theirresponsiblereader's Reviews (607)

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s It’s Great to Suck at Something About? 

The Publisher’s Description is: 

 
My description would be—Rinaldi is a devoted surfer. That doesn’t mean that she’s a good one—she has witnesses and video evidence to back that up. But she doesn’t care—she still loves it. In fact, she’s learned a lot about herself—and probably about the way people tick—from being a lousy surfer, and now she has some good advice to share about being lousy at things (and continuing to do them). She weaves this advice with a semi-meandering recounting of her surfing career in the pages of this book.
 
A Quick Word About the Narration
Rinaldi’s narration on this was really good—I’d listen to her narrate another book easily. Maybe it’s easier because it’s her book and she knows the emotions she’s trying to evoke—but I’ve heard enough authors not know how to do that for me to really believe it.

So, what did I think about It’s Great to Suck at Something?
I should start by saying that I’m 100% on board with Rinaldi’s central thesis and think it’s something that more people need to embrace and practice. I just have problems with most of the rest of the book.

We’ve all been to those “meetings that could’ve been an email,” right?* As I was listening I kept thinking—this is a book that could’ve been an article. Maybe a series of them. Or a few blog posts. But it had no business being a book.

Of course, not at my current job. I’m talking exclusively about previous positions.
 
Or at least not this book. If this had been sold as a “memoir of a lousy but committed surfer with some advice you can apply to your own passions/hobbies.” It would’ve been fine. The book wasn’t about the benefits of sucking at things, it was about a big part of Rinaldi’s life, and through it she offered some observations on the human condition—some of which she can offer footnotes to.
 
The book really didn’t need the turn to spirituality it took toward the end. It was very out of place.
 
Trim the personal anecdotes to anecdotes/illustrations, amp up the advice (and the reasons for it) and you’ve got a decent, albeit shorter, book. But as it is, it’s hard for me to say that a reader or listener isn’t wasting their time.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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Do I need my usual disclaimer about not being a poetry reader here? 

Probably not, but I’ll throw it up anyway. This is the fourth time in about 10 years of blogging on this site that I’ve posed about a book of poetry. There’s a reason for that. I typically don’t like them. 

There’s also a reason that I had to buy, read, and post about this one—after Facebook’s algorithm inexplicably started showing me his poems for a stretch back in January, I had to read more of them. So I bought this book, and now I have to talk about it. Because I try to do that about every book I read, but primarily because I want more people to have the opportunity to have fun with him. 

What’s You Took the Last Bus Home About? 

This a lengthy collection of poems (well, maybe not—it’s the lengthiest I own outside of textbooks, anyway) about love, loss, politics, and “everyday places and situations” (as he describes them in the Introduction—which I somehow skipped over until just now). Everyday situations like—someone wanting to borrow a phone charger (and being denied), beards, search engines, playing with a dog, and so on. 

Bilston closes the Introduction by saying 

 
And Bilston looks that hard.
 
Playing with Form
One of the best things about poetry is the ability to use form to communicate. To play with the placement of the words on a page, and how they’re presented to get the meaning across—sometimes more effectively than the words used.

Bilston is a master of this.

From decreasing the type size in “Unforseen Consequences” to rotating the text in “Ode to a USB Stick” or something as simple as embracing the traditional shape of a Christmas tree in “Needles” (and then tweaking it), the visual impression of each page got you in the right frame of mind before you started reading.

See also his use of Flow Charts, Org Charts, Excel worksheets, etc.

So, what did I think about You Took the Last Bus Home?
I remember in college classes about poetry there’d be a certain tone of voice used with the phrase, “light verse.” It was eerily similar to the audible sneer used for the term “genre fiction.” And I get that—it’s the same reason that comedies are almost never nominated for an Oscar. It’s not right, but I get it.

But to brush this collection off because Bilston frequently brings the funny is a mistake. This is some really clever work–when he’s funny and when he’s not. The fact that he’s so frequently amusing (to one degree or another) means that when he drops that and goes for serious, earnest, or thoughtful—those are even more powerful (for example, “Refugees”). It shouldn’t be overlooked that he frequently is thoughtful and humorous in the same poem.

I like the creativity, I adore the wordplay, and—as always—I’m a sucker for anyone who makes me laugh/chortle/giggle/smile on the majority of the pages. I audibly laughed at the ninth poem—and several after that. My favorite haiku ever is to be found in these pages (and probably most of the top ten of that list, too*)

* A list that I didn’t realize I’d need/want/have until I started this book.
 
Did I love every poem? No. Did I skim a few? Yup. But in a collection this size, that’s to be expected, right? Particularly when it comes to someone who isn’t particularly a fan of poetry in the first place. The overwhelming majority of them absolutely worked.
 
This is a book to spend time with—open it up randomly, or read from cover to cover—whatever. Don’t do it all in one sitting, obviously—although I think it’d be easy to do, I typically read at least two more poems than I intended to per session (usually more than two). But it’s hard to appreciate them if you gorge yourself.
 
You’re not just going to want to read these yourself—you’re going to want to share these. I also couldn’t help but read a poem to whoever happened to be in the room with me—or make someone else read one that I really appreciated (especially if you needed to see it for full impact). My daughter received several messages from me that consisted of a quick photo of a page or two almost every time I sat down to read this volume.
 
I can’t say enough good things about this. I’ll be buying more of his work soon.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader along with a Q&A with the author
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What’s BaIT About? 

Amber is a few short months away from leaving high school behind, going to college, and studying to become a teacher. It will be difficult saying goodbye to her best friend, Jessica, who is moving across the country, and to her boyfriend (and almost certain future husband), Frankie, who is also moving out of state for college—but she’s going to be okay. She has a plan, she’s got her hunk of a boyfriend, and life is looking good. Her future’s so bright, she’s gotta wear shades. 

Until one day when a young man comes into the coffee shop that she’s working in and takes her breath away. He’s gorgeous, he’s shy, and she can’t stop thinking about him. It’s not just her, Jessica, is almost as smitten—but Bastian (as they learn he’s called) really only seems interested in Amber. 

What neither girl realizes that beyond their giggling lusting and certainty about true love—Bastian coming into their lives brings threats and complications that they didn’t know existed. It’s not long before Amber is involved in ages-old struggles between werewolves and vampires, werewolves and werewolves, and a father and son. None of these characters will move on unchanged. 

Worldbuilding 

This is the best part of the book, period. The particular take on Werewolves here (and to a lesser extent, Vampires) really worked for me. There’s a little bit of the flavor of The Marrok from the Mercy Thompson series—but there’s group of elders instead of just Bram (and many other differences, but like I said—flavor). 

There’s reason to think that this exists in the same world as his Mostly Human books. But it feels like the werewolves are organized differently (for lack of a better term). This raises some questions: are there multiple types of lycanthropes in this world and different types of lycanthropic magics? Has Jolly changed the way he thinks about them in this world? Has he just been inadvertently inconsistent? I ask about this in a Q&A with Jolly that will go up in an hour or so, but I haven’t read his response yet. So go see what he said to get a better take on this paragraph. 

There’s also this Djalia-esque place/plane of existence where Bastian communicates with some people who I won’t identify. That was an excellent touch and proved to be a good way for Bastian to develop. 

Even the concept of soulmate is an intriguing addition to this world—and if it had been presented differently, I might not have the concerns I’m about to talk about. 

Consent 

Vague spoilers ahead. Feel free to skip to the next section header. 

This novel was pitched to me as “a Paranormal YA-Romance novel focusing on the theme of consent”. This is not my typical cup of tea, but I’ve read enough of all of those to be interested in Jolly’s take on them (especially in combination). When I wrote about his Mostly Human 2, I talked about wanting to see a Lad Lit novel by him, and this might be something in that direction. So I went for it. 

First, this is not what I’d call YA. NA/New Adult—sure. But that’s not what I want to talk about. 

There is a storyline that comes up later in the book all about consent in the ways you typically think about that storyline. Impaired judgment tied to underage drinking (not for a second saying it’s deserved or excusable, just painting the scene) and some jerk not bothering to get consent (or care about it in the first place). It’s dealt with well, Jolly is really good here. I do wonder if the punishment fits the crime, but hey…when you deal with werewolves and vampires (even if you don’t know it), things happen. 

If that’s all that happened, I’d wonder why it was described as “about consent” because while it’s a vital storyline, it happens relatively late in the novel. 

I can’t help but wonder, however, how the novel undercuts what it wants to say about consent. Throughout the novel Amber, Jessica, Frankie, and Bastian are really careful along those lines, and everyone is open and honest about their desires. But there’s this magic whammy of the Soulmate at work. Where Amber and Bastian are tied together emotionally, physically, and supernaturally before they know each other. 

Can Amber and Bastian truly be said to consent to anything? It’s definitely not an informed consent. Had the whole soulmate thing grown out of their bond, or enhanced what happened naturally, that’d be fine. But truly they had no agency here—they chose to spend time together, to love each other, to be intimate with each other, and so on. But could they have made any other choice? I can’t buy it. 

I might have missed something. I might be misinterpreting something—I absolutely am open to that. 

But for now…ick. 

So, what did I think about BaIT? 

This is a tough one to write. Jolly and I have interacted a bit over the years and I like him as much as you can like someone you’ve emailed with a couple dozen times. I enjoy his writing on the whole and look forward to seeing new books by him. And I have no doubt that there are people who are really going to get into this book and want more like it. And more power to them. 

I am not one of those people. 

It’s not just the consent issue (although that’s part of it). It’s not that I’m a prude and this book is definitely (and almost aggressively) “sex-positive” (although both are true, I’ve read and enjoyed more graphic work since this book). 

Some of what put me off were the intensity of every thought and emotion expressed—it really felt like everything said, thought, or felt by the characters in their teens and twenties should’ve been accompanied by 5+ exclamation points. The pacing of the relationships, personal growth and change, and the story felt off and too accelerated to be believable. 

I really think that this book plays into his strengths (it’s very much along the lines of the parts of Mostly Human 2 that I thought were the most successful). There are some great moments (Frankie witnessing werewolves changing and realizing what he was seeing, for example). There were some promising characters. Again, I really liked the Elders council idea. But for every “pro” in this book, I had two or three “con”s. 

I’m not—very carefully and deliberately—saying, “don’t read this book.” I’m saying, “go into it with open eyes.” It’s a book that feels to me like it needs—like its primary characters—to grow up and mature a bit. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s A Necromancer Called Gam Gam About?
Twelve-year-old Mina is being pursued by armed men—armed men who had just killed her father. She has a special kind of magic, and those in power want to use her because of it.

She runs across a kindly grandmotherly type who introduces herself as Gam Gam. Gam Gam, it turns out, is a necromancer with a soft spot for endangered little girls. (probably endangered women, and males of all ages, too). She takes her Mina in and promises her safety. Gam Gam is a necromancer and can back up that promise (not definitively, but more than most people can).

They tell each other their stories—Mina tells her why she’s on the run, and Gam Gam tells her that she became a necromancer after the death of her grandchildren so she could resurrect them.

But first, Gam Gam decides that she needs to do something to keep Mina safe.

The Types of Magic

 
Great question. But that’s not what I want to talk about here.
 
We see two types of magic portrayed with our two protagonists—with others floating out there in this world for us to encounter in future installments, I assume.
 
Necromancy is rarely something I’m interested in reading about unless the necromancer is about to be thwarted. I know there are exceptions (including here), but it’s hard to think about magic involving reanimating the dead as a good thing. But Holcombe not only makes that specialty seem interesting but gives the reader a necromancer you can root for.
 
I really liked the way one of the characters describes Gam Gam’s magic to Mina. It grounded the practice, for starters—you could understand it. It’s also idiosyncratic enough to fit Gam Gam to a T. From that point on, I could see that explanation at work—even when the text doesn’t refer to it.
 
Now Mina’s magic is a kind I’ve never encountered before—maybe a few things like it (particularly in SF rather than fantasy)—but it took almost no time at all for Holcombe to convey the potential—both for a character in fiction, as well as for an evil empire to exploit. In the hands of someone with little experience—for example, a 12-year-old—it could be dangerous. Okay, it could be dangerous in the hands of anyone, but people with experience would control and target the damage they inflict, a child would just inflict damage.
 
Having a novel (or novella, in this case) with a great magic system is a good start—but it’s how you convey the use of magic to the reader that’s the make/break point for me. And Holcombe nails this part. Mina’s as well as Gam Gam’s. This is a big selling point for me.
 
The Unexpected Content

 
Okay, you’ve got this friendly and caring Grandmother-type character. You’ve got a lost little girl who needs comfort. There’s a cute (in a certain way) cat. And using knitted goods as a bribe/reward/gift for the undead. Really, this sounds like it’s full of warm fuzzies and maybe a little bit of fun along with the adventure that a Fantasy should bring. Rightly or wrongly, I expected something with a similar tone to A Wizard’s Guide to Defensive Baking.

And it’s there. However…

You’re dealing with a twelve-year-old girl whose devoted father was murdered in his own home trying to protect her. She’s on the run from armed men who are out to use her for their own purposes. You’re also dealing with an elderly woman who mastered an entire type of magic at her advanced age fueled by grief in a gambit to cheat death. There’s nothing warm and fuzzy there.

These two characters are suffering—they need each other to get through what they’re dealing with. There’s healing (and the promise of more to come). But healing, comfort, and all that comes at the end. The cliché “the only way out is through” comes to mind here—most of this book (and likely future books) is in the “through.”

This is a bigger selling point for me.

So, what did I think about A Necromancer Called Gam Gam?

 
I was charmed instantly by this book, and that only grew throughout. Particularly once I cottened on to the fact that it wasn’t going to be a cozy kind of read—despite the scarves and sweaters. Once I saw what Holcombe was up to, I really got into things.
 
I don’t want to spoil anything but don’t get attached to any character. Just sayin.’ (okay, it’s called Book One of Chronicles of Gam Gam, so it’s probably safe to get attached to one. Although, given the loose correlation between death and characters doing things in this book…)
 
Holcombe has created a great little world for his characters to dwell in, and pairing Mina and Gam Gam together is a big one. He knows how to show the emotions of the moment—and to get the readers to buy into it. Even better, his depictions of the way magic works here are really well executed.
 
Even his choice of novella-length was smart. This isn’t a story that would work well with another 2-300 pages to tell it. Nor should it be the first part of a novel—this tight story is one that needs to be by itself.
 
I see that there’s a short story in this world that takes place sometime before this novel. I’ll be jumping on that soon while I begin the wait for Book Two.
 
This is a short read that packs the punch of a longer one, and I encourage you to give it a shot.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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First things first 

I read a Beta copy of this—but a late-stage one, I think—so not a lot will have changed between what I read and what you’ll hopefully read. Still, there’s a chance that some things will have improved by the time you get to it. 

What’s Mrs. Covington’s About? 

This is a cozy fantasy, and as holds true for most of them, the plot could be summarized in a sentence or two. So I’m going to try to do that in a way that leaves some mystery. 

Jacob is the son of one of the wealthiest businessmen in the Archipelago*, and is being pressured to join the family business, groomed to take it over, and so on. But he wants his own life. He wants something more than just carrying on his father’s work. Possibly even adventure. A life at sea perhaps? 

* Yes, it takes place in the same world as the Azure Archipelago series, but it’s independent of that series and you don’t need to know anything about it to read this. 

He’s dissuaded from pursuing that by someone he respects and looks for a new way to establish his own path. While doing so, he stops by a quiet pub in the city he’s visiting for a drink. While there the owner (mostly) jokingly offers to sell him the place. After thinking it over a bit, Jacob does that. 

The bar is named for its resident capybara—Mrs. Covington—at sea, the capybara is supposed to bring good luck. She hasn’t seemed to do much for the pub yet, but maybe soon. 

The first thing he has to do is find a way to make a profit—he offers the two employees there (a human, Tadrick, and a cigupa, Cora) full partnerships if they help him get this place in shape. Together they come up with a new business plan, redecorate, and start to devise new ways of bringing in customers (not all at once and not necessarily in that order, but I’m trying to summarize). The other thing Jacob does is befriend his neighbor, a widowed faun trying to raise two children and run a restaurant. 

These four become friends and start to collaborate in a handful of ways. 

When he bought Mrs. Covington’s, Jacob also received the parchment describing a local treasure hunt that belonged to the pub. People have been looking for the treasure for a while, and there’s no reason to think that Jacob and his new friends will have more success than anyone else. But like Wade Watts and his chums, they might as well try, right? 

Platonic Relationships FTW 

There are plenty of romantic relationships in this book, but none of them are the focus (as much as Cora’s parents try to steal focus with theirs). There’s even a nice past romance and the promise of a potential future one by the end of the book. But the relationships between the core characters are entirely platonic. 

I don’t mind romantic stories or arcs—I think they’re a great way to show character, develop character, advance a plot, etc. But a good platonic friendship is one of those things that I admire more and more all the time—particularly between people who’d likely be coupled up in other books. 

If the studies and stories I read hold true, friendships between adults are less and less common, and (American, at least) adults are more and more lonely and isolated. So maybe books about good friends are a new form of aspiration/fantasy? We don’t need to read books about swooning over someone we fancy anymore, just stories about falling into deep like? 

Whatever lies at the root of it—I liked these friendships. All of them—the mutual support and encouragement in whatever configurations of characters were solid. Mrs. Covington’s sounds like a great place to hang out—maybe if you can’t hang out there with your own friends, reading about others doing it is a handy substitute? 

Interludes 

Something I should’ve mentioned in my beta feedback are the Interludes.* Three times we walk away from the story to get a glimpse of what’s going on with good old Mrs. Covington. 

* Whoops. Sorry, K.R.R.! I’ll make it up to you next time. 

These don’t advance the plot, give insight into the other characters, or anything like that—I’m not even sure they give insight into Mrs. Covington, because that would require a level of self-awareness that the rodent doesn’t seem to possess. 

They are simply interludes. Nice, short, and quiet breaks from the novel. They’re the literary equivalent of taking a brief break to watch nature videos on Youtube or something. I’m just theorizing here, but it wouldn’t surprise me to find that they’re largely inspired by Lockhaven taking writing breaks to watch capybara videos. 

I’m not sure why I used the term “quiet” there, it’s not like I’m talking about an audiobook here, but it fits. I guess it felt to me like there’s a film score playing quietly in the background (except when the band, Bilge Rat, is performing), and then the music dies for these interludes and all you get is crickets in the background or the sound of birds in the distance. 

I’ve spent far more time than I originally intended to trying to describe the effect of these breaks. All I meant to say is that they’re an unexpected (unless you just read this) and thoroughly pleasant little addition to this book—and the kind of thing that most authors wouldn’t have thought to throw in. 

I doubt that Lockhaven would be able to find enough of a story to justify a novella or novel along these lines. But a collection of scenes/episodes/random days in the life of the titular capybara would be something I’d jump on and probably return to often. Especially if he could get a great illustrator on board.* 

* There’s your next Kickstarter, K.R.R. You’re welcome. Maybe this evens the score? 

So, what did I think about Mrs. Covington’s? 

I joked earlier about the plot being minimal—although it’s true. That’s not to say that the plot is inconsequential or bland. It’s a fun little story–Treasure Hunts have been a tried and true story engine since at least the time when Jason and his pals went on that cruise. And who can’t relate to a group of friends coming together to build something special? There’s enough plot to get your teeth into even while it’s not likely to be what you focus on. 

I’ve made it this far and haven’t even talked about the villain of the piece. Ugh. You can tell how much importance I put on him. Think Charles Durning’s Doc Hopper from The Muppet Movie or Chris Cooper’s Tex Richman from The Muppets, or a good number of the men behind the masks in the original Scooby-Doo series. I’m not sure why I’m stuck on examples like them instead of something more highbrow, but that’s the frame of mind I’m in. He’s mean (actually, I don’t think he cares enough to be mean…maybe spiteful?), he’s power- and money-hungry, and doesn’t like anyone not acceding to his whims. He’s perfect for this story—and not that important ultimately. Yes, he’s standing in the friends’ way, so they have to do something—but he’s not as present as other obstacles. 

I do have some quibbles about the timing of some of the elements. I think some of the relationships develop too quickly, and I wonder about the timeline for a couple of things. I don’t know if Lockhaven’s able to massage that a bit before the final version comes out, but I do think it needs some tweaking. That said—they’re only quibbles. I liked where every relationship went, how they developed, and so on. And all the events that happen too suddenly for my comfort? I enjoyed them all and understand why he put them where he did. So ultimately, I don’t care if that kind of thing works well because I enjoyed the results. To paraphrase Joel Hogson, “repeat to yourself, “It’s just a book, I should really just relax.” 

And it’s easy to relax with this book—because it’s such a pleasant, comfy atmosphere. A treasure hunt with the staff of the friendliest bar this side of Cheers! might be the plot of this cozy fantasy novel. But the book’s core is kindness, community, optimism, and helping. Brought to you in a great fantasy world with a light and engaging voice, Mrs. Covington’s will leave you snug and content. 

The book delivers on what it promises—comfort. Warm fuzzies. Kindness. Good times. It’ll brighten your day, and make the world feel like a better place for a bit. 

Read it when you can. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s 100 Places to See After You Die About? 

Ken Jennings provides a handy tour guide through one hundred visions of the afterlife for the modern reader. Complete with tips on places to see, areas to avoid, local lingo, bits of trivia, dining tips, and so on, it’s just the kind of thing you’re going to want to peruse before you shuffle off this mortal coil, so you know where to go. 

The book is broken down into: Mythology, Religion, Books, Movies, Music and Theater, and Miscellaneous. Then (alphabetically) Jennings looks at a variety of afterlife locales in each category. 

For example, the Books section covers: 

 
* From Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia and The Great Divorce; O’Connor’s story “Revelation”; Saunders’ Lincoln in the Bardo; Milton’s Paradise Lost; Albom’s The Five People You Meet in Heaven; Dick’s Ubik; Sebold’s The Lovely Bones; Dante’s The Divine Comedy; Twain’s “Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven”; Rowling’s Harry Potter; Moore’s Jerusalem; King’s Revival; O’Brien/O’Nolan’s The Third Policeman; Farmer’s Riverworld; Matheson’s What Dreams May Come; Oliver’s The Time Bubble; and Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings.

Jennings describes each place with wit, humor, Dad Jokes, puns, irreverence, and plenty of facts.

Dancing Through a Minefield
It’s one thing to talk about places like Valhalla, Hades, The Bad Place, Bill & Ted’s Bogus destination, or Futurama‘s Robot Hell in a light-hearted or flippant fashion. It’s an entirely different can of worms to discuss the LDS Three Kingdoms of Glory, Jannah, Jahannam, Ariel Toll Houses/Telonia, and so on—in the same tone.

I will not say that Jennings was able to fully succeed in discussing the afterlives described in some major religions in an unoffensive manner. Primarily because I’m not an adherent of any of the religions he discussed, so my tolerance for that is really high. Had he tackled something I believe in, I very well could’ve been at risk of insult.

That said, I think he did okay. Yes, he walks close to irreverent. But he maintains a decent degree of respect. The humor largely comes from the way he describes the beliefs not at the expense of an article of faith.

Still, some people might want to skip over a chapter or two if they’re worried about getting their toes stepped on. (but those people probably aren’t going to be reading this book in the first place)

A Few Highlights
Ohhh, there are just so many.

The Books section was my favorite—followed closely by Movies and Television—this is the kind of thing I blog about, think about, and so on, so it makes sense that those sections resonated with me most. The Books section, in particular, discussed portions of those works in ways I could really sink my teeth into.

But there were multiple highlights in each section—I learned a lot about D&D, I couldn’t help singing “Ghost Riders in the Sky” during that chapter, I think he pointed out a good plot hole in It’s a Wonderful Life (I don’t know, maybe he’s not the first), I loved the discussion of Bosch’s paintings, and so on.

The chapter on The Good Life was fantastic—a great systemization of the series’ take on the afterlife (and several characters). The chapter on Nirvana was sublime.

Books, movies, mythologies, songs, etc. that I’ve never heard of, much less, read/watched/listened to/studied were described in enough detail that I could appreciate those chapters and maybe even develop an interest in following up on.

Problems/Quibbles/Things That Didn’t Work for Me
Um. Hold on, I’ll think of something.

…

…

oh! Here’s a problem: the eARC came with the typical “don’t quote from this version until verified by the published edition” warning—but it was more pronounced than usual. I really want to use samples throughout this post, but I can’t. (and I wouldn’t have even without this warning, because I know things get tweaked in the final stages).

Actually, I do have a legitimate gripe. There are no footnotes—or even endnotes*—for anything that Jennings says. Most of what the book contains could fall into the category of “General Knowledge” (at least for people who know anything about The Good Place, Dante, or the religion of the Maori). But I wouldn’t have minded a point in the right direction to learn some more details, context, or background on many, many, many things Jennings wrote about.

* It’s been decades since I haven’t asked why a book uses endnotes when footnotes exist, and yet I’d have liked to have them in this book more than the nothing we got. That’s how much this bothers me.

I Can’t Help Pondering…
Given the argument of Planet Funny: How Comedy Took Over Our Culture by Ken Jennings, I wonder about his approach to the subject of the afterlife. Sure, even Planet Funny was frequently funny as it critiqued the overuse of humor in our culture, but for his next book to take this tone, seems to undercut the work.

Or maybe it just shows that even as he can look with clear eyes at some of the weaknesses of our culture, he’s part of it and is subject to the influences. It’s almost like he’s human.

So, what did I think about 100 Places to See After You Die?
This section is going to be shorter than usual because I think I’ve pretty much answered the question already.
 
From the “throwaway lines” to the big ideas, this was a delight from start to finish. I thoroughly enjoyed this approach to the subjects—quick hits that tell you the essentials and make you smile while telling them.
 
Jennings' style is one I aspire to, and can’t say enough good things about.
 
I can’t think of a reason not to give this 5 Stars, but my gut tells me not to. So I’ll knock it down to 4 1/2 (which isn’t a big deal since Goodreads, NetGalley, etc. won’t let me use 1/2 stars, I’ll round up). It’s educational, it’s entertaining, and it’s thought-provoking. You can’t go wrong with this.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Sunbolt About? 

We start with a chase scene through a street market that might as well be scored by Alan Menken (although Jafar or Genie is to be found anywhere in the rest of the book, Hitomi would have no problem with a Jafar). Our protagonist, a thief—and someone of a clearly different ethnicity to everyone around her—is scrappy and nimble, getting away from her pursuers (quasi-official mercenaries) with the help of some of the sellers in the market. 

We learn that this brash young woman is named Hitomi and she’s allied (somewhat) with a group calling itself the Shadow League, which is trying to stand up to an increasingly corrupt and oppressive government. The government is backed by the Arch Mage Wilhelm Blackflame (who is just about to be running everything through puppets). 

Hitomi and some allies head out one night to save a powerful family from arrest and (likely) execution—and almost everything that could go wrong does. Hitomi and some of the family are captured. And then…well, this book about scrappy freedom fighters becomes something very different. 

The World Building 

At the beginning of the book, Khanani provides a guide to pronouncing some of the names in the book—I always appreciate that kind of thing (if one was grading, I’d have gotten a low B, incidentally, on my own). In her lead-up to that, she mentions that the fantasy world she’s created and the cultures within it “are primarily based on a variety of real-world historical cultures.” I wish she’d have listed (at least a partial list) of those cultures just for curiosity’s sake. I spent a little too much time wondering what X or Y came from after reading that. (and was very likely wrong 60+% of the time) 

But ultimately, it doesn’t matter what those sources were, because she’s made them into something new and fit for her world. And whatever the backgrounds may be, they work really well for this novel—perhaps better than it do in our own. It’s familiar and yet foreign all at once. Khanani doesn’t drown us in details or anything like that (thankfully), but you have the impression that everything has been worked out thoroughly (whether or not it has been) and that this a fully-developed world with a fascinating history and a future worth saving. 

We only get a hint of the magic system, but has a lot of promise. The variety of magical races (for lack of a better term) is great, and (again) familiar to a fantasy reader, but specific to Khanani’s world. You can’t help but want to learn more about both the magic system and the races, you get enough to carry you through the novel—but you want more. 

So, what did I think about Sunbolt? 

Sunbolt is short. Freakishly short for the genre, really. But that brevity works so well for this story. Like a wizard and punctuality, this book is precisely as long as it needed to be. It tells the story it needs to in a satisfying manner and then is done. Yes, it prepares you for the second book in the series, but not in a cliffhanger way. 

I wouldn’t have minded if the book was longer if it meant we got to spend more time with the characters—but that’s what a sequel is for, right? 

There’s a moment really early on that made me grimace—Khanani over-explained a moment robbing it of its power. And as I so often do, I murmured a silent plea (pointless since the book had been out for a decade) for her to trust her audience. But that was the only time that the book stopped me with something like that—most of the writing was subtle, nuanced, and smooth. I did have to stop a few times to re-read sentences because I liked them so much. 

Hitomi—fierce, independent, determined, and over-her-head—is one of those characters you gravitate to immediately and while you know she’s making a blunder here and there, you can’t help but root for her. Sadly for her, her blunders tend to work out better than some of her plans—a treat for her readers, however. 

I’m going to avoid a deep dive on the rest of the characters, although I think many of them deserve it. I’m not sure I trust everyone in the Shadow League, but they’re all intriguing characters—and I’d gladly read a Shadow League novel tomorrow to get to know them better. The villains are some of the worst I’ve run across this year, and you can’t complain about that. Then there’s someone who becomes rather important to Hitomi in the closing chapters…I think they could go down as one of my favorites of the year (and easily become someone I despise in a future encounter). 

A well-paced story, with strong characters, and a great fantasy world to explore. That’s all the makings of a winner in my book. Sunbolt is a quick, fascinating read that will make you want to click on the order button for the sequel as soon as you finish. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Death at Paradise Palms About? 

After they solved a murder a few months earlier, the Retired Detectives Club has gained a certain amount of notoriety around the Homestead Retirement Community, so it’s not terribly surprising that when a resident has some concerns they call them for help. Particularly when that resident has had bad experiences with the police previously. 

This particular resident is a retired movie star, Olivia Hamilton Ziegler. Her husband is missing, and she suspects foul play. They’re having no problems and it’s not like him to just not come home, not call, not pick up his phone, etc. 

The Club jumps in, more than willing to help—they find a handful of decent suspects and start to dig into the background of each when a ransom demand shows up. Now they have a pressing deadline and more than a wife’s intuition. It’s time for these retired detectives to get to work. 

Distracted Detectives 

I’m not sure if this says something about Broadribb’s view of Americans, but in Death in the Sunshine we see that the three British retirees have things from their past that are hovering over them. I like that dynamic, but it’s good that not everyone has some deep, dark secret. Rick, our DEA retiree, seems to be baggage-free and easygoing. Maybe that just means we haven’t seen his baggage, or maybe Broadribb just thinks Americans are shallow.* 

* I’m kidding. Probably. 

With our British friends, however, things have happened to push these problems from hanging over their heads to being front-and-center in their minds. Normally this would be good, they’re working on the issues, dealing with the issues. However, when this club is the only one working on this kidnapping—the only outsiders aware of it—dealing with personal stuff becomes a distraction. Potentially a fatal one. 

All three of these people make huge mistakes in the course of this investigation, easily observable mistakes (especially to the reader). And it’s not because they’re older, it’s not because their minds are slower, or their bodies aren’t up to what they used to be able to do—it’s because their heads aren’t in the game. 

This makes for compelling storytelling, it’s great to see flawed characters battling with their flaws—but it’s a good thing they’re all retired because this is the kind of thing that should hurt a career. 

The Series Arc 

Ultimately, I think this series going to be telling the story of the shenanigans at the top of the Homestead Retirement Community. In Death in the Sunshine we see pretty clearly that TPTB filter the news and do what they can to prevent anything negative from getting out to the public or into the residents. And if it does show up, it’s quickly erased. 

This takes work on the Social Media, old-school media, and possibly even law enforcement fronts—there’s no way that it’s all coincidental, unintentional, or any other excusable motivation. So the questions that need to be answered are why is this being done, who profits, who is hurt by this, and what actions are being taken/pressures applied, to get these various and sundry groups to quash the information. 

Some of the residents see that this is going on—but (if you ask me) not enough seem that concerned—Moira sure is and is doing something about it. She’s working with a local reporter, although she has reason to believe that this is not the safest path for either of them to be taking. But that doesn’t seem to deter her. 

I really hope that she’s able to get more of the Club on board with this soon—not that I want them distracted from their next big case. But she’s going to need some backup. 

So, what did I think about Death at Paradise Palms? 

I remember enjoying Death in the Sunshine, but I’d largely forgotten why. It was good to be reminded—this isn’t your typical elderly amateur detective series—this is a grittier take on that trend, full of people who are only amateur now, it wasn’t that long ago they were professionals, and they’ve still got the goods. 

I did clock the Main Bad Guy instantly, and can only excuse the Club for not doing the same because of all their distractions (and because they’re not aware that they’re fictional characters, a lot of what tipped me off came from being a reader). So for me, the tension came from wanting to know how long it would take them to get around to discovering the truth—and how they’d use what they learned from the false trails to get there. That was enough for me—the good in this series doesn’t come from the whodunit—but from how they’re caught. 

This, like all of Broadribb’s work, is a fast and fun read—it hooks you early and doesn’t let go until it’s good and ready to. Just buckle in and enjoy the ride. I can’t imagine I’ll let the next one of these sit ignored on my Kindle as I did this one. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader along with a Q&A with the author.
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What’s The Hero Interviews About? 

The child and sibling of heroic adventurers, Elburn Barr, has taken a different path in life—one fit for someone with his particular set of skills (or lack thereof). He is a Loremaster—no spells, weapons, or danger for him, thank you very much. At this point in his life/career, Elburn has set out to understand what makes a hero tick—what is it that drives them, what early influences molded them, how do they keep going on? Does it vary from type to type? Are Barbarians made of different stuff from a Cleric or a Thief? What about a Ranger or a Wizard?

In addition to interviewing various leading examples of each type of hero, he talks to non-heroes, too. Like a farmer whose farm was saved(?) by some heroes from a dragon, the curator of a hero museum, people who run/design dungeons, etc. 

We get these interviews in transcript form—with a little introduction from Elburn at the beginning of each, and maybe a little narrative about what’s going on around them during the interview, or what he does after. But primarily, it’s transcriptions of the interviews. 

In addition to trying to understand the heroic psyche in general, Elburn’s hoping to understand and maybe connect with his adventurer-filled family. But he has an ulterior motive for all this—his older brother went off adventuring ten summers ago, and Elburn would like to know what happened to him. He’s hoping to find him alive somewhere but will settle for just knowing what happened.
 

This sounds heavy—but I should stress that this is a comedy. There’s a serious story (or three) being told, sure. But the book is a comedy. 

Comic Footnotes 

I’m a long-established fan of comic footnotes in novels—see what I’ve said about Josh Bazell, Lisa Lutz, Thomas Lennon, and K.R.R. Lockhaven for example. But Ewington puts them all to shame. 

At least in terms of volume—there are almost 2 per page, although I’d have wagered it was higher than that (that’s an average—there are pages with several). Occasionally, it feels annoying to stop the flow of what you’re reading to check it. All I can say is that if you’re feeling that way, just keep reading and then circle back for the footnote after that bit of dialogue or at the end of the chapter—it’s not going anywhere. 

On the whole, they work better in the moment without doubling back, so click the link if you’re not at the annoyed point. I did it both ways depending on my mood and can vouch for both methods. Whatever you do, don’t skip them. 

You get a good sense of Elburn’s personality and attitude toward his interview subjects from the main text—but it really shines forth in the footnotes. To really understand the protagonist, you need to read them. 

But your comedy-per-word ratio is higher in the footnotes, too. In the main text, comedy has to come out of the words, situations, and characters. In the footnotes, Ewington doesn’t have to do that—he can just make the joke. Frequently, that’s all it is—the joke. Neither is a superior joke-delivery method, it’s just easier to get to the funny bit in the footnote. 

Audience 

Anyone who’s into Fantasy to one degree or another is going to be able to appreciate most of what Ewington’s doing here. There is a pretty solid D&D-basis to everything, however, so the more you understand and/or have been exposed to the game. 

The Length 

There’s no getting around this point, The Hero Interviews is long. One might argue that it’s too long. I’m not sure I’d agree—but I wouldn’t disagree. 

Early on (maybe around the 20% mark), I started to wonder if this thing wouldn’t work better as a trilogy. Break this into (roughly) thirds, add a 1-3 page Epilogue/Prologue to each to connect them and it’s a lot easier to digest. I think it’d work. Check out my Q&A with Ewington to see why he disagrees with that idea. I’m not entirely convinced, but at the end of the day, it’s not that important. 

I do wonder how many readers will find their patience pushed by the length—I’d tell them to stick with it because it’s absolutely worth it (but taking a break every few chapters isn’t the worst idea). 

A practical downside to the length is that it’s likely cost-prohibitive to publish this in paperback. This is a real shame because everyone I can think of to give this to won’t read it in ebook. (but I’m trying to think of a way to work around that) 

So, what did I think about The Hero Interviews? 

I hate when people drag out Douglas Adams or Terry Pratchett when talking about humorous SF/F, but I can’t get away from this one. For a long time, I’ve said that Life, the Universe, and Everything by Douglas Adams isn’t so much a novel as it is a series of comic episodes/scenes/bits trying to look like a novel.* As I’ve been trying to come up with a succinct way to talk about this book the last few weeks, I’ve decided that it’s the opposite—it’s a novel trying to look like a series of comic episodes/scenes/lines. 

* I feel compelled to add at this point that I love the book, some of my favorite lines/paragraphs/ideas from Adams are in it. But it’s not a good novel. 

It takes a while to see the plotlines emerge—it really does seem to be a light-hearted look at D&D clichés, stereotypes, tropes, etc. at the beginning, but eventually, you start to see the story arcs emerging and even start to see Elburn grow and develop. That’s something I didn’t expect to see when I started reading this. 

If only because I have memories of interview transcripts and fantasy humor (and sadly, not much else), I expected this to feel like Off to See the Wizard by Clay Johnson, but it really doesn’t. Ewington’s ambitions are larger—and he packs more jokes into his pages. Ewington is also more interested in playing with the tropes and types of the genre, while Johnson was working within pretty well-established types. 

Once I got to the interview with Gwenyn, the poor farmer with a field ruined by a dragon corpse left behind by heroes, I knew this book was for me. The Mime Warrior interview was so ridiculous that I had to love it—and I even came around to the least-Conan-like Barbarian (I admit I had a hard time with that one at first blush). Ewington both seems to embrace and relish going for the obvious joke—but the way he gets there, or what he surrounds the obvious joke with—that’s pretty special and creative. I’m not sure that makes a lot of sense, you’re just going to have to read it to see what I’m trying to communicate. 

It’s really easy to see why Jodie recommended this one to me for the 12 Books Challenge, and I’m so glad she did (I wanted to, but hadn’t gotten around to buying it until she did). You should pretend that she recommended it to you, too (here, read her post about it). I mean, I’m recommending it to you—but maybe you’ll listen to both of us more than you’d listen to just me. 

You’ll laugh; you’ll chuckle; you’ll grin; you’ll shake your head and roll your eyes while wondering, “Did he just find another way to make the same fireball joke?”*; and you’ll have a lot of fun. No better time than the present to go grab this, you’ll be glad you did. 

* Yes, yes he did. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Haven About? 

Let’s start with a little background: In a slightly future US, a scientist triggers a sudden mutation in people all over the world matching a certain genetic profile—these people developed certain abilities and displayed physical changes to match. Think X-Men like Beast, Nightcrawler, and Angel. For various reasons, these people take on the generic name of Fae and adopt the names of mythical/fantasy species that line up with their appearances/abilities. 

Like every movie and comic book—and common sense—tells us, humans don’t react well to this. In fact, they try to exterminate the Fae. The Fae prefer to live and fight back. Eventually, the war ends and two “reservations” are set up for the Fae to live in. One in northern Canada and one in England. In Europe, tensions ease and the Fae are able to integrate pretty well with humans. In North America, the United States particularly, it gets worse and worse, with vigilantes hunting those newly Changed. 

The novel starts fifty or so years after the war on the worst day of Owen Williams’ life. He’s out for a nice evening with his family when everything goes wrong—his wife dies in a traffic accident as he was speeding her to the ER. It turns out that she was in pain because she was beginning to change into a Gryphon. What’s worse—his children have been taken from his home, apparently kidnapped. 

Reeling, he’s approached by a Fae who offers Owen a choice. Come along as they smuggle his children to their hidden city for their own safety (it’s likely some or all of his children will Change now) or never see them again. He throws in his lot with the Fae at a time the Cold War between them and the US is starting to heat up. 

The Worldbuilding 

This is a great piece of worldbuilding—yes, there’s an element to it that feels like The X-Men or Alien Nation or other fantasy series about people thought to be fictional revealing themselves to humanity. But while Domace’s take is familiar, there’s a freshness to it, too. 

Also, there’s a reason so many stories are told with a similar framework—it works really well. I’m not criticizing anything by saying it’s familiar, I’m simply describing it. 

The differences between the two settlements (we don’t see the UK version, but we hear about it) is a very nice touch. Our focus is on settlement in Canada, Tearmann. It was very well thought out and executed. My favorite thing is that other than what’s required due to physiology (dragons need more space than dwarves, etc.) the city and society is integrated—dwarves live alongside shades and elves. Sure the wolves tend to pack together, but they also are good neighbors. 

Quibbles 

Please see what I called this section—quibbles. Not “systemic problems” or critiques. 

I think this world’s concept of Fae could’ve been introduced better. I hear “Fae,” I think races/species, not mutation. When it was said that Owen’s wife was Changing it threw me—had this been a secret she’d been keeping from him? Could she change back and forth? 

His children could’ve been better developed and differentiated earlier—for most of the book, my investment in them was solely based on them being “Owen’s children.” For most of them, that changes by the end. But it takes too long for that (also, I had a hard time keeping them straight because we didn’t get to know them as people). This is fine when it comes to Tiffany, his wife—I’m okay with caring about her solely because she’s his dead wife—she dies so early I don’t need to know much about her (see: Uncle Ben Parker, Scout Finch’s mother, etc.) 

One of the quirks of this series is that your fantasy creatures (largely) have everyday names—Jason, Peter, Betty, etc. They’re 0-3 generations away from humans and largely stick with the names they grew up with. This goes down as a plus in my book except for in the beginning—I’m still struggling to figure out what name goes with which of the five Wilson children and I get a Fae team named Jason, Nathan, Tony, Abey, etc. Just so many names flying around without a lot to associate them with. My quibble is only with this being unnecessarily not-easy for the reader. 

Lastly, the events of the novel that come after the Wilsons are smuggled out of the country happen too quickly. We’re told the family adapted and fell into a routine after X happens—and then learn that it’d be three days? That’s not time for a comfortable routine for a family of 6. Deep friendships develop far too quickly, etc. (particularly between Owen and the Queen). Change the specifics about days and weeks in this part of the novel, and I wouldn’t have noticed. But they call attention to themselves when they become too difficult to believe. 

To sort of take back what I said at the beginning of this section—I guess I have a systemic quibble—Domace needed to give everything more space, let it breathe a little, let the reader as well as the characters, be in the moments a little more so things can develop. I loved the platonic friendship between Owen and the Queen, but it happened too quickly, for example. 

So, what did I think about Haven? 

I want to stress here that I enjoyed this—but the things I liked are either too specific for a brief post like this or involve spoilers. I spent a lot of space on quibbles because it takes space to explain them. But something like “I loved the platonic friendship between Owen and the Queen,” is just ten words—to say more would ruin the experience for a reader. 

Here’s another vague compliment—each Change that happens to a Wilson child is done perfectly—the child’s reaction, the family’s reactions, and the community’s are so great that I wanted to read them again just to see. 

There’s a gentle humor shown throughout the book—adding just the right amount of flavor to some descriptions and keeping some dire scenes from being too gloomy. Domace’s descriptions of the people and city of Tearmann are vivid enough to prompt the reader’s imagination to fully see them. 

Do I think this book could’ve been better? Sure—most things can. This is book is so close to being very good that its stumbles seem more obvious than others, though. 

At the end of the day, I liked this book—and am curious about the sequel, because I think the choices that Domace makes are interesting and I want to see how things get resolved. I recommend this to readers of Mike Chen—it’s a similar mix of SF/F story with family drama (the ratio favors the SF/F than Chen’s typical ratio) as well as all readers who want to see a new and fresh twist on familiar ideas.