As someone who is childfree by choice but who has many friends who are parents, I think a lot about how this event in someone’s life affects our evolution as individuals. The Mothers approaches this with additional layers of considering race and class. I say “layers” because that’s how it feels like Brit Bennett tells this story: like a croissant, hundreds of thin layers folded over on each other, waiting for you to read them.

Nadia, almost done with high school, starts seeing Luke, who is older. When she discovers she is pregnant, Luke comes up with the cash she needs to get an abortion. Later, Nadia goes off to university and Luke marries her best friend. As she returns to her hometown to take care of her father, Nadia has to confront how her choices and those of others around her have shaped her life—and in particular, how our response to the pressures of religion, culture, racism, and society in general shape us.

I really liked the way that Bennett uses space as well as time to delineate her narrative here. Nadia leaves her small town in California to go to the University of Michigan and doesn’t return for years, not even to visit her father or Aubrey, not until Aubrey gets married. She escapes and lives so much, goes so many places, experiences quite a bit, before getting pulled back to her hometown in a semipermanent way. Although there isn’t much that I have in common with Nadia, as someone from a small town that many people leave only to come back to, I can identify with that experience.

Similarly, I enjoyed the way Bennett charts Nadia’s experiences and comments on them through the omniscient narrators that are the eponymous Mothers of the church. The way they say that they saw this coming (or would have), that they could have warned Nadia off the pastor’s son, etc.

There’s also a lot that can be said here about race, though I am sure others have said it better. We can’t talk about pregnancy and who is burdened with the risks of it without talking about the way that healthcare in the United States fails Black women and girls in particular. The story that Bennett is telling her is a story that feels very timeless—aside from a couple of references to texting, and of course Nadia going off to university, this story could have taken place in now or in the nineties.

I yelled at the book when Nadia did the thing that she, of course, was inevitably going to do when she returned to her town. The aromantic in me finds it really hard to wrap my head around the choices that people in romantic relationships make sometimes!

Bennett’s style didn’t work as much for me as the characterization did. The book is very light on dialogue, heavy on narration and description and telling us what a character feels or thinks. This isn’t to criticize Bennett’s writing skills—I loved some of her turns of phrase, some of the metaphors and descriptive language she uses. But the storytelling happens at a distance from the characters, and it is hard to get emotionally invested in the events despite their intense emotional experiences.

I enjoyed The Mothers and think I get what Bennett is putting down here. That, in a way, is a good measure of the success of a book: did I connect to the author enough to hear their message? The answer here is yes. Whether I will read more of Bennett’s work—I know The Vanishing Half is very well regarded—is up in the air.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Although I would have got around to Daughter of the Moon Goddess eventually, in all likelihood, my bestie Rebecca putting this into my hands (quite literally), got me reading this sooner rather than later. It was one of her favourite books last year—so much so that she jumped at the sequel. So, you know, no pressure to love it or anything. Fortunately, our friendship can continue. Sue Lynn Tan has written something that I dare call fantasy opera (as opposed to space opera)—which is to say, there is something very epic going on here.

Xingyin is the eponymous daughter of the moon goddess. Her mother was mortal but drank a potion that granted her immortality. However, the Celestial Emperor banished her to the moon, where she must light the lanterns each night. She sends Xingyin away when Xingyin is quite young to avoid discovery. And so Xingyin wanders, eventually becoming the companion to the crown prince—Liwei—and formulating a plan to secure her mother’s pardon (and freedom). Dark forces gathering on the border of the empire, however, threaten to upset Xingyin’s plans.

This book was exactly what I needed after coming out of a reading slump in April. After a glut of nonfiction, Daughter of the Moon Goddess was a refreshing foray back into fiction. Tan’s writing is so relaxing and cozy, almost lyrical at times. She clearly understood the assignment she set for herself: yes, this book can be sparse on background and character, can leap entire years in paragraphs, and occasionally feels larger than life. But this is a deliberate embrace of genre conventions that allows Tan to draw inspiration from Chinese mythology. From the divide between mortals and immortals to dragons and the need to be honourable, Tan breathes life into a tale that will feel familiar yet also fresh and stimulating.

I’ll be honest—my own experience with and understanding of Chinese history and mythology is woefully Western and incomplete, so I can’t comment much on those dimensions of this book. My understanding is that this belongs to a genre called xianxia, i.e. legendary fantasy. I know that Xingyin’s mother and father are based off the legendary figures Chang'e and Hou Yi but that from there Tan has basically made the story her own. Readers more familiar with this genre might find the book more ordinary. All I can say from my point of view as a white woman is that I really enjoyed both the style and substance of this story. Plus, you know something else I didn’t expect to enjoy? The romance!

Yes, this book has a love triangle. As you might know, I generally don’t care for the romantic subplot of any given book. I knew it was a given when Xingyin started hanging around Liwei that the two would develop affection for one another. Tossing Wenzhi into the mix only made good narrative sense. But the romance felt really … deep, I guess is the word? When Liwei is, predictably, betrothed for reasons of convenience regardless of his feelings for Xingyin, I love how her reaction is to pull away and, later, tell him that she still loves him but that doesn’t mean they will be together. There is a pragmatism to this that I, as an aromantic person, truly appreciate. The idea that one can love someone, and be loved by that person in return, and even be together in some way for a time, only for that time to expire, is something we don’t see enough in a field of stories that often paint true love as forever. By the same token, I love that Tan leaves the end of the story ambiguous in terms of Xingyin’s romantic relationship status (no spoilers, so I will leave it at that). This is a book that understands how to tell a love story!

Xingyin is also a wonderful protagonist. She is prickly and flawed at times, prone to pride yet also quick to find herself wanting. I appreciated that she was seldom perfect from the start—yes, she is very fortunate, such as how she encounters Liwei—that’s the genre boost working in her favour. But when she joins the army, for example, she quickly gets a dose of reality when her first mission is messier than she was prepared for and people are injured or die because of her hesitation. I also love the somewhat usual tests and trials she must endure, such as when she seeks to help the dragons with their pearls. As much as Tan is still drawing from Chinese mythology in these moments, the broader strokes feel like echoes of many other traditions, Western or Eastern, including luminaries like Le Guin.

All in all, that’s probably the most powerful aspect of Daughter of the Moon Goddess for me: this is a book that reverberates. The emotions it left me with (because I did cry at the end) are still rattling around in my skull days after finishing it. I would read the sequel today if I had it in front of me. This is a book that makes me think about other books, let me luxuriate in its story for the time I had it, and generally made me feel excited about reading—even after I was finished it. It’s a sweet, simple, sublime piece of storytelling.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

More dragons, please! All kinds of dragons—sapient ones, feral ones, ones that pillage and hoard and burninate, and ones that just want to stay home and read a cozy book. When I saw L.R. Lam was coming out with a dragon-centric novel, I jumped at the eARC from NetGalley and Hodder & Stoughton. Dragonfall has a lot going for it, from an original and well-constructed world to a compelling premise. In the end I wasn’t left completely satisfied, but this is still a good book.

Everen is a dragon (spoiler?). He is, in fact, the last male dragon. His kind once worked alongside humanity, dragons and humans often bonding and then becoming comrades in a battle against evil. But centuries prior, humans rose up and drove dragons out of this world into Vere Celene, which is where Everen was born. There is a prophecy that the last male dragon will lead his kind back and retake what’s theirs—no pressure, though. Meanwhile, back in the human world, Arcady is a poor, young orphan with a plan to pose as a rich noble and find a way to exonerate the relative who, even in death, is blamed for a plague that ravages the nation. Everen and Arcady’s paths not only cross but become inextricably entwined. Forced to work together, they grow very close—until Everen has to choose between Arcady’s life or his loyalty to his people.

See what I mean? Compelling premise here. The reluctant allies-to-lovers trope, the “I love this person but I’m going to have to kill them” sword dangling over the relationship. The utter mismatch of species. It’s a good time! Lam works hard on the slow burn of the romance, developing it quite gradually, layering on the physical attraction, the chemistry, the personality clashes. Anyone who enjoys romantic subplots more than me will hopefully quite enjoy this dimension of Dragonfall.

The diametrically opposed desires of Arcady and Everen are also important. There is so much conflict here between the two of them, and I love it. I caught myself cackling at points as I read because of the dramatic irony (the chapters alternate between Arcady and Everen’s points of view—Arcady’s in first person, Everen’s in second person addressed, epistolary style, to Arcady). The storytelling is quite effective, and Lam kept me wondering throughout how things would be resolved, whether Everen could keep his promise to his kin and, if so, how that would affect Arcady’s plans.

Also, I couldn’t work this into my summary, but there’s a heist, or at least, a caper. It’s not the smoothest of jobs and not the main focus of the book, but it’s prominent enough that I sat up when I first caught a whiff of it—you all know how much I love a good heist.

Finally, loved the subversion of cisnormativity, the way that Locians use hand signals to communicate their pronouns, and Arcady’s role as a nonbinary or genderfluid protagonist.

For all that I enjoyed Dragonfall, though, there were elements to it that I found lacking. The ending is a classic cliffhanger to set up the sequel. I don’t mind that by itself, nor do I even mind so much the huge reveal at the very last moment. Lam is trying for tantalizing rather than tricksy, so it kind of works. On the other hand, it didn’t get me excited for the second book. I’m not on the edge of my seat, not particularly invested in Arcady or Everen or Sorin’s next chapters.

The thing is, I feel like I should be? There’s so much in here to recommend it, but that’s just the problem—Dragonfall might be pulling from a mixture of too many brilliant tropes, and while Lam uses many of them to good effect, the final result is still a messy kaleidoscope. When I zoom in on it, I can appreciate the individual parts and find lots to praise. But when I zoom out and try to look at the novel as a whole, I’m left with less enthusiasm. If anything, this is a good example of how literature is not only a subjective experience but also can change within an individual reader’s perceptions. I am left, I suppose, decidedly ambivalent.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

If it is possible to get burnt out on reading nonfiction about asexual and aromantic identities, that might be happening to me thanks to all of the great books Jessica Kingsley Publishers has put out this year. Ace and Aro Journeys: A Guide to Embracing Your Asexual or Aromantic Identity is yet another, though the Ace and Aro Advocacy Project has done a good job of making sure it is providing a valuable and different perspective. My thanks to the publisher and NetGalley for the eARC.

I think the book itself sums it up nicely when it says it aims to be both ace/aro 101 and 201. It covers the basics that so many books already cover about what asexuality and aromanticism are—and then it goes beyond those basics. Like several of the other books I’ve read from JKP this year, this one includes quotations from ace and aro people. However, the authorial voice of Ace and Aro Journeys remains casual yet organizational, a departure from the much more personal voices of individuals who wrote the other books.

Another contrast to the other books I read was that they were all mostly aimed at a-spec audiences, especially a-spec people who are just finding or coming to terms with their identities. While allo people could enjoy those books and learn a lot from them, they weren’t the primary audience. Ace and Aro Journeys, on the other hand, aims much wider. It in fact includes a lot of guidance and advice for allies who want to support their a-spec friends and family. So if you are searching for a book to get the allo person in your life to help them understand you, this one might be it.

Beyond that, I’m going to be honest: the burnout I’m feeling makes it difficult for me to be as enthusiastic about this book if I had just read it on its own. I’m trying to be clear about this because I don’t want to damn the book with faint praise—I think this book is good, and I’m really happy it exists and that I got to read it, but I’ve had too much of a good thing these past few months, and it is showing! What a time to live in when I can complain about reading too much nonfiction about ace and aro experiences, eh?

There are a few other highlights I can mention that make it easy to endorse this book. First, it is very focused on practical steps. It talks about finding support networks and specifically traces the origins of a-spec havens online. From an anthropological perspective, anyone researching or trying to learn more about the earlier days of asexuality on the web could do worse than starting here. As someone who hasn’t ever engaged in specific a-spec communities (I only really found my people on Twitter, and nowadays many have left), this part of the book made me feel a kind of … I don’t know, yearning? So many of the queer spaces where I hang out online are inclusive of ace people but are not necessarily ace-focused. I’m not sure I am going to rush out and join an online space dedicated to a-spec experiences, but this book really got me reflecting on it and what kinds of ace connections I might want in my life.

The sheer number of testimonials from different people is also very powerful. My experiences as an ace person don’t always match up with many of the most visible ace voices out there (and the same is true for my experiences as an aro person). This is the case for a lot of marginalized communities; I am sure my experience of this is not unique! But in this book, I definitely heard stories that felt closer to mine. I hope other a-spec readers find that too.

On that note, I’ll close my review with one other wish that I’ve said previously: these books do a good job of acknowledging the limitations of their positionality, but we need to go further. It’s great to say, “hey, this is primarily from a white and Western point of view.” Nevertheless, it would be even better if publishers like JKP could invest the time in finding non-white, non-Western voices to explore ace and aro identities from those perspectives as well. I hope in the years to come, I can complain about being burned out by the number of those books too.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

This book was published when I was five years old, yet it remains timeless and in a way prescient. My second bell hooks book, I read this for the book club I’m a part of. Teaching to Transgress is quite a different vibe from All About Love. This one is more practical, more focused on work rather than personal life (though hooks, of course, blurs those lines). I value both books but in different ways. As a teacher, of course, this book really spoke to me. Much of what hooks says feels familiar in what I already do; some of what she said pushed me to do better; all of what she says just feels so true and right, especially in the current climate.

At the start of the book, and then returning to it throughout, hooks discusses her experiences with education as a student. As a Black girl, and a Black woman, growing up in the American South during desegregation and integration. As a white woman in Canada, all I was taught was that integration of schools was a good thing—makes sense, right? But hooks points that a lot of Black parents were skeptical of integration, were just as against it as white parents, albeit perhaps for different reasons. She laments that she went from an all-Black school that was full of caring Black educators to a white school that treated her poorly and valued compliance over curiosity and actual learning. This is, alas, a story all too familiar today, even here in school systems in Ontario.

Thus we arrive at the first meaning of teaching to transgress: hooks wants us to be complicit, to recognize that the system itself is designed to sabotage students. To make them obedient in replicating structures of oppression. She doesn’t say this quite in that way, of course—as I noted in my review of All About Love, hooks has this incredible facility for making her writing accessible, her sentences short—a skill, you have noticed, that still eludes me. So we must teach our students to transgress this system.

Beyond that, we ourselves must transgress the dynamics expected between teacher and student by this colonial, carceral system. That is to say, teachers are expected to wield power in a way that dominates students. To change that, hooks says, we have to be vulnerable. We have to invite students to be a part of the learning process in a way that might frighten us (and them). Writing from the perspective of teaching undergraduate university students, hooks remarks that often students will feel lost, will resist her attempts to democratize her classroom, because they are used to being told what to do. As an adult education teacher I feel this way too—my students are suspicious of anything that is different from the high school experience they recall even though that experience was, in part, responsible for them not being successful. Nevertheless, all we can do as educators is keep trying.

I call this book prescient because even though hooks is writing in the early nineties, so much of what she says feels like it applies to classrooms today. She witnessed in her time what we are seeing now—namely, the use of shallow stabs at “diversity and equity” that are little more than public relations gambits in lieu of actual systemic change. Much like contemporary Black women are calling out such hypocrisy right now, hooks cautions us not to fall for such pabulum. I drew great inspiration, especially in her conversations with a white male colleague. There is such unflinching honesty in this book: hooks reflects on her own limitations, criticizes others where she believes they deserve criticism, yet is also willing to recognize that people have the capacity to grow and change and be allies.

Those of us who are white who read this book and mull over our role in being antiracist educators must confront the fact of our whiteness. This goes deeper than simply “checking our privilege,” as we are often advised to do by the diversity consultants. It means understanding that we can’t always understand, that our experience literally obscures reality as Black people experience it, and for that reason we have to listen to Black voices on these matters—yet not expect Black people to do all the work. We need to understand how we can wield our whiteness to be accomplices.

Nearly thirty years old now, Teaching to Transgress has as much or more power today as it did when it was published. I only regret that bell hooks is no longer with us, for I would have enjoyed hearing her speak. As it is, all I can do is keep catching up on her writing. She is honest, thoughtful, deliberate, sensitive. She acknowledges that feminism hasn’t always extended beyond white woman yet strives to change that rather than set feminism aside. She is aware of the paradoxes in which she exists as a Black woman in our society, yet she challenges other Black people, challenges herself, as much as she challenges white people to do better. This, to me, is the ultimate theme of Teaching to Transgress: for hooks, there is always a way for anyone to learn, to do better, to push further and harder for justice.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

When I requested the eARC of this book from NetGalley and publisher Saga Press, I was apprehensive. From the publicity pitch alone I was nervous this would be one of those white feminist books that purport to provide deeper commentary on social issues but lack an awareness of intersectionality. Then I learned a bit more about Chana Porter, particularly that they are a Lambda Award winner, and I was reassured. Indeed, The Thick and the Lean is

Beatrice was born and raised in the religious community of Seagate. In this world, the prevailing religion views consumption of food in a puritanical way similar to how some conservative branches of Christianity view sex (and sex is, as you might expect, much less policed). Seagate polices food consumption even more intensely than mainstream communities. But Beatrice loves food and discovers she loves to cook, and it isn’t long before she sets her eyes on leaving. Meanwhile, Reiko uses her hacking skills to move up from life in the Bastian to the Middle and eventually sets her eyes on Above. Both women are influenced by a contraband book, a set of stories purportedly written by a kitchen maid who becomes enamoured of a king, which includes illicit recipes. As the years go by, their covert desires shape who they become and the actions they take in a world that seems increasingly fractured and fraught.

Huge content warning of discussions of food/eating disorders, purging, etc.

It is, of course, no secret that women in our society are socialized to have a problematic relationship with food. On the one hand, we are typically expected to take on a great deal of the preparation of food. On the other hand, we are policed and shamed if our bodies don’t fit whatever ideal is popular at the time, which often means we’re encouraged to restrict our food intake. Porter exaggerates these mores into a literal religion in The Thick and the Lean. The complex ways in which Beatrice’s internalized shame around food intersect with her feelings about sex, her attraction to people, her attraction to her own body, etc., are fascinating and really got me thinking about my own relationship to food and eating. Again, this could likely trigger people, even if you don’t necessarily have a history with an out-and-out eating disorder, so practise self-care when reading.

Beyond the literal interpretation of food restriction, of course, there are so many layers here. Beatrice’s membership in a cult or a strict religious denomination, the exit costs of leaving, its effect on her relationship with her parents—there are many ways one could read one’s own experiences into this, whether one is queer, comes from a highly religious community/family, etc. Porter explores the pain of exile and separation (even when voluntary), found family, and more. The parallel paths of Beatrice and Reiko’s lives are fascinating. Both are entranced by this book that they each come to in different ways, yet for very different reasons: Beatrice latches on to the recipes and the freedom promised through cooking; Reiko is fascinated by the rebellious existence of the maid. They are, respectively, the eponymous thick and the lean: Beatrice literally thick from eating, rich with family and connections; Reiko thin, angular, and isolated despite being in a relationship with someone who thinks he loves her.

The story kicks into higher and higher gear, and Porter has her characters grapple with their responsibilities to revolution in each of their capacities. Beatrice, as a chef in a society that marginalizes food, is inherently revolutionary—yet how much is she willing to risk as more and more people protest her proclivity? Reiko has put so much of her energy into creating a sham of a life so real that she has practically become that person, and when she sees her facade in danger of cracking, she has to choose—will she give in, continue being complicit in the literal rising floodwaters that threaten people she grew up with, just because it means an easier life for her personally? Or will she find a way to act?

Reiko’s journey in particular is interesting because, unlike Beatrice, she is not always a likeable character (though I would argue she is usually still sympathetic). I really like how Porter illustrates that oppressed people are not always going to be heroes. Plenty of oppressed people collaborate, oppress others, lash out, or simply try to survive even if that means propping up the system that oppresses them. At the same time, as Porter demonstrates through Reiko, such people always still have the capability to surprise you. We contain multitudes.

I also adored the worldbuilding in this novel, the way that Porter hints at a whole history that we never truly explore. Is this set in a far future Earth (but it has two moons??)? A planet colonized by our distant descendants? Just a different world entirely? In the end the answers don’t matter—this is set dressing, there to help us understand the allegory that Porter wants to tell.

Then there is the story-within-the-story of the kitchen maid. Chapters interspersed between Beatrice and Reiko’s narratives tell us of what happens to the maid and her romance with a king. It’s sweet. It’s a fairy tale too—I think its happy ending is meant to contrast the uncertainty of Beatrice and Reiko’s fates. Stories get wrapped up neatly, whereas real life is seldom so obliging. Beatrice will continue to take leaps of faith, not knowing where she will land. Reiko must reckon with her divided loyalties, her heritage, her desire for a safety that can only ever be illusory.

When you get right down to it, The Thick and the Lean is about the price of happiness. What would you do? Would you leave behind your family and all that you know? Would you steal? Kill? Betray? What does happiness even look like in a society that is antagonistic to your very being? (Oof, that last question hit home for me.)

I’m really happy I picked up this novel. The title and description initially turned me off, yet the author and the first few chapters were enough to change my mind. I will read more of Chana Porter when I can.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Are we the baddies? is one of my favourite tropes in fiction. Emily Tesh plays this trope straight to great effect in Some Desperate Glory. This is a story of deradicalization, and it’s one that in this day and age needs to be told. If we as a society are going to continue making progress on issues of social justice in an age where misinformation online abounds and assists in radicalizing our friends and family, we need to learn how to have difficult, nuanced conversations with people who have succumbed to such causes. This book explores that while also delivering action and no small amount of tears. Thank you to Tor and NetGalley for the eARC.

Kyr is a warrior dedicated to a cause. She is one of a handful of true humans—Gaians—left in a galaxy where aliens have destroyed Earth and dominated the remainder of humanity. Or at least, that’s the story she was told. As she approaches graduation into the ranks of Gaia’s elite warriors, the facade built around Kyr for her entire life begins to crumble, and she begins to question everything she knows. The resulting doubt will catapult her on a journey across space and time in search of what justice actually means.

I didn’t like Kyr at first. We aren’t supposed to—she is a product of a world that this bio-essentialist, rigidly gendered, homophobic, and racist. Tesh warns us of this up front with an author’s note, and I get it after reading the book. In order to truly show us the experience of deradicalizing and leaving a cult or hate group, Tesh has to show us where Kyr starts from: as someone who has internalized all these ideas because that is how she was raised, and even when she starts to question these ideas, often she still falls back on them. That, in my mind, is what makes her a sympathetic character—it’s the struggle against what she “knows” to be true because that was what she was told her whole life.

For me, the book’s brilliance is a slow burn indeed. The first part feels like a traditional tale of insurrection: Kyr wakes up, realizes she is one of the baddies, and takes it upon herself to fight back the only way she knows how. It’s the second part of the book, after a cataclysmic event and Tesh’s introduction of time/dimensional travel, that really causes Some Desperate Glory to take off. I love when a story that I think is one thing ends up hopping subgenres to become something else entirely—sure, it doesn’t always work, but when such a leap of faith lands so gracefully, as it does here, it is sublime.

From deradicalization we go to bigger philosophical questions of what it means to be human, to be sentient, and who should have the power to decide what course is “best” for the greater good. Though Kyr was definitely on “the wrong side” before, Tesh asks us if she is now on “the right side,” if there is a right side.

I’ve been watching a lot of The Flash for the first time alongside my rewatch of Supergirl, and I have to say, it’s making a strong case that time travel—at least, time travel to the past—is straight up unethical. No exceptions. Time travel is an act of hubris that asserts that you, as the traveller, have some kind of right to rewrite the experiences of countless other lives simply because you want to take a jaunt into the past. On the other hand, I wonder if my perspective is biased—no, scratch that, I know it’s biased, but I guess I wonder if that bias actually matters—because I experience time linearly. Maybe entities who see the entirety of time simultaneously do actually know better. I don’t know.

I just know that I like stories that make me think about this stuff while also giving me fight scenes and explosions. It’s why I like The Flash and Doctor Who, and it’s why I like Some Desperate Glory.

In addition to Kyr, there’s a truly interesting cast of characters, all of whom are flawed and fabulous. I love how, much like Kyr, most of them are hard to fully like—a lot of them are kind of assholes or rude—yet they are all so interesting. I really appreciate the way that Tesh sympathetically portrays how difficult it is to overcome prejudice—even in little ways, like how Kyr has to get used to using they/them pronouns for Yiso, etc. Without making excuses for people who are prejudiced, I also think we need to make space for the fact that it takes people time to work through prejudice and fear—another good example of this is Captain Shaw from season 3 of Star Trek: Picard. Tesh expertly depicts the complexity of the human experience, the ways in which we are all messy and contradictory, whether we are trying to do better or simply obsessed with power and revenge.

Then there’s the ending. Some Desperate Glory stands on its own as a novel, which I appreciate. I love me a good standalone science-fiction novel. Yet there is also room for sequels, and honestly the way it ends between Kyr and the Wisdom, that cute little conversation (and who doesn’t love a sentient spaceship with a sense of humour?) … gosh, I would read more. I’m just saying.

Some Desperate Glory is some of the most original, delightfully incisive science fiction that I have read in the past few years. I went into it expecting it to be good, to be a fun read—I walked out blown away by the storytelling, the characterization, and the themes. What a great experience.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Adrian Tchaikovksy is probably someone I will confuse with Alastair Reynolds for a long time just because they are both science-fiction authors from the UK and like to write about wibbly wobbly, timey-wimey stuff. And Put Away Childish Things is a novella loosely based on the premise “What if Narnia were real and it were terrible?” Except, that’s kind of already been done? I received an eARC of this from NetGalley and publisher Rebellion.

Harry Bodie is an actor for a children’s TV show. He is not beloved. Very few people enjoy his company, and he is resentful that his career has never taken off. His grandmother wrote a series of beloved books called Underhill, which take place in a Narnia-esque world of the same name. Just as the COVID-19 pandemic starts up, Bodie finds himself the target of machinations from several factions, all convinced that Underhill is real and he is the key to accessing it—whether by wardrobe or some other portal.

I was really intrigued by the premise, of course, and excited to read the book, but it never seemed to start, for me? Maybe I’m unfairly comparing it to The Magicians. To be clear, this story is very different from that one—both deconstruct the desirability of Narnia, but one is about young adults eager to take up the practice of magic, and the other is about a washed up TV presenter being reluctantly dragged into interdimensional shenanigans. The stories are almost completely divergent, yet that one thread that they have in common made it difficult for me to put the comparison down.

Bodie is not a likable character, nor is he meant to be, but I don’t like that I don’t like him! Maybe because there just didn’t seem to be anyone to like in the book. I also think the main antagonist, and their goals/plans for Bodie, gets revealed far too late in the story, resulting in a climax and resolution that felt all too rushed.

In the same way, Tchaikovsky dangles little hints of grander things in front of the reader but never explores them. So Snickersnack can move between worlds because she’s got spider powers? OK? Tell me more about these worlds, or potentialities, or how they get manipulated. It’s a very compelling idea and reminiscent of what he explores in Children of Memory, but it doesn’t go very far because of the length of the story. I kept wondering what would have happened if this were novel length—yet at the same time, unlike some novellas and short stories, I have no burning desire to read the novel version of this story.

And Put Away Childish Things has clever ideas and solid writing, as I have come to expect from Tchaikovsky. There’s just nothing specifically that I can grab on to, however, and praise as “this made the story for me.” It’s nonspecific portal fiction, a curious blending of fantasy and science fiction. Good for an afternoon’s distraction? Sure. But not the first thing I would recommend.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Another in the slate of ace-focused books released recently by Jessica Kingsley Publishers, who through NetGalley provided me with an eARC that I am finally getting around to reviewing! Ace Notes: Tips and Tricks on Existing in an Allo World by Michele Kirichanskaya is a kind of how-to guide for being asexual in a world that privileges sexual attraction and desire. It’s not prescriptive (as Kirichanskaya notes, there is no one right way to be ace!) but it is very thoughtful. There are two stand-out features of this book: in-depth interviews with other ace-spec people and a very holistic consideration of how asexuality extends beyond the world of sex.

All of the ace books I have read recently have, in one way or another, dispensed advice to their audience. This book takes it one step further in that it is meant to be an advice book. The chapter titles, such as “How to Identify an Asexual” or “Explaining the Different Types of Attraction,” reflect this. And whereas the other titles could, in theory, be useful for an allosexual reader, this book’s audience is definitely ace-spec people. This is a book for us, and it’s great.

A great deal of what Kirichanskaya covers doesn’t apply to me personally, mostly because I have been out basically since I knew to use the words ace and asexual. That isn’t to discount the value in this book for baby aces but instead meant to highlight what I want to say next, which is that I still found, as an older person who is comfortable talking about her asexuality, a great deal of new perspectives on these pages.

In particular, Kirichanskaya has a whole part of the book devoted to “Religion and Identity”—including chapters discussing asexuality and Judaism. As someone who is not Jewish, this is honestly not something that I had ever thought about! So much of the conversation around religion and asexuality in the West revolves around Christianity, and specifically the ideas of purity culture that have come out of Christianity. A lot of ace talk is about how to distinguish asexuality from celibacy, how to push back against purity culture, how to push back against the idea that we should want or have sex to be fruitful and multiply, etc. Reading chapters about asexuality and another one of the world’s major religious and ethnic identities was so cool and refreshing. It makes me think about how I need to seek out some perspectives from Muslim aces as well.

Speaking of perspective, Kirichanskaya also interviews many prominent ace personalities. I hadn’t heard all of these names before but suspect many will be recognizable to people who pick up this book. The interviews are dispersed throughout the book based on where they best fit within the book’s larger organization. This is a really nice strategy that breaks up the flow of Kirichanskaya’s writing. Each interview allows Kirichanskaya to elucidate understandings of asexuality that she might not have been able to discuss as eloquently or authentically herself.

One of the interviews was with Maia Kobabe, whose book Gender Queer sounds so good I might actually read it one day despite my deep aversion to graphic novels at the moment. Eir interview resonated with me because e and Kiranskaya talk about how transitioning can sometimes affect the labels one uses for one’s sexuality. People have asked me if coming out as trans means I’m not ace any more, something I addressed in a blog post a few years ago. I really like how Kobabe and Kirichanskaya discuss this idea (spoiler: the answer is not one-size-fits-all!).

This book is well worth picking up if you are ace or thinking you might fall somewhere on the ace spectrum and want a volume that, rather than explaining asexuality to you, helps you think about what that will look like in your life. It asks you to consider what you want out of this label, what it means for how you relate to yourself and others, and what you want to do going forward. This focus on action rather than introspection is not for everyone, but it is a great complement to the other books this publisher has put out recently. I recommend.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

How is Alix E. Harrow this good a writer? Or maybe I should ask, how does Harrow know exactly what is my literary catnip? Because … wow. The Ten Thousand Doors of January continues my late 2022/2023 theme of reading stories about stories in a big way.

January Scaller grows up a ward of Mr. Cornelius Locke while her father travels the world and locates rare items for Locke’s collection. Initially imaginative and precocious, January eventually finds herself pressured by Locke and others to conform to the ideal, modern “good girl” of the early twentieth century. Yet as she enters her teens, January can’t help but shake that there is more out there for her to discover, if only she could find the right door to open. A book that appears in a chest—seemingly by magic—confirms her suspicion, confirms that there are in fact entire worlds to be discovered through the right doors. Before January can truly put this to the test, however, she finds herself embroiled in an age-old conspiracy to close all those doors—and it might just cost her, her father, and her closest friends their lives.

I just adore Harrow’s narrative style. She captures one of my favourite genres of fantasy—though this could technically be classed as young adult, I see it as an adult novel, yet it has the same kind of wide-eyed innocent atmosphere that a story for younger readers has. In this respect, Harrow is a worthy successor to Ursula K. Le Guin. I said it. Just as Le Guin created Earthsea (among other worlds) to explore coming of age, the power of names, and storytelling, so too does Harrow. January’s adventure is wide-ranging, and she changes so much from the beginning to the end of the story.

In fact, I want to talk about the ending (without going into spoilers). There is an epilogue that made me want to stand up and cheer, except I was in the bath at the time and standing up abruptly might have been a slip-and-fall risk. Basically, January throughout the book has hefty limitations on her power (both magical and mundane). By the end of the book, she has acquired true independence and agency—and she has also grown into her magical power in a way that is truly exciting to see. I would sell a piece of my soul for a sequel that follows grown-up January on her next adventure.

I cannot believe this is a debut novel. When I read The Once and Future Witches last year, I was excited to try out Harrow’s earlier work but nervous about whether it would live up to my expectations. If anything, Harrow exceeds them here—I might actually like this book better than her newer novel. In both cases, I would say the principal flaw is in the weak development of the antagonists. Once again, the nature of the main antagonist in this book is easy to discern if you’re even halfway paying attention. While Harrow attempts to portray him in a sympathetic light, and there’s certainly the same kind of theme of feminist empowerment moving through this plot as there is in The Once and Future Witches, ultimately the antagonist in this story just didn’t interest me all that much.

Fortunately, January’s characterization more than makes up for it. The way that Harrow talks about stories and words and writing more than makes up for it. The beauty of the love stories here—for there are many—more than makes up for it.

Indeed, I really appreciate how Harrow deals with romance. There is an upfront, honest digression about the nature of true love and how love is a process rather than event. January’s parents are separated for seventeen years, and it is painful and raw, and while the love abides, its shape stretches and attenuates over that time. It got me thinking, as a woman in her thirties, how my relationships with the people closest to me will shift with age and experience (and hopefully wisdom). Similarly, January’s own romantic arc is complex, problematized by her circumstances. It would have been so easy for Harrow to put January and her love interest together right away and make their love the deciding factor in January’s triumph. Harrow doesn’t take the easy route, though, and the book is so much better for it.

The Ten Thousand Doors of January is sumptuous, fastidious, expansive writing. I luxuriated in Harrow’s storytelling, lingered on her words, longed to explore the worlds she dangles in front of us like so many unreachable horizons. Did I mention I would like more books like this? Not an idle request. This is my jam.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.