(A much shorter review than usual, since I have broken my left elbow and am typing with one hand in a cast.)

Not a particularly original story or even mash-up of tropes. Walking to Aldebaran piggy-backs on that time-honoured sub-genre of Big Dumb Object stories. Lots of cool ideas and set pieces from Adrian Tchaikovsky, but very little that is surprising or truly interesting above and beyond the skill of the writing style itself. Thanks to NetGalley and Rebellion for the eARC.

Gary Rendell is your average everyman sci-fi protagonist: British, presumably white, with just the required amount of snark for a stranded astronaut. (Comparisons to The Martian are inevitable, I suppose; I see the similarities, especially in the characterization of the protagonists, but the stories themselves diverge markedly in plot.) This is one of my major points of criticism: I’m just bored of stories about smart, snarky white guys abandoned on alien worlds/alien devices/whatever. I liked it in Farscape (and at least he had companions). But we’ve seen this story so many times before. What, exactly, is new here?

The setting is … fine. Arguably this is a science-fiction horror novella, because the setting and plot are both creepy and existentially threatening. I do enjoy mind-twisty reminders that aliens and their designs would probably be so different from ours—so alien—as to be unfathomable. This is where I point out that I’m not criticizing Tchaikovsky’s skill as a writer or even his imagination.

Similarly, the twist is executed fine but not all that surprising and, again, not all that original. Seen it before.

It just seems like Walking to Aldebaran is one of those stories that got written because the author had the story in his head. That’s fine. Just because a story is worth writing, however, doesn’t automatically imply that it’s worth reading though. You can enjoy this story for its execution, but overall I just didn’t find it very stimulating.

Having watched many of the Agatha Christie’s Poirot adaptations of these mysteries, sometimes it’s hard to tell if I’m figuring out the ending or just remembering it from the TV show. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Peril at End House. That didn’t diminish my enjoyment of this Poirot mystery, of course. With the weather finally verging on warm, I was yearning to curl up on my deck with a blanket and some tea and read a classic Christie mystery. This isn’t really her most clever or even most emotionally satisfying, yet it has its high points.

Hercule Poirot, master detective, has retired. For good. Or so he says. He and his longtime friend, Captain Hastings, have gone on vacation to one of those quaint seaside towns that seem to exist everywhere in this period of the British Empire. In a case of “be careful what you wish for,” Poirot and Hastings stumble into a murder-yet-to-be-committed. Poirot vows to prevent the murder of Nick Buckly, the young mistress of End House. The trouble is, no one seems to have a compelling motive. Who wants to kill Miss Buckly, and why do they keep failing?

Christie brings an interesting twist to this story in that, for the majority of the novel, there is no murder and no body (no spoilers about who does get murdered). Poirot is legitimately vexed for a portion of the story, because this is a puzzle that doesn’t make any sense to his little grey cells. It’s that nonsensical nature that actually forces him to confront the one possibility that didn’t seem at all possible.

However, the mystery itself is not the best part of this book. Owing to the way Christie actually develops the plot, none of the suspects ever feel that fleshed out. No, Peril at End House is more interesting for the dynamic between Poirot and Hastings. You can read Christie mysteries just for the mystery (there is nothing wrong with that), but if you think that’s the only thing happening in this books, you’d be dead wrong (pun intended). Christie is deeply interested in developing a consistent morality for Hercule Poirot, and this book has some of the most telling moments. Set chronologically as it is towards the end of Poirot’s career, there is interesting foreshadowing of Curtain and Poirot’s agony over the way that some murderers can get away with their crimes.

Hastings is an admirable foil in this respect. Brought up in that stereotypical old boys’ school mode of British education, Hastings believes in surface impressions and some ineffable sense of justice and fair play. As he puts it to Poirot at one point: “but, Poirot, that’s not playing the game!” Hastings’ world is the world of the British Empire before the wars, before the 20th century’s spectres of globalization and nationalism threatened its coherency and supremacy. Poirot, on the other hand, has a more sceptical view. For Poirot, justice is something that has to be enacted by mortal agents—and it should be as methodological as possible.

I’d be very curious to hear Poirot’s takes on AI-run systems of justice….

The setting of End House is intentionally tired, dilapidated, the liminal space between the energy of youth and the decline of senescence. Nick comments that the house itself is run down. Indeed, Christie’s country houses always seem to have a patina of dust over everything: families with their glory days behind them, debt and bankruptcy nipping at the heels, servants reduced in number and quality. Against this backdrop, Poirot investigates what he believes to be an extremely clever and determine opponent.

Whether or not you determine the culprit before Poirot reveals them, it’s still possible to admire the inevitable drawing room scene reveal. As usual, there is every amount of theatre and duplicity, especially on Poirot’s part. Christie manipulates the atmosphere expertly. It’s not her best work—it lacks the urgency and depth of many of her mysteries—but it is quite revealing, quite an interesting character study of my favourite detective of all time.

Life is unfair. It’s even more unfair when you get tangled up with the justice system. One of the things that I’ve had to unlearn over my 29 years as a privileged white dude is my faith in the fairness and equity of the justice system. The Walls Around Us explores the cracks of the justice system from the perspective of youth, particularly young girls of colour. I was nearly tempted to give up on this novel a few chapters in, because the shifting perspectives and timelines were a little too much for me at the moment. Something about Nova Ren Suma’s storytelling asked me to persevere, however, and I’m not sorry I did.

There are three stories in this book—Amber’s, Violet’s, and Orianna’s—and two narrators—Amber and Violet. Amber is serving a sentence in a juvenile detention centre for the murder of her abusive stepfather. This is where she meets Orianna. Violet is anticipating her departure for Julliard, but while doing so, gets caught up in memories of her best friend, Orianna, and the tragedy that connects them. Violet and Amber kind of, sort of meet—but to go into more detail would be telling. Suffice it to say, The Walls Around Us is a twisty, turny narrative with a surreal use of time and place. Suma’s narrative is mostly narration and inner monologue, allowing us to explore the mindsets of these two very different girls.

Suma opens one part of the book with a quotation from Lullabies for Little Criminals, a novel I adore, and I understand why. Like O’Neill, Suma is interested in the ways in which we police marginalized identities—in this case, young women, poor women, women of colour. As we get to know Amber, as we learn about her side of the story, why she ended up in prison, etc., we’re asked to empathize with her perspective: yes, she committed a crime—but is her sentence just? If a 13-year-old lashes out against an adult who is abusing her, is the just reaction to imprison her for potentially the rest of her life? Or is that just the easiest thing to do within the system we’ve created—and we tell ourselves we can’t feel bad about it, because the system is the thing that does it to her. We might wring our hands a little—isn’t it such a shame she did what she did—but the law is the law is the law, right?

Amber’s story is connected to the other girls’ stories. Innocent or guilty, it doesn’t really matter—do they really deserve to be imprisoned and treated the way they do? I’m not going to get into a full-on discussion of whether or not we should have prisons in the first place, but it’s hard to read this book and not to question, at least a little bit, what these types of institutions actually do for us, other than warehouse people until they break even more than they were before they were locked away.

Meanwhile, Violet is ostensibly free—or is she? I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Suma chooses dance as Violet’s passion. It’s a hobby, sport, career—whatever it is to you personally—that demands focus, grace, determination, and strength. Yet like many specialized fields, it comes with its host of stereotypes and expectations, particularly for young women. Violet carries with her a psychic burden of her own, a trail of bullying and self-conscious monitoring. And now, of course, there is guilt of a different kind….

Violet is a great example of a sympathetic yet unlikable character. She is, frankly, a self-absorbed jerkface—but we can understand why. And without going into spoilers, Suma does a pretty good job of eventually explaining why Violet does what she does. And whether or not you find all of this predictable doesn’t diminish the significance of the story, in my opinion.

When we finally get to meet Orianna, the last pieces of the puzzle click into place. The Walls Around Us is the type of book that is about pay-off for the reader: yes, the narrative flow is confusing at first, but if you stick with it. The last act of the book is pretty much a “how it really happened” (or, to be completely fair, how Amber relates what Orianna said happened—it’s perhaps a stretch to claim that anyone is a reliable narrator here).

Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I would think of this book after I started reading it. Part of me thought I would end up loving it, part of me thought I would end up hating it. Neither really happened—nor do I think I’m in the middle of the road. I think I loved Suma’s writing style and the motifs she explores. I enjoyed my time with these characters. I can appreciate the story, although I’m not entirely sure it’s what I really wanted to read at the time I read it. You might love this novel too, or hate it, or view it through many facets like I did.

With the news coming out of the United States about abortion bans and lawmakers who actually use phrases like “consensual rape,” this seemed like the right time to read Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture. Also, I was going on a library run and it was available. Roxane Gay collects 30 essays about rape or rape culture, some previously published and others newly written for this book. This is a serious book, sure, about a serious matter—but it’s such an important read.

It’s also really important to note that these 30 stories are all extremely diverse in the telling. Everyone’s experiences are different and affect them in different ways. If it does anything, Not That Bad hopefully shatters the stereotype that there is “one way” for a rape victim to act, appear, or share their story. There is a way for each person who speaks up—or, as Zoë Medeiros says, refuses to share because the story belongs to her and no one else.

Who gets a voice? is an ever-present theme running throughout this collection. Gay offers space in which victims can speak up. Yet one of rape culture’s most pernicious attributes is how it punishes victims both for speaking and not speaking. I’m not going to get into that here (read the book), but it weighed on me as I read these essays, the idea that, in the end, these people can’t win. There is no way to perform perfectly as “the victim” and not somehow be blamed, shamed, or otherwise marginalized if you tell people about your experience.

But all the voices in this collection are just so interesting in terms of what they have to say. There is not a single essay in this collection that didn’t make my heart hurt in some way. All of these vital, significant human beings whose lives were infected with this kind of experience … it’s staggering, when you really think about it. It shouldn’t be allowed—yet time and again, the authors of these essays speak of friends, teachers, counselors, members of communities, who all urged them to stop talking about it. To forget about it. To feel bad for “leading him on.”

Which is why that subtitle, Dispatches from Rape Culture, is important. There are stories in here of women (and men) sharing their stories of being raped, etc., including details. But there are also stories that are not about a rape itself but instead the way our society enables rape and blames the victims for being raped—and this is rape culture. In a way, it was these stories that often made me think more deeply about my own involvement in rape culture.

I’m a white man, so I have a lot of privilege in our society. I do not worry about walking alone at night, for instance. I don’t ever wonder if the shorts I’m wearing mean that I’m “showing too much leg” and therefore “asking for it.” (The answers, by the way, are, “Yes, but who cares?” and “Um, no thanks….”) As many of the essays in this collection touch on, either directly or indirectly, I can show anger and not be perceived as “shrill” or overly-emotional—indeed, anger from me is considered “macho” (can you feel me rolling my eyes right now?) while any other emotion probably means I’ve been replaced by a pod person. In other words, I benefit from patriarchy and rape culture, but that doesn’t mean I think it’s a good thing, or that this is ultimately good for me.

I think a lot about whether I’m being creepy. When I’m interacting with people (of any gender, not just women, mind you) I wonder if what I’m saying is coming across the right way. Part of that is being aware of my status as a man. Part of it also comes with being asexual—I don’t actually understand what flirting looks or feels like, for example, so I live in terror that something I’m saying or doing will be misinterpreted as a come-on when in fact I really just want to offer someone tea. And while not being sexually active means I don’t, at least, worry about misinterpreting signals of consent, that by no means absolves me of such responsibilities. Not having sex doesn’t let you opt out of rape culture. I still hear have a responsibility to push back against “locker room talk” or similar comments.

Reading this book was hard, for sure. I can’t imagine what it must be like for people who have actually experienced rape, sexual assault, or abuse to read this book—well done if you did. Honestly, though, I really hope that more men read this book. This is, unfortunately, yet another pernicious facet of rape culture: constantly forcing victims to relive and retell their trauma in order to persuade others their humanity is valid. But as long as these people have shared their stories, we should listen. We should hear. We should believe them. And then we should have a good long think, as I articulated above, about our own position in this culture.

Because it extends far beyond how any one person treats women. It’s about the assumptions we hold in our heads and our hearts about women and girls as well. It’s about heteronormativity—assuming straightness—and amatonormativity—assuming everyone wants to hook up in a single, monogamous, long-lasting relationship. It’s about judging people for wearing too much or too little, for acting too slutty or too prudish, for talking too loudly or not enough, for making out with everyone or no one at all, for being gay but sleeping with people of a different gender, for doing anything that goes against the fragile norms we’ve created to put all of us into boxes.

It’s Pride Month right now, and I hope all of us who don’t identify as both straight and cis are indeed proud that we manage to exist in a society that is stacked against us. But I also hope all of us think and actively work towards changing that society, that all of us use whatever privilege we happen to have in the most productive way possible.

No one deserves to have their autonomy taken away, their choices ignored, their right to consent revoked by strength or ignorance. No one deserves to live with the pain or trauma that follows rape. Not That Bad reverberates with the voices of people who, having experienced rape or rape culture, are shaped by this experience far beyond the event itself. This is something we should all be working to eliminate. And it starts with what we do, with what we say, and with the actions of others—friends and family, coworkers and politicians and celebrities—that we tacitly endorse, when we don’t speak up.

Brock Turner got 6 months in prison for raping someone.

Rosa Maria Ortega got 8 years in prison for voter fraud because she was confused about the difference between being a US citizen and a resident.

One of those two people wilfully harmed another human being and probably hasn’t learned their lesson. But sure, go on and tell me rape culture isn’t a thing.

This review will be shorter than usual because I broke my elbow and have one hand in a cast. For my future self looking back to see what I thought of this book: Janani's review is very detailed and concurs with much of my opinion. And, as ever, Julie's review eloquently explains my dissatisfaction with the romance.

Children of Blood and Bone is a Nigerian-inspired fantasy novel about two pairs of siblings wrapped up in a quest to restore magic to the land. Zélie is a diviner, an heir to magic, if there were any left. She and her family nevertheless face oppression at the hands of Orïsha's non-diviner population and power base. Zélie is joined by her brother, Tzain, and the unlikely ally Amari, daughter of the king who slaughtered magi and eliminated magic from Orïsha. Her brother, Inan, pursues these three, initially attempting to thwart their quest. Things get more complicated, of course.

That complexity is one of my favourite parts of this book. Adeyemi explores the different perspectives that are present when it comes to power struggles and genocide without resorting to the crass over-simplification that sometimes seeps into these narratives. This is particularly key in the case of Inan, who must confront a lifetime of being programmed with certain beliefs that are now being challenged.

Similarly, I love that Zélie is a kickass hero—but not universally beloved. When she encounters another group of rebel diviners, they don't fall over themselves trying to help her with her quest. Their response is appropriately sceptical: who are you, little girl, to come here promising us something so big? I love that Zélie has to work to build bridges.

The evolution of friendships among the main characters is so nice to watch, especially the way it's bumpy and requires confrontation of internalized privilege. Zélie rightly calls out Amari for calling her servant her "best friend" given the power dynamic between them—that's a trope not examined enough in fantasy. Unfortunately, I have much less patience for the predictable and plodding romantic arcs.

The story itself ends on a satisfying note. Yes, there's a cliffhanger of sorts, but not the kind that requires you to read the sequel—I might, but probably not immediately. More importantly, Children of Blood and Bone is evidence of something people of colour have said forever but we white people weren't hearing: when you drop the obsession with European-inspired medieval fantasy and instead draw from different cultures, the result is rich and beautiful and entertaining.

This review will be shorter than usual because I broke my elbow and have one hand in a cast.

Trouble Dog is a sentient warship that developed a conscience after directly participating in a genocide that ended the last war between two human factions. Since then, she has joined up with the House of Reclamation, a kind of interstellar Red Cross, in an attempt to atone. The latest distress call she and her crew respond to, however, proves far more dangerous and political than it should be. Trouble Dog's captain, Sal Konstanz, must "let her off the leash" to fight her former ships-in-arms—ships that have retained their full complement of weapons. Meanwhile, not-so-secret agents from both sides are also present, looking to rescue a very specific passenger.

Powell's particular style of space combat works for me. There's a good balance of fancy, exciting SF tech without dipping too far into space fantasy. He's picked a good overall level of technological development for the human "Generality" of this book. Combat relies on a combination of tactics and stealth along with superior firepower. By adjusting the slider on one when the other tilts too far in one side's favour, Powell keeps things fresh and suspenseful in a way that sustains interest.

Similarly, the POV shifts proved welcome instead of distracting. These can be hit-or-miss for me, but they are effective here. Powell has a talent for knowing precisely when to switch up the perspective to leave me just dissatisfied enough to keep reading for more from that character. I didn't like all of the viewpoint characters equally, of course. Childe was far too whiny and, frankly, bad at his job. Shout-out to Nod, whose very alien narration might seem superfluous, even indulgent, on one level, but is interesting, to me, for its contrast. Unlike the other narrators, Nod isn't seeking redemption.

This redemption arc that's so central to Embers of War, though, is lacklustre at best. Powell makes a big show out of everyone ending up at the House of Reclamation as having some reason they need that fresh start. Yet we don't see much growth from these characters over the course of the story. The exception might be Sal, who finds herself thrust into making military decisions that cost lives. Nevertheless, the thematic elements of this book are where it's weakest. Other than Trouble Dog making one lampshading quip about her ambivalence regarding their new ally's tactics, Powell declines to really dig into the significance of the story's endgame. I can only hope the next book does.

Because whatever its faults, Embers of War leaves me wanting more. More of this universe, more of these characters, more intrigue … I just hope Powell raises the stakes for the next one.

Let’s start with this: The Paper & Hearts Society is the kind of book I would have definitely loved as a teenager. Lucy Powrie combines her love of contemporary young adult fiction and classics with a captivating story of moving on from fractured friendships and bullying to create a great story brimming with allusions.

Tabby Brown is a fifteen-year-old book nerd moving to a new town over the summer. Somewhat introverted and anxious, Tabby isn't all that interested in exploring her new home; she’d rather stay at her Gran’s and read a book. Nevertheless, she falls in with an existing friend group, who've formed a book club. But she’s also being cyberbullied by a former friend. And so on one hand, Tabby has finally found some amazing bookish people to hang with—on the other hand, her entire world and ego are under psychic assault. It’s hard, though, to open up to people you’ve just met, even if you’re feeling a very real connection.

I mention above I would have loved this as a teenager. That’s not to imply I don’t love it now. However, the older I get the more I find myself having to consider YA novels from that perspective: what would teenage me have thought? The ironic thing is that teenage me didn’t read much YA. Diana Wynne-Jones looms large in the memory, and of course there was Harry Potter and Eragon, but let me tell you young whipper-snappers: you are so incredibly lucky with the boom in fantasy YA these days. It’s phenomenal.

Anyway, The Paper & Hearts Society isn’t fantasy, but that’s fine. It’s about a protagonist who loves books almost as much as breathing, and I can identify with that. Yes, there’s some kissing and romance in here (ew), so it wasn’t all fun, but I can overlook that because of how much I enjoyed spending time with Tabby and her new friends. Powrie captures the anxiety of trying to fit into a group that has already formed: that initial breathless apprehension and second-guessing; the weird way your clever book-soaked brain turns you into a sassy mofo, and you suddenly have an out of body experience where you're watching yourself and asking, “Who am I? This isn’t how I act around people!”; the strange twin sensations in your gut of butterflies because you’ve found people you enjoy spending time with and butterflies because oh-my-god-socializing-oh-my-god. It’s the kind of paradox that, at 29, I am all too familiar with, yet at 15, I expect Tabby is still unravelling about herself.

As someone twice Tabby’s age (ugh it sounds so weird to say that), it’s tempting for me to dismiss some of her concerns, especially around the cyberbullying. It’s definitely true that some adults forget what it’s like to be a teenager, and the relentless change in our society—particularly how we communicate—doesn’t help. When I was in high school, cyberbullying was definitely A Thing. We had MySpace and I think a thing called Friendster (can you tell how much time I spent on social media pre–Twitter and pre–Goodreads?) but we didn’t have smartphones, just the way cooler flip phones. So cyberbullying happened at desks in front of computer monitors, not on phones in our pockets. For anyone who isn’t using social media the way teens do right now, it can be difficult to comprehend what cyberbullying feels like on those platforms. Powrie’s portrayal is accurate (as far as I can tell), particularly in the underhanded ways in which the Jess manipulates Tabby. There’s a certain savviness required for these actions, or to debunk and defuse them as Ed and Cassie both attempt to do in their own ways. One of my favourite moments of the story is when Tabby’s dad suggests she invite Jess to stay with them once they’ve settled into their new home. This delightful ironic ignorance is so emblematic of well-meaning, loving parents who nevertheless just don’t get it.

So while it’s worth asking why Tabby struggles so much asking for help with her situation, a little soul-searching by the reader should hopefully furnish the answer. Dealing with these kinds of conflicts is very scary, especially when you mix it with trying to make new friends.

And oh wow do Tabby’s new friends come on strong. I love that Powrie lampshades this a few times, particularly through Henry when setting him up as the sensitive kind of guy for whom Tabby feels something. Indeed, each of Tabby’s four new friends has an interesting and distinct personality, both in person and in the group chats we get to read. They are all enjoyable and annoying, in my opinion, to some extent. (Shout-out, as well, to a deserving fifth “friend” in the form of Tabby’s Gran, Nancy, who also has a well-rounded personality.) I loved how hostile Cassie was to Tabby at first. It felt quite authentic, the idea that not everyone in the group would be happy with a new person jumping in, and especially how it’s related to other stresses in Cassie’s life. That being said, the one-on-one interactions between Tabby and each of the other friends were some of the least satisfying parts of the book for me. As much as I applaud Ed for sitting Tabby down in the bookstore, listening to her, and also explaining about Cassie’s situation, it felt like a bit of an awkward infodump—especially when Cassie then goes and repeats it to Tabby later, since she doesn’t know Tabby knows.

Aside from those interactions, however, The Paper & Hearts Society is remarkably streamlined in terms of its plot. Powrie keeps us on our toes, never letting us get too comfortable either with the format of the book club itself or Tabby’s relationships with the other members. Both of these elements evolve continuously throughout the book, as they should. I really didn’t want to put this down, but at the advanced old age of 29 I have a lot more trouble staying up all night than I did as a teenager—don’t feel too bad for me though, because picking it up the next day meant I could finish it in the sun on my deck.

In the end, there’s just the right amount of realness to The Paper & Hearts Society, if you know what I mean. It speaks to me, both present!me and teenage!me, in its characterization and the issues and interests it embraces. Maybe it’s an indulgence, but I just love books about books—it’s meta and totally related to my interests. I’m also quite pleased to hear that there’s a sequel in the works with Olivia as the principal protagonist. Her demisexuality, the casualness with which it was revealed to Tabby, the use of so many good terms in that conversation (including asexuality) and the acknowledgement of the spectrum was so heartening, as someone who is pretty confidently aromantic/asexual, to read. Although Olivia is much more of a people person than either myself or Tabby, I’m still excited to see what’s in store for her story.

Money, as they say, talks. In Dark Money: The Hidden History of the Billionaires Behind the Rise of the Radical Right, Jane Mayer traces the network of political funding and lobbying spearheaded by the Koch brothers. Although they feature prominently in this book, this is not solely about them. Rather, it's about how a concerted effort in the past decades has influenced American politics. It's interesting because Mayer positions this story as a fundamental question about whether American democracy can survive such tactics.

Dark Money is a roughly chronological narrative covering the nascence of the Koch brothers through to the present day at the time Mayer was writing. She explores the possible motivations behind the Kochs and their allies, and she grounds everything in essential historical context. This last part is very important. For someone like me, who wasn't alive prior to 1989, events like the elections in the 1970s are literally before my time and are not something I know much about. Mayer does a good job explaining how political funding functioned then as contrasted with now.

As a Canadian, I find elements of all of this quixotic and staggering. Our political system is by no means free of corruption or cronyism. Our current Prime Minister is the son of a former Prime Minister! Nevertheless, funding to political campaigns in Canada is nothing compared to the US. So a lot of this book just boggles my mind for the sheer volume of money we're talking about, and the ways in which people on both sides of the spectrum try to influence elections at all levels.

Prior to reading this book, I already knew about the Koch brothers and the shadiness that is super PACs, etc. Mayer connects all the dots and supplies ample details to build on your prior knowledge and actually arm yourself with facts. The conclusion is simple: wealth disparity is so great in the US that a tiny proportion of the population can exert disproportionate influence. The secondary conclusion is that the groundswell of support for the Tea Party, etc., is not the result of grassroots efforts. Mayer makes it abundantly clear that almost all of these conservative sources of opposition are rooted in privileged millionaires' and billionaires' funding. Combine that with aggressive gerrymandering and misinformation, and you have a recipe to influence policy and elections.

Mayer demonstrates that fake news and misinformation has existed long before the Internet was able to spread it. That being said, if there is any weakness to her comprehensive coverage, it might be that she seldom analyzes the effects of new media on these issues. Occasionally she remarks how the Kochtopus was taken unawares by Obama's crowdsourcing or whatnot. Yet overall, this is a lacuna in her analysis, something left very much unconsidered.

I wouldn't label this book as "essential" because it is ultimately quite long and dry. Yet it is still interesting. If this is a part of politics that you want to learn more about, you would do well to read this. Even if you don't pick up this book, it's worth reading about this issue in general (Mayer herself has published some articles on it).

So I had to read Our Own Private Universe in the space of a single morning. It was due that same day at the library, no renewal permitted because someone had it on hold (good for them!), and because I've broken my elbow, I can't drive, so I had to have it done in time for my mom to drop it off at the library when we went shopping that afternoon. Challenge accepted, but oh wow, does it ever mess with your emotions when you try to read a roller coaster of a book like this in a few hours.

Aki is an adolescent Black girl who, as the book opens, is already fairly certain she's bisexual. Nevertheless, she is inexperienced—and this is the summer she wants to change that. On a church mission to Mexico to help build a new church there, she and her best friend, Lori, make a pact: each of them will have a “fling” that summer. They'll find someone and make out three times—exactly three, like the counting of the Holy Hand Grenade. Aki has already found the object of her affection: Christa, who likes girls and also seems to like Aki quite a bit. This trip seems like the perfect setting for them to fool around and for Aki to explore her sexuality and romantic side, if she and Christa can sneak off enough together.

I have so much praise for Robin Talley’s handling here of how to discuss sexual and romantic orientation. Not only does she mention asexuality casually as a thing that exists in the same breath as lesbian, gay, bi, trans, etc., but later in the book she also mentions split attraction and the idea that one could be bisexual yet homoromantic or whatnot. In short, Talley’s queer representation is somewhat narrow on the page—in addition to Aki and Christa, there are at least two other characters who identify as lesbian and gay, respectively—yet it’s very inclusive in its terms and language. Similarly, Talley’s characters are cool with the idea that you can explore and alter the labels of your identity as you learn more about yourself. Our Own Private Universe is like a pool of receptive, buoyant water that will take you in and accept you for who you are.

There are also delightful scenes where Aki tries to figure out the, uh, mechanics of sapphic sex, as well as acquire the necessaries for safe sex, and it's pretty adorable. I’m all for books, particularly YA books, particularly queer YA books, portraying these considerations and also making it clear that it’s so OK to have questions about how to do it right and do it safely. Considering that so many places in the world don’t actually care to educate children properly about this issue … well, fictional novels are not and should never be considered a good replacement for proper education, but at least they can normalize these kinds of feelings in teens. It’s OK to have questions! You shouldn’t be expected to just know!

Similarly, I appreciate how Talley handles Aki coming out to various people on the trip. Readers deserve such diversity of queer stories, some of which shouldn't involve coming out narratives at all—but those that do should also be diverse. Aki is understandably apprehensive about how her identity will be received by her parents, her brother, her friends and peers. And I think Talley does a good job of presenting a coming out subplot that is realistic and compassionate, replete with acceptance as well as rough parts that are the result not simply of bigotry but also pigheaded adolescent malevolence. That being said, through Christa’s backstory Talley takes a moment to remind us that not every family will be supportive of their queer children.

There are other stories happening here too, which is another plus for this novel. Aki’s brother has his own struggles unrelated to sexuality or romance. Aki and Lori have a rough time of things, and I do appreciate stories that portray the ups and downs of best friendship too. That being said—here’s where I put my criticism hat on—that was one of the least fulfilling parts of this book for me. Despite all the depth with which Talley portrays her main character’s journey of introspection and self-discovery, so many of the other relationships in this book are flattened and fall by the wayside. The quarrel and reconciliation between Aki and Lori is too generic and too quick, respectively.

Talley’s handling of race could also use more nuance. I like that she explicitly identifies white characters as white, which subverts white as the default. Similarly, I like that Aki herself is initially somewhat hesitant to try Mexican cuisine, demonstrating that we all have our foibles and hang ups. And while I don’t want to stray from my lane and comment too much on Aki’s portrayal as a Black woman … there were a couple of things that made me blink. There’s this offhand comment about how much people love to touch Black women’s hair—I think Talley is trying to be educational in that respect? But it’s just kind of left there, with no real action attached to it? Likewise, when they are dividing up debate topics and the topic of police brutality comes up, none of the Black characters present seem to bat an eye or speak about the issue in anything less than a generic way.

Our Own Private Universe is beautiful. It made me cry. It’s not a perfect story; its plot and some of its characterization is forced or flat or otherwise less than amazing. Yet its themes and the compassion with which Talley explores them is so deeply moving. I sped through this book out of necessity, but it has definitely stuck with me. It made me think of memories entirely unrelated to this book or its issues but simply because they are connected to deep and true feelings of friendship for me. Isn’t that what good literature should make us do—think and feel and question and do? Every book is its own private universe, and I hope lots of teenagers read this book and find answers and ideas and questions within these pages.

Dark Currents, the anticipated debut to Jacqueline Carey’s new urban fantasy series Agent of Hel, got my attention back when it first came out. I saw it on io9, added it to my to-read list.

And promptly forgot about it.

Because that’s what happens when you have a list so long that even if you stop adding books to it today, it will take you about four years to get through it.

Fortunately, my library has my back. I ran across the paperback of Autumn Bones last week—yes, book 2 of the series, already in paperback. Clearly I’ve been remiss. So I did the usual dance of rushing over to the computer and checking if the library has book 1 and, better yet, if it’s available at that branch. The library does, and the book was, and that’s the story. Normally I don’t read new series back-to-back like this; I like to intersperse a few other books in between, just for breathing room. But I made an exception after finishing Dark Currents, because I really did like it, and I wanted to read more about Daisy Johanssen.

I’m going to be pretty positive about this book, because it was fun. It’s not dark, brooding urban fantasy, despite the title or the protagonist’s status as a hellspawn half-breed. Sure, Daisy could claim her birthright, become some kind of super-powered succubus demon, and break the Inviolate Wall and start Armageddon. But that would be a drag. Instead, she gets to play a kind of cross between supernatural diplomat and enforcer, and she even gets a sweet dagger while she’s doing it.

But I want to emphasize that even though I enjoyed the book, I don’t think it’s a great novel. Rather, it’s great at setting up a new series—and one of the reasons I wanted to read the second book so badly was to see if Carey could bottle that lightning again. (Spoiler: she does, and it’s even better the second time around.) Like many other series in this style, Dark Currents is better more for the promise of the future than the delivery of the present.

I mean, the mystery is third-rate at best. A kid from out of town drowns. It looks like an accident, but there was magic involved. All signs point to a ghoul who has since skipped town, but there might be some other players in the game. Daisy, whose role as Hel’s liaison has, until now, mostly consisted of busting fairies who are messing with tourists, suddenly finds herself with an immortal-killing dagger and a lot of pressure on her to solve this thing before the outside world decides to wipe Pemkowet’s eldritch community off the map.

Carey’s approach to how much regular humans know about the supernatural is an interesting middle point between the two extreme positions. In this world, people are aware that the supernatural—or eldritch, as Carey prefers to refer to it—exists. But for such beings to have a presence in the mortal world, they need a “functioning underworld”—literally a domain beneath the human community in question, presided over by a “deity of a non-apex faith”—i.e., a god or goddess relegated to myths and legends by the rampage of Abrahamic religion in the last millennium. As the title of the series implies, the Norse goddess Hel presides over Pemkowet’s eldritch community. Everyone within Pemkowet pretty much understands that supernatural beings, like vampires and werewolves, exist; they are cool with it to some degree or another, or else they wouldn’t be living there. Outside Pemkowet and other cities with functioning underworlds, it becomes more hearsay, kind of like how we hear about exotic animals co-existing with humans in far-away countries, but until we actually go there, we don’t grasp the reality for ourselves.

Daisy is somewhat unique. Her mother accidentally summoned a demon on a trip to Pemkowet, not knowing the summoning would work, and that the demon would be an incubus who impregnates her. Fast forward twenty years, and Daisy has grown up in Pemkowet, mostly as an ordinary kid only somewhat bullied and marked by her strange heritage. She is special not just because she is hellspawn but also because she is hellspawn with a mother who loved her. This seems to be an important fact, and the connections Daisy has to other people—mundane and eldritch—are strengths rather than weaknesses. She isn’t just the “feisty kickass woman protagonist” that threatens to be the staple stereotype of urban fantasy. She’s a little less experienced, a little less sure of herself, and she’s more interested in keeping the peace than kicking ass and taking names. Even after she gets her dagger, she is quite reluctant to wield it.

I like that Daisy forges a tenuous alliance with the New Ghoul in Town instead of just threatening him. I like that Carey teases out the sexual tension between Daisy and a couple of the other characters but does not turn it into a major romantic melodrama like some urban fantasy series do. I like that she has actual, complicated relationships with a best friend and her mother and a kind-of-guardian who happens to be a lamia. The supernatural elements of Dark Currents add flavour and suspense and conflict—but deep down, this is about being human. And you need that grounding if you want to tell a successful story.

This is a very different book, very different series, from the Kushiel books. Carey is clearly not a one-note author: she embraces the fast-paced, stream-of-consciousness narration so common to this genre. The stakes are much more personal, the intrigue less political. While Carey’s writing retains the sexual awareness that was so prominent in the Kushiel series, Daisy is not Phèdre.

I’m not really one either to condemn or promote urban fantasy as an entire genre. It has really become a very diverse market these days. I’m still interested in finding more urban fantasy that doesn’t follow the mystery/police/detective formula that seems to dominate right now. As far as that formula goes, however, Dark Currents represents a promising new angle from a writer who has already proved herself to me. This is normally the part where I would say I can’t wait to read the next book—but I finished it this morning over breakfast. So … yeah. I guess I need to go find book three?

My reviews of the Agent of Hel series:
Autumn Bones →



(P.S.: For the record, Google Books claims there are 17 occurrences of the word gah in this book. That’s one “gah” every 21 pages. I don’t find that excessive, personally, and it didn’t bother me when I was reading. Obviously your mileage may vary.)