Anyone who knows me knows that Star Trek is my first fandom. Before Doctor Who. Before Supergirl, the show that gave me my name. I have watched and rewatched Star Trek to the point where it is now in my DNA. I love all the series (albeit not equally), but Captain Picard is my captain. So, naturally, when I learned Patrick Stewart had written a memoir, I had a mighty need. Thankfully, my dad gave it to me for Christmas! Thanks, Dad!

The structure is a simple chronological one, starting from Stewart’s birth and early childhood in Mirfield, Yorkshire, England, and moving from there into his acting career and adult life. It culminates in discussing his two most well-known roles (Captain Picard and Professor Xavier) along with his more recent stage acting, his marriage to Sunny Ozell, and his feelings on the pandemic as well as reprising Captain Picard for Star Trek: Picard. It’s easy to read—beautifully written, in fact. I’m not sure if he had a ghostwriter, but if he didn’t, I’m impressed. My favourite line was, “If I kill Paul McCartney, it will be the only thing I will be remembered for.” (Spoiler alert: Stewart did not kill Paul McCartney.)

Making It So, despite its allusive title, does not spend as much time on Stewart’s Next Generation days as one might hope. This is not a tell-all behind-the-scenes memoir of all the hijinks on the sets of the Enterprise-D. I suspected, as I read, that some would be disappointed, and reading other reviews has subsequently confirmed this. While that’s a valid opinion to hold, I think it’s an unfortunate one. If you’re willing to open yourself up to a different experience, there is a lot to discover through this memoir.

First and foremost, this is a love letter to the performing arts and to Shakespeare in particular. Stewart is unequivocal: he only got to where he is today because of state funding for the arts, luck, and people with pull who saw potential in a country kid. I really enjoyed learning more about his early childhood, how he grew up post-war first in a one up, one down house before his family moved into a slightly more spacious council house. How acting captured his heart, and the hoops through which he had to jump to get a serious chance at it.

There’s a lot of humour and lightheartedness to Stewart’s stories. Captain Picard is usually a stern figure (with a kind heart), but Patrick Stewart strikes me as a mischievous softie. Capable of summoning great rigour and dedication when needed for his craft, Stewart can also recount his involvement in practical jokes, amorous adventures, and silly moments of good fun. He tells you all of these stories with a smile and a wink, never taking himself too seriously.

At the same time, there are serious and sad parts too. Stewart frankly discusses his father’s abuse of his mother. I had some inkling of this, for I had read how this had influenced the second season of Star Trek: Picard. Nevertheless, it hits different when the actual events are discussed in the context of Stewart’s childhood. I appreciate Stewart discussing this so openly in this book, for it provided me with great insight into the complexities of growing up in a situation of domestic abuse. Even as he recognized, as a child, that his father’s behaviour was unacceptable, he continued to learn from his father and seek his father’s approval as a man.

Stewart is also very open about his romantic relationships, from flings to his three marriages. Perhaps more surprising is how open he is about the role that his cheating played on the dissolution of the first two marriages. I imagine many will judge him for that, and fair enough. Maybe I judged a little too. Yet if perfection is our bar for someone to write a memoir, no celebrity—indeed, no one—would be allowed to write one. Told from Stewart’s perspective, of course he is liable to make himself look like the good guy—so the fact that he cops to being the bad guy on more than one occasion makes me respect him all the more. I try very hard not to have idols, especially not celebrity ones, for they will inevitably let one down. There is something comforting in the fact that Patrick Stewart, who certainly approaches something I would say I idolize, has done his best in this book not to set himself up as someone to idolize, if that makes any sense.

There is also a sense of sadness in the way that Stewart discusses how so many important people in his life have passed away. At eighty-three, of course, this is to be expected. Statistically speaking, he is beating the odds, and the cruel irony of survival is that the longer one sustains it, the more one sees loved ones … not. As he eloquently espouses his deep affection, appreciation, or admiration for someone, only to pivot and remark, “and I was deeply saddened when…,” it becomes a bit of a refrain through the book. I sit here, thirty-four years old, fortunate enough not to have lost that many people close to me just yet, pondering how I might feel if I reach Stewart’s age. Perhaps this introspection hits all the harder for how well Stewart recalls and, more impressively, recapitulates the energetic and brash youthfulness that is such a curious contrast to the statesmanlike composure for which he is most known on stage and screen.

Indeed, this lifetime of performance is, above all else, the central theme of Making It So. Even more so than his marriages or his acting career, however, Shakespeare emerges from this book as the biggest love of Stewart’s life. His experience with Shakespeare seems obvious to me in his portrayal of Picard; not only does it influence every fibre of Picard’s characterization, but the character himself occasionally quoted the Bard, had a book of Shakespeare’s plays on display in the Enterprise-D ready room, and tutored Data in performing Shakespeare. I can understand how reassuring it might feel that, in a time as far removed from us as we are from Shakespeare, his words might yet offer guidance and consolation. For Stewart, as he tells it here, it is clear that these plays and sonnets offer great value. It’s wonderful, listening to him geek out about something that is clearly his passion.

Making It So is a finely tuned memoir that is overall neither saccharine nor bittersweet, though it has moments of both. Stewart shares plenty of juicy details and intimate moments with us in tones variously sly and tender, affected and genuine. Diehard TNG fans will be disappointed that this is not solely, or even principally, about that part of Stewart’s career—but I think it is a mistake to make that the fulcrum around which one balances judgement of this book. I love that Stewart embraces so fully that vital and powerful character, to the point where he agreed to return to it one more time—yet while there might be more Patrick Stewart in Jean-Luc Picard than in any of his other characters, he is not that character. His story, as a living, breathing, real human being of the twentieth century deserves its own remarkable recounting as much as that of a fictional twenty-fourth-century explorer. Picard’s mission was to boldly go; with Making It So, Patrick Stewart shares with us how he has boldly gone.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

A few years ago, I had the opportunity to read Erinsmore, a secondary-world fantasy novel coincidentally written by my former landlady from when I lived in England. Erinsmore works quite well as a standalone novel. However, in Mage Quest, Julia Blake provides us with an excellent sequel story, one that revisits beloved characters from the first book, introduces new ones, and builds further on the lore of this world.

On Earth, six years have elapsed since Ruby returned from her adventure in Erinsmore. She routinely visits with Mick, one of the few people she knows who remembers this other world. When a portal to Erinsmore opens for her, Ruby is overjoyed—but her return to Erinsmore is complicated by the fact that Mick’s new ward, his thirteen-year-old nephew, Finn, follows her. Stuck in Erinsmore for the time being, Finn and Ruby acclimate and join the heir to the throne on a quest to find her mage. This quest takes them to the extreme edges of Erinsmore and will force them to confront an existential threat far older and more sinister than they dared imagine.

Much as I observed in my review of the first book, the charm of Mage Quest lies somewhat in nostalgia for the fantasy novels of my youth. Returning to Erinsmore is like returning to those good ol’ days of devouring doorstopper epic fantasy novel after epic fantasy novel in the big comfy chair in the living room of my parents’ house. Its style and atmosphere are so much like the fantasy of the late nineties, early oughts—without, you know, any of the racism or sexism or whatnot that often creeped into our fantasy worlds. Indeed, this book introduces a nonbinary character, Xem, to the cast, which was nice.

So the plot structure will feel very familiar to fantasy fans, as will the supporting characters, and that’s all to the good. Blake wastes no time, once we get to Erinsmore, getting us into the quest. Ruby’s return to Erinsmore is rightfully treated as a kind of homecoming, but she’s there for barely a day before it’s all, “By the way, the crazy old woman said you should come with us, so you’re coming, right?” and she’s all, “Of course I’m coming, sillies,” and off they go on their dragons. It’s awesome.

Last time we were here, the kingdom was devastated and at war. I really enjoyed getting to see Erinsmore at peace, and if anything, I wish we had seen more of that. However, I can appreciate the need for pacing, and I can’t fault Blake for how well she balances wanting to show off this world with the need to get the characters further along the map until they find and fight this book’s Big Bad.

As with the setting and plot, the characters are comfy archetypes too, and this goes for the Big Bad. I really enjoyed watching our heroes become ensnared in the Big Bad’s trap, their struggle to escape it, and in particular, the way that Blake finds a way for each of them to shine. This is true even for Finn—whose role in the story otherwise feels somewhat superfluous and disappointing, given how much emphasis is placed on him at the start of the book. He’s rather sidelined by the end, but he still manages to eke out a contribution to the climactic battle.

Perhaps my ambivalence about Finn comes from a wider ambivalence I sense about the audience for this series. Erinsmore is firmly a teen/ YA, sitting comfortably on a shelf alongside, say, The Dark Is Rising. Mage Quest, on the other hand, feels a little older and more mature. This makes sense, for Ruby, our protagonist for most of the book, is older and more mature. So maybe Finn’s presence as deuteragonist is to function as a character that younger readers, having devoured Erinsmore, will identify with when they pick up the sequel.

All of this is to say, of course, that even though I appreciate the nostalgia factor inherent to this book, I can still only comment on it from my present perspective as a thirty-four-year-old woman—and that perspective is that I am here for this series now in a way I wasn’t necessarily when I read Erinsmore. The first two acts of Mage Quest are a little slow, as you might expect from a sequel that, for some, will be their first foray into Erinsmore. That third act, from climax to denouement, though? Love it. I love the resolution, and I love the way Blake takes her worldbuilding to the next level, opening up worlds (quite literally) of possibility to explore in the future.

So it was that Erinsmore was a perfectly fine standalone novel, but I also wasn’t itching for a sequel. In contrast, the ending to Mage Quest, while not a cliffhanger by any means, nevertheless screams for more. It reminds me quite a bit of Lisa Shearin’s Raine Benares series (starting with Magic Lost, Trouble Found): I just want to keep coming back to this world and its characters and its politics and vibe with them. I don’t really even care what the plot is at this point; I just want to hang out with them.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

One piece of writing advice that has always stuck with me is Ursula K. Le Guin’s take on conflict. Put simply, she challenged the orthodox opinion that every story must have conflict in it. I find myself thinking of this as I ponder Look to Windward and, indeed, Iain M. Banks’ Culture series as a whole. Banks once again proves himself so skilled at writing interesting utopias.

The majority of this book takes place on Masaq’ Orbital. Mahrai Ziller has been living in self-imposed exile among the Culture for decades. An emissary from his people, the Chelgrians, arrives and wants to convince Ziller to return home. An outcast for his rejection of Chelgrian caste structure, Ziller wants nothing less. He has thrown himself into composing an emotional piece for the AI Hub of Masaq’ to commemorate the end of a war between his people and the Culture. Meanwhile, we also learn more about the Chelgrian emissary, his past, and his involvement in that war. Gradually we learn there’s a plot afoot, something far more sinister and devastating than merely persuading one exile to return to his homeland.

I want to say that if you have experienced the Culture before, then much of this book will feel familiar to you—but that isn’t quite right, is it? The Culture is not a familiar thing, despite its trappings similar to humanity. It’s a riotous combination of utopianism, hedonism, post-scarcity economics, and redolent solipsistic philosophizing. The more one learns about the Culture, the more bizarre it feels. No wonder Banks often presents us with outsiders as interlocutors—in this case, Kabe, the Homomdan ambassador to Masaq’ Orbital. Through Kabe’s perspective we have a more selective filter on the insanity that makes the Culture work.

And it does work, for that is the essential point of this book. The conflict is, at its heart, not much of a conflict. For the first two thirds of the novel, the final threat is hinted at rather half-heartedly, with almost no exposition regarding its true nature. In the final act, as quickly as the threat reifies, it is dispatched with almost no ceremony. The Culture is just that powerful, and that is the point: almost nothing can challenge it, but is that a good thing?

At the heart of this book is the question how do we reconcile who we are now with who we used to be? For there is not much conflict in the main part of this book, but there is a history of conflict in these pages. There are many characters in Look to Windward who did terrible things in the past. The Hub of Masaq’ Orbital, though a minor character, played a role in the Chelgrian war, is intimately connected to the events leading up to the climax of the novel, as is the Chelgrian emissary whose arrival sets everything into motion. The Culture’s utopian outlook sometimes means endorsing violence. Is this compatible with morality as we lowly humans know it?

As always, it is a pleasure to spend time in the universe of the Culture novels. Banks is such a fascinating science-fiction author: brimming with technological conceits of AI and nanotechnology and faster-than-light drives yet, at the same time, placing all those on the back burner so that he can focus on deep, enduring emotional questions. Can we let go of our past wrongs, and how others have wronged us? Is it OK to forgive? How do we move forward when we have lost so much?

Science fiction is at its best when it puts us in milieus that feel simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar. Banks is one of the best at doing that. I don’t enjoy every outing equally—indeed, given the many years over which I have read these novels, it is hard for me to rank them or even compare them. But I always find value in them, and I am always left changed (hopefully for the better) by the experience.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Science continues to be a discipline which I love to learn about yet have no interest in doing, if that makes any sense. I studied mathematics in undergrad because I love that you can do it with a pencil and paper (or even, sometimes, in your head). Science, especially experimental parts of science, in contrast feels so … well … messy. And nothing is messier than smashing radioactive atoms together in the hopes of discovering new atomic elements! So Superheavy: Making and Breaking the Periodic Table felt like a comfortable way to experience all that drama from my armchair, or couch, or bed, as necessary.

Kit Chapman delivers a thoroughly researched and fun look at the history and current state of superheavy nuclear physics. Basically, most of the first ninety-two elements on the periodic table occur in nature in some way, shape, form, and duration (though some only so briefly or remotely that we actually first encountered them through lab synthesis). As atomic physics heated up (pun intended) in the first decades of the twentieth century, work on the atomic bomb led physicists to synthesize neptunium and plutonium, and from there, the race was on to see which labs around the world might discover more and more elements. These elements are “superheavy” because they have so many protons and neutrons in their nuclei—making most of them remarkably unstable and short-lived by human measures of time. As the twentieth century elapsed, four labs in four different countries have at various times competed and collaborated to synthesize and claim the discovery of new elements. As of this review, we have discovered up to element 118, now named oganesson, after one of the primary drivers of this epic quest.

And epic indeed it is. Though Chapman at times frames the search for superheavies as a race between nations or labs, he is also careful to delimit this endeavour as a collaborative, cooperative one. Indeed, one of my favourite things about Superheavy is the way it truly puts paid to the “Great Man” theory of science. Of course individual titans, such as Al Ghiorso, Glenn Seaborg, Darleanne Hoffman, Yuri Oganessian, etc., loom large over this history—how could they not? Yet it is exactly the fact that there is such an extensive list—and indeed, I had to curate those names from a much longer “where are they now” list in the book’s epilogue—that proves my point. Even those people by themselves could not have accomplished what they did without the tireless work of lab assistants and technicians, students, engineers, etc. The discovery of superheavy elements is an example of the necessity of collaboration in science.

I loved how I was able to make connections between this book and my previous knowledge of atomic physics and the history of classifying elements. I love talking to my students, even though I don’t teach chemistry, about Mendeleev and the modern periodic table. Chapman discusses the table’s genesis briefly, but this book, of course, is more concerned with the breaking of that table. Although the current slate of superheavy elements has nicely rounded out the seventh period of the table, it’s anyone’s guess as to what the next elements to be discovered will bring in terms of chemical properties. Chapman discusses attempts to reformulate and reconceptualize the periodic table. This is a powerful reminder that devices like the periodic table are not set in stone; they are not received wisdom that describe objective truth about our universe. Rather, they are human technologies designed to be of use. When they are no longer as useful, whether because our priorities have changed or our knowledge has grown, we should replace or upgrade them.

I appreciate the confidence, too, that Chapman has in his readers. This is a book that assumes a fair amount of scientific understanding for a layperson—Chapman does not do a ton of background exposition before he describes the inner workings of some of these experiments. I say this not to put anyone off reading Superheavy but rather as a kind of endorsement of its spare style: there are no equations here. Much like Hawking’s quips regarding the sparsity of equations in A Brief History of Time, it seems that Chapman understands that his readers would rather see elision over verbosity—and I am inclined to agree. This is not a long book, yet it feels dense enough as is, entirely a result of Chapman’s assiduous research and rich storytelling.

This is a perfect book for science lovers, particularly chemistry and physics heads who want to know more about how we look for and discover new elements. I also want to give Chapman a shout-out for mentioning Desert Bus for Hope in this book! He compares looking at readouts of collision experiments to being as boring, if not more boring, than playing Desert Bus, and then he goes on to mention Desert Bus for Hope in a footnote. I was reading this the week after Desert Bus for Hope 2023 ended—what serendipity. I love nerds.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

It has been over a year since I DNFed a book, and that’s a statistic I am pleased with. I am afraid that C.J. Cherryh, despite being recognized as a titan of science fiction, might be one of those authors whose books just don’t work for me. My other outing, The Paladin was all right but didn’t leave me astonished the way I hope most of my science fiction and fantasy does. I picked up Rider at the Gate and its sequel at the same time from the used bookstore—but I won’t be reading the sequel. I couldn’t get through this one, and that’s OK.

Classically, the original Star Trek series was described as “Wagon Train to the Stars”—a western in space. Rider at the Gate taps into exactly this motif. If that works for you—if you’re into westerns with a patina of science fiction layered over it—then you might enjoy this book. Unfortunately, I don’t really like westerns all that much, and it takes a lot of science fiction (like Killjoys or Defiance) to make it palatable to me, and that doesn’t happen here.

It also doesn’t help that the protagonist is a very horny teenage boy. (I guess Cherryh knows her target audience?) I noted this in my review of The Paladin: Cherryh’s writing style is heavy on description and exposition and light on dialogue. This makes these novels, not all that long, quite dense. If you are enjoying the happenings, then that’s ideal. Since I was not, it felt … interminable.

Suffice it to say, Rider at the Gate is not for me. That doesn’t make it bad, which is why I chose to DNF it instead of trudge onwards and give it an unhelpful rating. I don’t want to discourage anyone from picking up Cherryh if you think her books will be for you, but I am now wise enough to recognize when I am not getting the return I want on my reading time.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

This is my last review of 2022, albeit not the last book I read in 2022 (I am quite behind on writing reviews). But this is a high note to end this year’s reviews on. Last year, I read The Rose Code and fell in love with Kate Quinn’s lush historical prose. Or should I say fell in love again? I didn’t mention this in my review of The Rose Code, but I had read one of Quinn’s earlier novels, Daughters of Rome, eleven year prior, and I had greatly enjoyed that work as well. So when I picked up The Diamond Eye, I had high expectations—all of which were met.

Mila Pavlichenko really was a sniper for the Soviet Army during World War II. She is credited with 309 kills, and after being injured in the line of duty, she ended up as a spokesperson for the Soviet Union. She toured the United States, where she met Eleanor Roosevelt, among others. Quinn’s is a fictional retelling of Mila’s life, from her early days as a young, separated mother and researcher to the steely, formidable sniper touring America. At each turn, Mila finds herself pulled in opposite directions; she constantly has to make choices about who she wants to be in a world that is pretty sure who she already is.

This is a book about war—in fact, it is about the same war featured in The Rose Code and is roughly contemporaneous in many ways. Although Mila is much closer to the front lines than the protagonists of Quinn’s previous novel, she shares with them the obvious quality of being female and being underestimated—harassed, even—by the men around her. The opening scene of the novel is literally a nameless antagonist who is doubtful Mila could truly be “Lady Death,” incredulous that a woman might possibly be such a good sniper. From there, we meet Mila at her youngest: a graduate student, and a researcher, beset by a husband whom she doesn’t love. She resolves to be stronger, and it’s this promise to herself that drives her throughout the entirety of this sprawling story.

Like the best books about war this is a book about relationships more than it is about battle. Mila’s friendships, her romantic dalliances, and her rivalries and antagonisms, all of these come alive as Quinn sketches out her life leading a sniper platoon in the Soviet Army. I don’t know much about the Eastern Front; like most Canadians, I grew up on very Americanized (occasionally British-centric) stories of World War II. Drawing on Mila’s memoir as well contemporary accounts, Quinn does a good job (in my opinion) of showcasing everyday attitudes of Russian and Ukrainian people, especially peasants and other farmers whose lands were trampled over as the Germans invaded. There is a notable scene wherein Mila lines up for a shot at her opposite number in the dead of night. As she does so, she reflects on the fact that he, too, has a family waiting for him back in Germany. Then she calmly squeezes her trigger.

In this way, Quinn captures the awful paradox at the heart of warfare. The cognitive dissonance required to take that shot, knowing it will end the life of another human. The fact that Mila is capable of that should dispel any sexist ideas that men are intrinsically more barbarous, more violent than women. It’s a matter of training, of belief, of making a decision to become that kind of person, a killer. Mila’s ambivalence over that title, over her nickname of Lady Death, is palpable throughout the novel. She doesn’t want to be a hero, doesn’t care to be lauded—she was there to prove herself to herself, to her son, to step out from her husband’s shadow.

As much as I enjoyed the scenes of Mila as a sniper, I also enjoyed her time in America and her budding friendship with Eleanor Roosevelt. Once again, Quinn demonstrates her remarkable skill at helping readers empathize with very different types of people. Through her omniscient narrator, Quinn can show us both Mila and Eleanor’s reactions to meeting each other for the first time—the misconceptions, the stereotypes, etc., all of which gradually dissolve over the course of Mila’s tour, leading to the nascent bond that becomes the crux of the final act of the novel.

There is an intensity and an intimacy to The Diamond Eye. I loved The Rose Code for its mathematical aspects and the role played by female friendship. This book feels colder, sharper, more isolated than that one. Female friendship is present but only barely (and the same might be said for math). Rather, this is a book about transformation—of oneself and others. This is a book about how we create heroes, how we build myths from the ground up, and how those myths and heroes just want peace and quiet of their own.

If you have enjoyed anything of Quinn’s in the past or enjoy deeply personal historical fiction based on real people, then The Diamond Eye is for you.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Sometimes you need some science fiction that’s just weird. That gets you to your bones. Jennifer Marie Brissett brings that energy to Destroyer of Light. With shades of the Oankali from Octavia E. Butler’s Xenogenesis trilogy as well as Emma Newman’s Planetfall, this novel is about people on the brink. There’s ineffable aliens, unrepentant bad guys, and reluctant allies. Although the characterization is messier than I would like, I can’t deny that Destroyer of Light carries within it the seeds of a compelling story.

Brissett tells the story concurrently across three different time periods that are set in Dawn, Dusk, and Night on a planet tidally locked to its star. The remnants of humanity have settled here after fleeing an Earth being destroyed by the Kresge—and now some of the Kresge live among them, while the rest exist menacingly out beyond the stars. Not quite living on sufferance yet certainly lacking true independence, humanity seems diminished, scrabbling to survive. Into this vacuum of purpose has leached all our sins: wars over resources, sexual violence, posturing, cultural nihilism and xenophobia. It’s cyberpunk mixed with Afrofuturism mixed with New Wave weirdness, and I’m here for that.

The idea that the Kresge are four-dimensional beings and experience spacetime differently from us is a neat one. Brissett plays with it admirably throughout the book, though I feel like the full implications are never truly explored as deeply as I could have hoped. Nevertheless, it provides a good framework for the evolution of Cora, who isn’t always our protagonist but is certainly the main character. My main complaint about Cora—indeed about the plot itself—is that she doesn’t seem to have much agency. Such is a problem with a book with beings who exist outside of time—foreshadowing blurs into prophecy blurs into determinism. It feels like her fate was predetermined, and she sleepwalks towards the finale.

That isn’t to say that the characters don’t have compelling features to them. Cora’s mother is so fierce in her loyalty to her daughter, the twins in their moral dedication to saving kids who are like them—with humanity at the brink, Brissett shows us some of the worst examples our species has to offer but also the best.

In many ways, this is a story that I think would actually work better as a TV series or movie. It deserves the richness that set design and special effects can provide (at least, my aphantasic imagination cannot). In literary form, the story always seems to be bursting at the seams, confined by conventions of Western storytelling that don’t always work with how and when it’s trying to function.

So there are things about this novel that worked for me, and there’s a lot that didn’t. I liked it well enough to get through it, but I won’t be jumping at the chance to return to this universe any time soon. Brissett is a powerful storyteller and a skilled writer—yet these two aspects seem as often in conflict as they are in harmony.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

My silly “summer of witches” reading stretches into autumn and now (at least with my reviews) winter. Anyway, VenCo was published earlier this year to much acclaim. More importantly, it felt like Kara bait! Cherie Dimaline writing a contemporary fantasy book about witches? Sign me up. The result is as enjoyable as it is uneven, and while I wouldn’t call this one a masterpiece in the same vein as some of her other works, it’s a worthwhile read for any fan of Dimaline, witches, or some combination thereof.

Lucky St. James had a rocky childhood. Métis but disconnected from her community, largely raised by her grandmother, Stella, while her mother, Arnya, floated in and out of her life, Lucky spends most of her time worrying about Stella and where she and Stella will live now that they have been evicted from Stella’s apartment. As the adulting closes in around her, Lucky discovers a strange, decorative spoon that catapults her into the middle of a centuries-old conspiracy to protect women and witchcraft from the men who would root them out and kill them.

It’s interesting: my first time meeting Lucky wasn’t here but rather in the short short story “After ’While” published by CBC Books in 2017. I have used this story in my English class when teaching about fiction, and until I picked up VenCo, I had no idea that Lucky was wrapped up in actual magic! Nor, I suppose, did Lucky.

The Chosen One trope is so old and tired at this point as to be creaking under the weight of all its iterations. One would be forgiven for yawning slightly at the descriptions of Lucky’s journey, how she discovers her heritage as a witch and her involvement in a prophecy to protect witches and reignite the magic of a coven in North America. If you decide to follow Lucky’s story, it isn’t likely because you think the story is in any way unique. It’s probably because you like Lucky and Stella and the cast of characters Dimaline serves up to keep us invested. I know I do.

Lucky’s fierce protective spirit, especially when it comes to Stella, is front-and-centre in this narrative. This manifests explosively, impulsively. When she butts heads with Meena it’s usually because Meena is trying to be cautious or helpful—the good leader, the good strategist—whereas Lucky is prone to going full throttle into the danger. This makes for compelling tension and helps with the pacing, particularly towards the end of the book.

But the supporting cast, including Meena herself, Wendy, Freya, Morticia, Lucille, etc., are also a highlight here. I’m no expert, as a white woman, on Indigenous storytelling; however, I think I can see how Dimaline, who’s Métis from Georgian Bay, has drawn on the structures of Indigenous storytelling for this book. Each member of Lucky’s coven eventually tells her story, the book slowly circling around their characters until finally pulling us back into the main narrative. Of course, you might expect—and you would be right—that I’m particularly drawn to and appreciative of Freya’s story. To see a trans woman featured prominently in a book about womanhood and witchcraft is very affirming (and if you liked that, check out Her Majesty’s Royal Coven by Juno Dawson). Nevertheless, each of the characters has a unique vector into their awakening to their identity of witch. That’s powerful.

In contrast, the antagonist, Jay Christos, is … meh. He’s a man. He’s an old and very powerful man, very single-minded in his goals. He oozes misogyny and clearly thrills from the sexual violence he exerts or plans to exert upon women. So he’s an appropriate choice of villain for this tale, and don’t get me wrong; I love the smackdown that Lucky lays upon him. But there is also an element of caricature going on here: the jacked up, ultra-misogynistic men in our world like Andrew Tate are indeed a problem, but so too are the less overtly dangerous men out there who soak up that worldview.

Similarly, as much as I enjoyed some of the interactions among the Mother, Maiden, and Crone, I feel like their interstitial moments add very little to the story. Prophetic structures are in general hard to pull off. In this case, it adds a fun ticking clock to the narrative, but even that seems like it’s deemphasized for much of the book.

What I absolutely loved, however, was the climax and the ending. I really dig how Dimaline uses Lucky’s dreams as a battlefield against Christos; there was some fantastic foreshadowing earlier in the book that prepared us for this confrontation, and it’s very rewarding. In these moments, Lucky truly comes into her own as a protagonist and a heroine, and it’s in her battle against Christos that VenCo truly achieves its height of unabating, electrifying suspense. I needed to see it through, needed to see her defeat him, needed to see her and Stella safe. I won’t spoil the ending; all I can say is that, for me, it largely makes up for any unevenness in the rest of the plot.

VenCo is not as allegorical as The Marrow Thieves and is not as intricately dark and dangerous as Empire of Wild. However, I like the idea and most of the execution. Above all else, I like seeing Dimaline try something new, push off in a different direction. I would read more about Lucky and her grandmother some day.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

White supremacy is a problem for all of us, not just Black people. But Black people are best positioned to critique it—and to defend the need for academic responses to it. As Florida and other US states decry “critical race theory” i schools, Our History Has Always Been Contraband: In Defense of Black Studies is just that. Colin Kaepernick, Robin D.G. Kelley, and Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor have selected a treasure trove of historic essays that explicate the need for strong academic programs that focus on studying Black literature, Black histories, Black cultures—both within the African American context and beyond. I received a copy of this book for free in exchange for a review.

As I often do with these kinds of books, I like to start off with a positionality disclaimer: I am, of course, a white woman. This book will hit differently for me than it will for Black readers. The book also acknowledges that it is very focused on the United States, and therefore on anti-Black racism through the lens of African American enslavement and oppression. The editors have done this on purpose to make sure the volume is slim and accessible. I understand that desire, and it was probably the right call—yet my biggest takeaway, having now read all these essays, is that I need more. I’m Canadian, so my familiarity with and relationship to the history of slavery and other, often ongoing anti-Black racism will be different from American readers. That being said, Canada desperately needs more Black studies here, at every level of the education system. So much of this book still applies north of the border!

Another strength of this book is how it focuses on historic writings over contemporary. The first two parts, the bulk, are taken up by these essays—or more often than not, excerpts from what are much longer pieces. At first I was annoyed by this strategy, but now I see the value in it: if I was moved enough by one of the excerpts, it is easy enough for me to locate the full-length version elsewhere. This way, Kaepernick and the others expose readers to a wider cross-section of discourse from Black thinkers and writers. I like it.

Some of the authors are famous names you have (hopefully) heard of, such as Frederick Douglass, Zora Neale Hurston, James Baldwin, etc. Others might be more niche but no less talented, no less important. I particularly want to highlight “Toward a Black Feminist Criticism” by Barbara Smith from 1977. Smith, cofounder of the Combahee River Collective, argues that Black women have too long been invisible in their contributions to literature and art. Black women writers and artists need spaces to share their experiences without being erased by white feminists or by Black men. Smith especially highlights the plight of Black lesbian writers, who face three axes of oppression. In this way I hear a lot of echoes of critiques from Audre Lorde or bell hooks. Indeed, the writing of Black women is so important to elevate and amplify for exactly the reasons that Smith gives in this short excerpt. A feminism built exclusively on the complaints and experiences of white, straight women will never liberate all women.

This collection goes hard, by the way—I hope that was obvious from what I said above. These essays don’t pull their punches; if you were looking for something to coddle white fragility, don’t expect anything here. This book makes it very clear that Black people in the US are fighting for survival, still, and that Black studies programs and Black literature are vital to that survival.

Part 3 caps the book with three essays written for the collection. They emphasize the need for resistance against the unjust laws and censorship occurring within the academy and the wider education system in the US. Again, as specific as this book is to that context, these ideas are taking root in other places around the world, so these essays are still relevant.

This book is an excellent collection of thoughts, arguments, and purposeful expressions of resistance and struggle. It epitomizes why racists are so terrified of allowing critical thinking and history to be taught in schools, of why they are working so hard to ban these books and ideas from classrooms and lecture theatres. Black scholars, Black writers, Black thinkers have always been at the forefront of anti-oppressive thought and action. Now they need our help. Our History Has Always Been Contraband reminds readers that it’s the same dance, just a different tune: the struggle has existed for centuries, and it’s time to fight again.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

First, I need to spend a moment obsessing over this cover design. My edition is two-toned: pink down one half, red down the other. The “so” in the title is superimposed over a pair of lips, with the lipstick smeared on the right. The lips themselves are actually a cutout, and when you open the front cover, the page beneath is all blue and reads, “You should be so angry”—a stark contrast to the book’s title, You Could Be So Pretty. And what can I say? Holly Bourne does it again.

Belle and Joni are the same age and competing for the Scholarship—beyond that, they have nothing in common. Belle follows the Doctrine. She applies her Mask every morning, sweats daily in Body Prayer, and generally does her best to look pretty. Joni, on the other hand, has embraced the life of an Objectionable. She doesn’t put on a Mask, barely washes her hair even, and she doesn’t care for Doctrine. It’s her choice, of course—every woman is free to choose whether or not to follow Doctrine. But that doesn’t stop people from looking down on Joni, her mother, and those like her. That is, until Belle’s perfect Pretty life starts falling apart around her. As she spends more time around Joni, she starts to wonder if Doctrine is as shiny and unimpeachable as it seems.

I had so many complicated feelings while reading this. I couldn’t put it down. I also wanted to throw it across the room.

See, I understand what Bourne is trying to do here, and I’m mostly on board. I really, really hate to say this given how many of them were TERFy and intersectionality in general was not their strong suit, but the second-wave feminists had a lot of excellent points that feel startlingly relevant these days. Feminism in popular discourse has collapsed under the weight of the rhetoric of “choice,” with the implication being that all the women and girls out there who lean hard into heavy makeup, cosmetic procedures, and emulating a pornified version of sexuality are doing so out of an irreproachable sense of individual freedom. Women and girls choose to be slutty, you see. It’s empowering.

Bourne’s disdain for this line, for the patriarchal control that it conceals, is palpable throughout You Could Be So Pretty. Feminism, she charges, has lost the anger that was at its core, and she wants to reawaken that fire and help it burn brighter within young women and girls.

Now, on the surface, the dystopian allegory Bourne uses to achieve this mission feels facile. The overuse of proper nouns—Mask, Pretty, Objectionable, Invisible, etc.—and the highly simplified world in which these girls exist gives the book a kind of glossiness that peels as you read and makes it feel … cheap. I can see how some readers, particularly those like myself who have steeped ourselves in decades of feminism and young adult literature, might look at this book and think, “This is too on the nose. Too simplified. There’s nothing here.”

Take, for example, the inciting incident of the book—Belle is harassed and almost abducted by a man who wants to give her a ride to school because she’s hot. Joni’s intervention allows them to escape, with some difficulty thanks to Belle’s impractical footwear. The scene is viscerally terrifying and no doubt familiar, in one permutation or another, to a majority of women readers. So familiar that one might wonder if the messaging her is too obvious.

Yet I tried my best to take a step back and put myself in the shoes of a younger reader, a teenage girl in our current era of ubiquitous porn, social media likes and comments and filters, and algorithmic content. I live in this world yet am not of this world, certainly didn’t grow up in this world, and it behoves me to consider how a younger denizen of that world would come to You Could Be So Pretty and its central critique of choice feminism.

Dystopian allegories are valuable for how they allow us to end-run the complexity of the real world. One of the reasons being feminist in our world is so complicated is that the world itself is complicated. Much as one tries to do one’s best for the environment, for animals, for others, the systems in which we are trapped make it difficult to be conscientious, to be “pure.” Stripping that away in favour of a world of school and Education, of rankings and validation, of Ceremonies, might feel simplistic to those of us caught up in the daily grind of this world. Yet it allows Bourne a much more versatile canvas for the conversation she wants to have on the page. As such, Bourne harnesses dystopia effectively in my opinion.

This is also very much a book that is about the imperfection of revolution. Joni most notably embodies this trait. What I love most about Joni is not that she’s “woke” but that she is still young and learning about nuance. Joni’s interactions with her mother are powerful and important, for they reveal how Joni’s passion has yet to develop into the wisdom that comes with experience. In a notable scene, Joni explains how she was confused that her mother makes beauty products available to the women who visit their little feminist shelter. Joni, having been raised by her mother to believe that these products are anathema, doesn’t understand why her mother would willingly give them out to women she’s trying to shake out of Doctrine. Yet Joni’s mother sees the bigger picture, understands that these women need the comfort of the familiar, understands that it’s more complicated.

This entire “deprogramming” aspect of the book is compelling, for it really does make a strong argument that the beauty-industrial complex is a cult. Joni’s mission to “awaken” Belle, while cute and very naïvely feminist at times, speaks to the strength of patriarchy’s grip on our minds and souls. It isn’t that Belle can’t see how fucked up her life is, from the constant public exposure to porn to the way she embraces disordered eating to stay fit. But she is in a cult, and when you are in a cult, it’s hard to recognize that fucked up means you should get out.

All of this is to say, every moment in this book hits hard. It’s going to be trite and predictable for a lot of older, ardently feminist readers, but I don’t think that should be a turn-off. I think it’s important to meet this book where it is. It’s an awakening of sorts for readers, a primer, yes, but it is also a deep and heartfelt attempt to hold a mirror up to our world and say, “Hey, this is messed up.” And if that isn’t the purpose of dystopia or allegory, I don’t know what is.

Now, of course, this book has limitations. I’d love to declare this book the YA feminist work of a generation, but I can’t be that absolutist. For one, this book is very much grounded in white and Western ideas about feminism, patriarchy, and beauty standards. The experiences and anxieties reflected here are largely those of white, cis, able-bodied women. Although Bourne makes some attempts to be intersectional, these generally don’t work very well.

First, let’s talk about the gender binary. Trans and gender-nonconforming people are largely absent from this book. To be fair, Bourne tries to be inclusive. At one point, an authority figure uses the phrase “female-identifying students,” and later in the novel, there is a brief appearance of a trans girl. I really do appreciate this inclusion, but I also see it as a band-aid, for I don’t believe that Doctrine is compatible with the existence of trans women and girls. Patriarchy is inherently transphobic, so by hacking the dystopia to be trans-inclusive, Bourne ironically misses the mark on intersectionality. I would have rather she explored the idea that Doctrine suppresses trans people entirely as another dimension of why it must be resisted.

A similar problem exists with race. Again, Bourne is clearly aware of this issue: Vanessa, Belle’s “best friend,” is highly melanated. The book emphasizes how Vanessa’s darker skin makes it more challenging for her to be perceived as Pretty, a nod to the misogynoir that Black women face in a world where beauty standards are aggressively white and Eurocentric. So kudos to Bourne for that. Again, though, it’s insufficient and papers over the complexities that racism introduces to critiques of patriarchy.

Am I nitpicking? After all, Bourne is clearly writing this allegory based on her experience as a white cis woman. Maybe she feels like it isn’t her place to speak to the experience of trans women or women of colour. Fair enough. Indeed, no single book can be the universal feminist book, and I would never expect You Could Be So Pretty to be everything for everyone.

Nevertheless, the fact remains that, as a trans woman, I had a hard time seeing myself in either Belle or Joni at points. The way this book engages with patriarchal ideas of femininity does not always resonate with my own relationship to femininity. That’s OK. However, I can’t lie—it also feels disappointing that in 2023, our feminist primers and manifestos continue to flatten feminism down to something that is most recognizable and most relatable to white cis women and girls.

As I said above, this is a limitation of You Could Be So Pretty. I want to be critical of this book precisely because I liked it so much, believe i its themes so much. So don’t let my critique dissuade you from picking up this book, for it is powerful and raw and beautiful in its own, terrifying kind of way. Holly Bourne remains one of my favourite feminist novelists. She is just so good at poking holes in patriarchy and at creating great characters while doing it. You Could Be So Pretty is a striking evolution in her style versus some of her earlier forays into feminist YA, demonstrating that she still has plenty more stories to tell and battles to win. I hope this book awakens more than a few younger people and helps them push back against the absurdity that is the doctrine in our own world. I don’t mind being Pretty sometimes—but I definitely want us to be more Objectionable all of the time. Well-behaved women don’t make history.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.