I find reviewing poetry more difficult than other novels, because it always feel even more personal than novels. I have absolutely loved Amanda Lovelace's previous works. The Witch Doesn't Burn in this One actually got me back into writing poetry after years of hiatus, and I loved the rest of the Women Are Some Kind of Magic series.

That being said, I didn't enjoy Ghost as much as I thought I would. I will preface this with the massive caveat that Ghost definitely felt focused on Lovelace's relationship with her mother, and with the loss of her mother. This made a significant portion of the book, while still moving, very difficult for me to relate to because I'm lucky enough to have always had a good relationship with my mum. So, I'm hesitant to focus any criticism on the book for this particular 'fault'.

The only thing I'm willing to actually say about this book as a broader criticism is that at points it felt very self-referential to Lovelace's previous works. If I hadn't religiously read all of her previous books, I might not have noticed, but I have, so there were times when it felt like I was reading whole poems that I'd read before.

So, I don't think this is the strongest of Lovelace's books, BUT, I fully believe that everyone should read her previous works, especially Women are Some Kind of Magic because they're a masterpiece, and I'm sure that this poetry collection will be the favourite of someone else who reads it from the perspective of their experiences.

I only wanted them near me because I loved them. Though, of course, it was because I loved them that Peter had to take them from me.

Rating: 5 stars

I made the foolish mistake of picking this book up a little before 11pm, intending to read the first chapter and then go to bed once I'd gotten started. By part-way through chapter two, I was hooked. Peter's little duckling story had me terrified and there was no way in hell I was sleeping until I'd found out what happened to Jamie, Charlie his little duckling and the rest of the Lost Boys.

Christina Henry's books are easily some of my favourite books at the moment, and I think that's largely due to her amazing knack for characters. In every single one of her books that I've read ([b:Alice|30196357|Alice (The Chronicles of Alice, #1)|Christina Henry|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1463389480l/30196357._SY75_.jpg|42955198] , [b:The Mermaid|38613557|The Mermaid|Christina Henry|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1518979003l/38613557._SY75_.jpg|58041711] and part of [b:The Girl in Red|43550676|The Girl in Red|Christina Henry|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1549547388l/43550676._SY75_.jpg|66672643] for those looking for recommendations) the characters have drawn me in and it's an attachment to them that really guided me through the stories, and Lost Boy is the strongest example I've read so far. I loved Lost Boy's plot, a fairly simple horror fare with dead-ends and a need to escape, but what kept me turning pages was that I cared about Jamie so much that I couldn't bare to put the book down in case something happened while I was wasting time sleeping. Is that logical? No. Did it make Lost Boy an emotional read? Yes.

I know the mythos of Peter Pan fairly well, but Henry made him terrifying to me with relative ease. His boyishness became threatening, his leadership manipulative. He loved Jamie best because Jamie was his first friend on the island, and when Jamie started to draw away from him he became over-bearing. Peter is a jealous, selfish boy that would kill a child for 'stealing' attention from him, and it's that complete lack of empathy or consequences that makes Peter a terrifying antagonist. He will do anything, because it's his island and he does as he wishes. When Jamie mentions hearing a 'strange tinkling noise', I actually felt a pit in my stomach because I knew what he didn't, and when he described moments of growing up, I was scared that Peter would notice.

Henry has created an authentic, realistic prequel to the traditional Peter Pan tale, and it meshes so easily with the 'canon' story that I don't think I'll ever watch Peter Pan again without filling in Captain Hook's tragic backstory myself, and it'll be a good while before I stop seeing Peter as uncomfortable and creepy, if I ever do. I can believe that this is why Hook hates Peter, and why a grown man would spend his life on an island chasing a boy with such hatred, and the final line of the novel gave me chills.

I'm trying to remember to make room in my life for the person I am now, not just the people I have been.

Rating: 3.5 stars

I received a copy of this book from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

I love poetry, particularly feminist poetry, and I love mythology so I was immediately drawn to this text. And I enjoyed it, with the balance of perspectives between Aphrodite and the author, and I highlighted a few passages that particularly struck me as beautiful or relatable. However I did struggle a little with the text, though that may be the ARC copy formatting weirdly on my phone and I'm definitely keen to take a look at a finished paperback copy (I love all my poetry collections in paperback) to see how the pages are supposed to look. I've read a lot of feminist poetry, and I enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed all the rest of them, however I couldn't help but feel that there were only a few stand out sections. Some of the content felt very tonally and textually similar to other collections I've read. Not to say that we don't need lots of feminist poetry out there, because I think the more the better, particularly if it gets more people reading poetry again, but I do feel that there was just something missing here.

I will grab myself by the throat but I will never let a man do it again.

I absolutely will be reading it again when it comes out in paperback, though, because as I said I want to see if being able to sit and dog-ear the pages gives me a different reading experience.

She says, if you were only meant to be beautiful, we wouldn't have put you down here in the dirt."

FULL REVIEW AVAILABLE HERE ON 23.10.19

I can get on with earning an honest buck. Ain't nothing illegal about fetching groceries for a dragon.

Rating: 5 stars.

Highfire is a 4 star story, with 5 star characters by a 10 star author. It's coming out on the 28th January 2020, and it's an insta-buy from me.
Vern is the last dragon. Now he's living the quiet life, tucked away in a cabin in the Bayou with vodka, Flashdance and human-free peace and quiet. Squib Moreau is a juvenile troublemaker gone straight-ish, trying to stay on the right side of the law and working two, soon to be three, jobs to take care of his mother. Regence Hooke has big ambitions, to create an illegal firearms pipeline and to win over Squib's mother but when Squib catches him in the act of killing a witness, he thinks he'll kill two birds with one stone by getting Squib out of his way for good. But Squib is a dragon's familiar these days, and Hooke is about to find out that Vern doesn't take kindly to his familiar being kidnapped when an all-out war breaks out in the Bayou between bent cops and a dragon who's sick of humans and all their shit.

The writing is just so... funny. The text is light-hearted and fast-paced, littered with cultural references and in all honesty, stupid the whole way through. But that's good-stupid, not bad-stupid. It's crude, and definitely an adult novel but NA and older YA would probably enjoy it too. Your mileage may vary, but I don't think this was ever to the point where I would call it inappropriate.

Vern and Squib, supported by Waxman, versus Hooke made for a wacky as hell cast. Vern defies all expectations for an ancient dragon, least of all the last dragon. Hunting, pillaging and kidnapping damsels? Nah, Vern likes vodka martinis, Flashdance and more vodka martinis. Waxman's been working with (and that's with, not for) Vern for a long time, but it's time for him to take a long-term nap in dragon dung, so he ropes Squib Moreau into taking over as Vern's familiar while he's gone. Vern doesn't like Squib, at first, but that's traditional for this found family shtick, and there is a genuinely heartwarming scene amongst all the comedy when Vern realises that he's gotten attached to the kid after centuries of swearing off humans altogether. As a villain, Hooke is legitimately brilliant. He's awful, crude and cruel and heartless, but he's also genuinely interesting and fleshed out.

"You are the Lord Hun-Kamé, and you do care about Xibalba. And life may not be fair, but I must be fair. I can't turn away," she said.

Rating: 4.5 stars

I received a copy of this book through Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

Caseopia Tun is a reluctant servant to her family, particularly her miserable grandfather and her cruel cousin, who dreams of the freedom promised to her by her grandfather's death. It's a different kind of death that sweeps her out of her town when she becomes accidentally indentured to the god of death Hun-Kamé and is bound to follow him on his other-worldly quest to reclaim his throne and get revenge.

First off, I know very very little about Mexican culture or Mayan mythology other than the tiny snippets I remember from Horrible Histories. I also know next to nothing about the 1920's time-period, so if there were glaring cultural and historical inaccuracies, I probably missed them. But I really, really doubt that there were. Silvia Moreno-Garcia had me absolutely transported from my English flat all the way to the beautiful, colourful Mexican towns and cities this story sweeps through from the first page. The descriptions were detailed and beautiful, and I'm not a particularly visual person but I could feel the hot, painted tiles of Mérida and the deep, blistering shadows of Xibalba. I made a ridiculous amount of highlights in this book, because every passing paragraph was artfully put together. I'm half convinced that Silvia did some kind of quest for an ancient god, and got gifted a mastery over words as a reward.

Tucked neatly inside a black snail shell lay Casiopea's sigh. It was a delicate thing, like a nocturnal butterfly. Pretty too. In strokes of crimson and blue it painted a picture of the most exquisite heartache.

Silvia handled the balance of deity-magic and mundane-humanity beautifully to create a true sense that mythology and reality are balanced on a knife's edge, which seems appropriate in a novel that thrives on its duality. There are parallels between Hun-Kamé/Vucub-Kamé and Martín, between the overworld and the underworld, and between godhood and humanity. I loved that Casiopea felt like an ordinary girl. She didn't have a strange and innate ability to wield a sword, or suddenly discovered powers halfway through the novel. Casiopea's magic comes from her humanity, and her greatest ability was her desire for freedom, equality and peace, even for those she dislikes.

I'm sure that there were facets of this novel that didn't strike me as deeply as they could, simply because I'm unfamiliar with Mayan mythology, and I'm convinced that I'm definitely pronouncing every single character and place name wrong in my head (sorry!), but I want to read more about this world I knew nothing about, and will absolutely be looking into Mayan mythology with the same gusto that I used to be taught about Norse and Greek mythology.

Rating: 3.5 stars

The Handmaid's tale is a classic for a reason. It's a powerful text, and I wish I'd gotten around to reading it sooner, particularly when some of my favourite books are 'Handmaid's Tale inspired'. I'm looking forward to reading The Testament and digging into the TV show. I've been holding out until I finished the book, so now it's time!

My favourite part of this novel was the worldbuilding. Gilead is vividly described, and the flashbacks allow the reader to start piecing together what happened to end up at this point. This was particularly interesting to me because this transitional period, even shown in small snippets, is unusual for dystopian novels. In my experience the vast majority of dystopian characters are born into the inequalities the reader sees them wrestle with. It would be interesting to see more of that transitioning period to understand how a recognisably independent world could become so restrictive and subjugating.

'You have always been the worst of my children,' he said. 'Be sure you do not dishonour me.'
'I have a better idea. I will do as I please, and when you count your children, leave me out.'

I've had this book sitting around since April and never got around to reading it. I can't believe it took me so long in the end, because this book is INCREDIBLE and gave me a hell of a book hangover.

I gave Circe 4 stars, and it was so good that I just had to pick up The Song of Achilles. Hearing that Achilles might even be better than Circe had me practically buzzing with excitement, and I think my TBR might be getting a hefty shuffle ready for October to bring it closer to the top.

I've always been a sucker for a book with a strong character driven plot. I get invested in people before I get invested in stories (probably why I spend so much time reading fanfiction, honestly) and Circe is a beautiful tale spanning hundreds of years of Circe's life.

Initially, I was drawn to this book because I knew of Circe as a wicked and wild enchantress as a side-character in Odysseus' epic story. This is the kind of story that makes me sad for past me for thinking that. Miller's Circe is a powerful, independent woman surrounded by overbearing men that think they Know Best. Her father's a Titan, the sun god, and her mother has little interest in her because she won't make much of a bride. Circe's initial forays into magic are based out of a visceral desire to feel loved, and throughout the novel that thread of loneliness and a need for companionship thread under a lot of Circe's actions. To me, Circe's fatal flaw isn't a lust for power, it's a love for humanity, much like Prometheus. And when she reaches the crux of her powers, her thoughts still turn to protection before they turn to harm. Circe is a tale of an immortal learning what it is to be human, and what it means to be mortal, and Miller has managed to create a hauntingly beautiful retelling that makes your heart ache for her, but more than that this feels to me like the story of a downtrodden girl learning to be a woman, and finding strength in the realisation that she can be whole and strong all on her own, even in a male-dominant world.

Rating: 4 stars

I received a copy of this book from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

Tessa is a loving mum to two daughters, Rosie and Emma. When Emma is attacked on her way home from a party, and then the identity parade falls apart, her world falls apart too. When Tessa sees her daughter's attacker on the street nearby, living just around the corner from herself and Emma, how far will Tessa go to keep her daughter safe?

I really loved this book. It was a proper page-turner, and when I hit 90% through on my lunch break today, I was furious that I had to go back to work instead of finishing the novel. Cohen had me totally invested from page one. Tessa made some really stupid decisions, but they felt realistic and characteristic of a scared woman on her last resort to protect her children. From the summary, I was curious about how the novel would progress when the attacker was known from the start, but there was enough threat and mystery to make this an addictive read, with secrets and hidden histories cropping up all the time. Cohen left breadcrumbs throughout the novel, so I felt like a conspiracy theorist frantically putting clues together to find my own narratives. I was wrong about some of them, and right about some of them (one of which I'm extremely smug about calling as early as I did).