This was one of those cases of the cover truly attracting me while in my local indie bookshop. I hadn’t read anything by Alix E. Harrow previously, but the title, description, and cover sold me on The Once and Future Witches. And, given the climate of hostility towards women and people of marginalized genders in the United States in 2022, this book set in 1893 feels oddly, uncomfortably familiar.

Taking place from the spring equinox to summer solstice, roughly, of 1893, The Once and Future Witches is set in a slightly alternative version of the United States. Salem, Massachusetts was razed by a witch-hunter who is now regarded as a hero. Near its ruins rose New Salem, and for a couple of centuries, women have kept their magic minimal, hidden, for fear of persecution and death. Against this backdrop, the three Eastwood sisters find themselves unexpectedly reunited (and recriminations will abound, don’t you fret) in New Salem on the equinox, where they witness a vision of a tower that could, if located, help them bring witchery back into the world. So they form a radical organization, even more radical than the suffragists that attract Juniper Eastwood to the city, a sisterhood that will stop at nothing short of liberating women from the patriarchy’s fear of witchcraft. Or, you know, they might themselves be jailed and executed. Such is the danger of revolution.

I’m getting the sense, looking at Harrow’s other published novels that have now swiftly been added to my to-read list, that Harrow is very interested in telling stories about storytelling, and I am here for it. Chapters of this book occasionally end with a story—always a fairy tale, always familiar yet somewhat different from how you might have heard it. Harrow tries to draw from a variety of folklore, not strictly European. She emphasizes that women’s magic is from every culture and does her best to confront the whiteness and racism that was present in the suffragist and other women’s liberation movements of the late nineteenth century.

Indeed, this book is also queer. One of the main characters, Beatrice Belladonna, is lesbian. I was pleasantly surprised when at one point one of the minor characters is revealed to be a trans woman (with some clever foreshadowing prior) so that Harrow can make the point that women’s magic is not gender essentialist. (There is also men’s magic, and it’s implied that the division between these two disciplines is itself arbitrary rather than fixed, but I won’t get into that too much for fear of spoilers.)

The way that the Sisters of Avalon prove to be more radical than the suffragists and align themselves with a labour movement also speaks to my unionist heart. I really like how Harrow uses this book as a platform for emphasizing that we are not free until all of us are free, that the struggle for liberation must be an intersectional one. This is probably most apparent in the interactions between Beatrice and Cleo. I love how, in presenting us with the Daughters of Tituba, Harrow reminds us that even as white women have viewed themselves as saviours of Black people, Black women have done a fine job of liberating and protecting themselves.

And that’s really why I loved this book so much. It mixes my love for story with my passionate beliefs regarding freedom and liberation. And it stokes those beliefs, reassures me. This book does not end where I expected it to. In fact, the initial mystery gets solved early on—only for it to be a brief calm before the larger storm as there is an intense backlash against the emergent witches of New Salem. I really enjoyed how Harrow handled this pacing and plotting, presenting us with a larger conflict and a reminder that progress is neither linear nor inevitable.

Perhaps the most obvious weakness to this book, in my opinion, is the villain. First, his identity is rather easily guessed long before it is revealed. Second, he is almost a caricature of the evils of patriarchy. Although I appreciate the way Harrow ultimately paints him as a frightened little boy, I think that embodying the antagonist in a single figurehead like this does a disservice to the fact that patriarchy is a structural issue. Even if this one person is vanquished, there is still so much work to do before women can approach equality or witches are accepted. To be fair, the book acknowledges that in its coda. Nevertheless, I just felt like the machinations of the villain and the confrontations the sisters have with him are the least interesting and fulfilling parts of this book.

In contrast, I loved the complicated relationships among the Eastwood sisters. As the book begins, they are estranged. Each one blames the other (or others) for letting her go, betraying her in some way. There is a lot of distrust and hard feelings. Harrow captures the damage that betrayal—real or perceived—can wreak on the relationship among sisters, as well as the long road one must walk to repair it. As with the social progress depicted in this book, the progress of repairing these relationships is far from linear. Yet in both cases, Harrow’s message remains one of an abiding, persistent hope.

The Once and Future Witches is a novel set in the past yet speaking to our future of possibility. Women are, to quote amanda lovelace, “some kind of magic,” and all of us have power even when society does its best to make us feel like we do not. But we have to come together to wield that power in solidarity. We have to believe we can make a difference, collectively, rather than shrinking ourselves so that we can merely survive within the system that seeks to harm us. This is something I truly believe, and in this novel, I encountered a sublime telling of that story in a way that inspires, empowers, and awes.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Alas, for the first time in over a year, I must shelve another book as “did not finish.” I am loath to do this with an eARC I received from NetGalley—I try my best only to apply for books I will hopefully like, and even when I don’t like them, I do my best to finish them and provide a full review. That being said, I have no problem with DNFing a book if it isn’t right for me.

 Hooked is a reimagining of the Peter Pan mythos. It is, apparently, a loose sequel to A.C. Wise’s earlier novel, Wendy, Darling (I haven’t rea dit). I love the premise behind these two novels. Retellings remain all the rage, with good reason, but the challenge is to twist the source material in such a way as to find new themes and entertaining layers to it. The idea that Captain Hook was the victim of some kind of fae spirit masquerading as a boy is really cool, and perhaps this book will work better for others, as many of the more positive reviews it has attracted so far seem to attest.

Why didn’t it work for me? Pacing was a big one. And the style of writing overall.

I am only about ten percent into the novel, which I admit isn’t that much. Normally I give a book a little longer to grab me—but something is telling me that Hooked won’t do that, and I want to listen to my gut. Very little has happened so far. The chapters are long and meandering. Wise flits in and out of flashbacks, taking us from present-day London, 1939, to James’s time as Hook in Neverland. The exposition this provides allows me to understand what’s happening, yet I don’t feel it, if that makes any sense.

Stylistically, then, Wise and I seem to be working at cross purposes. These days I much prefer novels with shorter, concrete scenes, and a good mix of dialogue and narration. Though Wise is fond of in media res storytelling, the action we get dropped into doesn’t seem to culminate in anything that then furthers the plot, so far as I can see.

Consequently, what I have read of the novel so far feels very jumbled to me. We have James, haunted by the ghost of someone I think was a former lover? Wendy, all growed up, off to help her daughter, who just witnessed a murder most foul. Pan and his monster are lurking somewhere. Like I said—this is a really intriguing premise, and I wish I could have enjoyed the writing enough to keep going. As it is, I will pass on this one.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

I received this book nearly a year ago (maybe a whole year ago) from my friend and former teaching colleague Emma. I had gifted her Come As You Are, Dr. Emily Nagoski’s earlier book about sex. Burnout is, as the title implies, about the sustained sensation many of us feel when we have overextended ourselves and depleted our resources. As the subtitle implies, this book promises to deepen our understanding of burnout. It is a self-help book, but only in the most scientific and compassionate sense of that genre—the Nagoski twins make no promises of “curing” your burnout, and they evince a healthy skepticism of the self-care industry. Instead, this is a book about recognizing and understanding where you are in your stress cycle and how you can manage that stress in a healthier way. It won’t fix your problems, but it might make life a little easier to bear.

This was an emotional read. Page xi of the introduction states, “Twenty to thirty percent of teachers in America have moderately high to high levels of burnout.” I nearly broke down crying when I read that, and we weren’t even into the book itself! I am a teacher in Canada, and you can read a little rant about my burnout here. Suffice it to say … yeah, this book is meant for me.

Now, I already knew a lot of what the Nagoskis share in this book. I think that will be true for most of us who live with burnout. Some of the advice is very obvious, like the value of physical activity (though I am pleased how they emphasize that physical activity includes more than exercise!). I like this. I also appreciated how they frame everything in terms of “completing the stress cycle.” They distinguish between dealing with the cause of stress and dealing with the stress itself, acknowledging that the former action can be difficult but sometimes when we deal with the cause, we forget to deal with the stress that was caused.

There might be a few good revelations in here, but the value of this book isn’t in revelations; it’s in relevance. Emily and Amelia ground their recommendations in science, examining how hormones, neurotransmitters, and other physiological markers of stress response influence our emotions (and vice versa). Similarly, they connect their ideas to exemplars drawn from their experiences with real people. They engage with structural issues of racism and sexism, acknowledging that a great deal of our stress comes from harm baked into the system rather than our own individual choices.

Indeed, Burnout’s attention to structural causes of stress is so important and another way it stands out from much self-help literature. The Nagoskis explicitly call out patriarchy as a reason so many women experience burnout. Through their explanation of “Human Giver syndrome,” they explore scenarios that many women will find all too familiar thanks to the ways in which our society encourage us to give, give, give. Certainly I could identify with this.

I found their reminder that we can “smash the patriarchy” in small ways very valuable and important. There is so much happening in the world right now, so much hatred, and it can feel discouraging. How can I stand against this, especially when I’m burnt out? They provide some practical tips, which boils down to do something rather than wallowing in the idea that we are powerless.

This book focuses a great deal on women, and in particular cis women. Regardless, I think that people of all genders can appreciate most of this book—it’s just that the Nagoskis point out that certain manifestations of burnout (such as Human Giver Syndrome) tend to be more prevalent in women. In their introduction, they include a disclaimer that is meant to be trans-inclusive, boiling down basically to the idea that because the research has only been done on cis women, they can’t reliably discuss or draw conclusions about a more gender-expansive definition of people:

 

It’s a nice apology, and I truly believe the Nagoskis are allies to trans and gender-diverse people.

 But it’s also not good enough.

 Cis authors, you cannot keep throwing your hands up in the air and saying, “But science doesn’t see trans people!” This just perpetuates a cycle of erasure. In the case of Burnout, the next paragraphs attempt to assert that where science doesn’t suffice, “art comes in,” yet that promise is not actually borne out in the book. This reinforces the dichotomy that Western, peer-reviewed science is the ultimate arbiter of truth. While the Nagoskis claim they will “talk about Disney princesses, sci-fi dystopias, pop music” and more, these references are fleeting and seldom accorded the same weight as the science. More importantly, after taking the time to acknowledge the existence of gender diversity, trans people are not mentioned at all for the rest of the book. Even if there is a dearth of research on us, you could at least have gone around and interviewed some of us and done a chapter—hell, I would take a section—about how burnout affects trans people in particular.

Don’t get me wrong: as I stated earlier in my review, I love the emphasis that Burnout places on science. At the same time, I have committed myself to doing better at noticing the erasure of trans people and calling it out, because that’s the only way we are going to do better. (If you want an example of a science book I recently read by a cis author who actually includes trans people, check out Bitch by Lucy Cooke!)

Aside from that caveat, I greatly enjoyed (if that’s the right word) this book. Emily and Amelia’s writing style is pithy and amiable despite talking about serious topics. The strategies they suggest, while not new, are a good reminder of what I can be doing to help myself reset and recharge this summer. I am burned out, and Burnout does not offer a panacea—but it does offer explanations, guidance, and hope.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

There is a reason I write book reviews: I thought I hadn’t enjoyed Warcross, the first and only other book I have read by Marie Lu. Turns out I did like it! Skyhunter is a different genre, but a lot of the same tropes are present: you have male/female romantic leads paired up to fight against an authoritarian ruler. I definitely didn’t like this one as much as Warcross, and I debated reading the sequel (which I just finished today, as I write this review). Ultimately, I think this is a good young adult or new adult novel about dystopia and rebellion, but it’s a so-so novel overall.

Talin is a refugee from Basea. When the Karensa Federation swallowed up her country, she and her mother fled to nearby Mara. Mute, Talin eventually finds a precarious position among the Strikers, Mara’s elite fighting force, who also communicate via sign language. Though Talin has earned renown for her fighting prowess, she is always an outsider because of her nationality. When her Shield is killed, her status is in jeopardy—until she ends up becoming crucial to managing a prisoner of war who might be the key to protecting Mara from the Karensa Federation’s army.

The setting is decent. There are suitable vague references to Early Ones (forerunners) with enough hints dropped that maybe this is a post-apocalyptic part of Earth, though it could just as easily be an alternative world where the forerunners developed parallel to our society. In any event, this continent is dotted with ruins of fantastic technology and materials that contemporary humans have scavenged. Mara is the only country that hasn’t fallen to the Karensa Federation, which makes use of Early One science to transform its captured enemies into fearsome beasts—Ghosts—that are controlled only by the Premier of the Federation. Strikers are adept at killing Ghosts before they can bite someone—if they fail, the victim is doomed to transform into a Ghost unless someone delivers a mercy blow.

The spectre of transformation and body horror looms large over this book—not in an unpalatable way, but it’s clear that Lu is thinking about the ways in which our modern society polices our bodies. The mental link between the Ghosts and the Premier, and the similar link shared by Talin and Red, demonstrates different sides of a coin: mind control versus a kind of enhanced empathy (some would call it telepathy). The science in Skyhunter is cold, grey, and hard—it is a science of steel.

For Lu, this is a story about allegiance. Talin is Basean, yet her allegiance is staunchly Maran. She fights for an adopted country that nevertheless discriminates against her—a familiar story for many marginalized groups that nevertheless choose to serve in Western militaries. Red was Karensan, yet he has defected. The tenuousness of his allegiance is one of the critical plot points of the book, along with the question of how much someone has to prove themselves before we accept that they are loyal. Going deeper still, we see personal allegiances: Adena and Jeran, and Jeran and Aramin, and of course, Talin and her mother. We even see unhealthy allegiances, such as the fealty Jeran feels he owes his abusive father.

All of this boils down to a cauldron of conflict that should be very fulfilling. And at some points, it is. Talin gets a lot of character development, and the supporting cast gets their fair share. I think what bothers me is that the climax of the book feels somewhat contrived—particularly, a betrayal just gets revealed out of nowhere, pure exposition, with very little foreshadowing. I think it’s supposed to come across as a big twist—but it’s just so logical, so cynical and pragmatic on the part of the traitor, that it hardly feels surprising.

So despite the setting, the interesting use of science and atrocities this leads to, and some good characterization, Skyhunter doesn’t do anything particularly new for me. I think for younger readers who haven’t yet steeped themselves so thoroughly in dystopia, this book is going to be a much more interesting read. For me, it was fine. (Also keep in mind that I am, unfortunately, writing this from the hindsight of having just finished the sequel, which I think has coloured this review a little bit. But you’ll read more about that soon.)

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

This might be one of those books where I have had it on my to-read list almost since it came out … eleven years ago. Finally got around to reading it! Beauty Queens is a rollicking young-adult satire of reality television, beauty pageantry, and the corporate hostile takeover of feminism. Libba Bray brings a lot of humour and sweetness to these pages. I enjoyed it. Yet I also think it has a lot of limitations, some due to its age, most due to its construction.

The fifty contestants for Miss Team Dream crash land on a deserted island (or is it?). At first, the challenge seems to be surviving long enough to be rescued—although if some Teen Dreamers have their way, they will also somehow practise for the pageant at the same time. As the days pass with no rescue, however, strange events reveal that maybe these girls aren’t alone on this island. They’ll need more than the skills they profess for the talent part of the competition to survive, escape, and reveal the Corporation’s treachery to the world.

Reading this book a decade after its publication leaves me reflecting on how much the world has changed since Bray wrote at the start of the 2010s. Beauty Queens is ultimately very much a rah-rah book of female empowerment (and I mean this in a good way). It explicitly calls out and questions harmful beauty standards and ideas of feminine comportment that are baked into beauty pageantry. Many of the girls in this book are, at the beginning of the story, what we might describe as “shallow.” Thanks to a couple slightly more aware contestants, along with the pressures to survive on this island, the girls gradually come to understand the value of independence and the toxicity of what Miss Teen Dream represents.

I respect, however, that Bray also takes the time to reassure us that femininity and the modern tools associated with it are not, per se, bad. In this way the book harnesses the political brashness of second-wave feminism while also retaining much more of the intersectionality and post-modernism of third-wave feminism. Bray’s feminism is also trans-inclusive (more on that in a moment) and anti-capitalist. Though the nominal enemy of this book is the Corporation, the arguable leader of this antagonistic force is actually another women. In this way, Bray reminds us that “leaning in” is not the answer: women can reinforce patriarchy as much as other genders, especially if they think it serves their own purposes.

Still, this book definitely feels a decade old. It predates the rising awareness among white moderates and progressives of the vicious modern racism and police brutality that exists within the United States (and here in Canada)—from Trayvon Martin to Michael Brown to George Floyd and the too-many names in between that marked the 2010s as a time of increased visibility of violence against Black people. Beauty Queens certainly engages in a discussion of racism and intersectional feminism, such as it can, but it feels out of place against the backdrop of the last decade.

This holds true for Bray’s portrayal of a transgender character as well. Indeed, Bray goes out of her way to make sure the cast is as diverse as possible, including a Deaf girl, Black and brown girls, a lesbian girl, etc. I really appreciate this. I’m going to focus my critique on Petra, as I am also trans, whereas it is harder for me to discuss how the others’ identities are portrayed. I’ve really mulled over how I feel about Petra. On the one hand, it was just nice to be included in an overwhelmingly positive way in a book from 2011. On the other hand, there is a clumsiness to how Bray writes Petra. It makes me wonder if this book had a sensitivity reader all the way back then.

To summarize my thoughts: I appreciate how Bray presents different reactions when the other girls find out that Petra is trans. Forcibly outing her is not cool, of course, though I understand how one can argue it would be quite realistic in this setting. I don’t have a problem with how some of the girls react in transphobic ways; they learned it as a part of their upbringing, and this book is all about unlearning harmful, internalized bullshit. Indeed, Bray just wants to show us that there is no One True Girl, and trans acceptance is a part of that.

But then we have a scene where Petra pees on a guy’s leg to clean out a jellyfish sting (which, by the way, is a myth)—because she has a penis and can pee standing up, get it? It’s just a very weird scene overall. Beyond that, the portrayal of Petra’s transition is very 2011 in its focus on medical transition—she’s hoping to win the contest so she can afford gender confirmation surgery—and very little discussion of the social reality of being transfeminine. This is a bit hard to read in a year where conservative media has become ever bolder in focusing on transmedicalism as a way to Other trans people. That’s not Bray’s fault, of course. Nevertheless, I think Petra’s portrayal (along with some other clunkiness in the portrayals of the characters of colour) highlights how a well-meaning author trying to do diversity can come up short.

In a similar way, I wish I could have been more entertained by the satire. It’s just layered on so thick. I understand that YA sometimes needs to be brasher because of the age of its audience. But the result is oddly jarring. There are inane uses of PowerPoint, half-hearted antagonist characters, and a madman dictator who feels like he would be played by Sacha Baron Cohen in a way that has you going, “Umm, this is kinda racist, isn’t it?” The cohesiveness of the plot in the final act feels more like a stage play than a novel, with loose ends getting too neatly tied up. The satire verges more on farce, which I think undermines its teeth.

All of this being said, please don’t get the impression I’m criticizing this book simply for being a decade old now. But I think it is important to consider how we react to a book in the present of our reading it, and my reaction to Beauty Queens is, “This is a hot mess, and I love parts of it, but so much of it doesn’t gel.” Would I have liked it more ten years ago? Probably, in the same way that subsequent rewatches of comedies from ten years ago have left me cold, and the same way that ten years ago I was far, far fonder of The Hunger Games than I am now. We move on, and as we grow, the media of our past doesn’t always grow with us.

This is a good and entertaining book, especially for teenage girls. But it’s also messy and flawed. You know what was also really flawed? Lord of the Flies, yet it still gets taught in high schools like it’s the real shit. I can say with confidence that Beauty Queens is, if it is anything, far superior to that “classic” in every possible measure. So make of that what you will.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Every once in a while, I dip my toes into a science-fiction thriller, like I did with Constance. The Paradox Hotel is another such blend of mystery, science fiction, and tension, but this time instead of human cloning, we get time travel! The question at the heart of Rob Hart’s story is actually asked by an artificially intelligent drone: why do humans deal with pain by lashing out at others?

January Cole is the head of security for a hotel next to the world’s only functional timeport. The U.S. government has, of course, turned this into a tourist business catering to those rich enough to travel through time. Nevertheless, the business isn’t profitable, so it is being privatized. January is preparing for an auction that will see some of the richest people in the world arrive to bid for the timeport—and the attached hotel—but as she does this, other events threaten the security of the auction, the hotel, and January’s job. See, January is Unstuck—her years of serving as a Temporal Enforcement Agent have left her with the ability (or disability) to experience moments from her past or future as if they are the present. You would think this would be a cool power, but it’s slowly killing her, and if anyone learns how much her condition has progressed, she would be removed from her position faster than you can say “Einstein–Rosen bridge.”

January in many ways embodies the typical, sardonic hero we tend to see in these kinds of thrillers. She carries a heavy burden of grief—in this case, a lost love—and guilt—not being able to save said love. She’s dealing with a chronic illness—or not dealing, depending on whom you talk to. She’s gruff and no-nonsense but always willing to crack a joke if it will deflect from anything getting too real. We learn precious little about January’s past or her interests outside of doing her current job.

Nevertheless, Hart somehow helps us connect to January and relate to her struggles. I think it’s because, deep down, she really does care about this hotel and what happens to the people in it. We see this in her (strained) relationships with other employees, such as her boss, Allyn; the hotel manager, Rob; or the non-binary head concierge, Cameo. January bridles when people with power mistreat those who lack it, and she refuses to step down when she thinks she is in the right. These qualities help establish her as a sympathetic protagonist even when she isn’t always being a likable one.

For a novel about time travel and paradoxes, the actual time travel shenanigans here are fairly light. Indeed, aside from January’s premonition-like ability, you could get through the first two thirds of this novel before getting any kind of headache from time travel. It’s only during the climax, after January unravels how her unseen enemy has been manipulating events, that the time travel angle truly comes into focus and threatens to bemuse rather than amuse.

Indeed, if you were hoping for more than only a surface-level explanation of how a time travel tourist agency would work, you will be disappointed. There are some interesting tidbits (such as how the hotel keeps a period costumer on staff, but there is a strict no-Blackface policy—good). However, I think this is probably for the best. This is not a mystery about time travel tourism. Rather, the mystery here is about much more familiar topics: greed, lust for power, betrayal, and the desire for dignity.

I don’t know that I would say I loved this book, but I think a good measure of how much I enjoyed any book is how much I wanted to keep reading. While I wouldn’t say this was “unputdownable,” and perhaps much of my reading was motivated by the nice weather that let me sit on my deck for an extended period of time for the first time this season, The Paradox Hotel definitely held my interest. Fans of thrillers might enjoy this even more.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

On my most recent trip to our town’s used bookstore, I got a hefty dose of Tanya Huff books. Having finished the Gale Women series (though that didn’t stop me from accidentally buying another copy of The Future Falls by mistake, oops), I was happy to discover several books in two different series from Huff. I decided to start her Keeper Chronicles first with Summon the Keeper. It was a great change of pace from some of the other books I have read lately. Tanya Huff’s storytelling is that comfy kind of familiar where you always feel like you’re coming home.

Claire Hansen is a Keeper, which is an efficient way of saying she is a member of a supernatural lineage dedicated to preserving the fabric of the universe. She does this by sealing sites where the fabric of the universe has worn thin, sometimes as a result of people unwittingly using what we might call magic but what Claire calls “the possibilities.” Summon the Keeper sees Claire arrive at the Elysian Fields Guesthouse in Kingston, Ontario. Previously under the supervision of a Cousin—a less powerful ally to the Keepers—he scampers off Claire arrives, leaving her in charge of this dilapidated hotel. She has a talking cat, Austin, by her side, and quickly charms the hotel’s one employee, Dean, a handyman/chef/all around hunk. There’s an evil, sleeping Keeper in room six and a literal hole to Hell in the furnace room, and Claire is determined to seal this site and get out of Kingston no matter what.

Most of the fantasy novels I picked up from the used bookstore are what I would call “classic” fantasy from the 1980s and 1990s. Summon the Keeper, published 1998, is no exception. There’s something really quaint about reading a book that is now twenty-four years old—I love the references, now so outdated, to things like computer towers with CD-ROM drives. The fact that Huff sets her stories so often in Canada also makes me smile!

Huff is a master at writing compelling and intense scenes whether they are action-focused or feelings-focused. Claire is a great protagonist: she is capable and confident in her abilities, yet she also has plenty of flaws. Sometimes we might describe her as overconfident, though in a different way from her younger sister. I like that, at twenty-seven, she is older than a lot of female protagonists that we get in urban fantasy, yet she is still young enough to be plenty inexperienced, both at her job and her life.

Though the love triangle between Claire, Dean, and Jacques does very little for me, I appreciate what Huff is trying to accomplish. Claire’s reluctance to deal with the tension between her and Dean drives, directly or indirectly, quite a lot of the conflict in this book. Though Hell, personified by an ALL CAPS split personality that comments sarcastically on events throughout the book, is the nominal antagonist, one might also argue that Claire is her own worst enemy. She spends so much time trying to “solve” the problem of the Elysian that she keeps stirring up trouble. My main reaction, as I was reading, was “Man, Huff is never giving Claire a break,” but this is usually the result of Claire’s own actions.

In this way, Summon the Keeper, despite being a slimmer novel, is packed full of entertaining action and intense drama. I was genuinely enthralled by the plot, curious to find out how Claire would resolve the problem of the evil Keeper and seal up the hole to Hell. The ending is fine—a little rushed, a little too cinematic for my aphantasic brain to process—but I am looking forward to reading the sequel, and likely soon, given that I acquired it at the used bookstore too!

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Somewhere along the way—likely from Inferior, but I can’t remember—I learned that women are excluded from most clinical trials for medication because our hormonal cycles are considered “too complicated” and they might throw off the trial results. Consequently, most of the medicines that make it to market have only truly been tested on men. Then there are inevitably—you guessed it—complications in some women who take these drugs, except doctors are just as likely to blame the issue on—you guessed it—hormones. Or it’s all in our head.

Gosh, sexism sucks.

Lucy Cooke examines exactly this kind of bias in science and medicine, but she does so with a particular eye on evolutionary biology. Bitch: On the Female of the Species is a tour through some of the weirder corners of the animal kingdom and species that defy our stereotypical understanding of the differences between the “two” sexes. It is also a polemic against bias in evolutionary biology and science as a whole, a bias against studying the female sex, which has resulted in gaps in vital knowledge. Cooke rightly points out that when we allow our human biases to influence our methodology, we short-circuit the scientific method—and all of humanity loses out.

Thank you to NetGalley and publisher Basic Books for the review eARC!

I read a lot of popular science books, and often—especially when written by a scientist—they can be ponderous and dull, at least in parts. Not so with Bitch, which is a riotous romp from the beginning. The first chapter, “The Anarchy of Sex,” lists off examples of ways in which females of various species break our idea of sex stereotypes and the binary. In particular, I found myself picking my jaw up off the floor as I read about the female spotted hyena’s testerone levels and her eight-inch clitoris and fused-together labia! By the time I got to the third chapter, “The Monogamy Myth,” I was calling my friend to read her a passage about the libidinous activities of female Barbary macaques—“once every seventeen minutes”??—and laugh in astonishment—the things they don’t teach you in high-school biology, hmm?

Where does this so-called wisdom come from anyway? That’s another question Cooke sets out to answer. She not only debunks sex myths but actively draws a line through research, from the writings of Darwin all the way up to the modern day—1990s and early 2000s—when some female scientists were still having their papers turned away from journals for being too “political.” This is, of course, the cardinal sin of the dominant group: conflating one’s own perspective (in this case, that of the cis, white, male scientist) with objectivity and neutrality. When a scientist announces findings that confirm our biases about males being stronger, more active, more promiscuous, then the world rejoices. When a scientist announces findings that confirm the same facts for females, then it’s “political” because it goes against the received wisdom. This confirmation bias, along with measurement, selection, and sampling biases, results in a lot of holes in our science. Cooke stresses the importance of reproducibility of results and long-term studies that, instead of anthropomorphizing the subjects or looking for certain expected traits, observe what the subjects do and record those observations without leaning on established stereotypes. If we look at a female animal and expect to see maternal behaviour, we will likely find it, and discount any behaviour that might not contribute to that narrative. Instead, we should just look at the behaviour, record it, and then we can sift through the data to see what we have found.

Bitch and books like it are important for laypeople to read because we are taught, growing up, that science is objective, impartial, unassailable. This is the hill that transphobic people are often willing to die on. Whether it’s the inclusion of trans women in sport or the very existence of trans people, transphobes (TERFs or GCs or whatever they want to be called these days) are quick to cry “but biology!” as if this is the ultimate argument against my existence when I am … you know … here. Existing. Lol.

When we make this mistake, when we assume that just because something is written in a book, published in a peer-reviewed study, repeated at conferences and in sound bites on the news, that it is the unassailable truth, we do ourselves a disservice as critical thinkers. This is particularly the case when the narrative being presented is simplistic and binary. As Cooke works so hard to elucidate here, nature is seldom either of those things—so when someone announces that it is so, we should be skeptical. Note that this is different from science deniers, who also profess skepticism—for theirs is, similar to the scientists whose bias is taken apart in this book, a form of confirmation bias rooted in conspiracy theories that ultimately advocate the abandonment of the scientific method. Cooke is not doing that here. She is not saying we need to throw out the baby with the bathwater—but it is probably time to change out that bathwater, and maybe get a bigger tub. The baby might be all grown up now.

Incidentally, as a trans woman, I certainly went into this book with a small amount of trepidation. Any scientific book that discusses the sexes can be, even inadvertently, trans-exclusionary. So I was reassured when, even before the introduction, Cooke includes an “Author’s Note on Language” that asserts, “This book intends to demonstrate that sex is wildly variable and that gendered ideas based on assumptions of binary sex are nonsense.” Fuck yeah. As I already commented above, the first chapter then being about “The Anarchy of Sex” cemented my sense that I was going to be safe reading this book. If that were not enough, Chapter 11 is called “Beyond the Binary” and features the work of trans ecologist Dr. Joan Roughgarden! This is important—there is also a common trend among people who want to be allies to shrug and say, “Hey, trans women are women and valid and whatnot, but eh, the data is just for cis men and women. So we know you exist, we know non-binary people are out there, but for our purposes we’ll just have to ignore you for the next two-hundred pages. So sorry.” That’s not acceptable. Trans people are here. We are in the fields being spoken about. So Cooke not only professes her allyship but actively includes trans people in her writing and actively makes sure that her approach to analysis is trans-inclusive rather than agnostic. That is true allyship. (I’m applauding right now.)

Ultimately, Bitch is, as the introduction says, about “a sexist mythology [that] has been baked into biology” and how “it distorts the way we perceive female animals.” Cooke comes with proof to back up this thesis, and most importantly (from my perspective as a curious reader), she presents this proof in an engaging, often hilarious way. Honestly, this book was the next best thing to watching a nature documentary, and probably slightly more informative given that it isn’t limited by time slots. It is worth your time and energy: not only will it entertain, but it is going to help you on your way to breaking down the gender and sex binary we are immersed in, along with the stereotypes that, for too long, too many people have propped up with faulty science.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Machine learning is a hot topic. You have probably seen those social media posts that start with, “I made an AI watch …” and then proceeded to share a script “written” by the AI? Those are almost entirely fake, of course—as Janelle Shane explains in You Look Like a Thing and I Love You: How Artificial Intelligence Works and Why It's Making the World a Weirder Place, artificial intelligence is just not there yet. Not only are we nowhere close to Skynet … our AIs tend to have about as much brainpower as a worm.

Shane’s book is a short but comprehensive dive into what machine learning actually is, how it works, and why it so often goes wrong—by which she means, it doesn’t actually solve the problem it was meant to solve, or it solves the problem but in a really stupid way. Indeed, this is probably the main takeaway of the book: AIs are not smart. Not at all. And in the rare occasion when we do manage to make a smart AI, like Google’s Alpha Go or IBM’s Watson, it is incredibly specialized (and probably more expensive than it is worth).

Each chapter examines machine learning from a different angle. Some chapters cover problems—such as how difficult it is to assemble a good data set, how bias can creep into the training data, etc. Other chapters spend more time exploring the different approaches researchers and programmers take to machine learning, such as evolutionary algorithms. While there was plenty in this book I was aware of (particularly along the bias dimension), there was still a lot I either didn’t know or learned more about from the book.

Also, Shane is funny. Her writing is laced with a graceful wit, and it pairs perfectly with the examples of text she has had various AIs produce, from ersatz and confused recipes to names for ice cream flavours and verses of songs. I literally laughed out loud reading this book—did not expect that from a book on this subject, but I couldn’t resist how truly hilarious some of Shane’s results sound. This drives home the fact that AI is just not there yet, for most of our purposes, more so than any dry and technical explanation ever might.

Also also, shout out to Shane’s wonderful sketches throughout the book.

Despite all of the above, I would hesitate to recommend this to just anyone. While reading this book, I thought about my bestie, who has pivoted into freelance copywriting. She does a lot of copywriting for tech or tech-adjacent companies, so it behoves her to read more about the field, including AI. Nevertheless, I stopped short at recommending You Look Like a Thing and I Love You to her. Why? Simply put, the book lacks a human-interest through-line.

To be fair to Shane, it doesn’t need one. It is structured fine as it is (though I found she repeats some of her explanations of concepts at times). But my bestie prefers non-fiction that tells its story around human characters and experiences. While Shane sprinkles her explanations of concepts with anecdotes, the book lacks a true central protagonist or story.

Consequently, while the book is not too technical for laypeople, I recommend it more towards people who are interested in learning about AI for AI’s sake.

Still, don’t let me damn the book with faint praise: I enjoyed it. Muchly. If anything, it gives me plenty of ammunition to remain skeptical and challenge the next person or company that claims their AI-powered product is going to change my life.

Pair this with Hello World, by Hannah Fry; Weapons of Math Destruction, by Cathy O’Neil; and [Algorithms of Oppression], by Safiya Noble.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Although I read fewer murder mysteries these days than I did in my youth, I still have a soft spot. Add in the allure of an alternative world in which Europeans never colonized what we call North America, and … yeah, I’m into it. The Peacekeeper is both a satisfying mystery and a thoughtful work of science fiction, and as such, it works for me on multiple levels.

The novel takes place in and around what we would call Sault Ste. Marie but what the Anishinaabeg call Baawitigong. (Blanchard is a member of the Sault Chippewa nation.) For those unfamiliar with it, Sault Ste. Marie is actually two cities—one on the Canadian side of the border, in Ontario, and one on the American side, in Michigan. (This is actually more common than you might expect, though they don’t always have the same name.) In The Peacekeeper, of course, it’s one place because there is no border. Baawitigong itself is a village, small enough for everyone to know everyone (and their business). Chibenashi is one of the village’s three peacekeepers. On the night of Manoomin, a festival celebrating harvest, someone murders a close friend of Chibenashi’s—twenty years to the day that someone murdered his mother. Chibenashi leave behind his fragile sister, Ashwiyaa, to seek answers in the nearby metropolis of Shikaakwa. Not only is he unused to the big city, however, but he is unprepared to confront ghosts from his past—an ex-girlfriend turned Advocate, and the estranged son of the murder victim. This case might prove Chibenashi’s undoing.

I love how Blanchard goes about creating a flawed protagonist in Chibenashi. He is not your stereotypical hard-boiled detective with an ex-wife and a chip on his shoulder and a drinking problem. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t do much of anything, really, except his job (which is not exactly demanding) and trying to take care of his sister. This latter duty has kept him from expanding his social circle or setting his sights on a life elsewhere, like Shikaakwa. Yet the murder of a close friend, someone who was like an Auntie to him and Ashwiyaa, forces Chibenashi to leave Baawitigong. In an unfamiliar milieu and confronted by a peacekeeper from Shikaakwa who gets on his nerves, Chibenashi’s patience is tested. Is it any surprise when he breaks? I appreciate that our protagonist is flawed—I would say he teeters on the point of being unlikeable, yet for me he never quite crosses that line. Rather, he’s just never really processed his trauma. Now that this crime has stripped away the time that has passed since that trauma occurred, he has no defences left to keep his demons at bay.

The mystery itself is pretty good. I guessed who the killer was pretty early in the book (I mention this only because this is rare for me). Nevertheless, Blanchard handles the reveal and climax quite well. This is a case of a whodunit where I solved it because the clues were laid out plain to see—indeed, if Chibenashi were not so distracted by his own issues, he would have seen them too. Through this mystery, Blanchard asks interesting questions about our obligations to our kin. How far would you go to protect your child? Your sibling? Your parent? Chibenashi and Ashwiyaa’s relationship is one of intense co-dependency—it is not healthy—yet neither are the relationships between Sakima and Wiishkobak or Meoquanee. When Chibenashi meets Daaksin again, he is reminded that she chose to left—he sees this as a betrayal, but it is in reality perhaps one of the healthiest relationship endings we get in this book. Sometimes you have to walk away. Chibenashi doesn’t learn that for a long time.

I suspect, however, that for most readers of this book the standout aspect will be the worldbuilding. It certainly was for me. Blanchard does not spend much time justifying this alternative world—we never learn why colonization didn’t happen. And that’s OK. I’m happy to leave that blank, take it as read, and simply consider the consequences—and there are many. This is a world that has developed parallel to ours: there are cell phones and tablets, movies, guns, etc. Yet at the same time, so much is different. The justice system is restorative rather than punitive (or at least, it tries to be). Settlements try to coexist with the natural world. Movies get dubbed into Anishinaabemowin because most of the characters in this book don’t speak English. The African slave trade never happened, and so nations in Africa have flourished in various ways.

Despite colonization never happening, Mino-Aki (the nation where Chibenashi lives) is not a paradise. As we know, there are crimes. The novel features an incident of domestic violence, abuse, and stalking that has a grisly end to it. Through Takumwah, Blanchard explores how conflict among nations, and issues of assimilation and discrimination, is still possible in an uncolonized world. In so doing, she affirms that this alternative world is different but still realistic—humans are flawed creatures capable of darkness no matter who we are, where we live, what societies we build.

Nevertheless, I loved this thought experiment. As a white person, I can’t pretend to comment on this from an Indigenous perspective. But I would love to see more stories like this—not just stories of possible Indigenous futures, but also stories of different Indigenous presents! In imagining a different world, Blanchard helps us to imagine alternatives to the current world we inhabit. She reminds us that, in fact, none of the world we inhabit right now was inevitable. It is the result of a series of choices, and we can make it different—can decolonize, build something new—if we choose.

So The Peacekeeper is many novels in one. It’s the story of a man whose relationships are attenuated and fragile. It’s a murder mystery that hides a tragic truth at its core. And it’s a testament to imagining a different present, one in which the nation on whose land I reside (I’m in Thunder Bay) was able to continue thriving as it was long before European contact. It succeeds at all of these things, to varying degrees, and certainly enough that I would love to read the next book Blanchard writes in this world.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.