Ryan

This book had the potential to be really good. I like Carey's writing style, and the set up - magical and non-magical cliques of students in a high school - seemed enjoyable enough, if a little poppy.

As for the end result ... well, it's not that it was bad, just that it didn't really live up to the potential of its concept.

I'm usually a little skeptical of anthologies that have fairly narrow themes, as the contents of them tend to get a little repetitive. So I was a little surprised at how much I enjoyed this one (a collection of urban legends being retold as first encounter with alien stories). As with any anthology, there were a few stories I didn't care for, but most of them were really well done and had more variety than I had expected. Bonus points for short sections at the end of each story where the authors explained the urban legend they were working from (a lot of which I'd never heard before, ironically), and how they came about the story, as well as a bit in the introduction where the editor discussed trying to construct a meta-narrative through the order the stories were placed in, which was something I never would have noticed if it weren't pointed out to me but which is a nice touch.

I once had a friend tell me that, when evaluating cookbooks, it's important to not expect every recipe to be of interest to you, and that there can be a cookbook that you love that you ignore half of. As long as there were a few recipes in that cookbook that you would not only use and love, but that you would reuse for years to come, then the whole book was worth getting.

I think that the same logic can be applied, to an extent, to short story collections. The short story, as a format, has undergone a bit of a fall from grace in the past few decades, which is unfortunate, because it's a unique type of story that allows for a lot of variety and experimentalism that you won't necessarily get from novels. I think that, if people approached short story collections the same way they approach cookbooks, they'd enjoy them significantly more.

All that brings us to The Zombie Cookbook, a new short story collection from Damnation Books. As the title might suggest, it's not the most serious of story collections; a lot of the stories here walk the line between horror and comedy. There's a long tradition of that within zombie literature, stretching back to movies like Return of the Living Dead (which was the origin of the “bbbrrraaaaaiiiinnsss” zombie meme) and Dead Alive. For someone who's a long-time fan of zombie literature in print or film, this collection doesn't necessarily break any new ground, but it does provide a solid entry in that tradition.

The theme of the collection, crossing zombie stories with food, is a logical connection, and one that you would think would be fairly restrictive, but there's a surprising amount of variety among the eleven stories and poems included in the collection. I hadn't heard of any of the authors in the collection prior to reading it, but I'll definitely be checking some off these authors out in the future, as there are some who really manage to take the concept and make it their own.

As I said with the recipe book analogy, I didn't enjoy every single story in this collection, but that's okay; not everything in the cookbook has to be to everyone's taste, and even the ones that I didn't particularly enjoy were well-written. I'm sure they'll have a lot of fans in their own right. When the collection hits its hight points, though, in stories like The Right Recipe and My Big Fat Zombie Wedding, you end up discovering some short stories that have a lot of depth and world-building done to them in addition to the puns and slapstick humour that pepper the book.

In addition to the stories, the Zombie Cookbook is also really nicely packaged. The cover and interior artwork are beautiful, and nicely accent the stories that they're interspersed with. A few of the stories even include recipes for zombie cooks, which helps sell the concept of the book as well. If you're a fan of zombie books or horror comedy, it's definitely worth checking out at http://www.zombiecookbook.net. Both e-book and print versions are available.

I'm not sure if this book is even actually out yet - I got a free, signed ARC from the author at Fan Expo in Toronto this year.

This was an interesting book - it strongly feels like an 80s b-horror movie, both in plot and execution. It's part slasher film and part zombie movie; in terms of atmosphere, I would say that it reads sort of like a novelization of one of the Return of the Living Dead films. If you liked those, this would be a good book for you to check out

This series is apparently a sequel to an earlier manga series, so I wasn't sure about all of the characters, but overall it was a fun read. The central idea of it: a locomotive that travels throughout the galaxy, with the inhabitants boarding and disembarking at different planets along the route - is a wonderful one, as well as a powerful metaphor. I'm looking forward to checking out the rest of the series.

The Withdrawal Method is a collection of stories by Pasha Malla, and is something of a mixed bag. The stories featured in it range from the mundane to the fantastical, and from the morose to the joyful, making for an interesting read in general. The book's title, The Withdrawal Method, is very apropos - many of the stories, such as Dizzy When You Look Down In and Big City Girls, seem to end around two or three paragraphs before you would expect them to, in a sort of storius interruptus. At first this is kind of unsettling, and jolts you out of your experience of reading the book, but the more it happens, the more accustomed to it you become, which allows you to realize how effective of a storytelling device it is. Rather than jolt you out of the story, like you would assume a ‘withdrawal' ending would; Malla does it in a way that draws you further into the story, desperate to supply an ending of your own. It inspires, which is something that all good art should try to do.

I found Malla's writing to be at it's most effective when dealing with more fantastical elements, such as in the stories Being Like Bulls and The Love Life of the Automaton Turk. The former, a tale of a dystopian future where climate change has changed Niagara Falls into a landfill, takes on one of those themes so central to classical Canadian literature - how our identity is shaped by our environment. It also rather cynically looks at how willing people are to profane and destroy the majesty around them, and then also destroy even our memories of what majesty is, so that we don't have to live with ourselves knowing what we've given up.

Overall, The Withdrawal Method is a tragically poignant collection of stories, and is a must-read for anyone interested in seeing where Canadian literature is heading in the 21st century.

(in the interests of disclosure: I was given a free copy of this book by the publisher in exchange for writing a review about it)

Carey's a good enough writer, but the more of his stuff I read, the more that I end up thinking that it's just not for me. This one was a little ‘chick-lit'ish than I had been expecting it to be. A quick, light, easy read about a girl and her god, and how they each need each other.

I started reading LW&C a few years ago, and read the first nine volumes in a very short period of time. As a result, I ended up getting bored with the series, and found it kind of repetitive and lacking any larger story.

Thankfully, having read volume 10 in isolation, I found myself enjoying this volume a lot more. Yes, it's still ultraviolent, and yes, it's still overflowing with machismo, but there's still a fairly interesting story contained within.

I usually find books in the dummies series way too simplistic, but this wasn't the case with this one - I actually had to skim over some parts because they were beyond what I needed to know (I'm not planning on mucking about with soil ph or anything like that). Recommended for anyone wanting to do Serious Gardening.

Every once and a while, Marvel comics will put out a new line of comics geared towards reaching “non-traditional” comic audiences. They'll sell these new titles in traditional comic book stores, where only traditional comic audiences tend to go, and then they'll cancel the books when they don't sell well. Every time they do, there are some really fun titles that get produced, and Livewires definitely fits into that category.

It's especially odd that this was a series marketed to “new readers”, though, because it's ver steeped in old Marvel; the main storyline deals with the Livewires team trying to take down an army of LMD (android) versions of Nick Fury, and one of the characters is sporting an AIM uniform on the cover of the volume. It's a mongrely sort of series, but light-hearted and fun enough that you don't really have to think about it.

One of the things that I really did like about this book is that it has some of the most fun character names that I've seen in a Marvel series in a long time:
Hollowpoint Ninja. Gothic Lolita. Cornfed. Stem Cell. Social Butterfly. Not the most descriptive names in terms of powers, but wonderful all-around.

I loved the idea of this book - a collection of personal essays by authors about the role that comic books have played in their personal and professional development.

The main roadblock I had with this book is that I wasn't familiar with a lot of the authors, so their anecdotes lack any strong connection for me. I love hearing people talk about why they love the works of art they do, though, so it was very interesting on that level. It also made me nostalgic for 70s cosmic superheroes - I want to go read some of Starlin's Warlock and Kirby's New Gods.

Oh wow.

When people think about Ditko, and especially about Ditko and Lee, Spider-Man is the first thing that comes to mind, which is quite understandable. However, having read their work on both that series and Dr. Strange, I would have to say that the latter is the better of the two series.

The stories that span this series are truly epic in scale; while many Marvel comics of the same era still wrapped up their storylines in one, maybe two issues, the ones here go on for a dozen issues at a time, and deal with truly huge plots, featuring classic Marvel concepts like Eternity, Dormammu, and the Living Tribunal.

The art is crisp, while at the same time being Freaky in a way that only 60s art could be, the storylines are hugely epic - if you're a fan of Marvel's cosmic material, this volume's a must-read.

Any book that has a chapter that's a Simpsons reference (in this case, the brochure Homer and Marge are given when they first learn they're going to be parents) is automatically going to win points with me.

Skinner approaches the question of fatherhood with a down-to-earth humour that really helps to disarm concerns the father-to-be may have, while at the same time being serious and grounded about those concerns.

The only downside to the book is that a lot of his advice tends to boil down to Just Be A Man About It, which can get a little repetitive. As a result I'd say it shouldn't be the only fatherhood book you read if you're becoming a parent, but it should definitely be one of them.

Written is a very classic sort of 80s space opera style, A Distant Soil tells the story about two psychically powered siblings who discover they have a role to play in the future of the alien civilization they didn't know they were a part of.

ADS tells a story epic in scope while at the same time deeply personal. The plot is clearly developed, the characters are well-established; as a result, this feels like you're already several chapters into the book, rather than starting at number 1. My only complaint about the book would be that it seems like a bit of a kitchen-sink type approach; Doran throws in everything she's interested in, from Medieval knights to aliens to psychic powers, and I'm not entirely sure if it all fits together nicely. We'll have to see how she fares with volume 2.

I'm actually fairly unsure about what I thought of this book. There was a lot I liked about it; I loved the way that Kosinski talks about music throughout it, and I think that the character of an anonymous artist like Goddard is inspired. I found myself imagining Goddard's music to sound like Daft Punk, which I realize is a bit of an anachronism, but it seems to fit somehow.

There were two main things that I didn't like about the book, at the same time. The first was what appeared to be some subtle passive racism regarding the character of Donna. She's the only black character in the book, and she is presented as an overly sexualized, petty character, and she's written in a way that seems to suggest that she is that way because of her ethnicity. The other thing is the ending of the book. For the first 9/10ths of the book, it's primarily a character-driven piece, with little true plot to speak of, and then it turns into a much more plot-driven piece right at the very end, which is a little jarring.

Overall, I'd give it a tentative recommendation if you're a music lover.

Robinson's style is compared often with that of Heinlein's, and I can definitely see why from this book. It was a fairly enjoyable, light read. Robinson's got a fun sense of humour, and it shines through even the serious moments of the book.

What I really liked about it, though, was the way that Robinson talks about Vancouver and its surrounding area. It's a wonderful corner of the world, and reading this book really made me want to visit it again. Vancouver tourism should definitely be cutting Spider Robinson a cheque.

Dug this out of my basement after a friend of mine mentioned using a similar sort of game idea/mechanic for his Nanowrimo project this year. Really interesting game/book hybrid - like a mix of Choose Your Own Adventure and D&D.

There's far too much ground covered by this book to adequately deal with it in a scant 300 pages, but Hirshey tries her best to do so. What this subject really needs, though, is a huge Ken Burns-style documentary with accompanying soundtrack, because reading about the various artists Hirshey talks about (and to) made me want to dig through my CD collection.

It seems at times Hirshey gears the book towards the people that she's come to know over the years, which is the only main complaint I have with this - as one example, the “divas” phenomenon gets the lion's share of the late 1990s chapter, with significantly less space spent on the Lilith Fair crowd. Maybe it's just a question of where I was coming from at the time, but I think that the focus of those two, at least, should have been reversed.

If there's a common theme to most great, classic monster stories, it's that they're never really about monsters, but are more about using those monsters as a metaphor for something: whether it's Victorian attitudes towards sexuality in Dracula, Japanese filmmakers dealing with the repercussions of the atomic bomb droppings through Godzilla, or zombies being used to illustrate the underside of consumer culture.

Selznick gets that, which is a lot of what makes this chapbook such a good read. Yes, there's a giant monster, and a military determined to stop it, but really it's a story about regret over failed relationships. The monsters are only window dressing. My only complaint was that it was too short! Selznick hints at a much larger universe here, and I'd like to see him do some more with it.

A short, light read about a girl with ESP. It was okay, but I didn't find it to be anything special; I probably would have enjoyed it more if I hadn't any previous exposure to the concept.

Prequels are a tricky business. We already know the ultimate fates of the characters featured in them, so a lot of the drama is taken away from them, and instead we have to focus on how the decisions they make ultimately inform the versions of the characters that we already know.
Unfortunately, we don't really get any of that in Gauntlet, the story of Jean-Luc Picard's first starship command. Instead we get a very paint-by-numbers pilot story, where all of the characters are introduced and given equal focus, which means that we don't really get to know any of them in any real detail. The plot fizzles somewhat, as well. Picard and co. have to track down a space pirate who, we learn, really isn't a pirate, and it's made clear that if he doesn't succeed, his career his career is doomed to failure. So he lets the not-really-a-pirate-but-a-heroic-ethnobiologist White Wolf go, which as we can tell from later books and TV series has no real affect on his career.

A lovely little short story chapbook set in Selznick's Sovereign era. I don't want to say too much about the actual content of story, because it is a short read and I don't want to spoil anything about it, but I will say that he explores an idea that I'd been thinking about for awhile myself - that there's a relationship between an individual's psychology and the superpowers that they exhibit. It's an interesting idea, and one that I'd like to see explored further in the future (either by Selznick or someone else).

The title is a bit of a misnomer.

There had been, at the time this was published three Flashes: Jay Garrick in the 1940s, Barry Allen from 1961 to 1985, and Wally West from 1985 to 2007 (when this book came out). As such, one might expect Allen and West to be equally represented, with Garrick a little less so. Instead, we got 2 Garrick-era stories, 5 Allen ones, and 1 West story.

The Garrick and Allen stories are pretty run-of-the-mill Golden and Silver age superheroes. The one West story, which has him getting trapped into moving so fast that the entire world around him is frozen, is excellent, and I really wish they had more like it. Given the excellent creators that have worked on Wally West-era Flash (Baron, Messner-Loebs, Morisson, even Geoff Johns to give the devil his due), it seems like a bit of a slap in the face to them to ignore all their work in favour of stuff like “One Bridgegroom Too Many”.

One of the problems with royalty is that it's heriditary. Which means that, even if you end up with a really good king, like say as good as King Bruno de Towaji of Sol, you still have to end up dealing with his kids eventually. And the children of royalty, more often than not, end up being spoiled little shits.

Of course, while this is very much the story of Prince Bascal, son of royalty and scientific genius, it also deals on a larger scale by looking at the sociological implications of the technology that McCarthy introduced in the first book in the series: when you've eliminated death and aging from society, what happens to the next generation? Those kids who will never get to come into their own, and will never get to replace those who came before.

There's a lot of interesting stuff brought up by McCarthy here; the only problem is he doesn't quite deal with it all, and as a result this feels like only half of a story.

I gave this one a lower rating when I first listened to the podcast, but in retrospect I'm not quite sure why - I think maybe I had gone into it thinking it was one kind of story, and then found out it was entirely a different kind, and that affected my rating? Reading it in print, though, revealed an amazingly enjoyable story.

7th Son is best described as a technothriller about cloning and memory, although doing so is kind of like describing Battlestar Galactica as “a space opera with robots”; it's descriptive, but completely ignores what's special about it. The story is simultaneously a thriller, a sci-fi story, an existential horror piece, a family drama, a tale of conspiracy, an adventure story, and most of all a crackin' good read. Fitting for a tale of 7 strangers who are brought together to find out that not only are they all clones of the same man, but that that man is a madman who has already murdered a president in step one of a larger plot for world dominatin. Hutchins shows a real talent for melding those different aspects of the story into a larger whole, as well as for creating seven protagonists who are unique individuals, but still recognizably from the same genetic code and early life history.