theirresponsiblereader's Reviews (607)

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Noodle and the No Bones Day About? 

I’m going to assume you, dear reader, are like the 74.3% of humanity and are aware of Noodle (and, as an afterthought, Graziano). Last year Noodle took over the Internet—magazines, websites, TV news shows, social media, etc., etc., etc. People all over the world checked-in daily to see if that day was going to be a Bones Day (where Noodle, an elderly pug, wanted to get up and go for a walk) or a No Bones Day (where Noodle just wanted to stay in bed and relax all day). 

This little book tells their story. It starts off describing their life—and then focuses on the first No Bones Day. Noodle isn’t sick, he isn’t depressed or anything. He just needs to spend a day getting pampered—bonus belly rubs, bonus snuggle time, and bonus snacks. Who can’t relate to that? 

What About the Illustrations? 

I skipped over half the words the first time I opened the book to pour over the illustrations—and I’m telling you, that never happens with me. Even in picture books, words are my priority. Typically, anyway. 

These are simple drawings—there’s not a lot of clutter on the page, or background details. Just a man and his pug and their emotions. The picture where you can’t see Noodle’s face, only the rest of his body (tail end sticking up in the air) as he burrows into his bed is asymptotically close to Aristotelian perfection. The rest of them ain’t bad, either. 

Dan Tavis is a gem. I have bookmarked his site to shop from in case I have to activate Grandpa Mode and need to equip my home and have picked out a couple of things from his Etsy shop that would look good on my walls) 

So, what did I think about Noodle and the No Bones Day? 

Is this the most adorable book that I’ve read this year? Hands down. Will something come along and usurp it? Doubtful (but, please, suggest contenders—I’m sure I could use the pick-me-ups in the months to come). 

There’s a good reminder—especially for the grown-up reading this book to a child—that there are times when someone needs a day (or even a few minutes) to step back from their normal activities to show someone some extra attention and affection. Or be shown that. Even just taking the few minutes necessary to read this book to a child would be a good start. 

This is a cute book. It is sweet. Nigh-unto-irresistible. The illustrations made (and make) me smile. It is perfect to use to cuddle up and read to a child and/or beloved pet. If you’re a fan of Noodle (and, I suppose, Graziano), you’re going to enjoy it. If you’re not a fan of either of them, buy this and improve your life. 

It’s also a reminder that the dog in your life probably wants and deserves a snack right now. Best get on that. 

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A Bit of Backstory 

I read this back when it was first published—I stumbled upon it browsing my library’s New Release shelf and decided to give it a try. I have no idea why—it’s been over a decade, and I couldn’t tell you. It probably seemed like something in the Hornby/Tropper/Gayle-vein, which was/is good enough for me. 

It led me to read the next few books that Rowell put out, too—I had to give up on her stuff once she wrote a book set in the universe that Fangirl wrote fan-fic about. It got too meta for me, and honestly, I couldn’t get into that part of Fangirl in the first place. 

A few weeks ago, my library added the audiobook to its digital shelf, and so it came up again as I was browsing New Releases. Needing a break from my typical listens, I decided to revisit this. I think if I’d thought about the story a bit, I wouldn’t have. But who knows. 

What’s Attachments About? 

I’m not going to be able to give my synopsis, because I’m going to end up tying myself in knots (see below), so I’m just going to appropriate the Publisher’s: 

 
The Other Attachments
Obviously, Lincoln and Beth are the central characters of this novel and the relationship/lack thereof/whatever-you-want-to-call-it between them is the important bit. But the title is Attachments, and it’s the other attachments where this novel shines brightest (and least problematically…but that’s for later).

The e-mails between Beth and Jennifer are what hooks the reader—as much as they hook Lincoln. Their friendship, the support, the advice—that link is what’s going to get the reader invested in Beth.

Lincoln’s lack of attachments to others—other than his sister and mother, anyway—is what’s going to draw the reader in. You feel for him—you know he’s pretty much alone in this world—defined mostly by the broken attachment to his ex-. And that was, what, almost a decade ago? He can’t move on yet—and you see that in his relative lack of attachments. The closest thing he has to a real relationship (of any kind) is with his D&D group. It’s when Lincoln starts putting energy (spurred by reading these emails and realizing he needs something else in his life) into building/strengthening attachments/relationships with others that Lincoln is able to move on from his ex- and turn into someone that would attract Beth (or anyone else, and there are possibilities). Not just attract, but would be good for—he needs to remember how to be a good friend/romantic partner.

This aspect of the novel deserves more space, but someone else needs to do that.

So….How Did this Age?
When I mentioned to my wife that I was listening to this book (that she also enjoyed a decade ago), she asked, “How did that age? Does it work today?” And…I’m not sure.

I reflexively grant the benefit of the doubt to a book written in another period—yes in Classic book X, a character might use a term no one would use today, but that doesn’t mean the book/author is whatever -ist we’d call them now. The most counter-cultural novel of 50 years ago will seem regressive today. So, there’s a little bit of that going on.

Still, there’s no getting around the fact that Lincoln reading private correspondence and basing his infatuation off of that is creepy with a capital EEP. In 2022, there’s no way Rowell gets this published. It’s arguable that she shouldn’t have got it published in 2011.

I’m not saying Beth’s actions toward Lincoln before they meet are less creepy, but they’re negligible. Especially if you compare the two. (really not endorsing moral equivalence the way that it looks there…I don’t think).

But…ugh. This is where I reveal that I’m a horrible person, I guess. The way Rowell presents it, and the way the characters are frank about the wrongness of what he did, kind of wins me over. The last couple of chapters are so sweet that you want to see them get past this horrible hurdle. Rowell’s charm and wit carry you to this point and then you just want these two crazy kids to get past this and live a happy life together.

It’s horrible, it’s terrible, and it’s problematic in more ways than I can express in this post if I talked about nothing else. And that should not be minimized. Buuuut, it’s cute and charming and funny, and you kind of melt. (which probably does that minimizing that I just said shouldn’t be done…)

On the Other Hand…
So I wrote the above section, as honestly as I could, set it down, and did something else. And a voice started yelling in the back of my head. “But Lincoln was wrong!” He cyber-stalked Beth, invaded her privacy, violated his job duties, and probably should be prosecuted.

If I came at this fresh today. If I listened/read this without the baggage of remembering that I enjoyed this, enjoying what Rowell produces (unless it involves adolescent wizards), and generally trusting her—I wouldn’t finish it. I’d have definitively DNF’d this, given it a 1-Star, and written Rowell off forever, not even glancing at anything else she wrote.

How was the Narration?
None of the problems of the work should be laid at Rebecca Lowman’s feet—she knocked this out of the park. It can’t be easy portraying someone reading the emails of others and letting that bring out a personality, but she does it. Also, she makes you believe the emails are dialogue, not extended monologues. Really good job by Lowman (and the director/editor, too).

Lowman also did the Eleanor parts of the Eleanor & Park audiobook. I remember thinking she crushed that, too, a few years ago when I listened to it. Basically, I need to keep an eye out for audiobooks by her.

So, what did I think about Attachments?
I…I just don’t know. I gave this 4 1/2 stars when I first read it. And I can absolutely see why. But I also know that I’d give it 1 1/2 stars as I DNFed it today (Rowell’s wit would’ve forced me to give it that extra half, no matter what moral bankruptcy existed).
 
I did find it interesting that I remembered the plot so poorly—the last hour or so felt like I’d never read it before. I’d remembered a completely different plotline for the last third or so of the book (and have spent a week trying to figure out what novel/movie’s plot I’d unconsciously merged with this one). I got the broad overview right, but wow…the things I got wrong. But then again, it has been a decade-plus.
 
I can’t recommend this book, and probably shouldn’t have. But if you read it (and can get past the hero being a stalker), you’re going to enjoy it. If Rowell gets back to writing things that don’t involve teen magic users, I will gladly read it. I love her style, her humor, her references, and the way she damaged characters finding love—particularly the way they express that love. Her dialogue is some of the best around.
 
I just feel icky that I enjoyed this so much.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Dirt Road Home About? 

After a succession of horrible boyfriends (abusive, addicts, etc.) over the years, Rose Davis started seeing someone online. And things were going pretty well for them—so well, in fact, that Rose and her adolescent sons move from Detroit to a small Tennessee town to be with him. 

Her sons, Logan and Dex, aren’t crazy about this move. Logan (who is the protagonist, by the way) is 6 weeks away from high school graduation and turning 18. Dex is a year behind him. They’re Detroit through-and-through, comfortable on the streets there, they live and breathe internal combustion engines, and cannot imagine living anywhere else, but they have no choice*. 

* Okay, that part rang a little false for me. He’s close enough to 18, that Logan could’ve stayed behind. He could’ve crashed with some friends—or a series of friends—or something. Child Services isn’t going to swoop in and put someone his age into the system. But suspend disbelief for it and it’s fine. 

On their first night in town, Logan and Dex get into a tussle with a couple of local high school football stars, and instead of simply being the new kids in school, they’re those guys. They’re trouble. The fight video is online, putting a giant target on their back. 

Logan’s ability with cars helps him find a niche, a way to fit in. He and Dex take part in some street racing and find some friends—or at least people who aren’t instinctively antagonistic toward them. 

More importantly, Logan meets Leah there. She’s a stunning, confident, and charming young woman in his class who will turn his life upside down. Maybe life in the South won’t be that bad after, all. 

Greg McCarter 

The MVP of this book has got to be Rose’s new boyfriend, the one they move to Tennessee to be with. With only one major character flaw (which, granted, is debatable and a minor spoiler, so that’s all you get), he’s about to perfect as you’re going to get. And sure, those characters are unrealistic, but every now and then, coming across one is fine. 

He’s exactly the kind of guy that Rose needs to be with (even if, like Logan, the reader doesn’t understand her appeal to him). He’s absolutely the right kind of adult make for Logan and Dex to have in their lives. You can’t help but wonder how things would’ve turned out for all four of them had they moved to Tennessee a year or two earlier. 

Still, he’s the kind of guy that would improve almost any novel—if Nader had put him as the central character of a book, he’d be just as appealing—maybe more so. I know my appreciation for this novel went up a notch or two when he was in a scene. 

A Problem that Only I’m Going to Have 

Back in April, Pay Dirt Road was published, and about that time Winding Road Stories reached out to me about Dirt Road Home. I cannot tell you how often I’ve conflated the two titles since then. They couldn’t be more different in any way, but those titles? I have been and am forever going to refer to them both as Pay Dirt Road Home. 

So, what did I think about Dirt Road Home? 

This is tagged as a coming-of-age story. And technically it is, sure. But I’d want to call it something else. It’s a coming-home story, which is tricky because Logan’s really never had one. But that’s what separates this from so many coming-of-age stories, it’s about more than Logan maturing—it’s about the atmosphere that gets him there. 

My only complaint with this book is that everything happens too quickly. I’m not saying it’s too fast-paced, I’m just saying that if Logan had been 3 months away from graduation instead of 6 weeks, and that the events that happened between the fight their first night and the Event That Changes Everything right before the dénouement had taken more weeks, I’d have bought everything a little easier. 

I bought it all in the moment, although there was a voice in the back of my head saying, “Slow down and think about things, kid.” The problem for me came when I put the book down and thought about it. I’m not saying what happens to—and within—Logan and the rest couldn’t happen like that, I just could have accepted and liked it more. Also, I wanted to see the relationships between Logan and those new to his life more—I really liked Greg and Leah’s parents, in particular, and more scenes with them would’ve improved this already good novel. 

Tossing that aside—this is a fun story. It’s sweet, it’s hopeful, and it’s heartfelt. It’s a giant departure from the rest of Nader’s work (judging by the 120 seconds I spent researching him). It’s reminiscent of James Bailey‘s YA novels and Headphones and Heartaches. I need to read things like this from time to time—things that focus on growth, improvement, and contentment/happiness. That’s what this book’s premise promises and that’s what it delivered. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s In a House of Lies About? 

A decade and change ago, a private investigator went missing. John Rebus was part of the team that spent weeks looking for him—interviewing his client, his family, his boyfriend, the target of his current investigation, and everyone else they could think of. At least that’s what the paperwork said. There’s some question about that—and the family of Stuart Bloom has forced more than one investigation into the original search. 

Now his body is discovered—in an area that had been well-searched originally. There’s reason to believe that the body had been somewhere else for years. Now the police—a team featuring DI Siobhan Clarke—have to decide where it was as well as who killed him. This involves taking a fresh look at the old case as well as a new investigation. The original detectives (those who are still alive, that is) and some of the uniformed officers are brought in for questioning—which means that Rebus is under the microscope once again. This suits him fine—it’s a chance for him to have a part in closing the case once and for all (at least in his mind) 

Meanwhile, Malcolm Fox’s boss assigns him to take one final look at the original investigation—given the new discovery, can they find police misconduct at the root? 

Also, Clarke’s being harassed by someone—only crank calls and vandalism, so far. She doesn’t want to do anything official about it, so she asks Rebus to look into things—if nothing else, it might keep him out of her hair while she looks for Bloom’s killer. Might. 

There’s a lot to untangle in these pages, thankfully, Rankin’s three detectives are on the cases. 

What did I think about In a House of Lies? 

This post feels entirely too short. I’m struggling here. What do I say about Rankin or Rebus (or Clarke or Fox) that I haven’t already said? I’m willing to believe that I’ve asked this question when discussing at least 3 previous books. I’m sorely tempted to just post something like: “Ian Rankin wrote a book about John Rebus. You know what to do.” 

I was particularly impressed at the way Rankin got the band (on both sides of the law) back together here—for the reader, it’s expected—probably even inevitable. But it comes across as organic and unforced. Between Rebus’ retirement, and the divergent paths that the others’ careers have taken, that’s no mean feat. Unlike, say, Renée Ballard, Siobhan Clarke isn’t soldiering on with those she can’t trust. Ballard has to get Bosch involved, Clarke chooses to ask for his help and/or lets him push his way in. 

Solid mysteries, expertly plotted and executed, full of characters (new and old) that you believe and get invested in. In a House of Lies feels as fresh and as compelling as Knots and Crosses. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Black Nerd Problems About? 

Let’s just go with what’s on the Publisher’s website to make things easier: 

 
The Fun
This looked like a promising and enjoyable collection (otherwise, why would I have bought it?), and the first few essays indicated that it would be. Then came the fifth essay, “Into the Spider-Verse Got Three Moments Better Than the Best Moment of Your Favorite Comic Book Movie Not Named Into the Spider-Verse. Wow. I listened to it twice (and would probably play it again right now if I had the time). It was more than I could’ve hoped for—funny and insightful, full of joy and intelligence. My expectations had been exceeded and the bar for the rest of the book was raised—thankfully, the essays were up to it.

I’m not going to go on and on about all the essays I wanted to rave about but “Jordan Peele Should Get His Flowers While He’s Here” and “Top Five Dead or Alive: Red Hood in the DC Animated Universe” were almost as good. Words cannot express how much fun I had with “Mario Kart Reveals Who You Truly Are.”

The Serious

 
They’re not as fun, but the essays where they address serious topics through the prism of nerd culture/nerd cultural artifacts are even better.
 
I couldn’t relate—at all—to “My Theory on How Black Folks’ Black Card Actually Works,” but I loved that essay. I thought the approach of “Green Lantern COmics Have Low-Key Been Tackling Police Accountability for a Minute” was inspired. I loved “Chadwick Boseman’s Wakanda Salute Is Canon in the History of Black Language.” “The Sobering Reality of Actual Black Nerd Problems” was powerful and (as it promised) sobering.
 
I was surprised by “Go On: An Evergreen Comedic Series That Helped Me Navigate Loss”—it seemed so far out of the bailiwick of the rest of this book that it took me a minute to remember what show they were talking about. I was one of the 7 other people in the U.S. that watched it all, but I didn’t relate to it the same way as Holmon did. After that essay, I wanted to go find it online and rewatch the entirety of the series (alas, no streamer carries it).

How Was the Narration?
It was fantastic. Holmon and Evans begin the book by talking about meeting at poetry slams—they know what they’re doing behind a microphone. They deliver these essays (mostly separately, but occasionally together) with passion and panache.

I kept the speed on this audiobook low because I enjoyed the narration enough that I didn’t want it to pass by. I’d have easily listened to another 7+ hours and enjoyed it all.

So, what did I think about Black Nerd Problems?
I wanted to make all of the previous sections about two times as long—but I’m entering into that dreaded Chris Farley “Remember when….? That was cool” territory. So I made myself stop.

I’ve never been a manga or anime guy—despite a few attempts at it. So I have no opinion on the content of the essays addressing them. The essays themselves made me wish I was a manga or anime guy so I could really connect with them. As for the rest of the essays? They all worked. I could appreciate them when I didn’t agree with them, and when I agreed with them, I pretty much loved what I heard. I disagree with a lot of the politics discussed, but the way they described them won me over every time—I was always entertained, too. That’s all I want in a book like this coming from a different perspective—you don’t need to convince me that you’re right, just bring a good argument I can appreciate, and, hopefully, entertain/engage me in the manner of the rest of the book.

This mix of thoughtful cultural and social observation with pop culture freak out is exactly what I want to read/listen to. It’s what I want to write, honestly, if I weren’t held back by a lack of both talent and insight combined with the laziness too great to overcome that lack. But when it’s done as well as Evans and Holmon? I’ll just sit back, take it in, and enjoy it. Even when (especially when?) I think they might be wrong about something.

If there’s a volume 2 of this, I will jump on it faster than the Falcon can do the Kessel run. If either writer puts out a book that’s not poetry? I’ll hop on board, too. They’ve made this white nerd a fan.
 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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I feel like I said too much here—I didn’t give away any plot points (I don’t think), but I still think I maybe said too much. I don’t know how else to talk about this novel. Also, I don’t think it matters what I say, just read the first two pages of Don’t Know Tough and it won’t matter what I put here—you’re going to have to read the rest or will just walk away. 

Either way, you’re probably wasting time if you read this post when you could just read the @#$&! book. 

What’s Don’t Know Tough About? 

Billy Lowe is a running back for a small-town Arkansas High School Football team. He’s practically half the team by himself. They wouldn’t be in the State Championship playoffs without him—and they won’t win anything without him, either. 

So when he gets himself in trouble—with the school and potentially the legal system—for repeatedly giving a beating to the son of one of the area’s richest men, their first-year coach’s dreams of glory are in jeopardy. 

Then, the boyfriend of Billy’s mother is found dead—likely murdered. Things go from dismal to worse. 

Billy 

Billy has been valued for one thing in his life—he’s a great football player. He’s the son of a high school football legend. The younger brother of a phenomenal high school player. After High School, he will likely produce a few kids who will go on to be high school football players. 

He’s also the target of his mother’s drunken and abusive boyfriend. Everyone living in their trailer is. Her boyfriend (Billy refuses to use his name) replaced the drunken abusive father and husband who abandoned them years ago. 

His life is defined by football and abuse. Everything else is just filler. 

It’s no wonder then that Billy is full of rage and need for some kind of affection beyond his mother’s imperfect attempts to express her love. 

He doesn’t know how to live. He doesn’t know how to be an adult. He knows how to be hurt and how to hurt. We see that immediately in the first two pages—the next 320 are just the repercussions of that. 

Coach Trent Powers 

Coach Trent sees himself in Billy. His teenaged years featured several different Foster Homes until his high school coach brought him into his home and family and changed his life. He found stability, family, and Christianity. He went on to marry his coach’s daughter. 

Trent wants to copy and paste his experience onto Billy (except that whole marrying the coach’s daughter thing—there’s no way that Mrs. Powers would accept that). He has far less time to replicate that scenario than his coach had, but he still thinks he can make it work. 

He fails to see the things that separate Billy and his teenaged-self. More importantly, he fails to see the differences between himself and his coach. He is earnest, idealistic, and desperate—he thinks he can impose success on the situation if he wants it enough, if he believes it enough. 

At one point, Trent tries to evangelize Billy. It epitomizes this whole endeavor and is one of the more painful scenes in a novel that has an overabundance of painful scenes. I wanted to call a time-out, stop the scene and talk to Trent for a minute. This is not how you present the Gospel, sir, as if simply saying “Jesus” will solve every problem. Go read 1 Corinthians 15:1-11 and try again, stop rushing it. I think he’s genuine, I think this is a heartfelt attempt on his part to help Billy, I am convinced that Trent thinks he’s doing the right thing—but he’s approaching the whole thing incorrectly. 

Trent sees himself as the Evangelical Louanne Johnson/Jaime Escalante/Principal Joe Clark/Sister Mary Clarence mixed with Coach Eric Taylor, who will rescue this kid. Sadly, he’s really just a combination of Ned Flanders and Michael Scott. I liked him, wanted him to succeed, and never thought for a moment he would/could, or should. 

Race 

You hear football, the South, and Crime Fiction and you think this book is going to be about race/racism—at least in part. And you’d be wrong—as hard as that is to believe. 

But you’d also be almost right. One of the more impressive things about Don’t Know Tough is the subtle way it is and it isn’t about race in the South. 

So, what did I think about Don’t Know Tough? 

I was blown away by this. I should stop there before I go overboard with praise. But, I’m not going to. Feel free to stop reading now, though, I’m not going to improve on those six words. 

I should probably start off by saying, as un-American as it is, I don’t like football. I don’t see why it’s popular, I wish so many young people in this country wouldn’t sign themselves up for the lasting physical and mental damage that it brings. I do not understand the religious fervor that grips fans of the sport—particularly in Texas and the South when it comes to high school and college teams. And frankly, I don’t know that I want to. 

But hey, Dani Rojas speaks for millions when he says, “Football is life.” (even if he’s talking about the other football). So bring on the books about it—especially if you’re going to write them the way that Eli Cranor does. If you’re going to give me something this good, I don’t care what subculture, sport, or location it is—I’m going to lap it up. 

As I stumbled through saying above, Don’t Know Tough is about race, it’s definitely about class and family. But it’s primarily about being an adult, about being a man, and how one gets to that stage in life—about mentorship and being mentored. Both Trent and Billy find themselves in situations where they have a greater degree of responsibility than they’re accustomed to or prepared for. Billy is thrust into it by his actions and other people’s actions. Trent decides to take it upon himself. At the same time, everyone around them recognizes them as still being (essentially) children and treats them accordingly. 

This is a novel about heartbreak, despair, about clinging to a dream as it crumbles around you (whether or not you realize that’s what’s going on). There is a sense of inevitability about everything that happens to Billy, Trent, and their families—even if any of them realized what was happening and tried to change things, it just wouldn’t matter. 

And all of it is told in prose that is beautiful, visceral, empathetic, and honest—I cannot convey to you the greatness of Cranor’s writing properly. I’ll either not be effusive enough in my praise, or I’ll come across as over-hyping it. He invites the reader to think about Hemingway* as you read this—in terms of themes, story, and character—but I’d like to think I’d have gotten there on my own. 

* The Old Man and the Sea  in particular, but I think it’s safe to bring other works into the conversation. 

This is a brutal novel. As I read, I wanted it to end sooner than it did to just stop the suffering of these poor characters. But I wanted to read another couple hundred pages of Cranor’s writing. 

Reading Don’t Know Tough is like watching a series of defensive highlights on the NFL Network—hit after hit after hit after bone-crushing hit. It will leave you psychically battered and bruised—and oddly wanting more. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Nothing to See Here About? 

Over a decade ago Lillian and Madison were roommates at a boarding school for the upper crust (or scholarship kids like Lillian). They were incredibly close until Lillian was expelled. Even then, Madison wrote Lillian regularly and Lillian responded sometimes. They didn’t see each other, only corresponded. 

Madison’s gone on to success in politics—first as a campaign staffer, now as the wife of a Senator, who is likely to be tapped for a Cabinet position. Lillian…well, she’s not done really well for herself. The controversy over her expulsion followed her through school—she didn’t get the scholarships she needed to get out of her situation. She’s still living with her mother—which is a pretty contentious relationship. 

Now Madison writes with a job offer/plea for help. The Senator’s previous wife has recently died and he needs to take custody of their children. Madison would like Lillian to act as a governess (Lillian keeps saying “nanny,” much to Madison’s consternation) for them, at least until her husband’s nomination is confirmed by the Senate. 

There’s a catch. The twins will sometimes burst into flames. Like Johnny Storm without the flying or the trip into space that goes horribly wrong. 

They won’t suffer any injury from it, but the same can’t be said for their clothing or anything near them. Lillian needs to keep them out of the press, away from Madison’s son, and hopefully under control. They want to/need to take care of the twins, but really don’t want to have anything to do with them. 

This will be the best-paying job Lillian ever has held. She knows nothing about working with kids—and the only models she’s ever had for it are horrible. But she’ll do whatever Madison asks (and she could use the money). Also, she knows what it’s like to be a kid who needs a break—maybe she can help these kids out. 

A Pleasant Twist 

So you have a couple of kids who burst into flames from time to time. 97% of authors are going to devote the novels to the rest of the characters spending the bulk of the book trying to figure out how or why that happens, and what they can do to stop it/duplicate it/fight crime with it. 

Wilson’s in that other 3%, thankfully. Yes, there are some efforts to learn why it happens, but that’s never the focus—and most of the time, those who are investigating aren’t characters who were supposed to be that sympathetic. 

The focus remains on the kids as kids—how does Lillian help them feel safe? Wanted? Normal? She does work with them on not bursting into flame—but it’s not so much about the ability/affliction, but about helping them to be comfortable in their own skins—whatever temperature it is. It’s about self-acceptance (which leads to control). 

How Was the Narration? 

Normally, it takes me a chapter or two to “get into” a new-to-me narrator, or at least to decide what I think of the narration overall. But Ireland won me over within the first couple of minutes—as a certain janitor says, “I don’t know what IT is, but [s]he’s got it.” 

She’s a narrator I’ll keep my eyes out for. I don’t know that I’ve seen her in anything, but I saw today that she’s going to be in the Justified revival—I’m looking forward to that. 

So, what did I think about Nothing to See Here? 

One of the reasons that I put off reading/listening to this book for so long, was that I remember The Family Fang falling apart in the end—or at least not ending as good as the first 80% or so of the book was*. I was more than a little apprehensive that the same thing would apply here. Thankfully, I was wrong. 

* My memory of it is hazy, that’s just the sense I have—I could be wrong. 

This book started strong and kept getting better—it didn’t end like I thought it would but ended the only way it could’ve (in retrospect). The only way it could’ve been better is for the middle bit to be longer and more detailed. These are fantastic characters, and the concept is just as fantastic. These kids belong in a speculative work of some kind—SF or Fantasy (Urban or otherwise). But no, Wilson puts them in the middle of a family drama. And it’s great to see. Funny, warm, and heartfelt—Nothing to See Here scored on all fronts for me. 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s Heroic Hearts About?
In her Foreword, Kellie Hughes describes this as
 

 
Who doesn’t love a hero story? Here we have twelve stories from a dozen UF authors all approaching this idea in their own distinctive ways. Some are stand-alones, some are parts of a series.
 
Authors I’m Not That Familiar With (if at all)
It’s the rare anthology that will be full of only authors you know well—half the point of one of these is to be exposed to someone new so you can decide if you want to read more by them.

Charlaine Harris wrote the only story I didn’t appreciate in this collection, I just couldn’t get into it. That’s likely something to do with my mood/what I ate today/something else. Most days, I simply wouldn’t have cared—I don’t think it’s in me to really like this one.

I thought the rest of the stories were entertaining and well-executed, but a few are going to get me to keep an eye out for authors/series. Chloe Neill’s “Silverspell” tempted me to check out the rest of that series, these are characters and a world I could spend more time with. Jennifer Brozek’s “The Necessity of Pragmatic Magic” was great—ditto for “Grave Gambles” by R.R. Virdi.

“Troll Life” by Hughes was just wonderful. It’s everything you want in a short story—we’re given a well-developed world, a handful of strong and interesting characters, a good plot, and it just made me smile throughout.

Authors I’m Very Familiar With
Kevin Hearne, Patricia Briggs, and Jim Butcher are what brought me to this collection. I’ve read everything I can by them, so that’s not surprising, right?

We meet up with Atticus, Starbuck, and Oberon in Australia, looking into the cause of a massive forest fire, in “Fire Hazard.” It’s told from Oberon’s point of view, which makes it a sure-fire win. I’ll read just about anything in Oberon’s voice—and this story demonstrates why. It’s funny and action-packed. Some of the best lines in the book are in this story, too.

I wasn’t that interested in “Dating Terrors,” by Patricia Briggs based on the idea. “Asil on a blind date” just doesn’t draw me in—sure, I’m curious about Asil’s activities, so I wanted to read it. But the concept didn’t grab me. That lasted only a few pages—now I want to see more about Asil’s date and her friends. Preferably with Asil around, but that’s not necessary. I should’ve known Briggs would hook me by the end, and come into it with better expectations.

This brings us to the story the book opens with (but I saved until the end), Jim Butcher’s “Little Things.” This happens days after Battle Ground, as the city (and its wizard defender) is trying to recover from those events. The “Little Things” this story focused on are Major General Toot-Toot Minimus, his forces, Lacuna, and Mister. When a threat to the castle slips by the guards and other defenses, these heroes have to rise to the challenge. It’s deceptively fun, light, and breezy. But it’s Butcher, you know he won’t let you off that easy. Dresden in the shadow of Battle Ground? The emotional core of this story isn’t small. The story made my day…I’ve got nothing negative to say about it.

So, what did I think about Heroic Hearts?
This is a strong collection of Urban Fantasy stories, with a little something for everyone. Anything I didn’t mention above was fine—they’re all written well, but some characters/stories aren’t for everyone, and that would describe the few I didn’t talk about. Every story was worth the time (except for that thing by Harris, I just didn’t see why that was written—and I wouldn’t be shocked to hear that most readers of the book will think I’m nuts for that).
 
This probably would’ve gotten a warm 3 Stars from me, if not for the Briggs and Butcher stories. I enjoyed almost all of these stories, and really only disliked one. But wow, those two were just outstanding. Nothing that made me as happy as those two did is going to get less than 4.
 
Even if you’re new to the genre or are only a fan of one or two of the authors, I expect you’ll find yourself enjoying most, if not all, of the book. Pick it up.
 

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

When the book opens, Eamon Goodman, the orphaned son of a bookbinder currently a cadet in the final stages of his training as a member of the army of the Master of the River Realm. He doesn’t seem to be very good at being a soldier but is committed to passing and taking the oath. Beyond that, his heart doesn’t seem to be in it, either—but maybe it’s just the best route for some sort of security for him. 

He seems to be a decent guy in an army that doesn’t have a lot of them—although those traits seem to be highly valued. After taking his oath, and achieving more success than seems deserved he meets someone who claims to be a descendant of the true king, deposed some centuries ago. Eamon agrees to work for this King in the capital. 

Eamon isn’t the Chosen One—that’s (presumably) the King. However, Eamon is a direct descendant of the last King’s First Knight—champion and advisor. He’s not the Chosen One—he’s more like the Chosen Sidekick. Eamon’s calling seems to be to aid the King to reclaim the throne and serve him. 

He goes to the capital and follows the King’s wishes. Until, with the help of a beautiful noblewoman, he gets distracted and serves the Master. Then circumstances lead him back to the King. And then…he ping-pongs between the two until he makes a final choice. 

What I Don’t Get… 

I’ve run into this issue before, this isn’t me picking on Thayer. The reader is clearly to get invested in this struggle between the King and the Master, we’re supposed to want to see the Master defeated and the King to retake the throne. But… 

There is no reason to root for the King and his forces here beyond “generations ago his ancestor lost the throne due to the duplicity of his trusted knight. We have no vision of how he’ll improve anything for anyone but those supporters of his that have to hide their allegiance or have to live in his secret campground. His being on the throne would allow them to live openly and/or in society. Yes, he seems to be kind, compassionate, and honorable, but…there are a lot of good guys who happen to be related to someone who used to be in power that shouldn’t be put back in a position of authority. 

There aren’t a lot of reasons for the reader to want to see the downfall of The Master. Sure, he treats those sewing dissension in the populace and/or actively working to bring down his government harshly. But…what government doesn’t? The methods he uses seem extreme and capricious, but also seem like the kind of thing a government in this setting would do. 

Don’t get me wrong, it’s clear that The Master is evil, he manipulates Eamon throughout—and anyone who gets “behind the curtain” to see how the government is run should have qualms about it. But John and Jane Smith working away in their village outside the city aren’t being oppressed. They’re not being starved. They’re not being exploited. The same is true for Jill or Joe practicing their trades or selling their wares in the cities. 

I can tell you why Panem’s President Snow should be defeated. I can tell you why the Golds should be replaced by the government that Darrow’s revolt made possible. The Sheriff of Nottingham? Oh, absolutely—Robin Hood is in the right. The White Witch and her never-ending (and Christmas-free) Winter need to be overthrown. But I can’t tell you how things are going to be better for the River Realm or its people. That’s really hard for me to push past. 

So, what did I think about The Traitor’s Heir? 

Thayer has a thinly disguised allegory here—our protagonist is a good man who has sworn an allegiance to an evil master while being given grace by the rightful king, who appeals to him to freely choose to serve this king. Allegories aren’t necessarily supposed to be subtle, but this was just one degree shy of Pilgrim’s Progress-level obviousness. Go for allegory if you want, but unless you’re Bunyan, do something other than use it like a 2×4 in the hands of “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan. 

Eamon didn’t struggle between the two who wanted his allegiance. If you think of his allegiance as a number line from -10 to 10, he was wholly devoted to -10 and then swung to the other extreme. Then he’d rush back to -10. He never spent any time at 5, or -5—always the extreme. Show me some wavering. Show him spending some time around 0, teetering in each direction. Give me conflict. All I see is a flake that two antagonists are vying over—for no discernible reason than his status as Chosen Sidekick. 

Eamon is a problematic character for me—even without his wavering allegiances. I clearly can’t buy into the political struggle. I’m dissatisfied with the world-building (I had a section detailing it, but deleted it because this post was becoming too negative). This book was headed for the DNF pile…and yet. 

And yet… 

Thayer kept ensnaring me. I couldn’t stop reading. I wasn’t enjoying anything, didn’t think I was reading a decent book—but I had to know what the next page held. And the next. And the next. Sure, I kept checking the page number so I knew how much longer this would go (and kept wishing the number was closer to 541)—but I’d have to see what 253 held. It makes no sense to me—but Thayer got her hooks in me. Her knack for that means I can’t go lower than 3 (begrudging) stars 

So yeah, this was a compelling, if frustrating, read. Your results may vary. I know at least one friend/sometimes reader of this blog will disagree with me (he is, after all, who recommended the book to me). Others are more than welcome—encouraged, even—to weigh in and tell me what I missed. Give this a shot if the idea appeals to you—the trilogy looks like it’ll take a different shape than most. Just that novelty may be enough to intrigue you (it pulls on me). 

 This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.
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What’s This is Going to Hurt About?
This book covers the years that doctor-turned-comedy writer Adam Kay spent as a junior obstetrics doctor in the NHS. I’m going to gloss over the various titles he had because it’s a different system than I’m used to, and I’d botch it—but basically, it’s the first few years post-medical school.

Essentially these are excerpts (details tweaked to everyone’s privacy) from his diaries from that time showing the day-to-day realities he faced. Told with a comedic bent, sure, but it’s just real life—a version of real-life that’s more exhausted, more stressed, and covered in more and various bodily fluids than most of us have, sure. It’s told very anecdotally, he’s not trying to construct a narrative here, just “here’s Day X, here’s Day X +2,” and so on.

He talks about preposterous situations he’s put in because of his low-ranking status and/or NHS regulations, he talks about funny situations with patients, ridiculous colleagues, unsympathetic friends, harrowing experiences, and just strange ones. Given his specialty, he deals with expectant mothers, newborns, clueless fathers-to-be, and heartbreak. We get the gamut here.

Bonus Material
The audiobook I listened to was released with the paperback release and contained some bonus material—a few more diary entries and an afterword. The afterword was essentially a rallying cry for people to support the NHS’s existence.

I don’t have a dog in this fight—but I found his arguments compelling, and I thought his support of the NHS throughout the book (while freely critiquing aspects of it) added some good and necessary grounding to the humor. The life and death aspect of the book did, too—obviously—but that’s common with medical memoirs, this is distinctive (at least in my limited experience)

So, what did I think about This is Going to Hurt?

 
I audibly laughed—twice—during the Introduction, so I was instantly on board with this book. The laughs really didn’t let up. At times, I wondered if it was a little too jokey, and wished we got more of the narrative about his experience—but then he’d say something else funny and then I decided I didn’t care because he’s a good comedy writer. Bring on the jokes!
 
Like the best medical comedies (e.g., M*A*S*H (in all its forms), Scrubs), Kay intersperses the laughs with drama and tragedy—stories of hard-fought success and heartbreaking—even devastating—loss. That augments both ends of the spectrum—while you’re chuckling, you’re more open to feeling the empathy to appreciate the dramatic. When you’re reeling from a hard experience, you need the laughter. If Kay’s TV scripts are anything like this, I wish I could see some of his episodes.
 
Kay handles his own narration here and is great at it, wry detachment mixed with a no-nonsense delivery. He knows it’s funny, so he’s not trying to push the humor, he just trusts the material and lets it do the heavy lifting.
 
When the library told me that my hold for this was ready, I didn’t remember requesting it—wasn’t sure at all why I did. But I gave it a chance, and am so glad I did—it made for a very entertaining 5+ hours. I think you’ll find the same if you give it a try.