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tachyondecay
So, um, owing to a clerical error on my part, I read this before reading #51: The Absolute. Oops! I will definitely go back and read that before going on, but just keep this fact in mind while reading this otherwise perfect review of #52: The Sacrifice.
Ax has kind of had it with humans in this book, at least at first. Cassie gave up the morphing cube on purpose, and now it looks like the Yeerks are expanding their numbers without any real opposition. In secret communication with the Andalite command, Ax learns the Andalites plan to “quarantine” Earth—that is, try to concentrate as much of the Yeerk population on Earth as possible, then, uh, cleanse the planet. Once again, K.A. Applegate doesn’t shy away from the incredible horrors that get twisted into “making sense” in the name of winning a war.
If you take a step back, though, there’s something even more interesting happening in this part of the series: this is really us learning how the Animorphs deal with losing.
At the very beginning of the series, in contrast, the Animorphs were so fresh and new at this that the reality of their predicament hadn’t really sunk in. Sure, they knew that five kids and an alien probably couldn’t do much about the entire Yeerk presence on Earth—yet that knowledge never stopped them from blithely blundering into Yeerk pools and high-security facilities. They had all the confidence of a mediocre white man and they used it. Yet as the series progresses, as the Animorphs grow up faster than they should, they become far more aware of the potential for loss. Now, with the Yeerks aware of their true identities and the invasion of Earth accelerating and moving into the open, the Animorphs have to confront every bit of the reality of the war and the fact that, try as they might, they probably aren’t strong enough to win it.
Hence the bitterness and recriminations. The Animorphs find themselves thrust into this weird role of quasi-leadership of a much larger resistance. Because it isn’t just the six of them now, I think Ax feels a little more distant from the human Animorphs. It’s no longer small, intimate operations but larger, more complicated, step-by-step missions. Ax gets to see the cracks in the various Animorphs, the way that Rachel is increasingly reckless and violent, or Cassie seems to be obsessing over compassion when she should be thinking strategy. Predictably, for those of us who have gotten to know him over the series, Ax is most hard on himself. He feels his loyalties, to the Animorphs and humans and to his own people, torn. There’s really no good answer here, either. At some point he’s going to have to make some tough decisions.
Still, the internecine arguments here are uncomfortable to say the least!
Returning to the wider plot, we see there’s no good answer here too. Either the Animorphs commit an act of massive destruction at the risk of killing a large number of humans, all to strike a blow against the Yeerks, or they sit by, powerless, as the Yeerks transform more and more people into human-Controllers. There is some good discussion here not just of the morality of this particular issue (which, let’s be fair, is a pretty obvious conundrum) but of the overall approach of fighting the Yeerks: is it permissible to fight back by slaughtering “defenseless” Yeerks while they are in a pool? Or is this a form of genocide, or at the very least, a war crime because these Yeerks are “non-combatants”?
In this way, Applegate and ghostwriter Kim Morris highlight the absurdity of having rules of engagement around war. This is a form of cognitive dissonance possible only because humans, unlike animals, like to pretend we’re civilized. Oh, sure, we’ll fight you: but we have “rules” about who and what and how and when we can fight. Except, as this book and countless others explore, those rules tend to be flexible to the point of tearing, when they aren’t so rigid they just snap.
The book ends, quite literally, with a bang. And it leaves a lot up in the air. The main question, though, really, remains a longstanding one: how far will the Animorphs go?
Next up (after I read the previous book), we’ll see the Animorphs take on the Yeerks even more boldly as they start to shape the answer to that question. I don’t have any more jokes for these outros. This is the dark time.
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #51: The Absolute
Ax has kind of had it with humans in this book, at least at first. Cassie gave up the morphing cube on purpose, and now it looks like the Yeerks are expanding their numbers without any real opposition. In secret communication with the Andalite command, Ax learns the Andalites plan to “quarantine” Earth—that is, try to concentrate as much of the Yeerk population on Earth as possible, then, uh, cleanse the planet. Once again, K.A. Applegate doesn’t shy away from the incredible horrors that get twisted into “making sense” in the name of winning a war.
If you take a step back, though, there’s something even more interesting happening in this part of the series: this is really us learning how the Animorphs deal with losing.
At the very beginning of the series, in contrast, the Animorphs were so fresh and new at this that the reality of their predicament hadn’t really sunk in. Sure, they knew that five kids and an alien probably couldn’t do much about the entire Yeerk presence on Earth—yet that knowledge never stopped them from blithely blundering into Yeerk pools and high-security facilities. They had all the confidence of a mediocre white man and they used it. Yet as the series progresses, as the Animorphs grow up faster than they should, they become far more aware of the potential for loss. Now, with the Yeerks aware of their true identities and the invasion of Earth accelerating and moving into the open, the Animorphs have to confront every bit of the reality of the war and the fact that, try as they might, they probably aren’t strong enough to win it.
Hence the bitterness and recriminations. The Animorphs find themselves thrust into this weird role of quasi-leadership of a much larger resistance. Because it isn’t just the six of them now, I think Ax feels a little more distant from the human Animorphs. It’s no longer small, intimate operations but larger, more complicated, step-by-step missions. Ax gets to see the cracks in the various Animorphs, the way that Rachel is increasingly reckless and violent, or Cassie seems to be obsessing over compassion when she should be thinking strategy. Predictably, for those of us who have gotten to know him over the series, Ax is most hard on himself. He feels his loyalties, to the Animorphs and humans and to his own people, torn. There’s really no good answer here, either. At some point he’s going to have to make some tough decisions.
Still, the internecine arguments here are uncomfortable to say the least!
Returning to the wider plot, we see there’s no good answer here too. Either the Animorphs commit an act of massive destruction at the risk of killing a large number of humans, all to strike a blow against the Yeerks, or they sit by, powerless, as the Yeerks transform more and more people into human-Controllers. There is some good discussion here not just of the morality of this particular issue (which, let’s be fair, is a pretty obvious conundrum) but of the overall approach of fighting the Yeerks: is it permissible to fight back by slaughtering “defenseless” Yeerks while they are in a pool? Or is this a form of genocide, or at the very least, a war crime because these Yeerks are “non-combatants”?
In this way, Applegate and ghostwriter Kim Morris highlight the absurdity of having rules of engagement around war. This is a form of cognitive dissonance possible only because humans, unlike animals, like to pretend we’re civilized. Oh, sure, we’ll fight you: but we have “rules” about who and what and how and when we can fight. Except, as this book and countless others explore, those rules tend to be flexible to the point of tearing, when they aren’t so rigid they just snap.
The book ends, quite literally, with a bang. And it leaves a lot up in the air. The main question, though, really, remains a longstanding one: how far will the Animorphs go?
Next up (after I read the previous book), we’ll see the Animorphs take on the Yeerks even more boldly as they start to shape the answer to that question. I don’t have any more jokes for these outros. This is the dark time.
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #51: The Absolute
Because there’s nothing like reading some Animorphs books out of order …
#51: The Absolute is where the proverbial manure hits the air redistribution machine. I mean, I haven’t generally been marking these reviews with spoiler alerts, because I feel like if you’re reading a review for book 51, you’re either in way too deep or you don’t care about being spoiled. But I had to flag this review, because this …
… this is it, people. This is the book. This is where it all changes. The secret is out!
Honestly, I have mixed feelings about this one overall, but I have to give it credit for the way it handles this crucial story arc development.
This book is interesting because it’s basically a Marco/Tobias team-up (with an assist from Ax). The other Animorphs don’t really show up for the first 25 or 30 per cent of the book, and then they do only briefly. It’s Marco and Ax who have to find the governor, extract her from danger after the Yeerks discover what’s happening, and protect her long enough to get her to safety.
Oh, yeah: I loved how Applegate and ghostwriter pull the gender bait-and-switch and hang a lampshade on the kids being surprised that the governor is a woman.
Marco also gets a chance to shine in his last round as narrator. In a weird way, he has benefited the most of the Animorphs (except maybe Tobias?) from all of these awful events: his parents have been reunited. So whereas Jake is depressed and apathetic, and Cassie is horrified, and Rachel is gluttonous for war, and Ax is conflicted, Marco is … kind of chill. His reaction to the near-impossibility of their situation is to let things ride. Is this the healthiest way to deal with it? Probably not. But it’s probably the most useful, tactically speaking, right at this stage of the war.
The Absolute is an interesting mix of serious events (the governor nearly being kidnapped by the Yeerks, Visser One showing up near the end, Marco and Tobias having to make a lot of quick decisions without much direction, and then the governor's speech at the end) and humorous vignettes. There are chase sequences and gorilla antics galore.
I love the governor’s speech at the end, and it makes me think about what would really happen if this scenario were real. If a United States governor just went on national television and said aliens were among us … I mean, it’s 2018 and Donald Trump is your president, so I guess all bets are off anyway now that we’ve wound up in the zaniest timeline. (OK, to be fair, the zaniest timeline might be Kanye as Vice President).
Anyway. As far as plot goes, this one is fast-moving and occasionally doesn’t make a lot of sense. That’s OK, though. I think at this point in the series, with the time crunch on to get all those loose ends gathered, this type of progression makes sense. We’re clearly building now to the final confrontation, and this is just one more brick in that wall.
But what a brick.
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #50: The Ultimate | #52: The Sacrifice →
#51: The Absolute is where the proverbial manure hits the air redistribution machine. I mean, I haven’t generally been marking these reviews with spoiler alerts, because I feel like if you’re reading a review for book 51, you’re either in way too deep or you don’t care about being spoiled. But I had to flag this review, because this …
… this is it, people. This is the book. This is where it all changes. The secret is out!
Honestly, I have mixed feelings about this one overall, but I have to give it credit for the way it handles this crucial story arc development.
This book is interesting because it’s basically a Marco/Tobias team-up (with an assist from Ax). The other Animorphs don’t really show up for the first 25 or 30 per cent of the book, and then they do only briefly. It’s Marco and Ax who have to find the governor, extract her from danger after the Yeerks discover what’s happening, and protect her long enough to get her to safety.
Oh, yeah: I loved how Applegate and ghostwriter pull the gender bait-and-switch and hang a lampshade on the kids being surprised that the governor is a woman.
Marco also gets a chance to shine in his last round as narrator. In a weird way, he has benefited the most of the Animorphs (except maybe Tobias?) from all of these awful events: his parents have been reunited. So whereas Jake is depressed and apathetic, and Cassie is horrified, and Rachel is gluttonous for war, and Ax is conflicted, Marco is … kind of chill. His reaction to the near-impossibility of their situation is to let things ride. Is this the healthiest way to deal with it? Probably not. But it’s probably the most useful, tactically speaking, right at this stage of the war.
The Absolute is an interesting mix of serious events (the governor nearly being kidnapped by the Yeerks, Visser One showing up near the end, Marco and Tobias having to make a lot of quick decisions without much direction, and then the governor's speech at the end) and humorous vignettes. There are chase sequences and gorilla antics galore.
I love the governor’s speech at the end, and it makes me think about what would really happen if this scenario were real. If a United States governor just went on national television and said aliens were among us … I mean, it’s 2018 and Donald Trump is your president, so I guess all bets are off anyway now that we’ve wound up in the zaniest timeline. (OK, to be fair, the zaniest timeline might be Kanye as Vice President).
Anyway. As far as plot goes, this one is fast-moving and occasionally doesn’t make a lot of sense. That’s OK, though. I think at this point in the series, with the time crunch on to get all those loose ends gathered, this type of progression makes sense. We’re clearly building now to the final confrontation, and this is just one more brick in that wall.
But what a brick.
My reviews of Animorphs:
← #50: The Ultimate | #52: The Sacrifice →
Oh. Em. Gee. Saga, Volume 7 might just be the saddest, most heart-wrenching thing I’ve read this year. It’s not quite at the nadir of A Fine Balance, but it comes close. I am struggling to recall a single positive and redeeming moment in this book. There’s … there’s a lot of bleakness and heartbreak here.
As with many a long-running series, I’m starting to run out of new and creative commentary. Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples once again deliver a packed collection of chapters that both advance the story and drive the characters to new heights (or, er, in this case, depths). This volume might be notable for how it is more tightly focused on certain characters. There is a little bit of attention on the wider galactic politics, particularly as they involve a comet where much of the action takes place. For the most part, however, this story focuses on Alana, Marko, Hazel, and the people closest to them.
The worldbuilding remains top notch. I love the imagination and dedication involved in portraying such a diversity of intelligent, alien life in this universe. It isn’t just the myriad and miraculous forms that Staples depicts—it’s the whole aesthetic, the way everything fits together (or doesn’t), the very ideas involved, like a bounty hunter with two heads. As someone who doesn’t visualize when I read, I find that this is where the graphic novel medium excels for me. I just finished Terminal Alliance, in which Jim C. Hines similarly attempts to describe a diverse universe. But because it was just words on paper, I couldn’t picture it, so I had got a lot less from his descriptions than I do from something like Saga.
Although Hazel is growing up, she is less prominent here except as a plot device around which the other characters revolve. Indeed, it’s hard to say that any of the regular cast really shine as protagonists in this book. It seems more like they have things happen to them, and react, as they each struggle with their own demons. That isn’t a bad thing—if anything, it just makes this volume feel more like an interlude from one massive adventure to the next. Where will the ship go next? What will Marko be like now? How will he and Alana deal with this latest round of setbacks? And when will their paths finally cross with the Will, still broken and now disbarred from the bounty hunting union, scheming a way to get back everything he feels has been ripped away from him. Will Sir Robot find his kid?
I miss Ghüs.
My reviews of Saga:
← Volume 6 | Volume 8 →
As with many a long-running series, I’m starting to run out of new and creative commentary. Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples once again deliver a packed collection of chapters that both advance the story and drive the characters to new heights (or, er, in this case, depths). This volume might be notable for how it is more tightly focused on certain characters. There is a little bit of attention on the wider galactic politics, particularly as they involve a comet where much of the action takes place. For the most part, however, this story focuses on Alana, Marko, Hazel, and the people closest to them.
The worldbuilding remains top notch. I love the imagination and dedication involved in portraying such a diversity of intelligent, alien life in this universe. It isn’t just the myriad and miraculous forms that Staples depicts—it’s the whole aesthetic, the way everything fits together (or doesn’t), the very ideas involved, like a bounty hunter with two heads. As someone who doesn’t visualize when I read, I find that this is where the graphic novel medium excels for me. I just finished Terminal Alliance, in which Jim C. Hines similarly attempts to describe a diverse universe. But because it was just words on paper, I couldn’t picture it, so I had got a lot less from his descriptions than I do from something like Saga.
Although Hazel is growing up, she is less prominent here except as a plot device around which the other characters revolve. Indeed, it’s hard to say that any of the regular cast really shine as protagonists in this book. It seems more like they have things happen to them, and react, as they each struggle with their own demons. That isn’t a bad thing—if anything, it just makes this volume feel more like an interlude from one massive adventure to the next. Where will the ship go next? What will Marko be like now? How will he and Alana deal with this latest round of setbacks? And when will their paths finally cross with the Will, still broken and now disbarred from the bounty hunting union, scheming a way to get back everything he feels has been ripped away from him. Will Sir Robot find his kid?
I miss Ghüs.
My reviews of Saga:
← Volume 6 | Volume 8 →
Haha, so it seems like only yesterday I was talking about how Saga, Volume 8 was a refreshing respite from the dark, downer moments of his series.
Oh boy.
I get it, those 1-star and 2-star reviews from people throwing up their hands in the air and saying, “I just can’t even with this anymore.” That is a legitimate point of view and valid criticism of this book. Saga, Volume 9 takes any of the good, happy feelings you got at the end of the last volume and tears them to shreds, lights those shreds on fire, then scatters the ashes of those shreds to the four corners of the globe. Then it cancels your Netflix subscription and steals your identity, using that to go on a crime spree. Just for good measure.
I’m not quite at the point where I want to abandon this series or anything. At the end of the day, this is Vaughan and Staples’ show, and they can do what they want with the characters (and we are free to criticize them for it, of course). I’m definitely not happy with much of what happens in this volume, particularly the final twist at the end. But there are definitely some things I want to praise first.
This instalment of the series underlines something that has been in the back of my mind for a while now: there isn’t really an endgame here. Marko and Alana have a chance to “escape” by essentially changing their identities. They reject this (which is fine), but this means that for the foreseeable future they will have to stay on the run for … forever. Their plight is not a simple conflict where the goal is to obtain something, or get somewhere. They have always been fighting to keep their family together, and usually that means running from people trying to hunt them down. That hasn’t changed, and it likely won’t change.
Vaughan and Staples also explore parents’ duties of care to their children. Marko and Alana make a decision on Hazel’s behalf, while Sir Robot makes essentially the opposite decision on his child’s behalf; both sets of parents are trying to safeguard their children. I like this duality here, because it emphasizes that sometimes it’s hard to see what the “right” choice in any given situation might be. There is no manual for parenting, especially when one is an intergalactic fugitive.
Those deaths tho….
I’m not against killing off characters, and this level of carnage is definitely consistent with Saga as a series. I guess what I’m saying is that you have every right to be upset by what happens here, but you should definitely not be surprised. That being said, I was surprised that Vaughan and Staples dispatch the new potential antagonist so quickly. I was hoping that she would be a more formidable foe. Instead she’s really just a vehicle to get The Will back in range of our intrepid protagonists.
Overall, though, I think this is a case of my opinion of this volume being dependent largely on what happens next in the story. Volume 9 reminds us that every moment of contentment can turn to ashes in an instance, that everyone is fragile and susceptible to injury, even fatality, in the harsh universe of Saga. For such a punctured equilibrium to occur can only mean that something even bigger, something even more intense, is coming up next. If Vaughan and Staples can deliver when they return to this series, then this volume will be a good set-up. If the next volume lets me down, then this one will have felt a little like an empty promise.
Stay tuned, I guess.
My reviews of Saga:
← Volume 8
Oh boy.
I get it, those 1-star and 2-star reviews from people throwing up their hands in the air and saying, “I just can’t even with this anymore.” That is a legitimate point of view and valid criticism of this book. Saga, Volume 9 takes any of the good, happy feelings you got at the end of the last volume and tears them to shreds, lights those shreds on fire, then scatters the ashes of those shreds to the four corners of the globe. Then it cancels your Netflix subscription and steals your identity, using that to go on a crime spree. Just for good measure.
I’m not quite at the point where I want to abandon this series or anything. At the end of the day, this is Vaughan and Staples’ show, and they can do what they want with the characters (and we are free to criticize them for it, of course). I’m definitely not happy with much of what happens in this volume, particularly the final twist at the end. But there are definitely some things I want to praise first.
This instalment of the series underlines something that has been in the back of my mind for a while now: there isn’t really an endgame here. Marko and Alana have a chance to “escape” by essentially changing their identities. They reject this (which is fine), but this means that for the foreseeable future they will have to stay on the run for … forever. Their plight is not a simple conflict where the goal is to obtain something, or get somewhere. They have always been fighting to keep their family together, and usually that means running from people trying to hunt them down. That hasn’t changed, and it likely won’t change.
Vaughan and Staples also explore parents’ duties of care to their children. Marko and Alana make a decision on Hazel’s behalf, while Sir Robot makes essentially the opposite decision on his child’s behalf; both sets of parents are trying to safeguard their children. I like this duality here, because it emphasizes that sometimes it’s hard to see what the “right” choice in any given situation might be. There is no manual for parenting, especially when one is an intergalactic fugitive.
Those deaths tho….
I’m not against killing off characters, and this level of carnage is definitely consistent with Saga as a series. I guess what I’m saying is that you have every right to be upset by what happens here, but you should definitely not be surprised. That being said, I was surprised that Vaughan and Staples dispatch the new potential antagonist so quickly. I was hoping that she would be a more formidable foe. Instead she’s really just a vehicle to get The Will back in range of our intrepid protagonists.
Overall, though, I think this is a case of my opinion of this volume being dependent largely on what happens next in the story. Volume 9 reminds us that every moment of contentment can turn to ashes in an instance, that everyone is fragile and susceptible to injury, even fatality, in the harsh universe of Saga. For such a punctured equilibrium to occur can only mean that something even bigger, something even more intense, is coming up next. If Vaughan and Staples can deliver when they return to this series, then this volume will be a good set-up. If the next volume lets me down, then this one will have felt a little like an empty promise.
Stay tuned, I guess.
My reviews of Saga:
← Volume 8
Did … did good things just happen to our protagonists?
Excuse me while I check if I’m actually reading Saga, Volume 8 and not some impostor. Because … because … GOOD THINGS HAPPENED, FOLX. I mean, yeah, shitty things happened too. Don’t get me wrong; there’s still conflict and loss here. But … good things! And Ghüs!! I missed Ghüs!!
This volume opens with Alana and Prince Robot looking for medical help in … Abortion Town. Right away, I’m sinking back into what I love about Saga: this series pulls no punches. Light-years away in space and who knows how far in time, yet this story still comments on issues that are relevant today. Whether it’s control over one’s pregnant body or the medicalization of trans people, Saga isn’t afraid to address it in a way that’s natural and relevant within the context of the story. Fiona Staples’ art backs up Brian K. Vaughan’s writing in this way: we see such a diversity of shapes and forms and ways of being.
The settings of Saga remind me in some ways of Farscape. Both series attempt to depict a universe far more fluid and alien than some science fiction would ask us to imagine. (Moreover, being a graphic novel series, Saga of course has more of “budget” to depict this vision than a television series could). We’re talking anthropomorphic owls and robots with TVs for heads, people, and it is glorious. Because when you have such a cosmopolitan view of the universe, the species and societies and problems within, your stories become infinitely richer and more complex. Just as the overall enmity between the Peacekeepers and Scarrans hung over the entirety of the Farscape part of the cosmos, so too does the enmity between Wreath and Landfall touch everything that happens here.
And right in the middle of this epic story we find Alana, Marko, and Hazel.
If I have any criticism of this volume, perhaps it’s simply that we don’t see comparatively much of these three. They are present and central to what’s happening, and there are some really good moments among them as they continue to process their familial loss. Yet, in some ways the story is happening to and around them. There’s a lot more going on between Petrichor and Prince Robot, or in the separate storylines of The Will and Ghüs/Prince Robot’s son.
With that being said, compared to the sad, painful story I read in Volume 7 last year, this volume was … hopeful. Especially that ending. And I fucking love the new villain and the way in which she discovers Hazel’s existence.
Basically, while Saga, Volume 8 in some ways feel like a breath between two story arcs, it’s a very necessary breath. It is probably a calm before the storm, and I am here for whatever Staples and Vaughan rain down on them next.
My reviews of Saga:
← Volume 7 | Volume 9 →
Excuse me while I check if I’m actually reading Saga, Volume 8 and not some impostor. Because … because … GOOD THINGS HAPPENED, FOLX. I mean, yeah, shitty things happened too. Don’t get me wrong; there’s still conflict and loss here. But … good things! And Ghüs!! I missed Ghüs!!
This volume opens with Alana and Prince Robot looking for medical help in … Abortion Town. Right away, I’m sinking back into what I love about Saga: this series pulls no punches. Light-years away in space and who knows how far in time, yet this story still comments on issues that are relevant today. Whether it’s control over one’s pregnant body or the medicalization of trans people, Saga isn’t afraid to address it in a way that’s natural and relevant within the context of the story. Fiona Staples’ art backs up Brian K. Vaughan’s writing in this way: we see such a diversity of shapes and forms and ways of being.
The settings of Saga remind me in some ways of Farscape. Both series attempt to depict a universe far more fluid and alien than some science fiction would ask us to imagine. (Moreover, being a graphic novel series, Saga of course has more of “budget” to depict this vision than a television series could). We’re talking anthropomorphic owls and robots with TVs for heads, people, and it is glorious. Because when you have such a cosmopolitan view of the universe, the species and societies and problems within, your stories become infinitely richer and more complex. Just as the overall enmity between the Peacekeepers and Scarrans hung over the entirety of the Farscape part of the cosmos, so too does the enmity between Wreath and Landfall touch everything that happens here.
And right in the middle of this epic story we find Alana, Marko, and Hazel.
If I have any criticism of this volume, perhaps it’s simply that we don’t see comparatively much of these three. They are present and central to what’s happening, and there are some really good moments among them as they continue to process their familial loss. Yet, in some ways the story is happening to and around them. There’s a lot more going on between Petrichor and Prince Robot, or in the separate storylines of The Will and Ghüs/Prince Robot’s son.
With that being said, compared to the sad, painful story I read in Volume 7 last year, this volume was … hopeful. Especially that ending. And I fucking love the new villain and the way in which she discovers Hazel’s existence.
Basically, while Saga, Volume 8 in some ways feel like a breath between two story arcs, it’s a very necessary breath. It is probably a calm before the storm, and I am here for whatever Staples and Vaughan rain down on them next.
My reviews of Saga:
← Volume 7 | Volume 9 →
How much did I love The Calculating Stars? When I picked this up at Chapters, I didn’t realize that its sequel was already out! So when I finished this on the evening of December 28, I was very tempted to rush out and buy that sequel right away. But Chapters was closing in 20 minutes, so I waited until the next day, and then I bought The Fated Sky with the intention of making it my first read of 2019, because I love starting off the year with a book I’m certain to enjoy. I was pretty sure I would like The Calculating Stars, but it did more, surprising me with the rich layers that Mary Robinette Kowal manages to fit into what is actually quite a short novel.
Trigger warnings in this novel for moments of extreme social anxiety related to public speaking and consequent anxiety attacks.
Elma York (née Wexler) is a computer for NACA in 1952, when a meteorite strikes off the coast of the United States and triggers what will eventually be an extinction-level event. This accelerates international plans for space travel. Elma’s husband, Nathaniel, is the lead engineer for the International Aerospace Coalition, and the two of them work together closely. But in addition to her love of crunching numbers like nobody’s business, Elma loves flying. A WASP during the war, she yearns to join the fledgling astronaut corps. Except, you know, blatant sexism stands in her way.
The novel opens with the kind of in media res disaster sequence a Michael Bay film would kill for: deadly earthquakes, a daring escape along a highway, a shockwave that totals your car, and then flying a prop plane through flaming ejecta only to have to manage a crash landing just short of the air base. Wow! From there, Kowal wastes no time getting us into the thick of things, establishing that there is a ticking clock thanks to the accelerated climate change: humanity needs to go to space. From there, this mission becomes the background plot while the novel focuses on Elma’s personal struggles.
What elevates The Calculating Stars for me is just how complex Kowal manages to make her main character. It’s one thing to write someone as a firebrand feminist who doesn’t take “no” for an answer, stands up for herself, and keeps making noise until she makes some history. Kowal throws in all these layers of nuance, though, providing Elma with plenty of flaws and missteps, that help avoid turning her into a larger-than-life type of heroine. Elma is unabashedly feminist in the sense that she believes women can do, and should be allowed to do, anything that men can. Yet this novel is, in many ways, her own personal journey towards becoming a revolutionary.
For example, there is a memorable scene where Nathaniel tells her in confidence that her public efforts to agitate for women joining the astronaut corps has started to have an effect, and the IAC Director is embarrassed. Elma’s first reaction is, “I’ll stop doing what I’m doing if it’s making trouble for you.” It’s not that she thinks, as a wife, she has a duty to submit to her husband and make things easier for him—rather, she cares for this person she loves deeply and would rather quash her own aspirations than harm him. Fortunately, she has a good ally in Nathaniel.
Similar nuance is evident in how Kowal deals with intersections of race, ethnicity, and gender. The Calculating Stars receives a lot of comparisons to Hidden Figures, and I totally get why. I think it’s important not to compare these books too directly, however, for two reasons: firstly, the latter is non-fiction, a chronicle of what actually happened, whereas this novel is alternative history; secondly, the latter is the story of Black women, told by a Black woman, which is definitely not happening here. Elma is Jewish and white; hence, she experiences oppression (and this is just after WWII, and Kowal has some excellent moments addressing the aftermath of the Holocaust) but she also experiences privilege compared to Black women. There are numerous moments, big and small, in the book where Elma, as a white lady, steps in it. As a result of her privilege, she fails to consider the barriers that women of colour might face that she doesn’t. It takes her a long time to become more intersectional in how she approaches her fight for women’s rights in astronaut training, and even by the end of the book, she certainly isn’t perfect.
In this way, I love the portrayal of Elma. Kowal gives us a protagonist who is idealistically in the right but occasionally, in practice, in the wrong. It’s wonderful to watch her learn from her mistakes. Similar to the issues of race and gender, there’s a subplot involving taking medication for anxiety. Again, Kowal has Elma start off in one place, with one type of attitude towards this, and then she changes her mind over the course of the book. She isn’t the only one like this either. The principal antagonist, Stetson Parker, is a boorish, groping jerk who does his best to foil Elma’s astronaut dreams—yet he is far from a moustache-twirling villain or misogynistic stereotype; again, there are layers and nuance to his personality that make him far more believable and enjoyable to read. Finally, Kowal makes sure to give us a plethora of personalities among the women Elma meets. Some of them are enthusiastic about her plans from the start; others take time to win over as allies. Still others throw in with Elma only as far as it aligns with their personal goals. It’s almost as if having a multitude of women in one’s book means that one can give them different motivations and none has to speak for all womankind!
I read “The Lady Astronaut of Mars” years back when it was nominated (and then won) a Hugo award. I liked it! I had no idea that Kowal would take this universe and spin it out into a duology, yet here we are, and I’m really glad she did. Over the past few years, some cranky misogynistic and racist people have jumped aboard a “Sad Puppies” train and complained that “SJWs” (“social justice warriors”) have hijacked science fiction and fantasy, “ruining” their pure and good stories with awful attempts at politically correct fiction. This, of course, is utter hogwash—there has always been plenty of good, socially progressive science fiction around, much of it written by marginalized authors. The Calculating Stars, more than many science fiction novels I’ve read in a while, admirably demonstrates that the divide between “hard” and “soft” SF is bogus, gate-keeping malarkey, and that socially-conscious science fiction can definitely have a compelling story. This is a novel that features a woman doing equations in her head and fighting for social justice. This is the type of science-fiction story I want to be reading. Bring it on.
Trigger warnings in this novel for moments of extreme social anxiety related to public speaking and consequent anxiety attacks.
Elma York (née Wexler) is a computer for NACA in 1952, when a meteorite strikes off the coast of the United States and triggers what will eventually be an extinction-level event. This accelerates international plans for space travel. Elma’s husband, Nathaniel, is the lead engineer for the International Aerospace Coalition, and the two of them work together closely. But in addition to her love of crunching numbers like nobody’s business, Elma loves flying. A WASP during the war, she yearns to join the fledgling astronaut corps. Except, you know, blatant sexism stands in her way.
The novel opens with the kind of in media res disaster sequence a Michael Bay film would kill for: deadly earthquakes, a daring escape along a highway, a shockwave that totals your car, and then flying a prop plane through flaming ejecta only to have to manage a crash landing just short of the air base. Wow! From there, Kowal wastes no time getting us into the thick of things, establishing that there is a ticking clock thanks to the accelerated climate change: humanity needs to go to space. From there, this mission becomes the background plot while the novel focuses on Elma’s personal struggles.
What elevates The Calculating Stars for me is just how complex Kowal manages to make her main character. It’s one thing to write someone as a firebrand feminist who doesn’t take “no” for an answer, stands up for herself, and keeps making noise until she makes some history. Kowal throws in all these layers of nuance, though, providing Elma with plenty of flaws and missteps, that help avoid turning her into a larger-than-life type of heroine. Elma is unabashedly feminist in the sense that she believes women can do, and should be allowed to do, anything that men can. Yet this novel is, in many ways, her own personal journey towards becoming a revolutionary.
For example, there is a memorable scene where Nathaniel tells her in confidence that her public efforts to agitate for women joining the astronaut corps has started to have an effect, and the IAC Director is embarrassed. Elma’s first reaction is, “I’ll stop doing what I’m doing if it’s making trouble for you.” It’s not that she thinks, as a wife, she has a duty to submit to her husband and make things easier for him—rather, she cares for this person she loves deeply and would rather quash her own aspirations than harm him. Fortunately, she has a good ally in Nathaniel.
Similar nuance is evident in how Kowal deals with intersections of race, ethnicity, and gender. The Calculating Stars receives a lot of comparisons to Hidden Figures, and I totally get why. I think it’s important not to compare these books too directly, however, for two reasons: firstly, the latter is non-fiction, a chronicle of what actually happened, whereas this novel is alternative history; secondly, the latter is the story of Black women, told by a Black woman, which is definitely not happening here. Elma is Jewish and white; hence, she experiences oppression (and this is just after WWII, and Kowal has some excellent moments addressing the aftermath of the Holocaust) but she also experiences privilege compared to Black women. There are numerous moments, big and small, in the book where Elma, as a white lady, steps in it. As a result of her privilege, she fails to consider the barriers that women of colour might face that she doesn’t. It takes her a long time to become more intersectional in how she approaches her fight for women’s rights in astronaut training, and even by the end of the book, she certainly isn’t perfect.
In this way, I love the portrayal of Elma. Kowal gives us a protagonist who is idealistically in the right but occasionally, in practice, in the wrong. It’s wonderful to watch her learn from her mistakes. Similar to the issues of race and gender, there’s a subplot involving taking medication for anxiety. Again, Kowal has Elma start off in one place, with one type of attitude towards this, and then she changes her mind over the course of the book. She isn’t the only one like this either. The principal antagonist, Stetson Parker, is a boorish, groping jerk who does his best to foil Elma’s astronaut dreams—yet he is far from a moustache-twirling villain or misogynistic stereotype; again, there are layers and nuance to his personality that make him far more believable and enjoyable to read. Finally, Kowal makes sure to give us a plethora of personalities among the women Elma meets. Some of them are enthusiastic about her plans from the start; others take time to win over as allies. Still others throw in with Elma only as far as it aligns with their personal goals. It’s almost as if having a multitude of women in one’s book means that one can give them different motivations and none has to speak for all womankind!
I read “The Lady Astronaut of Mars” years back when it was nominated (and then won) a Hugo award. I liked it! I had no idea that Kowal would take this universe and spin it out into a duology, yet here we are, and I’m really glad she did. Over the past few years, some cranky misogynistic and racist people have jumped aboard a “Sad Puppies” train and complained that “SJWs” (“social justice warriors”) have hijacked science fiction and fantasy, “ruining” their pure and good stories with awful attempts at politically correct fiction. This, of course, is utter hogwash—there has always been plenty of good, socially progressive science fiction around, much of it written by marginalized authors. The Calculating Stars, more than many science fiction novels I’ve read in a while, admirably demonstrates that the divide between “hard” and “soft” SF is bogus, gate-keeping malarkey, and that socially-conscious science fiction can definitely have a compelling story. This is a novel that features a woman doing equations in her head and fighting for social justice. This is the type of science-fiction story I want to be reading. Bring it on.
This was a birthday book from my friend Rebecca, who smartly picked it off my mammoth to-read list. Unfortunately, it turns out that this is not a book for me. It’s awesome to see Deaf and queer characters represented in fiction and particularly YA, and for what it’s worth as a “hearie” commenting on this, I really enjoyed the way that the Deaf characters’ communication was portrayed here. Nevertheless, Julia never clicks for me as a protagonist, and I had trouble getting traction with this book.
Julia Prasad is a Deaf girl of colour whose love of street art gets her kicked out of her school for vandalism. Forced to go to a mainstream/hearing school, Julia faces some of the challenges one might expect—as well as other ones, like how to channel her creativity when her outlet is denied her, and how to deal with the fact that Jordyn, the girl she thought of as her best friend, might not be much of a friend at all. Julia is very angry, and You're Welcome, Universe is an ode to teenage angst from Whitney Gardner.
Here are a few things I did like about this book: Julia’s relationships with her moms; her friendship and romance(?) with YP; her awkward flirtation with Donovan; the weirdness with her teacher Mr. Katz and Casey.
I’m still really on the lookout for more YA that doesn’t involve romance (and it’s out there, for sure, and I have certainly read some), but I don’t think this is one. Although there is some ambiguity here, I read Julia and YP’s relationship as romantic, or at least, there are undertones of romantic attraction there. I like that Gardner keeps it ambiguous, both for those of us who are more interested in reading about platonic friendships and because I think it admirably demonstrates the messiness of relationships, especially the furious, fast-paced relationships formed during adolescence. Julia and YP’s relationship may not be as simply binary as platonic/romantic. They don’t need a label yet—maybe they’ll never have one, or maybe they’ll modulate between platonic and romantic attractions until they find whatever balance works for them. It’s cool, and it’s nice to see this ambiguity depicted in fiction—though, perhaps more explicit discussion of it might be better.
This is why I enjoyed Julia’s awkward, frustrated flirtation with Donovan. It captures how difficult it is for someone who is markedly different—in this case, Julia’s Deafness—to navigate these types of social spaces. Gardner comments on how Jordyn’s cochlear implants allow her to better assimilate into the hearie spaces and thus, eventually, net Donovan. Who is a total cad anyway, so good riddance to both of them.
As much as I wanted to like the Julia/Jordyn subplot, though, nothing about it works for me. I love the idea that Jordyn is a bad friend who only uses Julia and that Julia needs to realize this and move on, but the actual execution feels so flawed. The subplot keeps fading away into the background, and then just when I think we’re done with it, it comes back. And then at the end we get a final resolution that is probably supposed to feel triumphant but actually just seems contrived and formulaic. I think my dissatisfaction is rooted in the fact that, other than a brief text conversation near the beginning of the book, we don’t get much interaction between Jordyn and Julia before the latter starts at her new school. It’s hard to understand this faux friendship when we never really see them talk.
Fortunately, there are some other good character dynamics here. Julia’s resentment of Casey, and then the relationship that Casey develops with Julia’s art teacher, is really interesting. I like that Julia eventually realizes that she has to make amends to people she has wronged, and that Katz and Casey are two of those people. It’s a small sign of maturity from a character whose immaturity otherwise leaves me rather cold for most of the novel.
I’m seeing a few people comment on how they couldn’t connect with Julia, or didn’t like her as a protagonist, because she’s so “angry.” I understand where that critique is coming from but kind of want to avoid that language, because it seems very problematic to me to criticize a young, marginalized woman for her “anger.” Honestly, Julia has every right to be angry at a world and society that is difficult for her to live in. While I can’t understand that anger as a lived experience, I comprehend how she uses her street art as an outlet for expressing herself in a way that nothing else satisfies.
My issue with Julia is more around her voice, and the way that her anger tends to manifest as angst. There were some warning signs, for me, quite early on that I wasn’t going to love this book. We start with Julia being caught and expelled for covering up some earlier vandalism on the school grounds—and Gardner is quite sparse with the exposition. Normally, I like that, but at each turn I was expecting Julia to slow down at some point and give us a little more background, and she never really does. The story just keeps lurching from chapter to chapter, event to event, with very time for pause. It isn’t until near the climax of the story that Julia seems to seriously consider whether she might be doing something wrong, and by then I feel like it’s too little, too late, from a character-development point of view.
So that’s where I’m at with You’re Welcome Universe. It has interesting ideas, a healthy amount of diversity in its characters, and some great moments. I can see how hard it tries to make some good, interesting points about growing up, especially growing up while marginalized and different from one’s peers. Stylistically and narratively, though, it doesn’t work for me.
Julia Prasad is a Deaf girl of colour whose love of street art gets her kicked out of her school for vandalism. Forced to go to a mainstream/hearing school, Julia faces some of the challenges one might expect—as well as other ones, like how to channel her creativity when her outlet is denied her, and how to deal with the fact that Jordyn, the girl she thought of as her best friend, might not be much of a friend at all. Julia is very angry, and You're Welcome, Universe is an ode to teenage angst from Whitney Gardner.
Here are a few things I did like about this book: Julia’s relationships with her moms; her friendship and romance(?) with YP; her awkward flirtation with Donovan; the weirdness with her teacher Mr. Katz and Casey.
I’m still really on the lookout for more YA that doesn’t involve romance (and it’s out there, for sure, and I have certainly read some), but I don’t think this is one. Although there is some ambiguity here, I read Julia and YP’s relationship as romantic, or at least, there are undertones of romantic attraction there. I like that Gardner keeps it ambiguous, both for those of us who are more interested in reading about platonic friendships and because I think it admirably demonstrates the messiness of relationships, especially the furious, fast-paced relationships formed during adolescence. Julia and YP’s relationship may not be as simply binary as platonic/romantic. They don’t need a label yet—maybe they’ll never have one, or maybe they’ll modulate between platonic and romantic attractions until they find whatever balance works for them. It’s cool, and it’s nice to see this ambiguity depicted in fiction—though, perhaps more explicit discussion of it might be better.
This is why I enjoyed Julia’s awkward, frustrated flirtation with Donovan. It captures how difficult it is for someone who is markedly different—in this case, Julia’s Deafness—to navigate these types of social spaces. Gardner comments on how Jordyn’s cochlear implants allow her to better assimilate into the hearie spaces and thus, eventually, net Donovan. Who is a total cad anyway, so good riddance to both of them.
As much as I wanted to like the Julia/Jordyn subplot, though, nothing about it works for me. I love the idea that Jordyn is a bad friend who only uses Julia and that Julia needs to realize this and move on, but the actual execution feels so flawed. The subplot keeps fading away into the background, and then just when I think we’re done with it, it comes back. And then at the end we get a final resolution that is probably supposed to feel triumphant but actually just seems contrived and formulaic. I think my dissatisfaction is rooted in the fact that, other than a brief text conversation near the beginning of the book, we don’t get much interaction between Jordyn and Julia before the latter starts at her new school. It’s hard to understand this faux friendship when we never really see them talk.
Fortunately, there are some other good character dynamics here. Julia’s resentment of Casey, and then the relationship that Casey develops with Julia’s art teacher, is really interesting. I like that Julia eventually realizes that she has to make amends to people she has wronged, and that Katz and Casey are two of those people. It’s a small sign of maturity from a character whose immaturity otherwise leaves me rather cold for most of the novel.
I’m seeing a few people comment on how they couldn’t connect with Julia, or didn’t like her as a protagonist, because she’s so “angry.” I understand where that critique is coming from but kind of want to avoid that language, because it seems very problematic to me to criticize a young, marginalized woman for her “anger.” Honestly, Julia has every right to be angry at a world and society that is difficult for her to live in. While I can’t understand that anger as a lived experience, I comprehend how she uses her street art as an outlet for expressing herself in a way that nothing else satisfies.
My issue with Julia is more around her voice, and the way that her anger tends to manifest as angst. There were some warning signs, for me, quite early on that I wasn’t going to love this book. We start with Julia being caught and expelled for covering up some earlier vandalism on the school grounds—and Gardner is quite sparse with the exposition. Normally, I like that, but at each turn I was expecting Julia to slow down at some point and give us a little more background, and she never really does. The story just keeps lurching from chapter to chapter, event to event, with very time for pause. It isn’t until near the climax of the story that Julia seems to seriously consider whether she might be doing something wrong, and by then I feel like it’s too little, too late, from a character-development point of view.
So that’s where I’m at with You’re Welcome Universe. It has interesting ideas, a healthy amount of diversity in its characters, and some great moments. I can see how hard it tries to make some good, interesting points about growing up, especially growing up while marginalized and different from one’s peers. Stylistically and narratively, though, it doesn’t work for me.
If it feels like just yesterday that I read The Calculating Stars, that’s because it practically was! I seldom read sequels so close together, but once in a while I manage to buy them at the same time. In this case, I rushed out and bought The Fated Sky the weekend after I finished the first book and very deliberately made this my first book of 2019—I like to start my reading year off with something I know I will enjoy.
Part of me really just wants to say: what I said in my review of The Calculating Stars, but more so. Honestly: at first I was worried the book would feel too similar to the first one, and so I wouldn’t like it as much. Fortunately, Mary Robinette Kowal nails the balance of having the same atmosphere yet with a very different plot.
It’s a couple years after the events of the first book. Elma finds herself assigned to the IAC’s first crewed Mars mission, although the decision to do so ruffles many a feather. But it’s a politically savvy move to have the “Lady Astronaut” on the mission, even as racial tensions and other tensions flare up commensurate with the flares in Earth’s temperature. Eventually, the mission gets underway, and the bulk of the book is spent aboard the Nina, in transit to Mars. With communication with Earth only possibly via teletype, the crew of the Nina and its sister ship, the Pinta, are very isolated. They must conquer the challenges caused not just by the environment of space itself but by the interpersonal conflicts that are always going to arise in such a long-duration mission.
This isn’t really a book about going to space, or even about going to Mars. Kowal certainly provides an interesting look some of the things that might happen to a pair of crews travelling to Mars. Really, though, the space travel is just an excuse. This is a book about racism and sexism, about race and gender relations, about knowing when to lead and when to follow.
Once again, Kowal gives us a flawed protagonist that many of us should recognize in ourselves. Elma is well-meaning in all her actions, yet she constantly screws stuff up, because her privilege and experiences mean that she doesn’t always understand how intent doesn’t necessarily equal consequence. She makes a lot of mistakes, and more importantly, she learns from those mistakes. I also like that Elma’s learning and the apologies that accompany it don’t always equal the people she has wronged immediately changing their minds and liking her—that wouldn’t be realistic. Sometimes you screw things up, and it means people are going to take longer to forgive you, or maybe never forgive you. The interpersonal dynamics on this mission are so good because every person’s attitude towards Elma is unique. Like her, love her, hate her, indifferent to her—she has a real and different relationship with everyone aboard.
In particular, if you were a fan of the interactions between Stetson Parker and Elma, then boy howdy, hang on to your hat for this book. Kowal just kicks that into overdrive, and again, I love the three-dimensionality of Parker’s antagonism.
I also really like the relationship between Elma and Nathaniel. Earlier in the book, when she is debating whether or not to accept the offer to join the Mars mission, Nathaniel helps her talk through it. He asks her what she would be doing if she didn’t go. She’s thinking of having children. But that would mean quitting her job (ahhhh, the sexism of the 1960s), and then she would do various charitable things, and then she would be … unhappy, she realizes. It’s a poignant scene made all the more poignant by Nathaniel’s unconditional acceptance of her desire to go, despite the three-year absence it will mean. It takes a lot of strength to let someone you love go and do their thing even when it means you’re going to miss them. I know I’ve wrestled (and continue to wrestle) with this—but Nathaniel and I know that you can’t ask or tell someone to compromise their dreams just so they’re closer to you, because the person who stays is going to be a more bitter version of the person you love. And if you love someone, you should want them to grow and succeed and flourish on their terms, not yours.
So after I stopped crying from that little moment of heartfelt resonance, I kept on reading the book. And it is a delight.
Here’s the thing about the spacey stuff: so many people—so many people—practically orgasmed over the technical details in The Martian and, to a lesser extent, Artemis (or maybe you literally orgasmed—no judgment). Fair enough; the level of technical detail is impressive. But, in my opinion, Andy Weir’s writing style isn’t much to write home about. It’s competent, but his characterization leaves much to be desired. The Fated Sky delivers a comparable level of technical veracity in how Kowal depicts the voyage to Mars. However, I vastly prefer Kowal’s writing style. It’s smoother; the characterization is far deeper; the story itself is more interesting in its structure and substance.
All this is to say that you can have technical verisimilitude and a good story, and as I have said time and again, good story is always going to be more important than the former for me.
I’m ambivalent about the epilogue, honestly. I would have been happy enough with the book ending before that. Maybe I need to re-read “The Lady Astronaut on Mars.” Anyway, it isn’t bad—it just feels quite tacked on, a very obvious postscript to the rest of the adventure, yet it does little for me from an emotional point of view.
Definitely read The Calculating Stars before you read this one. Theoretically you could just jump into this one, but I don’t recommend it. These two books are a close-knit duology, and if you like the first one, you’ll need this second one for closure. What a fun two-book reading experience.
Part of me really just wants to say: what I said in my review of The Calculating Stars, but more so. Honestly: at first I was worried the book would feel too similar to the first one, and so I wouldn’t like it as much. Fortunately, Mary Robinette Kowal nails the balance of having the same atmosphere yet with a very different plot.
It’s a couple years after the events of the first book. Elma finds herself assigned to the IAC’s first crewed Mars mission, although the decision to do so ruffles many a feather. But it’s a politically savvy move to have the “Lady Astronaut” on the mission, even as racial tensions and other tensions flare up commensurate with the flares in Earth’s temperature. Eventually, the mission gets underway, and the bulk of the book is spent aboard the Nina, in transit to Mars. With communication with Earth only possibly via teletype, the crew of the Nina and its sister ship, the Pinta, are very isolated. They must conquer the challenges caused not just by the environment of space itself but by the interpersonal conflicts that are always going to arise in such a long-duration mission.
This isn’t really a book about going to space, or even about going to Mars. Kowal certainly provides an interesting look some of the things that might happen to a pair of crews travelling to Mars. Really, though, the space travel is just an excuse. This is a book about racism and sexism, about race and gender relations, about knowing when to lead and when to follow.
Once again, Kowal gives us a flawed protagonist that many of us should recognize in ourselves. Elma is well-meaning in all her actions, yet she constantly screws stuff up, because her privilege and experiences mean that she doesn’t always understand how intent doesn’t necessarily equal consequence. She makes a lot of mistakes, and more importantly, she learns from those mistakes. I also like that Elma’s learning and the apologies that accompany it don’t always equal the people she has wronged immediately changing their minds and liking her—that wouldn’t be realistic. Sometimes you screw things up, and it means people are going to take longer to forgive you, or maybe never forgive you. The interpersonal dynamics on this mission are so good because every person’s attitude towards Elma is unique. Like her, love her, hate her, indifferent to her—she has a real and different relationship with everyone aboard.
In particular, if you were a fan of the interactions between Stetson Parker and Elma, then boy howdy, hang on to your hat for this book. Kowal just kicks that into overdrive, and again, I love the three-dimensionality of Parker’s antagonism.
I also really like the relationship between Elma and Nathaniel. Earlier in the book, when she is debating whether or not to accept the offer to join the Mars mission, Nathaniel helps her talk through it. He asks her what she would be doing if she didn’t go. She’s thinking of having children. But that would mean quitting her job (ahhhh, the sexism of the 1960s), and then she would do various charitable things, and then she would be … unhappy, she realizes. It’s a poignant scene made all the more poignant by Nathaniel’s unconditional acceptance of her desire to go, despite the three-year absence it will mean. It takes a lot of strength to let someone you love go and do their thing even when it means you’re going to miss them. I know I’ve wrestled (and continue to wrestle) with this—but Nathaniel and I know that you can’t ask or tell someone to compromise their dreams just so they’re closer to you, because the person who stays is going to be a more bitter version of the person you love. And if you love someone, you should want them to grow and succeed and flourish on their terms, not yours.
So after I stopped crying from that little moment of heartfelt resonance, I kept on reading the book. And it is a delight.
Here’s the thing about the spacey stuff: so many people—so many people—practically orgasmed over the technical details in The Martian and, to a lesser extent, Artemis (or maybe you literally orgasmed—no judgment). Fair enough; the level of technical detail is impressive. But, in my opinion, Andy Weir’s writing style isn’t much to write home about. It’s competent, but his characterization leaves much to be desired. The Fated Sky delivers a comparable level of technical veracity in how Kowal depicts the voyage to Mars. However, I vastly prefer Kowal’s writing style. It’s smoother; the characterization is far deeper; the story itself is more interesting in its structure and substance.
All this is to say that you can have technical verisimilitude and a good story, and as I have said time and again, good story is always going to be more important than the former for me.
I’m ambivalent about the epilogue, honestly. I would have been happy enough with the book ending before that. Maybe I need to re-read “The Lady Astronaut on Mars.” Anyway, it isn’t bad—it just feels quite tacked on, a very obvious postscript to the rest of the adventure, yet it does little for me from an emotional point of view.
Definitely read The Calculating Stars before you read this one. Theoretically you could just jump into this one, but I don’t recommend it. These two books are a close-knit duology, and if you like the first one, you’ll need this second one for closure. What a fun two-book reading experience.
It’s time for another Holly Bourne book, and if you’ve been following along my reviews, then you know what to expect by now: incisive, excellent narration from a teenage girl who is at a turning point in her life, some kind of crisis moment, and a lot of honest discussions about mental health, sex, romance, and friendship. In other words, it’s an epitome of a subgenre of YA in which Bourne has carved out a considerable niche. It Only Happens in the Movies is Bourne’s first standalone YA novel after finishing The Spinster Club series, and it departs from that series enough to stand out while still presenting the same fresh, feminist ideas that are a hallmark of Bourne’s writing.
Audrey was named after Audrey Hepburn, of course—her dad proposed to her mom in Rome because of Roman Holiday. But now her dad has left her mom for a younger model, including new kids, and that makes Audrey’s home life … stressed, to say the least. She has started an after-school job at a boutique cinema. She pegs her male coworker, Harry, as a “fuckboy” right off the bat—yet that doesn’t change the feelings she starts to develop as they bond over cinema. With all these stresses and complications, it’s no wonder Audrey looks at the canon of romantic comedies and finds her life wanting. Because some of these things only do happen in the movies….
Although I can’t identify with Audrey’s romance plot, I definitely found it fascinating. Bourne explores the complicated feelings that surround falling in love with someone you’re determined not to fall for. Everyone warns Audrey off Harry, and she herself resolves not to be attracted to him—yet it happens anyway. Even when she recognizes he might not be the best thing for her, she still goes for it. I enjoyed not just how Audrey expresses her evolving feelings about this, but also how her family and friends react. Audrey feels isolated and estranged from her best friend group after avoiding them for much of the summer; once they learn about Harry, they practically push her to pick him up as a “rebound guy”. I cringed for Audrey at this point, and part of me regrets the inevitability of Audrey and Harry becoming a thing—but I really like how, overall, Bourne handles the entire relationship, especially the ending.
There is a sharp tension in It Only Happens in the Movies delineated exactly by its title: this book aims to critique and subvert romantic comedy tropes, even as it pursues a romance for its protagonist. I enjoyed the epigraphs explaining some of these tropes in Audrey’s voice, and the moments she discusses them with her peers and teacher. And then there’s the zombie movie that Harry is shooting, and in which Audrey acquires the starring role: the genre is so thoroughly distinct from the romantic movies Audrey critiques that it’s a nice foil, even as Audrey’s feminist stance informs her character of the “zombie bride”.
The ultimate aspect of that tension comes in the resolution, of course. Inevitably, Harry screws things up (saw that coming). Inevitably, there is a grand, romantic gesture that he hopes will win her back. In the movies this always works … in It Only Happens in the Movies, it also works, just not quite in the way Harry expects. I really, really liked this ending. So often our stories about romance depict one of two outcomes: happily ever after together, or at odds entirely. The reality is usually messier, though, and Bourne captures that well with this: Audrey respects Harry as a film auteur, appreciates his gesture, wishes him well … but doesn’t give him a second chance. In this way, It Only Happens in the Movies serves as a good tonic to a lot of teenage romance, which like the romantic movies that Audrey criticizes, often have unrealistic assumptions about how people (particularly teenage boys) will reform in the final act. It’s very cathartic. And it’s a nice way of portraying how, sometimes, we make mistakes we can’t come back from, and while we might receive forgiveness, that doesn’t mean we deserve a second chance, no matter how grand our gesture.
But the fun doesn’t stop there! There are entire other layers to this book, and I actually liked some of them even more than the romance plot. Take, for example, Audrey’s complicated relationship with her parents and brother. Audrey’s mom is struggling with the fallout of her divorce, and Audrey has to step up and parent her parent more than a seventeen-year-old girl should have to do. Her brother thinks he is doing his bit, but Audrey has her doubts, and she feels like too much falls on her shoulders. Meanwhile, Audrey tries to maintain a connection to her dad, even when it’s somewhat clear that he isn’t that interested in being in her life beyond formalities. It’s very compelling, watching her struggle to hold on to some sense of normality in her family ties, even as her definition of family fluctuates and might implode.
As with Bourne’s other novels, this one definitely tugs at my heartstrings. I found myself a little emotional, a little teary, especially towards the end. I’m having trouble articulating how much I enjoyed this one, but I hope I got across how fresh and entertaining It Only Happens in the Movies feels. It’s Not Your Average Teenage Romance, but it also isn’t cynical or dismissive of the idea of teenage romance either. Bourne acknowledges the complicated realities of being a teenage girl on the cusp of adulthood, portrays all the stresses and obligations a young adult must weigh even as she tries to figure out her feelings about friends and lovers. There’s so much I didn’t touch on in this review that I also enjoyed, and honestly, I’m almost tempted to go back and read the book again, this soon! So far, seems like Bourne keeps bottling lightning, and I’m happy to remain an unabashed fanboy!
Audrey was named after Audrey Hepburn, of course—her dad proposed to her mom in Rome because of Roman Holiday. But now her dad has left her mom for a younger model, including new kids, and that makes Audrey’s home life … stressed, to say the least. She has started an after-school job at a boutique cinema. She pegs her male coworker, Harry, as a “fuckboy” right off the bat—yet that doesn’t change the feelings she starts to develop as they bond over cinema. With all these stresses and complications, it’s no wonder Audrey looks at the canon of romantic comedies and finds her life wanting. Because some of these things only do happen in the movies….
Although I can’t identify with Audrey’s romance plot, I definitely found it fascinating. Bourne explores the complicated feelings that surround falling in love with someone you’re determined not to fall for. Everyone warns Audrey off Harry, and she herself resolves not to be attracted to him—yet it happens anyway. Even when she recognizes he might not be the best thing for her, she still goes for it. I enjoyed not just how Audrey expresses her evolving feelings about this, but also how her family and friends react. Audrey feels isolated and estranged from her best friend group after avoiding them for much of the summer; once they learn about Harry, they practically push her to pick him up as a “rebound guy”. I cringed for Audrey at this point, and part of me regrets the inevitability of Audrey and Harry becoming a thing—but I really like how, overall, Bourne handles the entire relationship, especially the ending.
There is a sharp tension in It Only Happens in the Movies delineated exactly by its title: this book aims to critique and subvert romantic comedy tropes, even as it pursues a romance for its protagonist. I enjoyed the epigraphs explaining some of these tropes in Audrey’s voice, and the moments she discusses them with her peers and teacher. And then there’s the zombie movie that Harry is shooting, and in which Audrey acquires the starring role: the genre is so thoroughly distinct from the romantic movies Audrey critiques that it’s a nice foil, even as Audrey’s feminist stance informs her character of the “zombie bride”.
The ultimate aspect of that tension comes in the resolution, of course. Inevitably, Harry screws things up (saw that coming). Inevitably, there is a grand, romantic gesture that he hopes will win her back. In the movies this always works … in It Only Happens in the Movies, it also works, just not quite in the way Harry expects. I really, really liked this ending. So often our stories about romance depict one of two outcomes: happily ever after together, or at odds entirely. The reality is usually messier, though, and Bourne captures that well with this: Audrey respects Harry as a film auteur, appreciates his gesture, wishes him well … but doesn’t give him a second chance. In this way, It Only Happens in the Movies serves as a good tonic to a lot of teenage romance, which like the romantic movies that Audrey criticizes, often have unrealistic assumptions about how people (particularly teenage boys) will reform in the final act. It’s very cathartic. And it’s a nice way of portraying how, sometimes, we make mistakes we can’t come back from, and while we might receive forgiveness, that doesn’t mean we deserve a second chance, no matter how grand our gesture.
But the fun doesn’t stop there! There are entire other layers to this book, and I actually liked some of them even more than the romance plot. Take, for example, Audrey’s complicated relationship with her parents and brother. Audrey’s mom is struggling with the fallout of her divorce, and Audrey has to step up and parent her parent more than a seventeen-year-old girl should have to do. Her brother thinks he is doing his bit, but Audrey has her doubts, and she feels like too much falls on her shoulders. Meanwhile, Audrey tries to maintain a connection to her dad, even when it’s somewhat clear that he isn’t that interested in being in her life beyond formalities. It’s very compelling, watching her struggle to hold on to some sense of normality in her family ties, even as her definition of family fluctuates and might implode.
As with Bourne’s other novels, this one definitely tugs at my heartstrings. I found myself a little emotional, a little teary, especially towards the end. I’m having trouble articulating how much I enjoyed this one, but I hope I got across how fresh and entertaining It Only Happens in the Movies feels. It’s Not Your Average Teenage Romance, but it also isn’t cynical or dismissive of the idea of teenage romance either. Bourne acknowledges the complicated realities of being a teenage girl on the cusp of adulthood, portrays all the stresses and obligations a young adult must weigh even as she tries to figure out her feelings about friends and lovers. There’s so much I didn’t touch on in this review that I also enjoyed, and honestly, I’m almost tempted to go back and read the book again, this soon! So far, seems like Bourne keeps bottling lightning, and I’m happy to remain an unabashed fanboy!
Non Pratt wrote another novel!!!
It has a gimmick that throws me back to the ’90s, but it’s fully a novel of the 2010s, fuelled as it is by the spectator society of YouTube eyeballs and the intricate liminal spaces teenagers negotiate between their online and offline identities.
It also has an aromantic and asexual character. I’m probably going to talk more about this than about the main plot of the novel, because hey, you can go ahead and read reviews from allo people about that.
Truth or Dare follows Claire Casey and Sef Malik, two UK teenagers who don’t know each other very well or have much in common until authorial intent throws them in one another’s path. Claire kind of volunteers to help Sef raise money for his older brother, who needs care after a traumatic brain injury, and together they become “Truth Girl and Dare Boy”. But launching a YouTube channel is easy—turning views into donations, they discover, is very hard. With time running out, Sef pushes Claire towards more and more outrageous dares. She is falling for him, but she has to consider where she draws the line.
The first half of Truth or Dare is from Claire’s perspective. She’s a very interesting, sympathetic protagonist, in my opinion. There are so many Claires in this book, and her constant struggle to understand how she defines herself is emblematic of adolescence in general. There’s the Claire who is best friends with Seren and Rich, and who is totally blindsided by the latter’s awkward and inappropriate advances to the former, who is ace and aro (!!!). There’s the Claire who is kind and caring, as seen in her scenes with Kam. There’s “Milk Tits”—the victim of bullying after a nip-slip video goes viral within the school community. And then there’s “Truth Girl”, who if anything seems to be an attempt by Claire to create an online persona that opposes what Milk Tits stands for.
This is what I love about Pratt’s work. It’s not so much the storytelling—when you get down to it, Truth or Dare is actually kind of trite in its plot—as it is the way Pratt executes characterization like it’s going out of style. Pratt doesn’t just write teenagers: she shows us all the turning cogs of their minds, and reminds us of what it’s like to think and feel at that age, the priorities and weight of all the relationships and hormones and expectations.
Speaking of hormones, the sexytimes definitely happen here, but they are rather low-key. I like how Pratt acknowledges that it is a thing but doesn’t foreground it. There’s so much else that’s going on, and it’s nice to see a take on teenage sexuality that isn’t “ZOMG AND THEN THEY SEXED.”
Claire’s relationships with her friends are dynamic and fascinating. This is where I’m going to fanboy squee a lot about Pratt’s portrayal of Seren, Claire’s best friend:
That’s from page 32 of the book. I did a doubletake and re-read that paragraph, because it came out of the blue. It’s not a good thing, of course, that we are so starved for asexual representation that we are incredulous when it actually shows up. But there it is: on the page, acknowledging asexuality as part of the LGBTQIAP+. Moreover, the phrasing here makes it clear that Seren, at 16 or 17 years old, is aware of and confident in her asexuality: it isn’t just “a phase” and she isn’t just discovering it. She is out and proud to her friends and community.
Of course, it remained to be seen whether or not Pratt would differentiate between being asexual and aromantic (plenty of asexual people develop romantic feelings and enter into romantic relationships!).
And she does not let me down:
That’s Seren, venting her frustration and “nauseated” feelings after Rich confesses his feelings for her. So Seren is definitely aro in addition to being ace, totally uninterested in Rich, and seems to be sex-repulsed too. Pratt goes on to hang a lampshade on the fact that asexuality and aromanticism are invisible in our society while educating the reader on these terms:
Not only is this mostly accurate* and educational, but it’s also done entirely in Seren’s voice, with that little bit of acerbic humour we come to recognize in her conversations with Rich and Claire.
*I think it’s worth pointing out two things at this juncture. Firstly, I am but one aro/ace reader of this book. Other aro-spec and ace-spec readers might not be as enthusiastic as me about the representation here, and that’s totally fair. Secondly, “aromantic” isn’t actually “no interest” in romance. This accurately describes how I experience and use aromanticism as an identity. More broadly speaking, though, aromanticism is a lack of romantic attraction. One can be aromantic and still want or be in a romantic relationship, just like one can be asexual and still want or be in a sexual relationship. Generally speaking, though, I feel like Pratt makes an honest effort to represent an aro/ace character whose experience so far is not having any interest in romance, and that is definitely valid—just not universal.
So instead of your run-of-the-mill awkward-unrequited-love subplot between Claire’s two best friends, Pratt chooses to put in some aro/ace representation and create a much more interesting story as a result. While the main plot of Truth or Dare continues, we also see a gulf open up among these three. It develops very naturally and interestingly, and I enjoyed it all the way until its resolution.
I don’t want to fall all over myself with gratitude here, because this should just be normal and unremarkable. Asexual and arospec people deserve representation on page as much as any other group. But since it is remarkable, I needed to remark on it. I had no idea one of my favourite authors had this in store for me when I started Truth or Dare; reader, I swooned. One thousand and one platonic hearts. (The digital kind; there’s no way I’m actually cutting out 1001 hearts, even tiny ones, from paper. And harvesting real hearts would be … messy. And probably unwelcome. But I digress.)
There’s also a great deal of good stuff about consent in Truth or Dare. Obviously in the above side-plot there’s discussion of consent around asexuality, and the fact that Rich’s advances aren’t just awkward but inappropriate given his awareness of Seren’s orientation. Pratt also addresses the lack of consent involved in the Milk Tits video and the subsequent actions of its perpetrator. Finally, there’s a moment where Claire wants to hug the neuro-disabled Kam, but before she does, she asks him for consent. It’s easy to forget to ask for consent when hugging people, but it’s important, particularly when interacting with people who have cognitive or motor disabilities and may not be able to express their discomfort with such actions.
Jump cut to a quick review of the second half of the book!
I wish you could flip over this review like you must Truth or Dare’s hard copy version in order to continue reading … that brought back such nostalgia for some of the kids’ books I read in the 1990s.
The story continues, after quite the cliffhanger, with Sef’s perspective. We play catch-up at first, seeing some of the events Claire was not witness to leading up to the start of the main story, with flashbacks interspersed as the plot continues. To be honest, I don’t quite identify as much with Sef as I ended up identifying with Claire. I don’t think this is a problem with his characterization so much as the choice to put him as second narrator: by the time we hear his voice, the adrenaline and pacing are so high, so fast, that we don’t have the time or luxury to get to know him quite as well. Nevertheless, I appreciate that Pratt gives us this opportunity. Particularly interesting are some of the scenes we already saw from Claire’s point of view that she then retells from Sef’s.
Remix is probably still my favourite of Pratt’s novels so far. But that’s another thing I like about Non Pratt: each of her books keeps proving to be something new and unique and wonderful in a different way. Her voice and passion remain consistent and authentic; her motifs and themes are often similar; but each work has different tones and tenors that make it special. There’s a lot to love about Truth or Dare, and I can’t recommend enough all of Pratt’s books.
Full disclosure: One time I knit a scarf and hat for Non Pratt because she complained on Twitter she didn’t own any Gryffindor clothing. She does now.
It has a gimmick that throws me back to the ’90s, but it’s fully a novel of the 2010s, fuelled as it is by the spectator society of YouTube eyeballs and the intricate liminal spaces teenagers negotiate between their online and offline identities.
It also has an aromantic and asexual character. I’m probably going to talk more about this than about the main plot of the novel, because hey, you can go ahead and read reviews from allo people about that.
Truth or Dare follows Claire Casey and Sef Malik, two UK teenagers who don’t know each other very well or have much in common until authorial intent throws them in one another’s path. Claire kind of volunteers to help Sef raise money for his older brother, who needs care after a traumatic brain injury, and together they become “Truth Girl and Dare Boy”. But launching a YouTube channel is easy—turning views into donations, they discover, is very hard. With time running out, Sef pushes Claire towards more and more outrageous dares. She is falling for him, but she has to consider where she draws the line.
The first half of Truth or Dare is from Claire’s perspective. She’s a very interesting, sympathetic protagonist, in my opinion. There are so many Claires in this book, and her constant struggle to understand how she defines herself is emblematic of adolescence in general. There’s the Claire who is best friends with Seren and Rich, and who is totally blindsided by the latter’s awkward and inappropriate advances to the former, who is ace and aro (!!!). There’s the Claire who is kind and caring, as seen in her scenes with Kam. There’s “Milk Tits”—the victim of bullying after a nip-slip video goes viral within the school community. And then there’s “Truth Girl”, who if anything seems to be an attempt by Claire to create an online persona that opposes what Milk Tits stands for.
This is what I love about Pratt’s work. It’s not so much the storytelling—when you get down to it, Truth or Dare is actually kind of trite in its plot—as it is the way Pratt executes characterization like it’s going out of style. Pratt doesn’t just write teenagers: she shows us all the turning cogs of their minds, and reminds us of what it’s like to think and feel at that age, the priorities and weight of all the relationships and hormones and expectations.
Speaking of hormones, the sexytimes definitely happen here, but they are rather low-key. I like how Pratt acknowledges that it is a thing but doesn’t foreground it. There’s so much else that’s going on, and it’s nice to see a take on teenage sexuality that isn’t “ZOMG AND THEN THEY SEXED.”
Claire’s relationships with her friends are dynamic and fascinating. This is where I’m going to fanboy squee a lot about Pratt’s portrayal of Seren, Claire’s best friend:
Girls, boys, whatever, Seren just isn’t interested. She’s asexual and pretty political about it—Seren’s campaigning is a reason West Bridge has such comprehensive LGBTQ+ lessons in PSHE.
That’s from page 32 of the book. I did a doubletake and re-read that paragraph, because it came out of the blue. It’s not a good thing, of course, that we are so starved for asexual representation that we are incredulous when it actually shows up. But there it is: on the page, acknowledging asexuality as part of the LGBTQIAP+. Moreover, the phrasing here makes it clear that Seren, at 16 or 17 years old, is aware of and confident in her asexuality: it isn’t just “a phase” and she isn’t just discovering it. She is out and proud to her friends and community.
Of course, it remained to be seen whether or not Pratt would differentiate between being asexual and aromantic (plenty of asexual people develop romantic feelings and enter into romantic relationships!).
And she does not let me down:
“He knows—you both do. It’s not like that for me. I’m ace and I’m aro and … I don’t … ugh!”
That’s Seren, venting her frustration and “nauseated” feelings after Rich confesses his feelings for her. So Seren is definitely aro in addition to being ace, totally uninterested in Rich, and seems to be sex-repulsed too. Pratt goes on to hang a lampshade on the fact that asexuality and aromanticism are invisible in our society while educating the reader on these terms:
Until Seren told us she was asexual, I didn’t know you could come out as anything other than gay or bi and I’m not always up on the terms she uses. I spend a lot less time on Tumblr than Seren does.
“What does aro mean again?”
“Aromantic. No interest in romance. As in, zero interest in having a relationship beyond the platonic variety and certainly not wanting to be accosted on my own doorstep.”
Not only is this mostly accurate* and educational, but it’s also done entirely in Seren’s voice, with that little bit of acerbic humour we come to recognize in her conversations with Rich and Claire.
*I think it’s worth pointing out two things at this juncture. Firstly, I am but one aro/ace reader of this book. Other aro-spec and ace-spec readers might not be as enthusiastic as me about the representation here, and that’s totally fair. Secondly, “aromantic” isn’t actually “no interest” in romance. This accurately describes how I experience and use aromanticism as an identity. More broadly speaking, though, aromanticism is a lack of romantic attraction. One can be aromantic and still want or be in a romantic relationship, just like one can be asexual and still want or be in a sexual relationship. Generally speaking, though, I feel like Pratt makes an honest effort to represent an aro/ace character whose experience so far is not having any interest in romance, and that is definitely valid—just not universal.
So instead of your run-of-the-mill awkward-unrequited-love subplot between Claire’s two best friends, Pratt chooses to put in some aro/ace representation and create a much more interesting story as a result. While the main plot of Truth or Dare continues, we also see a gulf open up among these three. It develops very naturally and interestingly, and I enjoyed it all the way until its resolution.
I don’t want to fall all over myself with gratitude here, because this should just be normal and unremarkable. Asexual and arospec people deserve representation on page as much as any other group. But since it is remarkable, I needed to remark on it. I had no idea one of my favourite authors had this in store for me when I started Truth or Dare; reader, I swooned. One thousand and one platonic hearts. (The digital kind; there’s no way I’m actually cutting out 1001 hearts, even tiny ones, from paper. And harvesting real hearts would be … messy. And probably unwelcome. But I digress.)
There’s also a great deal of good stuff about consent in Truth or Dare. Obviously in the above side-plot there’s discussion of consent around asexuality, and the fact that Rich’s advances aren’t just awkward but inappropriate given his awareness of Seren’s orientation. Pratt also addresses the lack of consent involved in the Milk Tits video and the subsequent actions of its perpetrator. Finally, there’s a moment where Claire wants to hug the neuro-disabled Kam, but before she does, she asks him for consent. It’s easy to forget to ask for consent when hugging people, but it’s important, particularly when interacting with people who have cognitive or motor disabilities and may not be able to express their discomfort with such actions.
Jump cut to a quick review of the second half of the book!
I wish you could flip over this review like you must Truth or Dare’s hard copy version in order to continue reading … that brought back such nostalgia for some of the kids’ books I read in the 1990s.
The story continues, after quite the cliffhanger, with Sef’s perspective. We play catch-up at first, seeing some of the events Claire was not witness to leading up to the start of the main story, with flashbacks interspersed as the plot continues. To be honest, I don’t quite identify as much with Sef as I ended up identifying with Claire. I don’t think this is a problem with his characterization so much as the choice to put him as second narrator: by the time we hear his voice, the adrenaline and pacing are so high, so fast, that we don’t have the time or luxury to get to know him quite as well. Nevertheless, I appreciate that Pratt gives us this opportunity. Particularly interesting are some of the scenes we already saw from Claire’s point of view that she then retells from Sef’s.
Remix is probably still my favourite of Pratt’s novels so far. But that’s another thing I like about Non Pratt: each of her books keeps proving to be something new and unique and wonderful in a different way. Her voice and passion remain consistent and authentic; her motifs and themes are often similar; but each work has different tones and tenors that make it special. There’s a lot to love about Truth or Dare, and I can’t recommend enough all of Pratt’s books.
Full disclosure: One time I knit a scarf and hat for Non Pratt because she complained on Twitter she didn’t own any Gryffindor clothing. She does now.