Category: books

Well, thanks to Ian Tregillis, I now know that I haven’t lost my ability to dive into a book and devour it in a matter of a few days. Apparently I was just trying THAT HARD to avoid The Casual Vacancy, which took me weeks to slog through. Ian’s new book, The Coldest War, I finished in less than a week, and this despite the fact that I was trying to design a poster for AGU at the same time.

(Spoiler: I finished the poster and it’s covered in strat columns. OH THE HUMANITY.)

The Coldest War is the sequel to Ian’s first book, Bitter Seeds. It’s alternate history, which I’m normally not that in to, so it’s another compliment to him that I liked these books so very much. Bitter Seeds takes place during World War II, and pits psychic Nazis against British warlocks. And trust me, that sentence does no justice to how fucked-up and awesome the entire thing is.

The Coldest War then takes place during the Cold War, following the same characters but years later. And I’ll give Ian this, I had absolutely no idea where he was going with it until the end, at which pointed I tweeted excitedly at him about how the third book better be coming out soon because oh my god what a cliffhanger.

My favorite character out of the series is, oddly, perhaps the most evil of them all – Gretel. She’s the psychic Nazi experiment that can see the future, and the first two books amount to her playing twelve-dimensional temporal chess with terrifying beings that aren’t even human. She’s evil, calculating, awful, and utterly fascinating.

Ian’s got a writing style that’s very clean and readable, and he knows how to keep things very tense. There isn’t a lot more that I can say about the story without giving some of the fun twists away, but I really recommend these books. The Coldest War also just won the first semifinal round of Fantastic Reviews’ Battle of the Books, and I have great hopes for it.

So, maybe you heard that JK Rowling wrote a new novel. Maybe you really liked the Harry Potter novels, and you’re looking forward to getting another book from the pen that gave you those.

Well, don’t get too excited.

The Casual Vacancy is an adult (as in meant for grownups, not as in pornographic) non-genre novel. I read adult fiction all the time. To be honest, I do not read much non-genre fiction. It’s entirely possible that this novel is an excellent example of what non-genre fiction should be and plays off its tropes and traditions perfectly. In which case, let me just say that I’m glad I mostly stick to science fiction and fantasy. I was ready to stop reading this book by page 25, but I stuck with it under the principle that it’s healthy for writers to read things we don’t like, so that we can think about why we don’t like them and thus avoid those things in our own writing.

This book is set against a backdrop of small town British politics, where a rather large cast of characters ranging in age from teenaged to 50+ years old are effected by the death of council member and all-around ridiculously popular guy Barry Fairbrother, who spearheaded one side of a raging political debate that divided the town.

Writing that summary was a more interesting experience for me than actually reading the book. It’s 420 pages of a bunch of ceaselessly self-centered, entitled people being incredibly petty toward each other. The only characters I liked at all were a few of the teenagers, many of whom were in the process of being abused and destroyed by their utterly awful parents. And at least when the teenagers had moments of being self-centered and terrible, they had the excuse of being teenagers.

And yes, I know that in reality, adults are generally selfish and awful people too. But that really seems to be an argument to not spend my free time reading about what I can easily encounter in my real life.

I didn’t care about the characters, which meant that I did not in the least bit care about the minutiae of their lives, their crumbling relationships, or their desires. I spent much of the book asking myself if one scene or the other was really necessary, because for example I already knew that Simon Price was a total bastard, that Stuart Wall was the most unlikable teenager in the entire book, that Gavin was utterly pathetic and that Samantha’s marriage with her husband was a total disappointment. The last time I felt like that when reading a novel was when my book club read Under the Dome, which we all agreed could have been about 400 pages shorter because yes we get the point these people are terrible. I really hope JK Rowling hasn’t fallen into the Stephen King trap of desperately needing an editor.

Don’t run out and get this book if you liked Harry Potter and want more of the same. Harry Potter had a cast with likable characters, and an intensely interesting world – so when the plot lagged, you at least had those to keep you going. This novel has none of those benefits, and JK Rowling doesn’t make up for it with memorable or beautiful prose.

Perhaps because it’s not a young adult novel, there’s apparently even less imperative to keep the plot moving at a snappy pace, and it generally stagnates. Every little thing that happens then seems to require we get the opinion of everyone in the rather large cast, some of whom it took me nearly half the book to get straight because they were so similarly awful. (Naming a woman Shirley and her daughter-in-law Samantha was not a good choice, by the way.) I would have been less frustrated by the slow pace of the plot if I’d actually given even half a crap about any of the characters. Ultimately I only stuck it out for Sukhvinder and Andrew – since Andrew actually manages to grow and change as a character.

(Spoilers, if you care)

The thing that really burns me about this book is that the plot conflicts that get hammered the whole time – what’s going to happen to the council housing? what’s going to happen to the addiction clinic? – never actually get resolved. Instead the end of the book is an unsubtle statement about children in poverty dying because privileged middle class people are too wrapped up in their own selfish concerns. Which is a point to be made, certainly, but from the standpoint of story structure it leaves the novel unresolved and disappointing.

Also, if that’s the point JK Rowling wanted to make, I can’t help but feel it could have happened in a lot fewer pages and with greater impact.

(/spoilers)

If you’re still curious about it, get the book out from the library and try it that way first. If you like it, buy it then, and feel free to tell me you think I’m full of crap. Tastes differ, after all.

Well, not in a literal sense. It just kind of feels that way.

Earlier in the summer, I asked friends to recommend audiobooks to me. Right now, that’s how I’m doing most of my reading. They’re ideal for bike rides (not only do you get to immerse yourself in a good story for two hours, you get to work up an amazing sweat) and now that I’m back in Colorado I imagine I’ll be listening to them on the bus when I go to school.

You see, a few years ago my stomach decided that I read too much and it hates me. Now I get motion sick when I try to read in moving vehicles. I think it might be directly related to the many mornings I spent trying to read from the Riverside Shakespeare with its ridiculously tiny print while bouncing along US-36, which could probably even make a hardened astronaut vomit.

Anyway, my friend Oliver recommended Lois McMaster Bujold’s Vorkosigan Saga to me, recommending that I start with Shards of Honor.

I was hooked from the start. Cordelia, the main character of that book and the next (Barrayar) is clever and badass without ever being a caricature. There’s wonderful emotional complexity there. And there’s a lot in the books that is actually quite funny, both in the sarcastic dark way, and the laugh out loud way.

I approached the next book, The Warrior’s Apprentice, which a little trepidation since the point of view character had switched to Cordelia’s son. Well, I’m more than halfway through it and I don’t want to stop listening. I’ve started thinking up errands to run so I can spend a little more bike time and do a bit more “reading.” The audiobook also made me laugh out loud during my flight to Chicago, twice, which I think creeped out the other passengers.

Can’t wait to get home and pick up the next book. One of the things I’m enjoying about it is that the main character, Miles, faces severe physical limitations in a society that is very nasty toward the disabled. It’s a viewpoint that doesn’t get exercised often in speculative fiction.

As space opera goes, I like this indescribably more than Leviathan Wakes. The characters (both male and female) are so complex and interesting. It’s got wonderfully dynastic politics, clashing cultures, all the bells and whistles.

I’m glad Oliver told me to read them, even if my hunger for the next book is consuming my very soul. It’s been a long time since I felt that excited about a series.

I spent my entire day taking samples of rock out of one plastic bag and transferring them into other plastic bags. For seven hours. I went through over 200 ziplock freezer bags and killed a sharpie. My brain has been reduced to pudding.

So you’d think that wouldn’t be a good mental state for finishing up Distrust That Particular Flavor, the collection of William Gibson’s essays and lectures. Actually, I found it quite refreshing.

If you don’t know who William Gibson is, I suggest you use the Google. And then hang your head in shame as you trudge to the bookstore to purchase a copy of Neuromancer. Also, let me know if that happens so I can melodramatically cut you from my Christmas card list, only I haven’t sent out Christmas cards in years because I don’t hate myself enough to want to address ten thousand envelopes during finals.

There are 25 pieces in the book, plus an introduction. The essays aren’t presented in chronological order. I found this occasionally jarring – skipping between the modern internet and VHS tapes between pages is a little weird even if you grew up with it – but there is also a feeling of forward motion through the pieces that makes the chronological hiccups worth it.

Not every essay is a winner, and the ones you might like will probably be very different from the ones that I like. Each speaks to a very different part of the imagination and experience. But all are written with Gibson’s characteristic rich yet concise prose, and are a pleasure to read even if the topic isn’t one that gets at you on a deeper level.

I actually found the introduction very interesting from the standpoint of a writer. Gibson talks about his fiction and nonfiction coming from two very different places. It’s not something I’ve really thought about, but it’s something that I feel. Whence, when I’m beating myself up with the need to just write something I’m bullshitting my way through essays or even blogs posts because my brain can’t function on a high enough level to write fiction. I’m not egotistical enough to claim some kind of elevated kinship with William Gibson (ha, my wildest dreams) but it made me think. In that case, about my relationship with this particular art.

So many of these essays make you think about your relationship with what is outside yourself. Physical places, technology, history, time.


Dead Man Sings is a short little thing, barely two pages long, but it left me feeling dizzy from its start of “Time moves in one direction, memory in another.”

Disneyland With the Death Penalty, My Own Private Tokyo,  and Shiny Balls of Mud: Hikaru Dorodango and Tokyu Hands are all about place and people rolled together. Particularly the latter two I found fascinating because I did a major in Japanese Language and Culture, and am well acquainted with the feeling of something being both alien and familiar at the same time.

What I love (and simultaneously sometimes don’t love, because it makes me squirm and that is a good thing) about Gibson’s writing, fiction or non, is that it never allows me to feel fully comfortable. There’s always something nibbling at the edges of my brain, a verbal rock in my shoe that I can’t seem to remove. I re-read and mull, sometimes to savor and sometimes just to refine my understanding, sometimes even to drive what I think the point might be home.

From Will We Have Computer Chips in Our Heads? – “Our hardware is evolving at the speed of light, while we are still the product, for the most part, of unskilled labor.” Let that wash back and forth in your brain a bit and see what it dislodges.

I’ve named just a few of the essays, my absolute favorites. They’re all worth reading. And then reading again. Find your own favorites and tell me what they are.

(Also, I finished the book and wrote this somewhat disjointed post while listening to Tron Legacy Reconfigured. If you like electronica at all, find a copy. You can thank me later.)

WARNING: Major, MAJOR spoilers ahead for The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. At least the book. I have no idea what the movie is like.

I am not going to spoil the central mystery of the book, by the way. I actually enjoyed that part enough that it’s what actually got me to finish the thing. No, my problem with The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo begins and ends, like all things in that book, in Mikael Blomkvist’s shorts.

Which is to say, I’m talking about his penis. Or more specifically, his penis and the inability of every female character in the book under the age of 50 to not immediately latch on to said organ and take it for a joy ride.

I’m not a prude. I swear. I read Laurel K. Hamilton, for gods’ sake, at least until the killing stuff to sex ratio slipped into values of less than one. I don’t have a problem with characters getting it on… as long as it actually makes sense and doesn’t interfere with the story.

So it made sense when Blomkvist was banging his female friend/coworker/lady he was having an affair with that caused his divorce. Sure. I can dig that. She’s a pretty cool character, actually.

Then he goes to the island, and one of the Vangers immediately squirms into his pants. Because she’s apparently wanted to do that since she clapped eyes on him. Which I think is kind of a dumb reason to bang some guy you barely know, but hey, people do it all the time.

Then Blomkvist hooks up with Lisbeth, and that’s about where I went WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK and just put my foot down. For starters, the sudden hop into Blomkvist’s bed made absolutely no sense from the character Lisbeth had been built to be – at least in my opinion. Moreso, because in the beginning of the book she’d been the target of a very violent sexual assault, and that’s something that didn’t seem to even cross her mind once she encountered Blomkvist. Some very thin reasoning was given as to why she decided to ride his baloney pony, but frankly, I still think it’s total crap.

Add to that the fact that as Blomkvist is described, he’s not really anything all that remarkable in looks, is maybe a bit above average in the intelligence department, and it becomes more of a puzzle. If Blomkvist’s beauty were at least described in creepy, cooing detail like that of D in the Vampire Hunter D Novels, I could at least buy everyone around wanting to bang him. Since hey, it apparently works that way if you’re a half-vampire. Which Blomkvist manifestly isn’t.

So, all I can conclude is that there’s some sort of inescapable gravity well centered around Mikael Blomkvist’s penis, and as soon as a woman gets within about two feet of him, she goes tumbling past the event horizon and can’t escape.

And I further concluded this morning that if, during my fanfiction days, I had wrote anything remotely like a male character with a black hole in his shorts, the fan community would have cut me to shreds. And they wouldn’t even have paused to sharpen their knives first, because sharpenin’ is too good for dirty, lowdown scoundrels that write Mary Sue fanfiction.

The hell of it is, I really liked Lisbeth Salander as a character up until she started working with Blomkvist and slipped past the foreskin event horizon. And then to add insult to injury, not only does she bang him for no discernible reason, but she then decides that she’s in love with him, for the thinnest of thin reasons. I almost threw the book across the room, except that it’s not my book and my mommy raised me better than that.

I rather think the author’s fallen into the gravity well, himself.

Also, the book once again continued the sad pattern that occurs in almost every action novel – if there’s a small, cute animal, such as a cat, the evil killer will do something awful to it, just to show how awful and evil he is. Kind of like the way all psychopaths in the movies and on television are also avid scrapbookers.

I wanted to like the book, but considering the plot is caught between a horribly dead cat and a penis black hole, I just can’t bring myself to recommend it.