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tachyondecay
This book has been on my to-read list for four years, and I’m glad I finally got to it. Tanya Huff delivers strong urban fantasy set in a Canadian city. She sets up an interesting family of magic users, where the women and the men participate in complicated rituals that allow them to work charms. Alongside, she sends us a light mixture of supernatural creatures to pad out the character sheet—a leprechaun, some dragons and Dragon Lords, but nothing too unusual or overwhelming. That’s what I appreciate about The Enchantment Emporium: there isn’t too much going on here. Huff keeps the plot focussed, the threads all weaving back in upon each other, which kept me interested and entertained.
Allie leaves the rest of the Gale family to go out west and take over her grandmother’s shop. Her aunties, the Gale women who are the oldest and thus have the most power, are dubious as to her grandmother’s demise. Allie isn’t ready to be tied down with family obligations, though, so she goes. She ends up discovering that her grandmother’s role in the fragile Fey community in Calgary was even weirder; she was far more than a purveyor of antiques. Oh, and there is a sorcerer in Calgary. Hiding out from Dragon Lords. Allie should just call in the aunties to help her dispatch the sorcerer (Gales don’t like sorcerers, apparently), but there is one tiny problem. The sorcerer’s hired gun is hot, and he and Allie have a fling. A thing. You know.
With these ingredients, Huff creates a perfect storm of divided loyalties, crises of confidence, and gradual acceptance of one’s powers. As Allie gets to know Graham and tries to persuade him to leave the sorcerer’s employ, she begins to feel herself changing, as she moves from “third circle” to “second circle” (which is apparently how the Gales rank power). She is still healing from her first break-up with a childhood friend who discovered he was gay. This alone might be enough to make someone feel uncertain about herself; Allie’s life is further complicated by having to wade through the various milestones and rituals that accompany being a Gale woman (not to mention all the various attendant family members who want to “help”).
It’s great to read about a heroine who is as self-possessed and confident as Allie is who isn’t also a) the Chosen One and b) some kind of kickass streetfighter. Don’t get me wrong; I loves me the Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But Allie is a research assistant in anthropology, not a fighter, and the way she interacts with the “heavies” of the supernatural world—the Dragon Lords, the sorcerer—reflect this. She is protective of her friends and allies and confident when she stands up to her potential enemies, but it’s a calmer confidence. (In a way, it’s a little bit naive, because Allie is banking a lot on the reputation of the Gales and her ability to call her aunties in for help.) Nevertheless, even though she never starts and rarely engages in direct confrontation, Allie gets a lot done.
For example, it is easy to miss it if you are focusing only on the main plot, but Allie has clearly decided to stay in Calgary by about the middle of the book. She has some of her friends working on the apartment above the store pretty much continuously throughout the book, and every so often Huff will remark upon how much is getting done. Not only is Allie investigating the machinations of an amoral sorcerer; she is making the apartment and store her own. (The moment she consciously realizes this, and accepts it symbolically by disposing of the monkey’s paw, is awesome.)
There’s also a lot to be said for the development of the supporting characters, like Joe. He starts as a surly, suspicious leprechaun who can’t wait to get out of there. As Allie shows him more trust and respect, he returns in kind. I would have liked to see Joe figure in the plot a little more—if not as a participant, then as a source of information—but I enjoyed seeing him used as a signpost for Allie’s effect on the people around her.
Allie herself grows up a lot. Until now, she hasn’t really confronted her own ambivalent feelings about the way the older Gale women manipulate and control the younger ones. Much of her time in Calgary involves recognizing this problem and trying to figure out how to deal with it—as it becomes apparent, Allie still relies on her aunties for help dealing with the situation, but she starts to realize she can still be calling the shots. There’s no question in my mind that the book would have ended a lot differently if Allie had simply sat back and let the aunties take charge.
Speaking of ambivalence, I’m not sure how I feel, on balance, about the romance between Allie and Graham. I like Graham well enough, and I recognize that Huff was trying to create some confusion, with him torn between his compelled loyalty to the sorcerer and his attraction to Allie, not to mention all the baggage that Allie brings with her in the form of ritual. Perhaps this was my problem—Huff never quite explains the rituals as explicitly as I would like, so it all still seems kind of uncertain for me. This issue resurfaces throughout the book. I’m quite intrigued by the Gale family, but I wish Huff had been less cryptic in her revelation of how their abilities work.
Similarly, I wish there had been more complex interrogations of the gender dynamics at work, both within and without the Gale family. Allie couldn’t bring Michael into the fold because, being gay, he understandably didn’t want to marry her and father some babies. It seems like the Gale gender roles are pretty prescribed, though—women make pie, men do what the women say and have lots of sex. What happens if a member of the Gale family is gay? (Mind you, there seems to be some implication that everyone in the family is just pansexual, so there’s that.) Huff has no problems portraying Allie with the realistic, healthy sex drive for someone her age, but she comes up short when it comes to fully illuminating the connections between attraction, sex, and power that seem to be present within the Gale family.
Power is a major motif in this book. The Gales have it; the sorcerer has it; the Dragon Lord has it. It’s all about who has the power. And, according to the aunties, power corrupts and can’t be trusted in the hands of one person—that’s why they always dispatch sorcerers. However, Huff remains unclear just what the Gales are doing with all this power, other than baking pie. Why have this power if they don’t use it? Is there something more sinister going on here? I’m disappointed this isn’t directly addressed, and I find it problematic considering the role that power plays throughout the rest of the book.
On the plus side, I liked how The Enchantment Emporium is very comfortable with its contemporary setting. It’s easy to stick an “urban fantasy” label on a book, but in my experience, a lot of contemporary urban fantasy takes on distinct tones from other genres that might be anachronistic to its setting. (For example, The Dresden Files, my gold standard for urban fantasy, often takes on elements of the noir, and Butcher intentionally limits the amount of technology his characters can use.) Huff is able to create a strong impression that this could all happen now, in everyday Calgary, right under people’s noses.
Oh. And did I mention there is pie? All kinds: apple, key lime, rhubarb … sorry, but I really love pie. And the magical, ever-filling pie fridge in Allie’s apartment made me very jealous and very hungry.
I enjoyed The Enchantment Emporium a ridiculous amount, especially considering all the flaws I’ve found in it. (Sometimes I think that’s one of the best measures of a book’s quality—how much you enjoyed it despite recognizing its shortcomings.) I will read the sequel, which looks like it’s about Allie’s cousin Charlie, and I look forward to another interesting tale.
My reviews of the Gale Women books:
The Wild Ways →
Allie leaves the rest of the Gale family to go out west and take over her grandmother’s shop. Her aunties, the Gale women who are the oldest and thus have the most power, are dubious as to her grandmother’s demise. Allie isn’t ready to be tied down with family obligations, though, so she goes. She ends up discovering that her grandmother’s role in the fragile Fey community in Calgary was even weirder; she was far more than a purveyor of antiques. Oh, and there is a sorcerer in Calgary. Hiding out from Dragon Lords. Allie should just call in the aunties to help her dispatch the sorcerer (Gales don’t like sorcerers, apparently), but there is one tiny problem. The sorcerer’s hired gun is hot, and he and Allie have a fling. A thing. You know.
With these ingredients, Huff creates a perfect storm of divided loyalties, crises of confidence, and gradual acceptance of one’s powers. As Allie gets to know Graham and tries to persuade him to leave the sorcerer’s employ, she begins to feel herself changing, as she moves from “third circle” to “second circle” (which is apparently how the Gales rank power). She is still healing from her first break-up with a childhood friend who discovered he was gay. This alone might be enough to make someone feel uncertain about herself; Allie’s life is further complicated by having to wade through the various milestones and rituals that accompany being a Gale woman (not to mention all the various attendant family members who want to “help”).
It’s great to read about a heroine who is as self-possessed and confident as Allie is who isn’t also a) the Chosen One and b) some kind of kickass streetfighter. Don’t get me wrong; I loves me the Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But Allie is a research assistant in anthropology, not a fighter, and the way she interacts with the “heavies” of the supernatural world—the Dragon Lords, the sorcerer—reflect this. She is protective of her friends and allies and confident when she stands up to her potential enemies, but it’s a calmer confidence. (In a way, it’s a little bit naive, because Allie is banking a lot on the reputation of the Gales and her ability to call her aunties in for help.) Nevertheless, even though she never starts and rarely engages in direct confrontation, Allie gets a lot done.
For example, it is easy to miss it if you are focusing only on the main plot, but Allie has clearly decided to stay in Calgary by about the middle of the book. She has some of her friends working on the apartment above the store pretty much continuously throughout the book, and every so often Huff will remark upon how much is getting done. Not only is Allie investigating the machinations of an amoral sorcerer; she is making the apartment and store her own. (The moment she consciously realizes this, and accepts it symbolically by disposing of the monkey’s paw, is awesome.)
There’s also a lot to be said for the development of the supporting characters, like Joe. He starts as a surly, suspicious leprechaun who can’t wait to get out of there. As Allie shows him more trust and respect, he returns in kind. I would have liked to see Joe figure in the plot a little more—if not as a participant, then as a source of information—but I enjoyed seeing him used as a signpost for Allie’s effect on the people around her.
Allie herself grows up a lot. Until now, she hasn’t really confronted her own ambivalent feelings about the way the older Gale women manipulate and control the younger ones. Much of her time in Calgary involves recognizing this problem and trying to figure out how to deal with it—as it becomes apparent, Allie still relies on her aunties for help dealing with the situation, but she starts to realize she can still be calling the shots. There’s no question in my mind that the book would have ended a lot differently if Allie had simply sat back and let the aunties take charge.
Speaking of ambivalence, I’m not sure how I feel, on balance, about the romance between Allie and Graham. I like Graham well enough, and I recognize that Huff was trying to create some confusion, with him torn between his compelled loyalty to the sorcerer and his attraction to Allie, not to mention all the baggage that Allie brings with her in the form of ritual. Perhaps this was my problem—Huff never quite explains the rituals as explicitly as I would like, so it all still seems kind of uncertain for me. This issue resurfaces throughout the book. I’m quite intrigued by the Gale family, but I wish Huff had been less cryptic in her revelation of how their abilities work.
Similarly, I wish there had been more complex interrogations of the gender dynamics at work, both within and without the Gale family. Allie couldn’t bring Michael into the fold because, being gay, he understandably didn’t want to marry her and father some babies. It seems like the Gale gender roles are pretty prescribed, though—women make pie, men do what the women say and have lots of sex. What happens if a member of the Gale family is gay? (Mind you, there seems to be some implication that everyone in the family is just pansexual, so there’s that.) Huff has no problems portraying Allie with the realistic, healthy sex drive for someone her age, but she comes up short when it comes to fully illuminating the connections between attraction, sex, and power that seem to be present within the Gale family.
Power is a major motif in this book. The Gales have it; the sorcerer has it; the Dragon Lord has it. It’s all about who has the power. And, according to the aunties, power corrupts and can’t be trusted in the hands of one person—that’s why they always dispatch sorcerers. However, Huff remains unclear just what the Gales are doing with all this power, other than baking pie. Why have this power if they don’t use it? Is there something more sinister going on here? I’m disappointed this isn’t directly addressed, and I find it problematic considering the role that power plays throughout the rest of the book.
On the plus side, I liked how The Enchantment Emporium is very comfortable with its contemporary setting. It’s easy to stick an “urban fantasy” label on a book, but in my experience, a lot of contemporary urban fantasy takes on distinct tones from other genres that might be anachronistic to its setting. (For example, The Dresden Files, my gold standard for urban fantasy, often takes on elements of the noir, and Butcher intentionally limits the amount of technology his characters can use.) Huff is able to create a strong impression that this could all happen now, in everyday Calgary, right under people’s noses.
Oh. And did I mention there is pie? All kinds: apple, key lime, rhubarb … sorry, but I really love pie. And the magical, ever-filling pie fridge in Allie’s apartment made me very jealous and very hungry.
I enjoyed The Enchantment Emporium a ridiculous amount, especially considering all the flaws I’ve found in it. (Sometimes I think that’s one of the best measures of a book’s quality—how much you enjoyed it despite recognizing its shortcomings.) I will read the sequel, which looks like it’s about Allie’s cousin Charlie, and I look forward to another interesting tale.
My reviews of the Gale Women books:
The Wild Ways →
When I was in university, I had the immense privilege and joy of taking a course in classical rhetoric. Rhetoric itself is fascinating; classical rhetoric I found doubly so. There is something very rewarding about breaking down even the most modern of eloquent orations and finding, in their bones, the lessons learned and promulgated by voices from two millennia ago. I suspect that, in addition to my general interest in fiction set in ancient Rome, is what first landed Imperium on my to-read list. When I finally got around to it, I was sceptical. As I started reading it, I wasn’t sure this type of narration was what I wanted right now. I pushed on, though, and I’m glad I did. Robert Harris tells a compelling story not just about Cicero but about the last days of the Roman Republic.
Marcus Tullius Cicero is already an accomplished lawyer and senator when Imperium begins. Told in hindsight by his former slave and secretary, Tiro, Imperium is about Cicero’s rise to political power: first aedile, then praetor, and finally consul of Rome. During this time, the Roman Republic starts to succumb to the rot within the ranks of the aristocracy and others in power. Figures such as Pompey, Crassus, and Caesar, familiar to many who would read fiction about this period, loom large in this story. But this is not a book of military conquest. It’s more political intrigue, and beyond that, it’s more about electoral intrigue with a side of legal drama. Kind of House of Cards meets … some legal drama show.
It’s really difficult to overstate Cicero’s influence on Renaissance and later writing in Europe, so Harris is taking on a big task here. I’m not going to talk about historical veracity—that’s not my forte—but I want to comment a bit on idiom. Harris makes use of a lot of contemporary British slang here, almost as if this book has been translated into vernacular—which, in a sense, I suppose it must be, given that if Tiro had really written these words, they would be in Latin, not English! So while this choice threw me at first, it kind of grew on me after a while. Harris does a good job differentiating between the different classes by means of things like dialogue, and that can be tough to do in historical fiction so far removed from our time and language.
Imperium is also a kind of crash course into Roman politics in the 1st century BC. Tiro portrays Cicero as a patriot who truly believes in the ideal of the Republic. Ranged against him are those who desire personal glory (Pompey), those who want to preserve the status quo (the aristocracy), those who desire to reshape Rome in their own image (Caesar, bankrolled by Crassus), and those who simply want to abuse the system for their own ends (Verres, Catilina). Cicero is shrewd and not entirely clean himself, in the sense that, as a politician, he often has to do business with people he finds detestable. I really like how, in this way, Harris has the political and electoral machinery of ancient Rome resembling our own today—the exact rules and procedures differ, of course, but much of the strategizing, the backroom deals verging on conspiracy, remains the same. Even if you aren’t much interested in ancient Rome, if you like political novels, this might give you your fill.
I think what really got me into Imperium, though, is the ominous sense of dread that permeates the final part of the book. As Cicero faces his stiffest opposition yet in his run for consul, we see the cracks in the facade of the Republic. Corruption is rife throughout the mechanics of the election, and there is a conspiracy to consolidate power. There’s this eerie sense that even if Cicero wins, he and the Republic are working on borrowed time. It reminds me so much of the current state of politics south of the border right now. The US has often been compared, and occasionally compares itself, to Rome, right down to using a term like “senator”. But of course in all those comparisons is the implicit statement that Rome itself fell, multiple times, first as a Republic and then even as an Empire. All things must end … and the decaying husk of a Republic felt in this book hit a little close to him given what’s happening in the States right now.
This is a good novel. The narration is a little on the verbose side, with lots of description and exposition (which can be useful, given the historical setting, I suppose), so at times the pacing feels off. Nevertheless, when Harris needs to move the plot forward, he doesn’t hesitate to use time jumps; and, Tiro is a pretty interesting narrator. This novel isn’t going to change your mind about fiction set in ancient Rome or anything, but for fans of this era/subgenre, you might like this if you want a look at the life of one of history’s greatest rhetoricians and orators.
Marcus Tullius Cicero is already an accomplished lawyer and senator when Imperium begins. Told in hindsight by his former slave and secretary, Tiro, Imperium is about Cicero’s rise to political power: first aedile, then praetor, and finally consul of Rome. During this time, the Roman Republic starts to succumb to the rot within the ranks of the aristocracy and others in power. Figures such as Pompey, Crassus, and Caesar, familiar to many who would read fiction about this period, loom large in this story. But this is not a book of military conquest. It’s more political intrigue, and beyond that, it’s more about electoral intrigue with a side of legal drama. Kind of House of Cards meets … some legal drama show.
It’s really difficult to overstate Cicero’s influence on Renaissance and later writing in Europe, so Harris is taking on a big task here. I’m not going to talk about historical veracity—that’s not my forte—but I want to comment a bit on idiom. Harris makes use of a lot of contemporary British slang here, almost as if this book has been translated into vernacular—which, in a sense, I suppose it must be, given that if Tiro had really written these words, they would be in Latin, not English! So while this choice threw me at first, it kind of grew on me after a while. Harris does a good job differentiating between the different classes by means of things like dialogue, and that can be tough to do in historical fiction so far removed from our time and language.
Imperium is also a kind of crash course into Roman politics in the 1st century BC. Tiro portrays Cicero as a patriot who truly believes in the ideal of the Republic. Ranged against him are those who desire personal glory (Pompey), those who want to preserve the status quo (the aristocracy), those who desire to reshape Rome in their own image (Caesar, bankrolled by Crassus), and those who simply want to abuse the system for their own ends (Verres, Catilina). Cicero is shrewd and not entirely clean himself, in the sense that, as a politician, he often has to do business with people he finds detestable. I really like how, in this way, Harris has the political and electoral machinery of ancient Rome resembling our own today—the exact rules and procedures differ, of course, but much of the strategizing, the backroom deals verging on conspiracy, remains the same. Even if you aren’t much interested in ancient Rome, if you like political novels, this might give you your fill.
I think what really got me into Imperium, though, is the ominous sense of dread that permeates the final part of the book. As Cicero faces his stiffest opposition yet in his run for consul, we see the cracks in the facade of the Republic. Corruption is rife throughout the mechanics of the election, and there is a conspiracy to consolidate power. There’s this eerie sense that even if Cicero wins, he and the Republic are working on borrowed time. It reminds me so much of the current state of politics south of the border right now. The US has often been compared, and occasionally compares itself, to Rome, right down to using a term like “senator”. But of course in all those comparisons is the implicit statement that Rome itself fell, multiple times, first as a Republic and then even as an Empire. All things must end … and the decaying husk of a Republic felt in this book hit a little close to him given what’s happening in the States right now.
This is a good novel. The narration is a little on the verbose side, with lots of description and exposition (which can be useful, given the historical setting, I suppose), so at times the pacing feels off. Nevertheless, when Harris needs to move the plot forward, he doesn’t hesitate to use time jumps; and, Tiro is a pretty interesting narrator. This novel isn’t going to change your mind about fiction set in ancient Rome or anything, but for fans of this era/subgenre, you might like this if you want a look at the life of one of history’s greatest rhetoricians and orators.
So it has been almost 5 years since I read The Enchantment Emporium. I don’t think this is the longest gap between consecutive novels in a series that I’ve had, but it must be close. Predictably, I remember nearly nothing about that book, which is exactly why I write these reviews in the first place. Fortunately, Tanya Huff has written The Wild Ways such that even if you haven’t read the first book, or if, like me, you read it and then forgot it after 5 years, then you can still make sense of this one. I really appreciate that, and it’s but one of the many reasons I enjoyed this novel.
The Wild Ways follows Charlie (Charlotte) Gale. She is a “Wild Power” of the Gale family, which apparently means it is her destiny to wander and get involved in more scrapes and … well … be a wild card more so than the rest of her siblings and cousins, who are more likely to settle down and stick around other members of the family. In this case, for Charlie it means squaring off against another Gale Wild Power, Auntie Caroline. Caroline has stolen the pelts of several selkies off the coast of Cape Breton Island in an attempt to get them to capitulate to an oil company that wants to drill nearby. Charlie needs to retrieve the pelts and best her aunt, but there are of course deeper games afoot.
I love how these books are set in Canada. Huff’s writing reminds me in many ways of Charles de Lint, not just because of the Canadian setting. But there is something so comfortable about all the Canadian touches in this book, like the constant mentions of the CBC and other Canadian media. Sometimes, with the way American settings saturate our fiction, it’s so easy to forget that there is often this distinct atmosphere to Canadian stories. Huff really captures that, and it’s great.
Another highlight of The Wild Ways? The banter. The character interactions in general, I guess. There is certainly never a dull moment in the Gale family. The supporting cast is a little more milquetoast; most of them seem to be there only to serve as these stock, background characters, and they all seem to have about the intelligence you would expect from someone who smokes too much weed and plays in a Celtic-inspired folk band…. Similarly, not a huge fan of the portrayal of the antagonist, her minion, or the selkies in general. Anyway, I guess what I’m saying is that I really like the diversity of voices and opinions within the Gale family. They really do feel like a family: Charlie and Alysha square off over Jack once in a while; the aunties get involved, directly or obliquely … everyone wants what is best for each other, or for the family, even if not everyone agrees what that might be at any given moment.
The plot manages to match the characters in how engrossing and entertaining it can be. There is a strong environmental message here, of course. At its core, though, this is a plot about Charlie coming into her own and finding the power/music inside of herself. In this sense, The Wild Ways is spectacular. Huff’s writing is note-perfect, and I can almost feel the music coming through the book as she portrays Charlie channelling it to channel her power and save the day. At the climax, Charlie and Jack both get moments to shine. I really love how, after Caroline divulges to Charlie why she is doing what she did and why she thinks Charlie needs to go along with her plan, Charlie ignores Caroline and finds another way—and it works. This is an example of one my favourite story tropes, the anticlimax boss (TVTropes!)—where a Big Bad threat is made out to be … well, Big and Bad, yet the hero dispatches it near the end of the story with little to no effort (because the real threat, already vanquished, was more insidious by far).
Huff has managed to create a modern, urban fantasy series that balances humour with high stakes in a way that is endearing but not cheesy. She never overloads on exposition, preferring instead to have the reader infer what, for example, a “Hunt” might entail from the little details she drops in dialogue and sparse description. As a result, the world is rich but not mundanely catalogued for the reader, and the story moves at a healthy pace.
In my review of The Enchantment Emporium, I touched a little on gender and sexuality in that novel, and I want to return to that here. In addition to the apparent pansexuality of the Gale (women?), there are some more queer characters in this book. The gender essentialism continues, both among the Gales (to some extent) and the selkies (although that is at least lampshaded). There is a lot of discussion and portrayal of sex/sexual situations here … Huff works hard to subvert the male gaze and turn the tables into a “female gaze” by objectifying many of the men (and some of the women). I see what she’s doing and acknowledge how that can be a useful critique, but honestly, least favourite part of the book. Although I don’t consider myself sex-repulsed, the constant emphasis on attraction in The Wild Ways left my poor ace brain squirming. If you are sex-repulsed … um … yeah. Fair warning, I guess? This didn’t detract from my enjoyment of the story one bit, but boy is this book obsessed with sex. Oh my.
Let’s hope it isn’t another 5 years before I finally read book 3!
My reviews of the Gale Women books:
← The Enchantment Emporium
The Wild Ways follows Charlie (Charlotte) Gale. She is a “Wild Power” of the Gale family, which apparently means it is her destiny to wander and get involved in more scrapes and … well … be a wild card more so than the rest of her siblings and cousins, who are more likely to settle down and stick around other members of the family. In this case, for Charlie it means squaring off against another Gale Wild Power, Auntie Caroline. Caroline has stolen the pelts of several selkies off the coast of Cape Breton Island in an attempt to get them to capitulate to an oil company that wants to drill nearby. Charlie needs to retrieve the pelts and best her aunt, but there are of course deeper games afoot.
I love how these books are set in Canada. Huff’s writing reminds me in many ways of Charles de Lint, not just because of the Canadian setting. But there is something so comfortable about all the Canadian touches in this book, like the constant mentions of the CBC and other Canadian media. Sometimes, with the way American settings saturate our fiction, it’s so easy to forget that there is often this distinct atmosphere to Canadian stories. Huff really captures that, and it’s great.
Another highlight of The Wild Ways? The banter. The character interactions in general, I guess. There is certainly never a dull moment in the Gale family. The supporting cast is a little more milquetoast; most of them seem to be there only to serve as these stock, background characters, and they all seem to have about the intelligence you would expect from someone who smokes too much weed and plays in a Celtic-inspired folk band…. Similarly, not a huge fan of the portrayal of the antagonist, her minion, or the selkies in general. Anyway, I guess what I’m saying is that I really like the diversity of voices and opinions within the Gale family. They really do feel like a family: Charlie and Alysha square off over Jack once in a while; the aunties get involved, directly or obliquely … everyone wants what is best for each other, or for the family, even if not everyone agrees what that might be at any given moment.
The plot manages to match the characters in how engrossing and entertaining it can be. There is a strong environmental message here, of course. At its core, though, this is a plot about Charlie coming into her own and finding the power/music inside of herself. In this sense, The Wild Ways is spectacular. Huff’s writing is note-perfect, and I can almost feel the music coming through the book as she portrays Charlie channelling it to channel her power and save the day. At the climax, Charlie and Jack both get moments to shine. I really love how, after Caroline divulges to Charlie why she is doing what she did and why she thinks Charlie needs to go along with her plan, Charlie ignores Caroline and finds another way—and it works. This is an example of one my favourite story tropes, the anticlimax boss (TVTropes!)—where a Big Bad threat is made out to be … well, Big and Bad, yet the hero dispatches it near the end of the story with little to no effort (because the real threat, already vanquished, was more insidious by far).
Huff has managed to create a modern, urban fantasy series that balances humour with high stakes in a way that is endearing but not cheesy. She never overloads on exposition, preferring instead to have the reader infer what, for example, a “Hunt” might entail from the little details she drops in dialogue and sparse description. As a result, the world is rich but not mundanely catalogued for the reader, and the story moves at a healthy pace.
In my review of The Enchantment Emporium, I touched a little on gender and sexuality in that novel, and I want to return to that here. In addition to the apparent pansexuality of the Gale (women?), there are some more queer characters in this book. The gender essentialism continues, both among the Gales (to some extent) and the selkies (although that is at least lampshaded). There is a lot of discussion and portrayal of sex/sexual situations here … Huff works hard to subvert the male gaze and turn the tables into a “female gaze” by objectifying many of the men (and some of the women). I see what she’s doing and acknowledge how that can be a useful critique, but honestly, least favourite part of the book. Although I don’t consider myself sex-repulsed, the constant emphasis on attraction in The Wild Ways left my poor ace brain squirming. If you are sex-repulsed … um … yeah. Fair warning, I guess? This didn’t detract from my enjoyment of the story one bit, but boy is this book obsessed with sex. Oh my.
Let’s hope it isn’t another 5 years before I finally read book 3!
My reviews of the Gale Women books:
← The Enchantment Emporium
So I started sticky-noting this book on page 8. (Well, I started on page 12 and then retroactively stickied something on page 8.)
I will sometimes mark up books I own when I feel like it, but I usually prefer to use sticky notes if I find something I really want to reference in my review (they are easier to find and allow me to be more verbose than scribbly margin writing). But I don’t do this that often. When I sticky-note, it’s usually for non-fiction books, occasionally for books that are really, really good, and sometimes for books that are really, really cringe-worthy.
Sorry, Emily Giffin. But Love the One You’re With is not non-fiction, and it’s not winning any awards from me. It forced me to confront some of my attitudes towards chick lit as a genre and how I, as an ace, white man, critique that genre. Not only do I have little experience with chick lit, but I also feel like an outsider when it comes to the target demographic. While I’m certain not all women enjoy chick lit as characterized by Love the One You’re With, I’m also certain some women do (and many of them have written reviews here on Goodreads explaining why). So even as I attempt to deconstruct this book and what I perceive to be its subtext, I don’t want to seem prescriptive or judgemental about people’s reading choices here. Please go ahead and read this if you choose … but that doesn’t change the fact it’s not very good.
My sticky-noting died off a little bit before the hundredth page, for a few reasons. Firstly, I went to have a bath, where it is easy to read but hard to sticky-note. Secondly, my sticky notes would just have gotten really repetitive. I think the book actually improves as it goes on, but mostly Giffin repeats the same types of tropes and clichéd writing that led my initial bout of stickying enthusiasm. Here’s the passage that started it all:
There’s something about the phrase, “We were equally attractive” that set me off. It’s just so clunky. Do women really talk like that? I went to the trouble of finding a woman and asking her! My friend, who shall remain nameless, agreed this paragraph sounded more like plot device than serious internal monologue. And while I can understand that some women would probably have these sorts of attractiveness comparisons, the way Giffin chose to phrase it set the alarm bells ringing.
See, Giffin is clearly writing to an audience, and that audience is not me. It’s obvious in the way she tosses out little reminders that assume a like-mindedness I can’t muster:
And, a little later in the book, as Ellen talks about how she first met tantalizing ex-boyfriend, Leo:
It’s the “as any woman would” and “like most women” phrases that get under my skin. I’m sure some women certainly fit this rather narrow mould that Giffin realizes in Ellen, and perhaps those are Giffin’s target audience. But she does this audience a disservice when she serves up a story devoid of real controversy or conflict, filled instead with stereotypical characters and a pre-packaged plot that has been microwaved to room temperature.
Ellen is one of the most bland narrators I have encountered in a long time. I don’t usually hear a character’s voice in my head when a book is in first-person. But in this case I kept imagining Ellen’s voice as Kristen Stewart’s. Love the One You’re With is actually just an urbane version of Twilight (without the vampires and werewolves and if Bella had chosen Jacob over Edward). Leo is Edward: the attractive, subversive bad boy whom Bella—sorry, Ellen—just can’t help but find so dreamy. Andy is Jacob: the stable, safe, but slightly boring choice, who happens to be from an alien culture (Atlantan instead of Native American). And, like Bella, Ellen is spineless and indecisive, with the personality of an empty box of Tic-Tacs.
Ellen’s marriage with Andy is “perfect” (according to the back of the book) until she runs into Leo one day, a meeting that precipitates a crisis of careers as well as feelings. Andy wants to move back to Atlanta to practise law with his father and have a big, ostentatious house. Ellen doesn’t really want that, or pretends she doesn’t care, or something, but goes along with it because she wants him to be happy. Surprise, surprise, she isn’t happy when she suddenly has to be steeped in Southern Hospitality 24/7 and conform to certain social expectations. Then, she blames herself for her own unhappiness because “he gave me a lot of outs.” So instead of discussing the issue with her husband in a calm manner, she gives more thought to having an affair with Leo.
I suppose there are some legitimate issues that Giffin tackles here. Having never been married myself, I’m only going off what I know from books and romantic comedies, but it seems like resolving differences about where to live would probably be a big deal. Similarly, everyone in the book keeps asking, in one way or another, when Ellen is going to start popping out babies. Again, not something that I can speak about from experience, but I can understand why that would be annoying and even demeaning. So I can see how some women who read this book might identify with what Ellen is going through.
Yet for all the seriousness of these issues, Giffin never actually challenges or critiques them in any meaningful way. Without going into spoiler territory, let’s just say that a careful deus ex machina and predictable phone call result in a happy ending that just begs “motion picture, please!” Instead of contrasting Margot’s cheerful pregnancy with a more adamant desire not to enter into motherhood, Ellen, in her typical indecisive way, never really commits one way or the other. Giffin tries to tell us that Ellen is a strong, independent person: “Yes, I’m Andy’s wife. And I’m a Graham. But I’m also Suzanne’s sister, my mother’s daughter, my own person.” Ellen’s actions throughout the novel belie this claim, for she seldom forges her own path when another sees fit to offer her one to follow.
I don’t go for the defence that books like this are “beach reads,” are leisure reads, and should therefore get a free pass. Literature, all literature, is powerful, and being something read for leisure does not excuse it from being well-written or thought-provoking. There’s nothing wrong with craving something with more story than substance, but there’s a difference between a book that is light and fun and a book that is just shallow. Love the One You’re With, to be fair, does not land squarely in the latter category—but it dangles perilously close. Moreover, what saves it from this label is not so much any redeeming quality as it is the fact that, like the main character, this book suffers from an incurable case of blandness.
I will sometimes mark up books I own when I feel like it, but I usually prefer to use sticky notes if I find something I really want to reference in my review (they are easier to find and allow me to be more verbose than scribbly margin writing). But I don’t do this that often. When I sticky-note, it’s usually for non-fiction books, occasionally for books that are really, really good, and sometimes for books that are really, really cringe-worthy.
Sorry, Emily Giffin. But Love the One You’re With is not non-fiction, and it’s not winning any awards from me. It forced me to confront some of my attitudes towards chick lit as a genre and how I, as an ace, white man, critique that genre. Not only do I have little experience with chick lit, but I also feel like an outsider when it comes to the target demographic. While I’m certain not all women enjoy chick lit as characterized by Love the One You’re With, I’m also certain some women do (and many of them have written reviews here on Goodreads explaining why). So even as I attempt to deconstruct this book and what I perceive to be its subtext, I don’t want to seem prescriptive or judgemental about people’s reading choices here. Please go ahead and read this if you choose … but that doesn’t change the fact it’s not very good.
My sticky-noting died off a little bit before the hundredth page, for a few reasons. Firstly, I went to have a bath, where it is easy to read but hard to sticky-note. Secondly, my sticky notes would just have gotten really repetitive. I think the book actually improves as it goes on, but mostly Giffin repeats the same types of tropes and clichéd writing that led my initial bout of stickying enthusiasm. Here’s the passage that started it all:
As it turned out, I was right about both Andy and Margot. He was nice, and she was just about everything I wasn’t. For starters we were physical opposites. She was a petite yet still curvy, fair-skinned blue-eyed blonde. I had dark hair and hazel eyes, skin that looked tanned even in the dead of winter, and a tall, athletic frame. We were equally attractive, but Margot had a soft, whimsical look about her while my features were more easily described as handsome.
There’s something about the phrase, “We were equally attractive” that set me off. It’s just so clunky. Do women really talk like that? I went to the trouble of finding a woman and asking her! My friend, who shall remain nameless, agreed this paragraph sounded more like plot device than serious internal monologue. And while I can understand that some women would probably have these sorts of attractiveness comparisons, the way Giffin chose to phrase it set the alarm bells ringing.
See, Giffin is clearly writing to an audience, and that audience is not me. It’s obvious in the way she tosses out little reminders that assume a like-mindedness I can’t muster:
I know for an absolute fact that Leo and Andy met once, at a bar in the East Village. At the time time, it was only a brief, meaningless encounter between my boyfriend and a best friend’s brother…. But years later, after Leo and I had long broken up, and Andy and I had begun to date, I would deconstruct that moment in exhausting detail, as any woman would.
And, a little later in the book, as Ellen talks about how she first met tantalizing ex-boyfriend, Leo:
The thought took me by surprise as I wasn’t accustomed to assessing strange men in such a strictly physical way. Like most women, I was about getting to know someone first—attraction based on personality. Moreover, I wasn’t even that into sex. Yet.
It’s the “as any woman would” and “like most women” phrases that get under my skin. I’m sure some women certainly fit this rather narrow mould that Giffin realizes in Ellen, and perhaps those are Giffin’s target audience. But she does this audience a disservice when she serves up a story devoid of real controversy or conflict, filled instead with stereotypical characters and a pre-packaged plot that has been microwaved to room temperature.
Ellen is one of the most bland narrators I have encountered in a long time. I don’t usually hear a character’s voice in my head when a book is in first-person. But in this case I kept imagining Ellen’s voice as Kristen Stewart’s. Love the One You’re With is actually just an urbane version of Twilight (without the vampires and werewolves and if Bella had chosen Jacob over Edward). Leo is Edward: the attractive, subversive bad boy whom Bella—sorry, Ellen—just can’t help but find so dreamy. Andy is Jacob: the stable, safe, but slightly boring choice, who happens to be from an alien culture (Atlantan instead of Native American). And, like Bella, Ellen is spineless and indecisive, with the personality of an empty box of Tic-Tacs.
Ellen’s marriage with Andy is “perfect” (according to the back of the book) until she runs into Leo one day, a meeting that precipitates a crisis of careers as well as feelings. Andy wants to move back to Atlanta to practise law with his father and have a big, ostentatious house. Ellen doesn’t really want that, or pretends she doesn’t care, or something, but goes along with it because she wants him to be happy. Surprise, surprise, she isn’t happy when she suddenly has to be steeped in Southern Hospitality 24/7 and conform to certain social expectations. Then, she blames herself for her own unhappiness because “he gave me a lot of outs.” So instead of discussing the issue with her husband in a calm manner, she gives more thought to having an affair with Leo.
I suppose there are some legitimate issues that Giffin tackles here. Having never been married myself, I’m only going off what I know from books and romantic comedies, but it seems like resolving differences about where to live would probably be a big deal. Similarly, everyone in the book keeps asking, in one way or another, when Ellen is going to start popping out babies. Again, not something that I can speak about from experience, but I can understand why that would be annoying and even demeaning. So I can see how some women who read this book might identify with what Ellen is going through.
Yet for all the seriousness of these issues, Giffin never actually challenges or critiques them in any meaningful way. Without going into spoiler territory, let’s just say that a careful deus ex machina and predictable phone call result in a happy ending that just begs “motion picture, please!” Instead of contrasting Margot’s cheerful pregnancy with a more adamant desire not to enter into motherhood, Ellen, in her typical indecisive way, never really commits one way or the other. Giffin tries to tell us that Ellen is a strong, independent person: “Yes, I’m Andy’s wife. And I’m a Graham. But I’m also Suzanne’s sister, my mother’s daughter, my own person.” Ellen’s actions throughout the novel belie this claim, for she seldom forges her own path when another sees fit to offer her one to follow.
I don’t go for the defence that books like this are “beach reads,” are leisure reads, and should therefore get a free pass. Literature, all literature, is powerful, and being something read for leisure does not excuse it from being well-written or thought-provoking. There’s nothing wrong with craving something with more story than substance, but there’s a difference between a book that is light and fun and a book that is just shallow. Love the One You’re With, to be fair, does not land squarely in the latter category—but it dangles perilously close. Moreover, what saves it from this label is not so much any redeeming quality as it is the fact that, like the main character, this book suffers from an incurable case of blandness.
Policing Black Lives took me almost an entire month to read, which is virtually unheard of, and it’s not a very long book. It is, however, very dense, academic, and not at all happy reading. Nevertheless, it is an important book. I first heard about it, and from Robyn Maynard, on an episode of the Canadaland Commons podcast devoted to the gaps in Canada’s curriculum on the history of slavery and anti-Blackness. Since I grew up with the Canadian education system, this is definitely something that applied to me. Conveniently, Maynard has a whole book on the subject. This is that book. Well, actually, this is a review of that book, if you want to get really technical.
Perhaps the most obvious plus of Policing Black Lives is precisely the fact that it is so heavily focused on Canada. Much of the discussion of anti-Black racism and state violence against Black people centres on the Black Lives Matter movement in the United States. And it’s very frustrating to see fellow Canadians look down their noses at our neighbours to the south and promulgate this idea that Canada is somehow more tolerant and less racist—at the same time, it’s hard to engage with that line of thinking because, honestly, up until now I was only vaguely aware of the ways in which our intolerance and our anti-Black racism manifests. Although Maynard references events and research from the United States where appropriate, as this book’s subtitle promises, this is about state violence in Canada, no mistake about it—and that is so powerful and useful.
In addition to an introduction and conclusion, Maynard presents 8 chapters for consideration. The first two chapters chronicle the history of anti-Blackness in the country, from slavery during Canada’s time as a British and French possession to the state-sponsored segregation of the early days of the dominion. The next chapters focus on the inequities in the justice system, with particular case studies and examples for how Black women are targeted, stigmatized, and punished. This moves into an examination of misogynoir, the intersection of misogyny and anti-Blackness, with the scope broadened from the justice system towards issues of welfare, child protection, access to employment, and public safety. Next, Maynard considers how Canada’s immigration policies, both official and unofficial, have been racist and violent towards Black people. Finally, she addresses the systemic racism towards Black children and their parents in our school system.
Basically, a more tongue-in-cheek yet accurate title for this book might be, Everything You Wanted to Know About Anti-Black Racism in Canada But Were Too Lazy to Ask.
This book is also rigorously cited. I mean rigorously, like at least one or more citations per sentence in some paragraphs. This is one of the reasons it took me so long to get through the book. Maynard approaches these subjects from a highly academic perspective. That is not a bad thing, mind you, nor would I accuse this book of being dry or inaccessible. However, it does mean that I tend to slow down while I read, to make sure I’m following all of the lines of reasoning and understanding it completely. This is not the kind of non-fiction book you would like to take on the beach with you; it might be the kind of non-fiction book you could read on your commute for a few weeks, though.
By grounding her arguments and education in this academic territory, Maynard avoids producing a polemic and instead delivers a truly scathing critique of our society. Like, I would definitely say I was sympathetic to these notions going into the book. I don’t really see how anyone who claims to be swayed by rational, dispassionate appeals to logos could read this and not agree that there is rampant, systemic anti-Blackness. One might disagree on what we should do about it, but Maynard leaves the reader with little choice but to conclude that there are numerous and various problems within our society, from government to policing to the education system.
Maynard also demonstrates a dedication to intersectionality. She never fails to highlight the ways in which gender, age, sexuality, disability, etc., also influence and perhaps alter the extent to which Black people experience oppression and violence. Similarly, she frequently mentions the parallels between anti-Blackness and the colonial oppression of Indigenous peoples. In this way, Maynard effectively establishes the root of the problem, which is not necessarily some nefarious belief of inferiority of Black people, but the fact that the very power of the Canadian state is rooted in the oppression of Black and Indigenous bodies for the purposes of exploitation and production of capital on behalf of white people and settlers.
Policing Black Lives also took a while to read just because it’s very dark, in a very clinical way. Of course, it’s part of my white privilege that I get to be a tourist here, learning in an academic way what Black people have to experience and endure throughout their lives. But I mention it because I want to be upfront about what you will experience reading this book.
Pair this selection with the exquisite So You Want to Talk About Race from Ijeoma Oluo; or, if you want a parallel education in Indigenous issues, Indigenous Writes, by Chelsea Vowel.
Perhaps the most obvious plus of Policing Black Lives is precisely the fact that it is so heavily focused on Canada. Much of the discussion of anti-Black racism and state violence against Black people centres on the Black Lives Matter movement in the United States. And it’s very frustrating to see fellow Canadians look down their noses at our neighbours to the south and promulgate this idea that Canada is somehow more tolerant and less racist—at the same time, it’s hard to engage with that line of thinking because, honestly, up until now I was only vaguely aware of the ways in which our intolerance and our anti-Black racism manifests. Although Maynard references events and research from the United States where appropriate, as this book’s subtitle promises, this is about state violence in Canada, no mistake about it—and that is so powerful and useful.
In addition to an introduction and conclusion, Maynard presents 8 chapters for consideration. The first two chapters chronicle the history of anti-Blackness in the country, from slavery during Canada’s time as a British and French possession to the state-sponsored segregation of the early days of the dominion. The next chapters focus on the inequities in the justice system, with particular case studies and examples for how Black women are targeted, stigmatized, and punished. This moves into an examination of misogynoir, the intersection of misogyny and anti-Blackness, with the scope broadened from the justice system towards issues of welfare, child protection, access to employment, and public safety. Next, Maynard considers how Canada’s immigration policies, both official and unofficial, have been racist and violent towards Black people. Finally, she addresses the systemic racism towards Black children and their parents in our school system.
Basically, a more tongue-in-cheek yet accurate title for this book might be, Everything You Wanted to Know About Anti-Black Racism in Canada But Were Too Lazy to Ask.
This book is also rigorously cited. I mean rigorously, like at least one or more citations per sentence in some paragraphs. This is one of the reasons it took me so long to get through the book. Maynard approaches these subjects from a highly academic perspective. That is not a bad thing, mind you, nor would I accuse this book of being dry or inaccessible. However, it does mean that I tend to slow down while I read, to make sure I’m following all of the lines of reasoning and understanding it completely. This is not the kind of non-fiction book you would like to take on the beach with you; it might be the kind of non-fiction book you could read on your commute for a few weeks, though.
By grounding her arguments and education in this academic territory, Maynard avoids producing a polemic and instead delivers a truly scathing critique of our society. Like, I would definitely say I was sympathetic to these notions going into the book. I don’t really see how anyone who claims to be swayed by rational, dispassionate appeals to logos could read this and not agree that there is rampant, systemic anti-Blackness. One might disagree on what we should do about it, but Maynard leaves the reader with little choice but to conclude that there are numerous and various problems within our society, from government to policing to the education system.
Maynard also demonstrates a dedication to intersectionality. She never fails to highlight the ways in which gender, age, sexuality, disability, etc., also influence and perhaps alter the extent to which Black people experience oppression and violence. Similarly, she frequently mentions the parallels between anti-Blackness and the colonial oppression of Indigenous peoples. In this way, Maynard effectively establishes the root of the problem, which is not necessarily some nefarious belief of inferiority of Black people, but the fact that the very power of the Canadian state is rooted in the oppression of Black and Indigenous bodies for the purposes of exploitation and production of capital on behalf of white people and settlers.
Policing Black Lives also took a while to read just because it’s very dark, in a very clinical way. Of course, it’s part of my white privilege that I get to be a tourist here, learning in an academic way what Black people have to experience and endure throughout their lives. But I mention it because I want to be upfront about what you will experience reading this book.
Pair this selection with the exquisite So You Want to Talk About Race from Ijeoma Oluo; or, if you want a parallel education in Indigenous issues, Indigenous Writes, by Chelsea Vowel.
The profile of the term “Big Data” has risen recently. Yet, like so many buzzwords, people often don’t fully grasp the significance of the term. “Big Data” is more than the nebulous connotation of corporations collecting our information, and perhaps packaging and selling it—although it is that. It is, in fact, about how corporations quantify everything we do, even the information we don’t realize we’re leaking out into the world, and then use that data to make decisions on our behalf, or for us, or about us, without even informing us of how they reached those decisions. It’s creepy. And it is already everywhere in our lives.
Weapons of Math Destruction is Cathy O’Neil’s impassioned plea not to let this spread further, and indeed, for us to take a hard look at how we are using Big Data algorithms already. I was drawn to this book because it’s at the intersection of two things I love: mathematics and social justice. As a mathematician, I love learning about how mathematics interacts with our society. People scoff at the utility of math, particularly the higher-level, “pure” math, yet ultimately that is what powers the digital devices we use every day and allows us to do things like make video calls across continents. You don’t have to understand the math to appreciate its power. Similarly, as someone passionate about social justice, I am sympathetic to O’Neil’s argument here. To be clear, you don’t have to have either of these qualities in order to find Weapons of Math Destruction informative or valuable; that’s just to indicate where I’m coming from.
Some of the topics O’Neil covers will be familiar, in part or all, to readers. You might already have heard about predictive policing using models of criminal activity, and the way in which it leads to a self-fulfilling prophecy (the more heavily you police an area, the more crime you uncover, the more you police the area…). You’ve probably heard about how credit scores are notoriously far-flung now yet frustratingly opaque. I also appreciate how O’Neil mentions lower-tech WMDs, like the college ranking system, which started off as something not based on computer algorithms at all. The various and sundry examples given here reinforce the fact that WMDs exist throughout our society rather than in any particular field.
More broadly, O’Neil’s overall thesis is that we can’t fix this with more technology. This is not a problem of not having “enough data” or not having “good enough models” or programs or whatever. Fundamentally this is a social problem. I appreciate that she outright states that mathematics is not the solution here, nor is it being used in a neutral way. Often people like to pretend that math and science, because they are so-called “hard” disciplines (as in their rigour, not their difficulty) are objective or neutral. That’s not the case, as O’Neil demonstrates here.
O’Neil makes the companion point, though, that models are not in and of themselves negative social forces. A model is not a WMD until it is deployed improperly or its flaws are ignored. To some extent, we are stuck, now that we have the technological capability to do this. Although, on the surface, this might seem like a contradiction of her thesis, it’s actually just the logical conclusion: O’Neil reminds us that the only way we can fix these mathematical tools is through social pressure, i.e., as a society we have to decide how we want these data-crunching algorithms to operate.
So, Weapons of Math Destruction admirably fulfills its purpose: it will educate you in more detail about algorithms, big data, and the decisions that they make about our lives. It could have been fuller and longer, sure. O’Neil’s writing style is pretty basic and leaves something to be desired (or developed further). Yet that just means it’s a quick read. It has the word “math” in the title, and sure, there is some discussion of math (mostly statistics)—but I promise you there is nary an equation to be found in these pages, and while that might be disappointing to me, I suspect it won’t be to many other readers.
Weapons of Math Destruction is Cathy O’Neil’s impassioned plea not to let this spread further, and indeed, for us to take a hard look at how we are using Big Data algorithms already. I was drawn to this book because it’s at the intersection of two things I love: mathematics and social justice. As a mathematician, I love learning about how mathematics interacts with our society. People scoff at the utility of math, particularly the higher-level, “pure” math, yet ultimately that is what powers the digital devices we use every day and allows us to do things like make video calls across continents. You don’t have to understand the math to appreciate its power. Similarly, as someone passionate about social justice, I am sympathetic to O’Neil’s argument here. To be clear, you don’t have to have either of these qualities in order to find Weapons of Math Destruction informative or valuable; that’s just to indicate where I’m coming from.
Some of the topics O’Neil covers will be familiar, in part or all, to readers. You might already have heard about predictive policing using models of criminal activity, and the way in which it leads to a self-fulfilling prophecy (the more heavily you police an area, the more crime you uncover, the more you police the area…). You’ve probably heard about how credit scores are notoriously far-flung now yet frustratingly opaque. I also appreciate how O’Neil mentions lower-tech WMDs, like the college ranking system, which started off as something not based on computer algorithms at all. The various and sundry examples given here reinforce the fact that WMDs exist throughout our society rather than in any particular field.
More broadly, O’Neil’s overall thesis is that we can’t fix this with more technology. This is not a problem of not having “enough data” or not having “good enough models” or programs or whatever. Fundamentally this is a social problem. I appreciate that she outright states that mathematics is not the solution here, nor is it being used in a neutral way. Often people like to pretend that math and science, because they are so-called “hard” disciplines (as in their rigour, not their difficulty) are objective or neutral. That’s not the case, as O’Neil demonstrates here.
O’Neil makes the companion point, though, that models are not in and of themselves negative social forces. A model is not a WMD until it is deployed improperly or its flaws are ignored. To some extent, we are stuck, now that we have the technological capability to do this. Although, on the surface, this might seem like a contradiction of her thesis, it’s actually just the logical conclusion: O’Neil reminds us that the only way we can fix these mathematical tools is through social pressure, i.e., as a society we have to decide how we want these data-crunching algorithms to operate.
So, Weapons of Math Destruction admirably fulfills its purpose: it will educate you in more detail about algorithms, big data, and the decisions that they make about our lives. It could have been fuller and longer, sure. O’Neil’s writing style is pretty basic and leaves something to be desired (or developed further). Yet that just means it’s a quick read. It has the word “math” in the title, and sure, there is some discussion of math (mostly statistics)—but I promise you there is nary an equation to be found in these pages, and while that might be disappointing to me, I suspect it won’t be to many other readers.
Digging once more into my impressive Angry Robot subscription backlog, I come upon this frustrating gem of a fantasy novel. Seven Forges has many of the hallmarks I like about epic fantasy: political conniving, a cool setting, and varied characters who speak honestly and make mistakes. James A. Moore’s writing is, for the most part, clever and even fun. However, I have some reservations about the portrayal of women and the male gaze—read on to find out.
The title of this book comes from a series of volcanoes far to the north of the principal empire, Fellein, where most of the story takes place. The Seven Forges are separated from Fellein by the Blasted Lands, nearly uninhabited wilderness created by a cataclysm centuries ago that fell one empire and lay the seeds for Fellein and other civilizations to rise. Captain Merros Dulver (retired), employed by a sorcerer on behalf of the empire, successfully makes it through the Blasted Lands, only to find that there are people happily living in valleys near the volcanoes. After making first contact and escorting delegates of this people back to the heart of the empire, Merros finds himself in a position of some prominence. The usual political intrigue and shenanigans occur, assassinations happen, yada yada, and soon we’re on the brink of war! Also there are magical silver hands and lots of talk of gods and duty.
It felt like this book took forever to get to the good bits! (By which I mean the stabbing, assassinationy-type twists and intrigue.) It’s not that I disliked the early parts of this book or that they were in any way bad; they absolutely weren’t. There was just too much of it. I was impatient and kept wondering when the real story would start, and then of course Moore does the old “ending the first book of the series on a cliffhanger so you have to read the next one” trick. So, upfront warning: this book ends on a cliffhanger. It reminds me a lot of Acacia: The War with the Mein, both in terms of plot but also its overwrought structure.
Fortunately, there is plenty of good stuff that kept me interested. I really like the way in which Moore distinguishes the Sa'ba Taalor from the people of Fellein. He clearly put thought and effort into developing a unique culture; it is a gross oversimplification to write the Sa'ba Taalor off simply as a “warrior people”. That might be the archetype from which Moore started, but there’s a more intricate culture going on in the background here. Not everything gets revealed or explained (as it should be). The interactions between Merros and the various members of the Sa'ba Taalor were probably my favourite parts.
The characterization in general was pretty good too. Although Moore seems to lean towards sarcasm and dry humour with several of the principal characters, they are still rather varied in their personalities. However, there was one glaring area in which the characterization is lacking: the portrayal of, and attitudes towards, female characters.
The first time it happened, it was with the soldier characters. So, I dismissed it as a ham-fisted way of portraying these dudes as a little uncouth. Then it happened again. And again. It kept happening, to the point where you’ve got this centuries-old sorcerer practically undressing women and rating their attractiveness, and I’m just like … uh, no thanks. Like, when one or two characters do this, you can have a pass (sometimes) because, yeah, some characters are sexist dipshits. When pretty much every male character does this to pretty much every woman he meets, this is called a massive intrusion of the male gaze on my book, and I’m not here for it.
I feel like I should also point out, for the sake of completeness and content warnings, that it’s implied the male emperor is interested in guys (either in lieu of or in addition to women, it isn’t really specified), but it is also implied that this is considered deviant.
I was almost ready to just mention this in passing in my review but otherwise give this book three stars. Then we got to a point where one character looks at his male friend for a moment and can tell the dude has just had (apparently really good) sex … and I’m just like … nope? I mean, honestly, maybe this is a thing that happens between people or whatever, and I just can’t pick up on it. But the way it’s written and the way I read it was just kind of … gross.
Real talk, authors: when you write fantasy, you have the opportunity to create a society that doesn’t exist. That means you can create a society where queer characters are normal and #notallmen actually applies. This in no way is going to diminish the existential threat of the clash of two cultures like we’ve got here in Seven Forges. There is no justification these days for fantasy authors not taking the opportunity to portray different, more inclusive societies. You can portray oppression in other ways.
So, to sum up: Seven Forges is a good fantasy novel in the sense that it hits a lot of the best epic fantasy tropes in some interesting ways. The writing is a little uneven, and I really didn’t enjoy the heavy presence of the male gaze in the narration. The story was interesting enough that I will probably read book 2—we’ll see if I can stomach it. Your mileage will vary heavily here. I genuinely enjoyed this book, but I like to critique stuff, particularly if I enjoy it. How else are we going to make literature better?
The title of this book comes from a series of volcanoes far to the north of the principal empire, Fellein, where most of the story takes place. The Seven Forges are separated from Fellein by the Blasted Lands, nearly uninhabited wilderness created by a cataclysm centuries ago that fell one empire and lay the seeds for Fellein and other civilizations to rise. Captain Merros Dulver (retired), employed by a sorcerer on behalf of the empire, successfully makes it through the Blasted Lands, only to find that there are people happily living in valleys near the volcanoes. After making first contact and escorting delegates of this people back to the heart of the empire, Merros finds himself in a position of some prominence. The usual political intrigue and shenanigans occur, assassinations happen, yada yada, and soon we’re on the brink of war! Also there are magical silver hands and lots of talk of gods and duty.
It felt like this book took forever to get to the good bits! (By which I mean the stabbing, assassinationy-type twists and intrigue.) It’s not that I disliked the early parts of this book or that they were in any way bad; they absolutely weren’t. There was just too much of it. I was impatient and kept wondering when the real story would start, and then of course Moore does the old “ending the first book of the series on a cliffhanger so you have to read the next one” trick. So, upfront warning: this book ends on a cliffhanger. It reminds me a lot of Acacia: The War with the Mein, both in terms of plot but also its overwrought structure.
Fortunately, there is plenty of good stuff that kept me interested. I really like the way in which Moore distinguishes the Sa'ba Taalor from the people of Fellein. He clearly put thought and effort into developing a unique culture; it is a gross oversimplification to write the Sa'ba Taalor off simply as a “warrior people”. That might be the archetype from which Moore started, but there’s a more intricate culture going on in the background here. Not everything gets revealed or explained (as it should be). The interactions between Merros and the various members of the Sa'ba Taalor were probably my favourite parts.
The characterization in general was pretty good too. Although Moore seems to lean towards sarcasm and dry humour with several of the principal characters, they are still rather varied in their personalities. However, there was one glaring area in which the characterization is lacking: the portrayal of, and attitudes towards, female characters.
The first time it happened, it was with the soldier characters. So, I dismissed it as a ham-fisted way of portraying these dudes as a little uncouth. Then it happened again. And again. It kept happening, to the point where you’ve got this centuries-old sorcerer practically undressing women and rating their attractiveness, and I’m just like … uh, no thanks. Like, when one or two characters do this, you can have a pass (sometimes) because, yeah, some characters are sexist dipshits. When pretty much every male character does this to pretty much every woman he meets, this is called a massive intrusion of the male gaze on my book, and I’m not here for it.
I feel like I should also point out, for the sake of completeness and content warnings, that it’s implied the male emperor is interested in guys (either in lieu of or in addition to women, it isn’t really specified), but it is also implied that this is considered deviant.
I was almost ready to just mention this in passing in my review but otherwise give this book three stars. Then we got to a point where one character looks at his male friend for a moment and can tell the dude has just had (apparently really good) sex … and I’m just like … nope? I mean, honestly, maybe this is a thing that happens between people or whatever, and I just can’t pick up on it. But the way it’s written and the way I read it was just kind of … gross.
Real talk, authors: when you write fantasy, you have the opportunity to create a society that doesn’t exist. That means you can create a society where queer characters are normal and #notallmen actually applies. This in no way is going to diminish the existential threat of the clash of two cultures like we’ve got here in Seven Forges. There is no justification these days for fantasy authors not taking the opportunity to portray different, more inclusive societies. You can portray oppression in other ways.
So, to sum up: Seven Forges is a good fantasy novel in the sense that it hits a lot of the best epic fantasy tropes in some interesting ways. The writing is a little uneven, and I really didn’t enjoy the heavy presence of the male gaze in the narration. The story was interesting enough that I will probably read book 2—we’ll see if I can stomach it. Your mileage will vary heavily here. I genuinely enjoyed this book, but I like to critique stuff, particularly if I enjoy it. How else are we going to make literature better?
Here we are, the last of the Animorphs Chronicles books. The impending conclusion of the series feels a lot more real having read this, and not just because the book opens with the Ellimist alluding to one of the Animorphs dying!!111.
Despite the book being set during the final battle of the last book, however, this book was published following #47: The Resistance. Julie, my guru of all things Animorphs, did everything short of threatening me with time-travel–induced regrets if I didn’t read this in publication order. So I capitulated to her superior series-organization logic, and here we are. The Ellimist Chronicles. The story of everyone’s favourite nearly-omnipotent cosmic being of the Animorphs universe.
I remember reading this one as a kid and really enjoying it. And this one is dark. I keep saying that; I keep pointing out how “dark” the series as a whole is becoming. But, I mean … this one involves the destruction of the Ellimist’s entire species followed by the Ellimist’s transformation into a semi-gestalt cyborg that eventually migrates its consciousness into the quantum substrate of the universe. Maybe what I didn’t pick up on when I was younger was how, in some ways, this book is a really strong work of posthumanist science fiction on its own merits. Oh, and it has some real revolutionary vibes when it comes to the Ellimist’s interactions with the people from the Polar Crystal and their overly democratic zeal.
The posthumanist SF themes really stuck with me during this reading, perhaps because since my childhood reading I’ve imbibed enough posthumanist literature that I’m nearly sick to death of it. The Ellimist’s torture by Father and subsequent transformation is almost gory and definitely unsettling. Applegate skirts a lot of the common questions about what it means to be yourself and identity, especially as the Ellimist continually upgrades his technological components. On a moral level, is the Ellimist right to interfere with all these other civilizations simply because he has the power to do so? He might be acting in what he sees as an altruistic fashion. Or is he required to interfere because he has the power to do so? Arguably, Crayak’s arrival on the scene makes this a moot point, as he is now required to interfere if only to balance out Crayak’s interference.
All this just makes me glad I’m not a posthuman.
On a more disturbing note, I’m tempted to make a semi-serious argument that with this book, Applegate basically positions the Ellimist as the God of the Animorphs universe.
Think about it. So much of what is relevant to this series—the Andalites, humanity’s own existence, etc.—was directly influenced by the Ellimist at some point. The series has hinted and even, in some cases, blatantly stated that the war with the Yeerks and the Animorphs’ own existence are all components of this larger game between the Ellimist and Crayak. When you get right down to it, the Ellimist is the ultimate cause of everything in this series, the Prime Mover, if you will. Right down to visiting an Animorph at the moment of their death to essentially help them lay down their burden.
Finally, The Ellimist Chronicles gives Applegate a chance to show us the extent of the worldbuilding done for this series that we don’t always get to see in the regular books. There is so much material here. So much going on. This is a universe teeming with life, with species both spacefaring and not, and the entire series exists within just a small corner of it. This book is a lesson never to underestimate middle grade and YA novels just because their language might occasionally be different from adult novels: the imagination and planning that goes into these series is never less, and occasionally more, stringent.
This book was a lot of fun to revisit. It also left me feeling a little sad. Not just because of the reminder of the Animorph’s death, or the proximity this book has to the end of the series. More so because the Ellimist as a character has all this power, yet he is ultimately as constrained or more constrained than the Animorphs themselves. This is not a breathtakingly original theme, but it’s something Applegate demonstrates well here: with more power comes not just more responsibility but often fewer degrees of freedom too.
Speaking of freedom, next time we see the Animorphs’ greatest mistake come back for vengeance.
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #47: The Resistance | #48: The Return →
Despite the book being set during the final battle of the last book, however, this book was published following #47: The Resistance. Julie, my guru of all things Animorphs, did everything short of threatening me with time-travel–induced regrets if I didn’t read this in publication order. So I capitulated to her superior series-organization logic, and here we are. The Ellimist Chronicles. The story of everyone’s favourite nearly-omnipotent cosmic being of the Animorphs universe.
I remember reading this one as a kid and really enjoying it. And this one is dark. I keep saying that; I keep pointing out how “dark” the series as a whole is becoming. But, I mean … this one involves the destruction of the Ellimist’s entire species followed by the Ellimist’s transformation into a semi-gestalt cyborg that eventually migrates its consciousness into the quantum substrate of the universe. Maybe what I didn’t pick up on when I was younger was how, in some ways, this book is a really strong work of posthumanist science fiction on its own merits. Oh, and it has some real revolutionary vibes when it comes to the Ellimist’s interactions with the people from the Polar Crystal and their overly democratic zeal.
The posthumanist SF themes really stuck with me during this reading, perhaps because since my childhood reading I’ve imbibed enough posthumanist literature that I’m nearly sick to death of it. The Ellimist’s torture by Father and subsequent transformation is almost gory and definitely unsettling. Applegate skirts a lot of the common questions about what it means to be yourself and identity, especially as the Ellimist continually upgrades his technological components. On a moral level, is the Ellimist right to interfere with all these other civilizations simply because he has the power to do so? He might be acting in what he sees as an altruistic fashion. Or is he required to interfere because he has the power to do so? Arguably, Crayak’s arrival on the scene makes this a moot point, as he is now required to interfere if only to balance out Crayak’s interference.
All this just makes me glad I’m not a posthuman.
On a more disturbing note, I’m tempted to make a semi-serious argument that with this book, Applegate basically positions the Ellimist as the God of the Animorphs universe.
Think about it. So much of what is relevant to this series—the Andalites, humanity’s own existence, etc.—was directly influenced by the Ellimist at some point. The series has hinted and even, in some cases, blatantly stated that the war with the Yeerks and the Animorphs’ own existence are all components of this larger game between the Ellimist and Crayak. When you get right down to it, the Ellimist is the ultimate cause of everything in this series, the Prime Mover, if you will. Right down to visiting an Animorph at the moment of their death to essentially help them lay down their burden.
Finally, The Ellimist Chronicles gives Applegate a chance to show us the extent of the worldbuilding done for this series that we don’t always get to see in the regular books. There is so much material here. So much going on. This is a universe teeming with life, with species both spacefaring and not, and the entire series exists within just a small corner of it. This book is a lesson never to underestimate middle grade and YA novels just because their language might occasionally be different from adult novels: the imagination and planning that goes into these series is never less, and occasionally more, stringent.
This book was a lot of fun to revisit. It also left me feeling a little sad. Not just because of the reminder of the Animorph’s death, or the proximity this book has to the end of the series. More so because the Ellimist as a character has all this power, yet he is ultimately as constrained or more constrained than the Animorphs themselves. This is not a breathtakingly original theme, but it’s something Applegate demonstrates well here: with more power comes not just more responsibility but often fewer degrees of freedom too.
Speaking of freedom, next time we see the Animorphs’ greatest mistake come back for vengeance.
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #47: The Resistance | #48: The Return →
It took me a while, but I figured out why it took me so long to read this book: the typeface.
That might seem picky, or petty, but it's true. This small, heavyweight, sans serif typeface just did not appeal to me. I trucked on—because this book is definitely reading—but I did not, alas, enjoy the actual experience of reading it. Your mileage will probably vary, but typography is something I’m sensitive to.
Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. The truth is, Girl Up is quite fantastic. It’s kind of a massive pep talk in book form, principally aimed at teenage girls but really directed to anyone who, you know, has a brain and lives in our patriarchal society. That’s principally Laura Bates’ aim here: smash the patriarchy, or at least crack the window and let the readers do the rest. Bates offers up a crash course in feminism and an antidote to some of the most noxious media messages about “the right way” to be a girl/woman. She covers some fairly heavy topics but in a way that tries to be a little more fun or accessible than your typical, more serious type of feminist primer. I’m not trying to say that’s better, mind you—because the last thing we need to do is start pitting feminist books against each other like we pit women against each other—but that there is room for a diverse set of approaches when it comes to educating adolescents about feminism.
This book got me on board early: on page xiv of the introduction, “Buckle Up”, Bates asserts intersectionality early on. She asserts that woman ≠ vagina, but more notably from my personal positionality, she says, “Some people aren’t attracted to anyone at all” and then, later on the next page, reminds us that agender and asexual belong in the LGBT* (as she uses it) acronym (no mention of aromantic, alas). And indeed, at various points throughout the book, Bates reminds us of these things, mentioning that it’s OK to like sex, OK not to like sex, OK to want sex, OK to not want sex, OK to want sex but not be attracted, etc. I could have gone for an even more frank discussion of attraction and sexuality, but I appreciate that this book is not solely about that and Bates only had so much space to work with. Similarly, although the book by and large aims to be trans friendly, I think a more explicit discussion on transgender and nonbinary identities as they relate to being perceived as a woman might have been an interesting addition. Room for a sequel, maybe?
I mean, that’s kind of my takeaway from this book: Girl Up really just scratches the surface, and how could it do anything else? There is a lot to be learned!
Honestly, the style Bates uses with the lists, illustrations and little comic drawings interspersed throughout the text, etc., does not appeal to me—but I am not a younger reader, so I can’t say whether or not it would appeal to them. The book does seem to be going for a “look at me, I am cool and definitely not out of touch with the Youth” vibe, and I’m not entirely sure it succeeds at that. If you can get past that, however, there is so much valuable information in here. Moreover, the tone of this book is perfect. Bates doesn’t pull any punches. There is profanity. There is strong language, explicit descriptions of things—basically everything teens already read on the Internet, but in a book form, for when their WiFi isn’t working and they’ve run out of data.
One more critique: sometimes it seems like Bates is assuming an American audience and sometimes a British audience. She switches back and forth between talking about “states” and quoting US legislation, etc., but then she mentions a few things that are more British. I’m not sure if other people will notice this (I am Canadian but lived in Britain for a couple of years), but it kind of threw me while I was reading.
So, yeah … definitely not the target audience of this one. That made me hesitate to actually read it. I was worried I wouldn’t enjoy it, not because it was bad, but because of my age and gender, and then I would be loath to review it. Fortunately, I was wrong! I don’t think I got as much out of this as a younger reader would, especially a teenage girl, partly because of my different experiences but also just because I’m a little more steeped in other feminist reads. Still, I can totally see how this would be valuable to some readers, and it definitely fills a good niche.
That might seem picky, or petty, but it's true. This small, heavyweight, sans serif typeface just did not appeal to me. I trucked on—because this book is definitely reading—but I did not, alas, enjoy the actual experience of reading it. Your mileage will probably vary, but typography is something I’m sensitive to.
Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. The truth is, Girl Up is quite fantastic. It’s kind of a massive pep talk in book form, principally aimed at teenage girls but really directed to anyone who, you know, has a brain and lives in our patriarchal society. That’s principally Laura Bates’ aim here: smash the patriarchy, or at least crack the window and let the readers do the rest. Bates offers up a crash course in feminism and an antidote to some of the most noxious media messages about “the right way” to be a girl/woman. She covers some fairly heavy topics but in a way that tries to be a little more fun or accessible than your typical, more serious type of feminist primer. I’m not trying to say that’s better, mind you—because the last thing we need to do is start pitting feminist books against each other like we pit women against each other—but that there is room for a diverse set of approaches when it comes to educating adolescents about feminism.
This book got me on board early: on page xiv of the introduction, “Buckle Up”, Bates asserts intersectionality early on. She asserts that woman ≠ vagina, but more notably from my personal positionality, she says, “Some people aren’t attracted to anyone at all” and then, later on the next page, reminds us that agender and asexual belong in the LGBT* (as she uses it) acronym (no mention of aromantic, alas). And indeed, at various points throughout the book, Bates reminds us of these things, mentioning that it’s OK to like sex, OK not to like sex, OK to want sex, OK to not want sex, OK to want sex but not be attracted, etc. I could have gone for an even more frank discussion of attraction and sexuality, but I appreciate that this book is not solely about that and Bates only had so much space to work with. Similarly, although the book by and large aims to be trans friendly, I think a more explicit discussion on transgender and nonbinary identities as they relate to being perceived as a woman might have been an interesting addition. Room for a sequel, maybe?
I mean, that’s kind of my takeaway from this book: Girl Up really just scratches the surface, and how could it do anything else? There is a lot to be learned!
Honestly, the style Bates uses with the lists, illustrations and little comic drawings interspersed throughout the text, etc., does not appeal to me—but I am not a younger reader, so I can’t say whether or not it would appeal to them. The book does seem to be going for a “look at me, I am cool and definitely not out of touch with the Youth” vibe, and I’m not entirely sure it succeeds at that. If you can get past that, however, there is so much valuable information in here. Moreover, the tone of this book is perfect. Bates doesn’t pull any punches. There is profanity. There is strong language, explicit descriptions of things—basically everything teens already read on the Internet, but in a book form, for when their WiFi isn’t working and they’ve run out of data.
One more critique: sometimes it seems like Bates is assuming an American audience and sometimes a British audience. She switches back and forth between talking about “states” and quoting US legislation, etc., but then she mentions a few things that are more British. I’m not sure if other people will notice this (I am Canadian but lived in Britain for a couple of years), but it kind of threw me while I was reading.
So, yeah … definitely not the target audience of this one. That made me hesitate to actually read it. I was worried I wouldn’t enjoy it, not because it was bad, but because of my age and gender, and then I would be loath to review it. Fortunately, I was wrong! I don’t think I got as much out of this as a younger reader would, especially a teenage girl, partly because of my different experiences but also just because I’m a little more steeped in other feminist reads. Still, I can totally see how this would be valuable to some readers, and it definitely fills a good niche.
One Way is obviously trying to capitalize on the renaissance of Mars fiction, but if I had to liken it to an Andy Weir novel, it wouldn’t be The Martian—it has more in common with Artemis. This is a story of survival on Mars, yes, but it’s also a mystery wrapped up in corporate intrigue. S.J. Morden starts by asking what might happen if we sent convicts to construct a Mars base … and then what might happen if someone started killing them all off. There are certainly some intriguing ideas here, but in general I wasn’t greatly enthusiastic about this one. Thanks to NetGalley and Orbit for the eARC of this novel.
Frank is serving a life sentence for murder. When the parent company of the company that owns his prison offers him a chance to serve the rest of his sentence on Mars, he decides to accept. Little does he know that he’s getting into a training regimen that has a life in supermax at the end of it if he flunks out. And when he does make it to Mars, the rest of his fellow crew mates start dying mysteriously one by one. Can Frank find the killer, and stop them, in time? Or is he doomed to die on Mars well before his time?
As far as protagonists go, Frank is all right, I guess. Morden tries to give us a sympathetic character: Frank is in prison because he killed his son’s drug dealer. He’s a man who knows that what he did is considered unacceptable, but he did it anyway, and he does not regret that if it saved his son’s life. Throughout the novel, we’re supposed to see that Frank’s strong moral compass sets him apart from the other convicts. Frank has made his peace with his situation, and that’s what allows him to keep it together throughout the vicious training regime and beyond. Still, Frank seems rather one-dimensional beyond this part of his character. We don’t learn much about him as a person other than his former occupation and a bit of his family life. Morden tries to allude to how Frank’s time inside has changed him, made him slightly harder and warier—but all of that feels stereotypical, shorthand familiar to anyone with a movie/TV/book view of what prisons are like.
The first part of the book, with the preparations for going to Mars, was pretty fascinating for me. I liked watching Frank and his fellow crew undergo their training. I liked seeing their struggle, the way they slowly started to work together, the way Morden sets up the antagonism with Brack. It’s the second part, on Mars itself, when One Way shifts into mystery mode, that Morden starts to lose me.
It’s just not a very compelling mystery. So people start dying. The suspects are few, and while it might not be obvious who is doing it right at first, it also doesn’t feel … urgent. This is compounded by the reveal towards the end about the role of the company in the mystery (I’m not going to spoil it). In general, this dimension of One Way underdelivers. As someone who enjoys mysteries, that’s a little disappointing, and I certainly wouldn’t pick up this book based solely on that promise. If you like Mars stories, then sure, there might be something for you here—but somehow I don’t think it will be enough.
Frank is serving a life sentence for murder. When the parent company of the company that owns his prison offers him a chance to serve the rest of his sentence on Mars, he decides to accept. Little does he know that he’s getting into a training regimen that has a life in supermax at the end of it if he flunks out. And when he does make it to Mars, the rest of his fellow crew mates start dying mysteriously one by one. Can Frank find the killer, and stop them, in time? Or is he doomed to die on Mars well before his time?
As far as protagonists go, Frank is all right, I guess. Morden tries to give us a sympathetic character: Frank is in prison because he killed his son’s drug dealer. He’s a man who knows that what he did is considered unacceptable, but he did it anyway, and he does not regret that if it saved his son’s life. Throughout the novel, we’re supposed to see that Frank’s strong moral compass sets him apart from the other convicts. Frank has made his peace with his situation, and that’s what allows him to keep it together throughout the vicious training regime and beyond. Still, Frank seems rather one-dimensional beyond this part of his character. We don’t learn much about him as a person other than his former occupation and a bit of his family life. Morden tries to allude to how Frank’s time inside has changed him, made him slightly harder and warier—but all of that feels stereotypical, shorthand familiar to anyone with a movie/TV/book view of what prisons are like.
The first part of the book, with the preparations for going to Mars, was pretty fascinating for me. I liked watching Frank and his fellow crew undergo their training. I liked seeing their struggle, the way they slowly started to work together, the way Morden sets up the antagonism with Brack. It’s the second part, on Mars itself, when One Way shifts into mystery mode, that Morden starts to lose me.
It’s just not a very compelling mystery. So people start dying. The suspects are few, and while it might not be obvious who is doing it right at first, it also doesn’t feel … urgent. This is compounded by the reveal towards the end about the role of the company in the mystery (I’m not going to spoil it). In general, this dimension of One Way underdelivers. As someone who enjoys mysteries, that’s a little disappointing, and I certainly wouldn’t pick up this book based solely on that promise. If you like Mars stories, then sure, there might be something for you here—but somehow I don’t think it will be enough.