As is often the case, my memory plays tricks on me: I thought I had read Children of Time last year—no, I read it in 2021! I’m actually impressed I recalled as much of it as I did when I started Children of Ruin, though Adrian Tchaikovsky does his best to provide pertinent backstory. I wanted to say he does this without infodumping, because it’s kind of true, except that this whole story is kind of infodumping. It’s … odd.

Spoilers, if you can call them that, for the first book but not for this one—and this is one of those cases where I think you can read this book without reading the last.

Children of Ruin follows the adventure of one of the Human–Portiid vessels that sets out from Kern’s World at the end of Children of Time. It arrives in a system that was the destination of another terraforming project. Through flashbacks, Tchaikovsky tells us the story of this system while the Humans and Portiids—assisted by a copy of the Avrana Kern intelligence—make perilous contact with the inhabitants of this system, who are a form of uplifted and evolved octopus. For, much like on Kern’s World, terraforming this system didn’t go to plan (when does it ever in this universe), yet life tenaciously found a way. The octopus civilization is difficult to converse with, however—the gap between them seems even wider than the one between Humans and Portiids. Meanwhile, an ancient threat—the first alien life to be discovered in this galaxy—awaits them all on the surface of Nod, and perhaps elsewhere.

We like to meditate on the difference between “hard” and “soft” SF. However, maybe the labels should be hard and easy. The latter simply means that the author has decided to dial down the difficulty level of so much related to space travel and life in space for the purposes of a more fanciful story. The former, on the other hand, is less about adherence to science versus a much more granular approach to that science. Children of Ruin is hard in that sense: everyone in this book is playing on hard mode.

Consequently, the majority of this book is people of various species struggling and failing to be understood by one another. It’s frustrating—or it would be, if it weren’t so damn fascinating. Tchaikovksy’s talent, as I noted in my review of the first book, is his imagination. He has clearly spent a lot of time thinking about what it would be like if spiders evolved a society, if octopuses evolved on a water world, etc. What would truly alien life be like? What do you do when you run across it and it wants to go on an adventure with you, but this adventure means potentially losing what makes you you?

Frankenstein is often cited as the first science-fiction novel, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that it is also a horror story. These two genres are entwined. Though Children of Ruin is not expressly horror in a classical sense, Tchaikovsky plays with many of the horror tropes, right down to an entity reminiscent of John Carpenter’s Thing. This book is a reminder that non-human life, whether it evolves from terrestrial or extraterrestrial stock, is going to feel very alien to us indeed. And even if it isn’t malicious, its simple fact of existing might be anathema to our own existence.

Tchaikovsky asks us to think very differently about what the future might be like. I love books like this, and the thought experiment here is, in my opinion, a very satisfying one to run on the story emulator that is my meat brain.

However, I would be hard pressed to defend this book in terms of the storytelling itself. This is one of those books that is light on dialogue—conversations are sparse throughout the text—and heavy on exposition. I was OK with that because I was into the thought experiment, but I know many others would put the book down upon discovering this—and that’s totally valid. Tchaikovsky’s style here is so information-dense that it almost entirely distracts you from the actual narrative unfolding.

That being said, don’t mistake all this exposition for a lack of characterization. If you do, you’ll miss out. Tchaikovsky carefully develops so many different personalities in this cast: intuitive and determined Helena, adventurous Portia, frustrated and inquisitive Fabian, and especially Kern herself. Each of these characters, and others, brings something to the mix, and I enjoyed spending time with all of them.

So as a result of all this, I really vacillated about my rating. Two stars, because what story is here is stretched tissue thin across the novel? Or do I award Children of Ruin five stars, as I did with Ninefox Gambit, because its overall execution is science fiction in a nutshell? I guess a solid three stars is appropriate, and I hope this review has done its job of adequately evaluating what this book does: push the boundaries of what we might imagine the future to be like in a way that is entertaining, if not consistently so.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Cryptocurrency has long fascinated me because it’s mathematics made manifest. Although our economy has long been digital, the rise of Bitcoin and other cryptocurrencies codified a cashless digital economy through arcane mathematical precepts that nevertheless gave rise to trillions of dollars of worth—even if that value is volatile at the best of times. It’s not surprising that enterprising criminal minds would try to use cryptocurrency for their dealings, and it’s not surprising that others would use math to uncover those dealings. Tracers in the Dark lays out just what this entails, how it led to successfully busting some big criminals, and what this might mean the future of digital crime, cryptocurrencies, and law enforcement.

Andy Greenberg knows how to tell a story. I have read parts of this book in his articles for Wired, along with similar coverage of cryptocurrency busts. I forgot I had read one of Greenberg’s previous books, about WikiLeaks, and enjoyed it; in retrospect, I see why. Greenberg has a knack for taking complex technological topics, like cryptocurrency, and distilling them into a form digestible even by people with a tech or math background. He cuts through the complexity, rendering it down until you can—as the tracers do—follow the money.

The book comprises five parts. In Part I, Greenberg lays out some of the biggest players: researchers, law enforcement agents, and cryptocurrency business owners who all have a role to play in the events to come. He unpacks the investigation that eventually led to the arrest of Ross Ulbricht and the shuttering of the Silk Road. Part II introduces us to the golden age of Bitcoin tracing. We learn more about how blockchain analysis software, such as that pioneered by firm Chainalysis, became an integral part of investigation by law enforcement like the FBI and IRS. Part III covers the investigations into and subsequent take down of AlphaBay, followed by the Welcome to Video saga in Part IV. The book wraps up with Part V, a look at the future of cryptocurrency tracing and blockchain analysis, especially as new cryptocurrencies like Monero and Zcash claim to be “fixing” Bitcoin’s privacy and anonymity problems.

For anyone who enjoys true crime, this book is awash with detail and compelling description. Though Greenberg has obviously chosen to emphasize the actions of certain people, I like that he doesn’t lionize any one person or try to make out anyone to be a hero. These are law enforcement agents, lawyers, etc. who are doing a job. At the same time, he also helps us see how these white-collar crimes are far from victimless. It might seem silly to some of us, spending resources on computer programs and expertise required to chase down sequences of numbers and letters through a vast database (the blockchain) in the hopes of finding out who paid whom. Why not spend that money on something more tangible, like protecting people from violent crime? As Greenberg demonstrates, it’s all connected. The dark web and cryptocurrency have together enabled criminals to more efficiently acquire and distribute everything from drugs to firearms to child sexual abuse material.

The last one was particularly hard to read about, for all the reasons you might expect. I had already read at least the beginning of the Welcome to Video story, and rereading it here, being reminded of the toll it took on the investigators and prosecutors—not to mention, of course, thinking about all the victims of the abuse—well, let’s just say that this book is not for cozy bedtime reading. Greenberg doesn’t shy away from discussing the dark stuff, hopefully with the consequence of helping readers understand that this type of internet crime is not something to be taken lightly. Just because it’s 1s and 0s on hard drives rather than something more tangible, the effects on real people are still devastating.

Tracers in the Dark also changed my mind a bit about cryptocurrency, something I didn’t expect! I have always been very skeptical about crypto ever since I learned about it. Bitcoin and its successors have always sounded like scams and schemes—great if you invested early on but far from the libertarian utopian technology some evangelists seemed to think it could be. As we’ve passed the decade mark and more and more people try to bend blockchain technology to their particular business models, my skepticism and cynicism have increased proportionally.

Yet Greenberg carefully showcases the diversity of viewpoints within the crypto community. Gronager and Meiklejohn have quite different ideas about how and why blockchain analysis should be done, for example—and Greenberg allows them both the space to explain their beliefs. As a result, I started to understand why there are still some “true believers” within the crypto community—people who don’t see cryptocurrency necessarily as an anarchic panacea for state surveillance and control but rather view it as a logical extension of existing monetary tools. While I still wouldn’t go so far as to agree with that idea, I’m more sympathetic to it than the more extreme viewpoints I’ve seen in the past. Greenberg’s diligence in seeking out contradictory opinions helped me confront my own biases and arrive at a more nuanced view of this topic.

You don’t need to understand the math behind Bitcoin to understand the effect it has had on our economy and crime. For better or worse, Bitcoin might not be poised to render fiat currency obsolete, but it’s here to stay in one form or another—and if you’re like me, you might want to see whether your pension fund invested in a cryptocurrency exchange…. Tracers in the Dark is top-notch writing in service of telling a story that anyone interested in crime, computers, mathematics, etc., would do well to hear.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Sometimes it’s nice to be late to a new series. I enjoyed Legendborn so much that I was very happy I borrowed its sequel, Bloodmarked, at the same time. Tracy Deonn bottles lightning again in this novel: it’s everything you might want a sequel to be. If Legendborn scratched my itch for nostalgic YA fiction but with better diversity and racial awareness, then Bloodmarked doubled down on the itch-scratching while truly establishing the Legendborn Cycle as a titanic, powerful, and truly memorable fantasy series.

Spoilers in this review for the first book but not for this book.

Bree Matthews discovered at the start of her first year of Early College that an ancient Order descended from King Arthur’s Round Table exists and fights demonic creatures. Oh, and she herself is the descendant of King Arthur, whose spirit has awakened within her so she can lead the Order in a climactic battle against the Shadowborn. The existing power structure of the Order isn’t thrilled by this news, mostly because Bree is a young, Black woman and they are a bunch of racists. And there’s also a lot of politics at play. So on the one hand, Bree has a bunch of demons trying to kill her and plunge the world into darkness, and on the other hand, the so-called good guys want her locked away too.

Bloodmarked immediately opens up the world and lore of this series in all directions. We learn more about the Order itself and its precarious politics, including how little agency Bree has despite nominally being the king. Deonn also takes us beyond the supernatural elements present at UNC–Chapel Hill, establishing that there is far more out there—rootcrafters as well as more morally grey establishments, such as power brokers—than either Bree or the reader could anticipate. I get serious Supernatural vibes, but with better outcomes for the racialized characters.

Race (and also gender) remains at the centre of this story, but it is truly amplified here. Bree faces misogynoir from the white men (and women) who control the Order. So many of them—and even some of her allies—dismiss the idea that race is a factor in her treatment, yet it seems clear to me that if Bree were a white girl, the Order’s Regents would work a lot harder to co-opt her rather than take her off the board. Deonn explores complex issues of intergenerational trauma and the fact that different people with similar marginalizations may disagree on a path forward towards justice.

It ultimately comes down to power. Bree has very little social capital, yet she still has raw power, and that’s why people are afraid of her potential for disruption. The question remains: can she harness this power, wield it, or will it end up wielding her?

The climax of this book shocked me, and I say this even though I saw it coming from miles away. There was some pretty obvious foreshadowing earlier in the book (and even back at the end of Legendborn), yet Deonn somehow lulled me into … I don’t know, a kind of sense of security that she wasn’t going to go down this route? Maybe I had told myself it would feel too trite, too expected, and so convinced myself it wasn’t going to happen—except when it did, my doubts or worries were blown away by how Deonn pulls it off.

In the same way, I really enjoy how Deonn handles the love triangle (if that is even the right shape to describe it) that is often a prerequisite of these kinds of YA fantasy novels. There is a lot of nuance and depth to the feelings of all three people involved, resulting in a situation that goes far beyond “woe is me, for I am not like other girls and thus have two equally bland and uninteresting boys pining after me.” I mean, it’s true, Bree isn’t like other girls—but Sel and Nick aren’t like other boys either, and all three are complex, messy characters.

Basically, what I’m trying to say is that Bloodmarked took all the good stuff from Legendborn, turned it up to eleven, and left me wanting more, more, more. I’ve gone from, “this was an enjoyable YA fantasy experience” to “this is among the foremost fantasy series I’ve read” (YA or otherwise). I’m going to be talking about this series for a long, long time, and recommending it to others, and I can’t wait to see what happens next.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

This is one of those books that is far better than it has any right to be. I remember reading the description on NetGalley, where I received the eARC, and thinking, “A space-opera reimagining of Wizard of Oz? Neat!” and being down to clown. But then I actually read Over the Moon—and I was angry. I was angry at the book for how good it was—don’t ask me why, I’m irrational—and irritated that now I will have to wait probably a year before I find out what happens next.

Yeah, it’s one of those books.

Nymphodora, or Dora as she styles herself, has grown up on a small farming moon in the backwaters of the galactic community. Raised by her aunt and uncle, Dora has led a secluded life because she is an illegal clone of Princess Jo’Niss, and if anyone outside the family recognized her for what she was, they would turn her in for money or kill her or both. Dora isn’t satisfied with a farm life or becoming a farm wife to her childhood best friend, Tobis. She wants to get away, go to school, upgrade her engineering skills. So when the chance comes to run away from home, Dora jumps at it—and it blows up in her face. She suddenly finds herself stranded in the Outer Zone, having accidentally murdered a technowitch. Said witch’s sister instructs Dora to find the Technomage Superius on the moon above Merald City, so it’s off to see the wizard she goes, with the trio of companions one might expect for this retelling, albeit reimagined in interesting ways.

Anderson’s approach to repurposing the source material is delightful. She strikes the perfect balance between nods back to the original text while innovating or adding twists that make sure Over the Moon is its own adventure. I love the conflation of sufficiently advanced science with magic through the appellation of technowitch/wizard, along with the Ocugry as the “cowardly lion” of the story. Dora is an excellent modern Dorothy: clever and kind yet—at least at the beginning of the story—too trusting and naïve. The story moves forward at a great pace, scenes and sequels moving us along with just the right amount of parallelism between this as and the original narratives.

When Dora’s inadvertently stolen spaceship drops on the Technowitch of Night, she agonizes over her manslaughter. I didn’t realize until this moment how jaded I’ve become when it comes to accepting that most of the protagonists I’ll come across in a science-fiction or fantasy novel are already used to killing. Dora’s sheltered upbringing hasn’t given her much opportunity to engage in that, of course, so her reaction makes perfect sense—and it comes across clearly enough on the page that it jolted me out of my complacency.

Anderson’s writing has a way of doing that. Description, dialogue, and characterization—all of it flows smoothly right up until she decides she wants a record-scratch moment, something that makes you sit up and pay attention. This happens a few times throughout the book, from the moment Dora first realizes she is in trouble and has to flee to the final escape from the moonbase.

I kept waiting for the other shoe, so to speak, to drop—if you are familiar with the source material, then you know that the Wizard isn’t all he’s cracked up to be, so I knew that had to be the case here. I won’t spoil it, just say that Anderson doesn’t disappoint. Indeed, I think the reason I ended up so pleasantly surprised by this book is how deep the story ends up going. While I hoped that Dora’s adventure would take her deeper into this galaxy that Anderson has built, I had no clue we would go this far. Many of the twists (such as who Abril is) are telegraphed so clearly they are easy to predict chapters ahead of time, but several Anderson keeps more mysterious, and this pays off.

I also love the slow burn of the romance in this book. It’s perfectly to my taste as someone who loves queer books but doesn’t particularly care about romance. Dora’s whole, “Gosh, I’m just not all that interested in settling down with someone, but maybe that’s because I’ve only met like one guy in my age bracket” slowly metamorphosing into, “Gee, girls make me tingle in a way Tobis never has” is so much fun to see. Her cluelessness giving away to dawning realization that she is falling for someone is so genuine and contrasts nicely with the true horror of her situation and the enemies she’s making. The roadblocks Anderson throws up to the romance feel realistic, and Dora’s love interest is a great character in her own right.

The journey of Over the Moon was every bit as satisfying as I hoped it would be when I picked up the book. Then the ending was even better than I expected, perfectly setting up a sequel and leaving me wanting it right now. That doesn’t happen as often as I would like. I’m so happy I took a chance on this book.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

I guess I review Buffy novels now … this is an unexpected perk of starting a Buffy rewatch podcast two years ago. Not only did we give away copies of In Every Generation to our listeners, but we actually interviewed Kendare Blake on our podcast. I received an ARC of One Girl in All the World. I’m happy to report that this sequel avoids the dreaded second-book syndrome. It builds on the success of the first book’s worldbuilding and story arc while addressing many of the critiques I levelled in my earlier review.

Spoilers ahead for the first book but not for this one!

Frankie Rosenberg, daughter of Willow, is the world’s first slayer-witch. She came into her powers after an explosion in Halifax—one might call it a Halifax Explosion—is presumed to have killed almost all of the extant slayers when they had gathered for a retreat. Frankie now patrols New Sunnydale along with her friend Jake, a werewolf related to Oz; Hailey, who sister of slayer Vi Larrson; Spike, now Frankie’s Watcher; and Sigmund, a Sage demon who feeds off stupidity and oozes charm when he isn’t careful. Having defeated the Countess in the first book, Frankie hopes she can have some downtime to grow into her new slayer abilities—but her hopes are dashed when some force begins to draw demons to the Hellmouth at an ever-increasing rate. It turns out that some new player—the Darkness—has a plan for the Hellmouth, Frankie, Willow, and the Scythe that is connected to the power of the slayers.

The elimination of the slayers right at the start of the first book felt like a bombastic but effective way to wipe the slate clean and give Blake a chance to tell a vampire slayer story without too many pieces on the board. Even in that book, there were hints that this event, however distant from New Sunnydale where the books are set, would drive the overall arc of this series. I’m very happy with how One Girl in All the World picks up that thread and runs with it.

By and large, I’d attribute that success to an expanded point of view. The first book was very focused on Frankie, with a little bit of time spent on Hailey and Sigmund. That was fine—I like Frankie and think she’s a great protagonist. This sequel, however, really stands out for how it brings in the points of view of Vi and even, at one point, Grimloch. Vi’s connection to the mystery of the other slayers’ disappearance provides the reader with an important perspective that the Scoobies don’t have access to. Similarly, there are some short but excellent moments between Sigmund and his mother, or between Willow and Oz, that help us see the events and characters of this book in a better light. Much like the original TV series, this book is at its best when it showcases the interesting facets of its ensemble cast.

That being said, Frankie remains the heart of the story just as Buffy did in her own series, and there is nothing wrong with that. Even though this book takes place mere weeks after the first one, you can already see how being the slayer is having an effect. Frankie feels more mature and sure of herself in this book—though that certainty isn’t always a good thing and, indeed, can land her in hot water.

Something I’ll be curious to see if this series continues past a third book would be whether Disney has Frankie age into late adolescence/young adulthood the same way Buffy did in the TV show, and what effect that might have on the atmosphere of the books. As it is, although these books deal with some very serious and potentially dark issues, such as violence, death, grief, and betrayal of the worst kind, there remains a lighthearted goofiness that definitely resembles Buffy circa seasons 1 and 2, when our characters were high school students still trying to balance slaying with more mundane concerns like dating, homework, or being grounded.

To that last point: I did not expect to love Willow as a parent so much!! Again, Blake writes this aspect of Willow’s character as a love letter to the TV show. There are a lot of allusions, both subtle and overt, to Joyce’s parenting of Buffy. Unlike Joyce, Willow has been aware of Frankie’s calling since it happened (she is, albeit indirectly, responsible for it). Yet that doesn’t obviate any of the worry that Willow feels, and she reflects on how Joyce must have felt back in the day. Her attempts to parent Frankie responsibly and set in place healthy boundaries—e.g., through grounding—are at odds sometimes with Frankie’s role as the slayer, and it’s fascinating to see Willow, Oz, Frankie, and the others work through all these power dynamics. Though Joyce and Buffy had a loving relationship to be sure, it was definitely strained at times; in contrast, Frankie and Willow’s relationship feels like it’s weathering the new stress of slaying quite well—I’m sure there’s an entire academic essay somewhere in here about this, but I’ll attribute it perhaps to Willow being “in the know” from the outset and having her own decades of experience with the supernatural and the hellmouth to help her navigate the warts and wrinkles of parenting a slayer.

Indeed, much more so than in the first book—which I think was really working overtime to establish the world of a New Sunnydale sixteen years out from the end of Buffy—relationships figure prominently here. Not just romantic ones either!

I was critical of In Every Generation for the ambiguity it created around Willow’s relationship with Oz, what this said about Willow’s sexuality, and in general the dearth of on-page queerness in a book for young adults. One Girl in All the World allays a lot of my fears about what the Mouse might have sanctioned—I use that word in both of its senses—in this series. It looks like Jake is questioning his sexuality in a very healthy and positive way, supported by his friends, and I love to see it. Meanwhile, Spike of all people calls out Willow’s will-they-or-won’t-they situation with Oz, and Blake addresses the ambiguity a lot more directly here. I won’t give anything away, but I’m really happy with how it plays out.

Outside of the romance, we see a lot of parent-child, sibling, and friendship dynamics play out that are super interesting. Vi’s return throws Frankie and Hailey’s budding friendship-cum-sisterhood into flux, just as Sarafina’s presence upsets Hailey and Sigmund’s romance in a way neither of them expected even as Sarafina herself makes eyes at Willow (and possibly Oz??). I love Jake’s frustration with not being in full control of his werewolf abilities and how he feels like this renders him less useful, especially when he’s trapped in a cage during the climax of the book. All in all, newcomers to the Buffyverse get an introduction to a dynamic that is plenty familiar to longtime fans of the series: the slayer must balance accepting help from her allies with the possible dangers this puts them in.

This works into a larger question of consent and informed consent. Can the Scoobies really know what they are getting themselves into? Arguably yes, given that Hailey has grown up as the sister of a slayer (though Vi tried to shield her from that) and Jake has been a werewolf from birth. But what about the Potentials who were activated sixteen years ago? What about the slayer herself? The entire foundation of this series rests on a nonconsensual act—first, long ago, men foisting the powers of the slayer on the First Slayer, and then sixteen years ago Willow and Buffy doing the same thing to every Potential Slayer. The TV show stopped at that point and never had the opportunity to grapple with the possible ramifications of such an action. Blake confronts it head-on here, and it’s brilliant..

I really like this development in the mystery of who targeted the slayers in Halifax. It makes a lot of sense in the context of the series mythology. Buffy has always been a show that talks about power corrupting, whether it’s people like the Mayor who steeped in it for so long it has literally become their raison d’être or people like Willow, who come to power with good intentions and find themselves always one step away from the abyss. I don’t really think you can have a Buffy story without it being, in some way, a story about power: who has it, who doesn’t have it, who deserves to have it, and what those with it do to those without it. Frankie has always had some power and has come into new power, and so far she seems to be making wise choices. Will that always be the case?

I concluded my review of In Every Generation with the somewhat pompous proclamation that “this series has a lot of growing to do before it can feel comfortable living up to Buffy’s legacy.” I stand by this opinion but will add that One Girl in All the World is precisely the kind of growth I was hoping to see. It has left me excited to see what the next book holds for Frankie, the Scoobies, and those who would snark against the Darkness.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Mean Girls was a formative movie of my youth for so many reasons, to the point where it was the first movie I purchased on DVD (at the same time that I bought my first DVD player). It was released in 2004, the same year I started high school, so I was of the generation it depicted. I also loved math. Indeed, my strongest Mean Girls memory is of my AP Calculus course in Grade 12. There were six of us in the class. One of the other students convinced our teacher to let us watch Mean Girls one day in class simply because it mentioned limits. I don’t remember what flimsy justification she proffered beyond this or why my teacher said yes, but it was a good time.

All of this is to say that this is why I was drawn to The Elephants in My Backyard. I saw a clip of Rajiv Surendra being interviewed with the two other prominent young male actors from the movie—all three of whom, it turns out, are gay—and the interviewer mentioned he had written a memoir. Hmm, I thought. He’s Canadian too, which is cool. I also like that this memoir isn’t really about Mean Girls, and while it is about acting, it is only tangentially about the movie industry. Rather, this is a story of what to do when you don’t achieve your dream.

Most of the book revolves around Surendra’s quest to be cast as the lead character in the adaptation of Life of Pi, a novel by another Canadian, Yann Martel. He even corresponds with Martel, excerpts of which are included throughout this book. Surendra, upon being introduced to the novel, marvels at how similar he and Pi Patel seem to be. He becomes obsessed with landing the role and devotes all his energy to preparing for it, to moulding himself into such a perfect Pi that no matter which director ends up being attached—for the movie goes through its own spate of growing pains and development hell—they will have no choice but to admit that yes, Rajiv, he is the one! He visits Pondicherry in India, learns how to swim, researches and interviews survivors who were adrift at sea—he pursues his goal somewhat singlemindedly.

As anyone who has seen the film knows, he was not successful.

In a society that fetishes success and demonizes failure—or uplifts failure only when it is a speedbump along the way to an eventual success—Surendra’s story stands out. Indeed, his story is the story of most people who enter film and television. He doesn’t go on to huge celebrity and an acting career after Mean Girls. He has comparatively few roles and has instead pursued other interests and means of making money, such as calligraphy. We focus so much in our society on career actors who rocket to fame as they land these huge roles or steady work when the reality for most actors is probably much closer to Surendra’s.

His writing style in the book is spare and penetrating. I felt like he was looking at me as I was reading his words. He doesn’t hold back in his opinions of people, places, etc., lauding those who helped him and were genuine, and being brutally honest about those who have harmed him. In particular, there is a chapter in which he reflects on his experiences growing up in a household with an abusive, alcoholic father … he doesn’t mince his words and doesn’t try to stay civil, let’s put it that way.

This was an easy book to read in a day, both because it’s on the shorter side but also because of how well Surendra has structured his narrative. It’s roughly chronological, with detours and flashbacks as needed, showing us how he goes from Mean Girls to research, living in India before returning to Toronto to resume school and working at a pioneer village. Interestingly, his romantic life and sexuality (Surendra is gay) doesn’t come up until the very end of the book. Again, although much of the book doesn’t discuss the film industry directly, most of the book involves Surendra’s obsession with landing this particular role.

I also love how much Surendra is into wool and knitting, going so far as to include a page at the end of the book with a photo of him in his favourite sweater and a technical explanation as to the gansey’s construction and history. As a knitter, this warms my heart.

This memoir fills a great niche. It belies many of the dominant narratives presented to us about actors and celebrities. It’s by a young, gay man of colour—a Canadian too—and asks us to think about how the intersections of race, class, immigrant status, etc. figure into our lives. And perhaps most obviously—but no less powerfully—The Elephants in My Backyard dares us to define success on our own terms, reminding us that failure is an option. It isn’t a case of “life works out for the best”—I hate it when people tell me that—but it is a reminder that we don’t control outcomes and that nothing we do can ever be enough to guarantee an outcome we desire. All we can do as we go through life is define our goals, work towards them, and adjust those goals as times change. Surendra may never have been adrift at sea, but in this book he shows himself to be adept at navigating the open ocean that is our lives and our desires.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

There was definitely a span of adolescent years during which I was obsessed with Arthuriana. I remember borrowing Malory’s Morte d'Arthur from my library multiple times despite being way too young to pick my way through the Middle English prose. I devoured all sorts of retellings and reimaginings, like Bernard Cornwell’s Warlord series. So when this series crossed my Twitter feed one day, I couldn’t not windmill-slam the “place hold” button on both Legendborn and its sequel. Tracy Deonn effectively borrows from Arthurian legend, reshaping it, adding elements of West African and Caribbean folklore and tradition, to create a compelling world and tell a story that packs all kinds of punches.

Bree Matthews is 16 years old but has been admitted to the “Early College” program at UNC–Chapel Hill. She is grieving the loss of her mother in a car crash, and she isn’t feeling very grounded. Soon after the start of the school year, Bree gets caught up in an on-campus club of sorts that seems to be playing at being a secret society—except that Bree quickly discovers there’s definitely something supernatural at play, and it might be connected to her mother’s death. Determined to play detective, Bree infiltrates this society and gets closer to one of its highest-ranking members, who also has his reasons to support her entrance. But enemies lurk in every corner: can Bree get to the bottom of her mother’s death without falling victim to the Shadowborn or those who defend against them?

Legendborn is very much a YA novel, and I mean that as a compliment. It is exactly the kind of YA novel I would have loved to read as a teenager—and to be clear, I also loved reading it now as a thirty-something woman, but there is a special joy that I experienced digging into these thick, often fantasy, YA novels when I was in my adolescence. Deonn deploys many of the best (in my opinion) tropes of YA. Bree must undergo trials to initiate herself into the Order. There’s a clear ranking system (and there’s even a little org chart at the back of the book!) and some other rules that get explained along the way, though ultimately they don’t seem that important to the overall story. There is, yes, the will-they-or-won’t-they romance subplot. There’s a best friend who sticks up for Bree even when maybe they shouldn’t. Basically, this book is YA catnip in the best possible way.

Beneath all these familiar trappings however beats the heart of a story that is much deeper and more emotional than you might first expect. Bree is a Black girl growing up in the American South, and Deonn—also Black and from North Carolina—weaves this setting and Bree’s heritage into the fabric of the story. The Order’s origins in Europe, its presence here in North Carolina, its involvement in the powerful institutions of past and present—all of it is grounded in an awareness of colonialism and the history of enslavement of African peoples. Bree’s own abilities are connected to the earth, to her ancestors, and the metaphysical journey of self-discovery upon which she embarks pits Indigenous epistemologies against colonial ones. Echoes of Butler and Delany reverberate as Deonn anchors her magic systems and the central conflict of this book in the rich yet bloody history of the American South.

Meanwhile, Bree personally is dealing with a lot of grief. I love how her understanding of the events that unfolded the night of her mother’s death evolves as the story itself goes on. The new information that comes to light, the way it changes how Bree sees the Order and even herself, is fantastic. It just goes to demonstrate how easy it is to latch on to a convenient theory that seems to fit all the available facts only for new facts to entirely upend that theory in favour of something less comfortable.

Similarly, I enjoyed how Bree’s enmity with Selwyn evolves as they spend more time in each other’s company. He begins the story as a one-dimensional antagonist within the Order and Bree’s life, yet they reach a kind of detente fuelled by their unlikely common interests. In the same way, the events that drive the climax of the story completely rewrite the hierarchy of the Order and Bree’s place in it, leaving some of Bree’s initial allies—or at least, people disposed to be friendly towards her—uncertain of how they feel towards her now.

Deonn has a talent for keeping the story moving, for upsetting existing character dynamics and relationships, and for dropping you into an action scene without much warning. I have very few notes regarding the worldbuilding or the plot itself. My main disappointment hinges around how Bree eventually ends up communing with an ancestor and the way that this fact feels overshadowed by the intensity of the final act’s action sequences. Similarly, the revelations of the ending leave a lot of questions—and while this is obviously meant to be the first book in a series, people who dislike the feeling of a first book as a setup volume might feel disappointed by this. Finally, I take issue with some of the timeline and the rather cavalier way Deonn accelerates things—including healing of injuries—apparently only for reasons of plot. I didn’t need this book to take place over the span of the entire school year, but if I’m remembering correctly (I finished the book over a week ago), it mainly takes place over the first two months of school—but a lot happens!

Anyway, I am very glad I borrowed Bloodmarked at the same time and can’t wait to read it soon. This is an excellent start to a new fantasy series with just enough familiarity to be comfortable even as it challenges and perhaps makes you feel a little discomfort over the colonial underpinnings of many of our favourite legends and ideas.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Although not strictly speaking a romance by one definition of the genre (see the penultimate paragraph of my review for a minor spoiler as to why), Take a Bow, Noah Mitchell has many of the satisfying hallmarks of romance. The eponymous character is a seventeen-year-old boy with a serious crush on his online gaming buddy. When they get a chance to meet offline—but his buddy doesn’t know it—Noah takes it upon himself to launch an epic plan to win this guy’s love. It gets steamy, it gets hot-and-heavy, it gets recriminatory—everything you might want in terms of drama from a romance. Thank you to NetGalley and Page Street Publishing for the eARC in exchange for a review.

The characters feel really age appropriate in how Madden portrays them, especially in the obvious mistakes they make. You know what I mean: things that we might roll our eyes at, knowing better both as older readers and as members of the audience rather than participants in the story. For example, Noah gets bullied at his private school, but he refuses to tell his vice principal who’s bullying him for fear of greater reprisals. It’s also obvious that lying to Eli isn’t a great idea, or that going to the gym with Alex is going to cause problems—but these things aren’t obvious to Noah, who is in the middle of the story and who is a seventeen-year-old boy hopped up on hormones. Madden has a talent for walking that line between “makes sense for a teenager” and “well that was just for the sake of plot” in a way that errs on the side of the former, keeping the story interesting without veering into the unbelievable territory.

It also helps that many of the antagonistic characters have good reasons (from their perspective) for not liking Noah, who himself is quite flawed. The way that Madden takes time to flesh out these other characters and explore their motivations, whether it’s through conversations overheard or heart-to-hearts with Noah, balances the overt melodrama of his relationship with them.

There were a few characters or situations where I felt like this didn’t hold true. Noah’s dad is basically a cipher for the entire book: he exists and is a stereotypical mostly absent father figure, and I wish Madden had explored that more thoroughly. Similarly, some of the secrets—what’s going on with Noah’s mom, the big event that broke up Noah and his former best friend, etc.—are not all that surprising when finally revealed. Finally, Noah’s sister, Charly, has some of her own shit going on, which I appreciate—but she largely exists to be a voice in Noah’s head, via text message.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that Take a Bow, Noah Mitchell is very dramatic in a way that you might expect for a novel involving a lot of theatre people. Its main character is flawed in a sympathetic way and makes a lot of mistakes. I know that some people will decry this book being marketed as a romance because it lacks a Happily Ever After (HEA). That’s totally valid—I shelved it as romance because, for me, that label describes what’s happening in the book rather than the actual romance genre, but I wanted to be clear in my review for anyone reading this who needs a heads up. I think the ending is realistic and appropriate given the mistakes Noah makes in this book, and there is hope for a happy ending in the future, but frankly if Eli had ended up forgiving Noah so quickly, I would have been a lot more frustrated. So blame the publisher, not the author, for the classification here: as long as you know not to expect an HEA, I think you could still enjoy the romantic aspects of this book.

So I will recommend Take a Bow, Noah Mitchell if you want a reasonably dramatic portrayal of a m/m YA love story. The pacing is good, the characters are mostly well drawn and interesting, and the plot takes appropriate twists and turns to hold your interest.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

As I’ve noted in other reviews, perhaps most recently Refusing Compulsory Sexuality, being ace (asexual) in our society is no picnic. While I won’t deny there are benefits to opting out of the compulsory sexuality of our society, the fact that we must, indeed, opt out is problematic. In particular, I think that many a-spec people have a hard time figuring out their labels—partly because asexuality encompasses a lot of overlapping identities, but also because, as a phenomenon, it remains either erased/ignored or misrepresented/misunderstood. With Ace Voices: What it Means to Be Asexual, Aromantic, Demi or Grey-Ace, Eris Young seeks to change that. Thank you to Jessica Kingsley Publishers and NetGalley for the eARC in exchange for a review!

Young examines their understanding of their own asexuality (and how it intersects with other aspects of their identity, such as being transgender). Along the way, they cover some basic definitions (ever wondered what the difference is between being demisexual versus grey-asexual?) and include excerpts from interviews and surveys, both ones they conducted personally and others conducted through organizations like AVEN. The result is a book that is at times personal but overall attempts to affirm that there is no one right way to be asexual.

This in and of itself is crucial, for one of our major struggles within and outside of queer spaces is being misunderstood. Sometimes it’s a conflation of asexuality with celibacy or prudery. Sometimes we do it ourselves in a rush to explain that “don’t worry, ace people still have sex/‘normal’ romantic feelings!” to make aces seem less Other. Whatever the case, asexuality is as vulnerable to gatekeeping and misunderstanding as any other umbrella identity within the larger queer tent.

Let’s get the critiques out of the way first. Young’s writing style, and perhaps more importantly, their organizational style, doesn’t entirely work for me. The book kind of jumps around from topic to topic without a clear through line. This might just be a personal hang-up when it comes to non-fiction, but I actually like a narrative. I like chapters with framing stories and inciting incidents. This book is more of a collection of essays and ideas, and while that isn’t bad, it also hasn’t done more for me than inform me.

That being said, I appreciate how this book tries to cover a lot of ground. Young’s voice is passionate, knowledgeable, but also humble. They make it clear that they are not trying to be the authority—or even an authority—on asexuality. This humility makes the book more approachable and accessible.

Indeed, I think there are two good audiences for this book. First, young ace or a-spec-questioning people who want to learn more about asexuality without diving too far an academic rabbit hole. Ace Voices definitely checks that “overview/introductory text” box. The second audience, in contrast, would be allosexual/alloromantic people.

See, even as publishing opens up its doors to more diverse books, I think we still face a problem of siloing. This is true for fiction—Black authors, for example, are regularly told their books don’t have “crossover appeal,” whereas apparently white authors’ books just appeal to everyone naturally? It’s true for non-fiction too. Memoirs and other books that foreground queer experiences become marketed to queer people—especially young queer people, as inspiration fodder. There is nothing wrong with that in and of itself. However, I want to challenge non-queer people to seek out books about queerness. I want to challenge allosexual or alloromantic people to learn more about asexuality and aromanticism—and this book would be a good place for you to start.

I’m reminded of a similar book about trans people that I read in 2017. The author was cis, and you can imagine how bad it was at covering the subject as a result and accurately representing trans people’s voices (I am not even going to link to it in this review, it was so bad). Young’s authenticity in this space, the way they share their experience while also making room for experiences that are different, is so important. Overall, Ace Voices didn’t jump out at me as something spectacular. But it’s very solid, and it’s exciting to see books like this published, finally.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

You got to love it when a story knows how not to overstay its welcome. As much as I find fiction shorter than a novel less enjoyable in general, some stories are just better as short stories, novelettes, or—as in the case of A Spindle Splintered—novellas. This multiversal reimagining of Sleeping Beauty is a lot of fun, but I think Alix E. Harrow would have had a hard time sustaining the suspense and interest for an entire novel. This is one of a series of wise decisions that result in an eminently enjoyable tale.

Zinnia is a dying girl (her words, not mine). No one with her particular teratogenic condition has lived to be twenty-two, and Zinnia just turned twenty-one. On her birthday, she literally pricks her finger on a spindle and finds herself in a fairy tale, complete with a princess—also cursed—a castle, a prince, an evil fairy, etc. Fortunately, Zinnia is Genre Savvy, having become obsessed with the parallels between her life and the Sleeping Beauty story to the point where she has a degree in folklore. To this end, Zinnia seeks to hijack the narrative and give herself and her new princess friend a happily ever after.

I won’t spoil the story by discussing whether they get it!

As with The Once and Future Witches, this book is about stories and how our telling of stories can actually reify them. I am a sucker for such metafictional and epistemological ideas about literature, of course. The obvious comparison here is Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse, which Harrow makes herself in her acknowledgements, and it is apt. She brings together different threads of the same tapestry, if you will, and much like the comic book movie, demonstrates how we as a species hunger to tell and retell the same stories over and over again.

Layered atop that is some commentary on gender and sexuality, on misogyny and ableism and how we treat those who are women, who are chronically ill, etc. It’s actually rather ambitious for a novella, and I don’t know if Harrow completely succeeds in this task, but it’s an admirable effort that results in some excellent lines, especially when Zinnia meditates on how painful she finds the unconditional love she receives from her parents and Charm. This is a book of pretty surface yet sharp edges.

I liked the ending, without giving too much away. Harrow has a fine line to walk between hope and despair, trying to come up with something not too trite yet also not unbearably tragic. It is fitting, I think, for a remix.

At the end of the day, this is not a revolutionary book. But it was an enjoyable diversion for an afternoon. I think for a younger reader, just coming into feminist literary theory and fairy tales, this book could spark a curiosity that would lead them deeper into Angela Carter et al—and that thirst, that desire to know more, is one of the greatest gifts a book can give anyone.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.