Book Review: Horde by Ann Aguirre

Holding your breath for that other book review? Sorry, I work weekends, and I'm just getting to it.

I talked about two books, both the third in their respective series, being disappointments. And while I've found much less to grumble about with this one, there are still a few issues.

Prolific author Ann Aguirre, who writes a lot of YA and who competently handles genres from dystopian, sci-fi, to steampunk while melding genres at will, took on the zombie novel with the first of her Razorland sage, Enclave. It was a Kindle Daily Deal in September, and with its fairly solid reviews and interesting premise, I was intrigued.

Deuce is a young girl living underground, in what used to be the subways, in a small enclave. Her people divide themselves into three archetypes, Builders, Breeders, and Hunters. She's always yearned to be a Hunter, has trained for it, and is about to be given her opportunity to prove herself against the "Freaks" as they're known. Her only problem is that she's just been paired with the outsider, Fade.

Fade's already lost one partner, and because he wasn't born into the enclave but rather found them and was warily accepted into their ranks on the basis of his fighting skills, everyone pretty much avoids him. Deuce isn't pleased.

Soon enough, she and Fade are caught up in dangerous assignments and, worse, Deuce is beginning to realize that perhaps the enclave isn't as well governed and well-run as she thought. Independent thinking comes with some difficulty to her; Deuce long ago drank the punch. But with the evidence piling up in front of her eyes, and with their own ouster and her friends' apparent backstabbing, she must learn the truth of the world below and, frighteningly, above.

As she and Fade learn to rely on each other and fight their way through a post-apocalyptic landscape, they develop a more intense relationship that goes beyond hunting partners.

And if you've ever thought that what a good zombie novel is lacking is hot and bothered romance, you would be right!*

I finished Enclave in a single day, immediately purchased the second book, Outpost, finishing it in a day, and then I waited impatiently for a month until the last of the series, Horde, was released. Are the first two that good? Oh, yes. The third? Well...

Let me get past some basic issues with the series: While Aguirre is a terrific plot master, and she can write action scenes like nobody's business, and she deftly handles the "hot and bothered" parts with spine-tingling aplomb, the actual nuts-and-bolts of the writing is difficult to ignore -- if you're as anal as I am about things like tense and, mostly, paragraph and sentence structure. Clunky sentences abound, not to mention an astounding number of paragraphs that consist of unrelated ideas. There's an awful lot of telling, not showing, as well. And sometimes, dialogue -- especially Deuce's -- comes across flat.

I used to be heavily involved with the Harry Potter fandom, and I was always receiving rec's for fics. Some of them were awfully written, and when I would say that, people would say, "Yeah, but the story is GREAT!" I learned that for many, story trumps all else. I, personally, like a total package -- a well-written, grabs-you-by-the-throat story. But since I managed to get past my misgivings and fly through the first two Razorland books, I imagine many of you will, too.

But the third book. Woe, the third book.

Much as I discussed in my previous post regarding my disgruntlement with Lynch's Republic of Thieves, authors with great ideas tend to start out gangbusters, but then fall flat. So did the Razorland series. It's my opinion that Aguirre wrote herself into a corner, starting out with Enclave and not really visualizing how this all might turn out. Book three, Horde, ends with a deus ex machina -- of sorts. Yes, some hints were dropped in book two, but still, there are so many holes that it loses a lot of credibility. In addition, someone really needs to be in charge of continuity. For instance, in book two, Deuce catches her first sight of the Freak encampment, and she thinks, "It must be a thousand strong." In book three, Morgan asks her how big the horde is, and she replies that she can't count that high, but she saw 500 beans once and it might be more. What? Unfortunately, that happens way more than it should.

Additionally, there's some pseudo-science thrown in to validate the change the Freaks/Mutants are going through, and the speed with which they are changing. There's an entire timeline that doesn't make much sense.

Suspension of disbelief is paramount in order to enjoy most fantasy, sci-fi, etc books. Just don't stretch it too much. Horde, unfortunately, stretched mine to breaking.

Aguirre is a very popular author, for good reason. While I'm ultimately dissatisfied with the ending to the Razorland series, there's a lot to like, and I would certainly give her other books a chance. As for the Razorland series, if you like dystopian YA, and you want a female protagonist who is bad ass while still caring deeply for her friends and partner and who is often altruistic, look no further. It's got that in spades.





*As you probably realized, it's not about zombies at all, in the typical sense, but mutated humans. I thought it was a zombie novel at first. But mutated humans are every bit as good as zombies and deserve the same respect! ;)

Book review: Republic of Thieves by Scott Lynch

It's Friday, and I just finished the second of two books I have been eagerly awaiting for quite some time now. Both are the third in their respective series. They came out within a week of each other, and I raced to finish the first so I could get to the second.

And for the second time in two weeks, I am muddled in confusion and very disappointed.

Let's start with Scott Lynch's Republic of Thieves, one of the most highly anticipated books of the year--or the past five, as, much like GRRM, Mr. Lynch slowed down considerably since his first two books: the fantastically inventive and genuinely charming The Lies of Locke Lamora and its sequel, Red Seas Under Red Skies. Also much like GRRM, the first book hooks you, drags you breathlessly along to a heart-stopping finale, and drops you back in your chair, blinking and wondering what happened to the last twenty-four hours of your life.

I never expect subsequent books in a series to live up to the first. You're living a life of unmet expectations if you do, my friend. But I'd like them to be solid additions, even if they are a bit uneven in places, a bit lacking of that original luster.

I found RSURS to be just that, a solid sequel. It was quite different, but at the end of the day, it's all about the magnificently scheming Locke getting in over his head and losing nearly everything. Here's a man who lives by the adage, Nothing gained if nothing tried. And boy, does he try. In spectacular and spectacularly clever, over-the-top fashion.

So far I've left out the details of the first two books, because A) I expect if you're here wanting a review of RoT, you've already read the first two, and B) because, at the end of the day, despite my disappointment with RoT, I'm hopeful later books will rectify it, and so I'd love you to pick up Lies if you haven't read it.

But here be spoilers for Republic. Stop reading now if you haven't read it.

...

...

...

Okay, first issue: Sabetha has been built up for two books, a mystery woman who looms larger than life over Locke, and it's clear he worships her.

Why the fuck why?

Seriously, that's my question. Is she strong, independent, ambitious, and smart? Yes. She's also self-centered and selfish, plagued by bizarre insecurities, and incapable of considering Locke's feelings in any matters concerning her. Look, either let the guy down permanently and don't lead him on (and don't misuse his deep love for you to, I don't know, POISON HIM), or make a commitment. Have you ever seen a flightier character? The slightest reason to go running from him and she's gone. "Ack! Locke is only interested in me for my red hair! He's the least shallow person I know and has spent years devoted to me but ACK! It can only be for my hair!" Or here's another, in case you think I'm trotting out teen Sabetha unfairly: "Gasp! He may or may not have been a bondsmage in the past who lost his memory but still has some buried love for a deceased red-haired wife and, while I have no evidence but a shifty bondsmage's tale, I shall leave him after at last having passionate coitus! The ultimate sock-it-to-the-balls!"

Please insert multiple other accounts between the years Sabetha was a snotty, self-centered teenager and when she was a self-centered grown-ass woman who should have gained some perspective. If she had changed over the years, I could've gone along with her treatment of Locke when they were young, because we're all stupid between the ages of 13 and 18. But she hasn't changed, and while she constantly demands Locke see things her way and apologize for shit he hasn't even done, she never stops to consider his point of view or his feelings.

I could go on about Sabetha, but let's stop here. Sadly, I think Patience's prophecy in the final section alludes to her becoming pregnant. If so, I will be even more disappointed because two very intelligent characters who understand that their chosen lifestyles are dangerous have had unprotected sex. Come on.

Next issue: Flashbacks are somewhat annoying and almost always add nothing to the plot. So they are here. Cut all the play stuff from the flashbacks and the reader would still understand the dynamic of the Locke/Sabetha relationship. While little was said about it in earlier books, there's enough to go on. The flashbacks to their youth felt like filler.

Which means there wasn't enough meat on the bone for the current storyline.

Lies and Red Seas both had twisty plots that I scrambled to keep up with, and I marveled at the intelligence of Locke (and so, Mr. Lynch). Republic feels like two parties slinging stones at each other across a field. I never quite bought that their actions were in order to secure election wins. If you look at modern-day elections, there's quite a bit of mudslinging and bending the truth and secret deals coming to light and scandal, scandal, scandal, not to mention that it's clear what the parties stand for. I never understood the difference between the Deep Roots and the Black Iris parties; they seemed to be mostly a stage for Locke and Sabetha to work out their relationship. Which, as it turns out, never happens.

Harmless alchemical smoke bombing of party headquarters? Rousting of spies? Bureaucratic annoyances? *yawn* The closest we came to real intrigue was Sabetha's use of Nikoros's addiction to infiltrate Locke and Jean's inner circle.

Last issue: Patience's reveal of Locke (maybe, possibly, if you squint and want to believe it) as a bondsmage with extraordinary power and talent, who fucked things up and has now re-homed his soul, as it were, in another body. I adored Locke from the first book because he was nothing special at first glance: he's short, kinda thin, undistinguished brown hair and eyes. He looks like an average Joe, maybe less than an average Joe. There's no tall, strikingly handsome, broad-shoulder thief with a mouth full of blindingly white teeth here. No movie star. He's not even a Luke Skywalker, who looks like an average guy but who apparently has a midi-chlorian count that's off the charts, dude, due to his impossibly powerful parentage.

And so, any one of us could be a Locke Lamora. We can rise above our current station merely on brains alone!

But what if Locke isn't just some average guy with determination and smarts? What if he's actually a powerful bondsmage?

I liked it when Locke and Jean defeated the Falconer on their own terms. I liked their non-magical solution to, essentially, tethering the motherfucker. Good stuff. Go, Team Muggle!

Now it's like Locke just got his letter to Hogwarts, and so he isn't one of us, after all.

Le sigh.

While I have some major issues with Republic, I can say I immediately felt at home upon the first page, for Lynch has a straight-forward, engaging writing style, and one comes to the Locke books for, among many other things, the colorful banter (at which he excels) and well-drawn characters. Jean, for example, is still not just the muscle but the heart of the duo, and remains as intelligent as ever. And Lynch's worlds, so different in each books, are fascinatingly immersive.

And then there's that last part, in which we find out the Falconer is ambulatory once again.

Now we're set for a great fourth book.

Do I hope for less Sabetha and a Locke returned to form? You bet.

*

The second disappointing read, which I referred to many thousands of words ago above, will be deferred until tomorrow. I feel drained after having vented my frustration with Republic. But let me say this: I read a lot of books. For one to inspire me to this level of frustration, while making me desperately wish for the next book now, it can't be all bad. I still recommend The Lies of Locke Lamora to those who've never heard of it with all my heart.

Diner Girls: ff

Diner Girls

There was a Rahm, and a Leapt, or possibly a Lept. Boys with street bite and rubbish taste in pants. Full scratch, all of them; wiggling puppies, anyway, no matter their needle-sharp teeth. Push them down and run away; circling back on the track. Cigarette smoke from three years—

ago

Sculptures chewed into existence: this is the heart. Her smell is cheeseburgers, hot fries, buzzing diner lights at two a.m. I can close my eyes and place my palms on smooth counters, feeling for the grit of lost sugar. Eleven cups, two old men—

ago

All those boys, snapping at my heels. She impresses on first listen. Commands them to get lost, and so they do, Peter Panning into the cosmos. This pain is like no other; it's black and gamboling around my head. It's lonely and golden. It's drunk on her scent, swathed in big discoveries, pounding conversations into smoke. I barely recall the Aderall we took, her favorite unnecessary drug. Some things dissolve on the tongue, but this was a week

ago

and her feet are still propped in my lap. Rubbing them for her after long shifts makes her love me, makes us stop talking long enough to enjoy the smell of cold burgers on greasy yellow buns, sitting there, waiting for us to devour them. This was a second ago

and now

Swallows: microfic

Once upon a time, I wrote something for 101 Fiction. And then I went over by fifty-three thousand words. Just kidding. It was only a couple dozen. I liked it, though, and so here it is:


Swallows

A swallow beat its wings to cool the suffering Christ on the cross, and here, only two thousand years later, is that same swallow: winging its sharp-flighted way into Africa come October.

I left the City huddled in a wool coat and scarf, discarding them at the gate in Mombasa. I leave behind autumn in the park, and coffee shops, and charging stations. The official exchange rate: a piece of your soul. I leave my camera, too.

If it remembers me, the bird does not show it. I throw up my hands. The sun consumes my patrician nose, crisps my lips, and still the swallow ignores me. Here it is spring, and I fall to my knees, a phoenix waiting for rebirth. Before the ants have eaten me, perhaps, the bird will show me the same compassion it gave Christ. Until then, I am ever the betrayer, condemned like it to roam this earth, singular among its fellows.


*

101 Fiction is open for submissions to the next issue; the themes are 'winter' and 'undead.' Please write something.

Reviews: Lindqvist's Horror Short Story "Itsy Bitsy;" SF classic "Flowers for Algernon"

As far as vampire books and movies go, nothing can touch the cold, brutal elegance of Let the Right One In. With Halloween around the corner, I may have to watch it again (the Swedish version; I hear the American film is quite good as well but I'm not interested). In the meantime, author John Alvide Lindqvist has a free horror short story available, Itsy Bitsy.

Frank is a paparazzi photographer intent on getting a debt-clearing photo of an actress and her  secret boyfriend. To this end, he's set up camp in a tree on the property beside theirs, with his camera trained on their pool area. When the elusive couple finally appears, Frank clicks away. The results are not what he expected, and when he returns to the spot to figure out what happened, he finds that he was not the only one waiting for someone to come to the pool.

I read reviews before I buy. While I try to avoid spoilers, in this case, it was the lack of spoilers which threw me -- not well reviewed, most readers found the story vague and confusing, and often said they had no idea what happened at the ending or what it meant.

I decided, hey, it's free, and Lindqvist's style and imagination appeal to me, so I'll give it a shot. That said, if I had gone in without reading reviews, I would have figured out what was going to happen by the middle. Instead, I thought that I must be wrong, and I waited for the inevitable cloud of doom to descend on the ending.

While I can't speak for everyone, obviously, let me say this -- the ending is not ambiguous. Lindqvist laid the groundwork and left clues all along, and while the requisite horror "monster" in this case is completely strange and somewhat amorphous, it's just what he puts on the page.

Was I horrified? Not really. The last horror book to electrify me was Hill's Heart-Shaped Box. That's a pretty high bar. But I was quite fascinated and, truly, felt tension and dread at Frank's demise. In addition, the style is fantastic (I'm starting to believe all Swedish writers have a terrifically crisp style that turns words and phrases on their heads) and the pace is brisk. It's not bad, it's a quick read, and it's free. Get it.

*

Flowers for Algernon is often called science fiction (sure, sure, I can see it), but it's far more potent as an allegory for man's search for knowledge. To that end, Keyes often clubs the reader over the head with references to the Biblical Garden of Eden, characters in the university's science department who are arrogant and cold (and therefore destined to fail), and Charlie's own insistence on being seen as a real person. Despite that, Keyes has written an astoundingly powerful and clean, subtle story arc that delivers the message and leaves the reader transformed and emotionally wrecked.



Yes, I was a wreck when Flowers ended. All along, Keyes kept me uncomfortably glued to the page, with scene after scene of the awful, joking treatment that Charlie receives at the hands of his "friends" in the bakery or the distant repugnance he's handled with by the professors at the university where he receives experimental surgery to turn him into a genius. Deft and knowing, Keyes exploits our fears of the mentally retarded, our feelings of superiority, and puts us squarely in Charlie's place. And when Charlie's intelligence grows--past the point where it can be measured--he is once again beyond the realm of understanding, and left alone, by himself, to bear the brunt of fear and hostile jealousies.

Charlie's humanity is apparent throughout, and his struggle to understand, in an extremely short amount of time, what has happened to him not just after the surgery but during his entire life, is compelling. With flashbacks to a tortured, misunderstood childhood and present-day fumblings with women, he is a fully-rounded character like no other in fiction.

I'll make the assumption that everyone, even if you haven't read it, knows Charlie's and Algernon's stories. But that's no reason not to read this; while I felt Buck's Pavilion of Women was thought-provoking (see my previous review), Flowers far outstrips it and packs a wallop of an emotional punch, as well.

                         

Review: Pavilion of Women by Pearl S. Buck

 After a year and a half reading drought, broken only by spots of tortured page-turning, I've been on a reading roll. Four books in two weeks.

It's hard to say which has been the best of the lot, but certainly Pearl S. Buck's Pavilion of Women has provided some of the most engrossing and thought-provoking reading. The story of a woman in China in the early 1900s, it traces the spiritual growth resulting from her fortieth birthday decision to no longer engage in sex with her husband, but to instead move to a building in their compound and live a "peaceful" life. She buys a concubine for her husband to take her place in bed (a decision which, even then, was somewhat shocking). Additionally, she's a bit of a meddler, and wants to see all of her four sons married and producing children. To this end, she hires a foreign tutor for one of her sons, in order that he might become more attractive in the eyes of a "modern" Chinese woman. Of course none of her carefully planned and orchestrated decisions turns out as she might wish, as the emotional lives of people are far more complicated than the cool reserve she herself portrays.

I must admit that the description of Madame Wu initially put me off. It was as if she was made of marble, perfect in every way, and her husband's vision of her as some sort of goddess seemed appropriate--for she barely seemed human. This must be Buck's intent, to create a chasm between the reader and Madame Wu, for our confusion in not understanding this woman is certainly, at last, reflected in the journey that Madame Wu must take as she realizes she does not understand her own heart.

Artfully done, the progression of a woman learning her own heart and mind, and finding love unexpectedly, is as delicate and lush as a Chinese brushstroke painting. As her understanding unfolds amidst the growing chaos of her coldly manipulated family, she is taken from tragedy to spiritual heights that most of us would envy. In the end, that is the only real complaint I've got with Pavilion of Women: Madame Wu, at the finish, approaches once again the marble perfection of the early section, making her distant from we readers, so far from emotional and spiritual divineness ourselves.

On the other hand, the changing philosophies on the page challenged me to consider my own notions of love, to broaden the parameters of my compassion, and to see the world through another's eyes--which last might, ultimately, be Buck's intent after all.

If this makes it sound as if Pavilion is a meandering philosophical read, far from it. Filled with dramatic events large and small and a cast of well-drawn characters, not to mention exquisite writing, Pavilion is a page-turner. And I found myself constantly thinking of Madame Wu throughout the day when I could not read. Even now, two weeks after having finished it, the book lingers in my mind, and that is the hallmark of something truly wonderful.


*

I'm finishing Flowers for Algernon today, and it's filled my mind with more questions and considerations than, perhaps, Pavilion, though of an entirely different kind. My thoughts on that book tomorrow. And if you've now got the impression that I'm only reading last century's classic fiction, fear not: I read two dystopian YA novels in between, and they were DA BOMB. No review? Ah, well, they are the first two of a trilogy, with the third coming out the end of October. I will not praise them to the heavens only to have you find out, tragically, that you must wait for the third -- because trust me, when I went to download the third book and realized it wasn't available, there was much weeping and pulling of hair and storming about the room.

So, Flowers will be finished tonight. After, of course, my yearly trip to the Ren Fest! Assuming I'll be in a state to read after having had more than my fill of pumpkin beer. :)

"Chicken" at 101 Fiction, and A Word to My Neighbors

It's fitting that 101 Fiction's inaugural issue in its new format concerns rebirth and seasons of change--eight bantam-sized tales under the banners of "phoenix" and "autumn." Read all 800 words meson by neutron, or download the PDF here.

My contribution is Chicken, in which the bird is cursed, and the matriarchal line finds its mouth filled with ashes. A favorite from the series is Kymm Coveney's Implosion. Vivid, violent imagery.

A wonderful selection of flash fic edited by John Xero.

*

If you were here last time I blogged (you were probably knee-high to a grasshopper then), I have completed my first goal, which was chapter one of the yarn. It's rough, I have ideas to change it, but no matter, it's a chapter a week, and I'm onto chapter two.

*

I have neighbors. We mostly do, in this world. I try, personally, to be a decent neighbor: keep my area fairly neat, not overgrown with weeds or encroaching on someone else's property. I keep the music to a tolerable level. I don't watch porn on the big screen t.v. with the curtains wide open at seven in the evening. My fornicating is tender and hot and kept to a reasonable level of noise; I've not found that screaming, anyway, does anything for the process. I think 1:30 in the morning is a good time to sleep, and not to light a fire in the backyard, bring out the radio, laugh like a horse's ass, and fuck my husband beside the climbing rose and hostas.

I'll give my neighbors this: they mow the grass often enough, and I don't give a shit if they want to cover their yard with resin cats with chipped ears and ten of those spinning laser-cut multi-color sun-catcher things they sell at every garden store. Hey, express your individuality on your own postage-stamp of earth in the way you see fit. Except...

For fuck's sake, don't scream and moan from 1 to 3 a.m. so that I can hear you over your turned-up-to-10 heavy metal, and if you decide to take your antics outside, expect me to call the police.

I will say this. The expression on their faces when the officer shined his light on them was hilarious. And maybe they'll get the picture now. Speaking of which, yes, they are the ones watching porn (A LOT OF PORN) on their big screen in front of a picture window with the curtains left open. While at first we laughed, I do think about the people walking by in the evening, and how some may have kids. That's a concern.

They're exhibitionists. I get it. But I'm not amused, and they can go somewhere else and let others, who may appreciate it, in on their lovemaking.

For the record, I'm down with whatever freakiness you got going on. Trust me, I've seen/read it all, and I may have participated in more than my fair share. I'm not offended.

I just want to get some sleep.