trying and failing to get back into the habit, I finally regained momentum towards the end of my time in university.
Returning to reading as an adult hasn’t been easy. While bookstores and libraries had remained sanctuaries in my eyes, gone were the days I could spend entire afternoons in search for the perfect book to bury my nose into. Between rising prices and what little free time I had, I wanted to make sure that every read I took home was worthwhile. So, like many others, I turned to BookTok, in all its post-pandemic glory, for its snappy reviews and reading lists.
At first, it was exciting seeing so many young people (especially women) like myself creating a community rooted in a hobby I’d found much solace and learning in. But as I spent more time on BookTok, my dissatisfaction with it grew.
I’m not the first to be frustrated at the number of poorly written books which have viral on BookTok. Typically comprising a smorgasbord of the same few characterisations, tropes and plot devices—these are the fast fashion of books, if you will. I don’t consider myself particularly highbrow, and regardless of my opinions and tastes, people can read what they want. But the growing concern that viral titles will take precedence over more creative, quality writing to publishers and bookstores for their profitability is one I empathise with.
The growing concern that viral titles will take precedence over more creative, quality writing to publishers and bookstores for their profitability is one I empathise with.
Then there’s the gamification of reading—the sense of competition that’s arisen within the community. This has led to some discourse around reading which strikes me as particularly strange and unproductive, including the number of books one must read in a year to (in the words of book influencers I’ve come across) be considered a real reader. Since when did reading have all these rules?
I also have mixed feelings over the “rebranding” of reading into an aesthetic. It might be beneficial in motivating more people to get interested in reading, especially anyone who has only previously read books as part of academic curriculum. But the desperate need to be first in line to purchase trending books, owning a massive bookshelf and publicising it for social capital has become the crux of mainstream BookTok, encouraging readers in the community to consume beyond their means.
The pressure to perform one’s hobbies on social media isn’t exclusive to BookTok, but it is especially baffling to see it take hold over an activity I have always understood to be rather personal. While there’s no one right way to be a reader, there’s an alarming number of book influencers who don’t seem to enjoy the act of reading at all, with some lamenting the amount of time authors spend on world-building and prose, or confessing to only reading the dialogue in books. With anti-intellectualism on the rise, it’s a concerning symptom of just how much it has seeped into the mindsets of young adults today.
@bookishwithb someone categorised Lolita as forbidden love and i knew the end of times was near #celinesbooks #fyp #booktok
That’s not to say there isn’t nuanced literary critique on BookTok. It may take a little elbow grease to sift through the noise, but the community is also home to users like NewlyNova, whose content is dedicated to quick but detailed book reviews across popular BookTok titles, or more niche accounts that uplift new authors of specific, less discussed genres and help them find their audience. BookTok has also been responsible for bringing excellent but overlooked books into the limelight, such as Madeline Miller’s Song of Achilles or Leigh Bardugo’s Six of Crows, giving these authors their much overdue flowers.
Much of the criticism surrounding BookTok is rooted in the longstanding cultural tradition of mocking young women and their interests.
While I have my quarrels with BookTok, many of the arguments against it don’t sit right with me. Much of the criticism is rooted in the longstanding cultural tradition of mocking young women and their interests. Sweeping generalisations—like the labelling of women who enjoy “spicy” books as pornography addicts, for one—do more harm than good when it comes to meaningful critique of the community. While there’s much to be considered about the way these conversations are had, for many young women, BookTok also provides a rare, stigma-free environment to discuss sexual desire.
In my view, the conversations around BookTok need to move away from misogynistic societal patterns of mocking women readers and their favoured genres, and instead on the unhealthy habits of overconsumption it encourages; and how we can better protect minors from conversations meant for adults. While BookTok is far from perfect, dismissing it as a whole might be unfair, specially since it has also brought much growth and richness into the publishing industry and overall cultural zeitgeist—perhaps ultimately helping bookstores and publishers survive rising costs.
It’s perfectly fine that not everybody wants to challenge themselves with reading beyond genres and styles they love, because each of our relationships with literature is unique and personal. But in a world that’s far too eager to hand over the reins of creativity to technological conglomerates and profit-first corporations that have no interest in the betterment of the arts, surely it can’t hurt to engage with our reads a little more in the online spaces we so frequently inhabit?
