hc.newton

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Charm City Rocks About?

Billy Perkins is happy. Everyone knows this–he’s got his dream job (music teacher), he’s good at it–and makes enough money to keep going. He’s got a great kid, and a solid relationship with the kid’s mother. He’s well-liked in his neighborhood and at Camden Yards. Who wouldn’t be happy? He’s also got this newfound appreciation for cardigans, “the perfect garment, like, the convertible of sweaters”–and he looks good in them. If you can find pleasure in the little things like that…why not be happy?

Margot Hammer is a drummer best known as part of the all-female rock group Burnt Flowers*. Then as the wife of Lawson Daniels, the giant movie star, her fame grew even more. Then she dumped the cheater, quit the band in a dramatic fashion, and vanished from the public eye, becoming a “whatever happened to…” name. She was pretty satisfied with that until Burnt Flowers is featured in a documentary series, which renewed that itch to play again and generally reminded her of what she lost with her bandmates.

* Not for nothing, that’s just a great 90s band name. I would thoroughly enjoy hearing Norman talk about coming up with it and what some of the other contenders for that name were.

But after listening to his dad talk about Margot after seeing her on that history of rock documentary on Netflix, Billy’s son, Caleb wonders–what if his dad isn’t as happy as he could be? Is he maybe a little lonely? So Caleb does something harebrained, problematic in several ways, and destined to fail.

He brings the two together in a move straight out of a rom-com’s first draft, but instead of the meet-cute he hopes for–we get kind of a meet-ugly. Billy, being the almost-impossibly decent guy that he is, tries to salvage the time and make it up to her. Also…how often does he get the chance to spend time with his all-time favorite drummer?

Something strange ensues for Margot–she has fun. With Billy and in general. She also gets a little social media attention (which spills over into mass media). This is enough to get her old record company to try to capitalize on that. She’s not interested in doing that, but does decide to spend a little more time with Billy.

The pair have great chemistry–and maybe more. But will figures from their pasts derail them? Should they?

Baltimore

As they stand on Thames Street, he imagines the neighborhood from Margot’s perspective. Daquan is one block over, pounding away. The sun is moving toward the horizon. The twinkly lights strung around the outdoor eating area at the Greek restaurant next door come on, and people are out with their tattoos and interesting outfits and cool beards. Like always, there’s music everywhere.

“It’s not like how everyone says,” says Margot.

“What isn’t?”

“Baltimore,” she says. “I thought it’d be, I don’t know, more murdery.” …

“Be patient,” he says. “The night is young.”

As much as this book focuses on the love story between Billy and Margot, there’s a strong thread about love for Baltimore. I knew, on some level, that there has to be more to the city, but at the end of the day, I really think of Baltimore in much the same way as Margot in the quote above.

But that’s not Matthew Norman’s Baltimore–and it’s not the Baltimore of these characters. Frankly, if this Baltimore resembles the actual thing, I’d love to spend time there (you know, assuming I can shake the David Simon associations).

There are two neighborhoods (that don’t seem too far apart) that we spend most of our time in–and both have a strong sense of community about them. Particularly the area that Billy’s apartment is in, which also contains the place where Caleb’s plan was executed and the bar that the adults found themselves in to recover. The neighborhood figures from this area both grounded and sold the experience for me (and, I think, Margot). Too often people talk about the location of a novel/movie being another character–but when someone depicts their setting so strongly and so warmly, it’s hard not to resort to that kind of language.

Caleb

I’ve frequently talked about great Mother/Daughter and Father/Daughter relationships in various books, but I don’t think I’ve talked much about great relationships with sons. I also can’t think of many off the top of my head.

The relationship between Caleb and Billy, however? It’s a standout. Caleb’s relationships with his mother and stepfather are good to see, too. But man…the link between Father and Son here is something special. The lengths that Caleb went to in order to give his father a shot at happiness–and the life-altering choices he makes because of his parents (particularly, it seems, his father)–tells you a lot about this kid and the bond he has with his parents. I really can’t think of a better son in Fiction (not that I’ve spent a lot of time trying, but authors seem to do better at daughters).

He gets off a little easy when it comes to the shenanigans he got up to in introducing his dad to Margot, really the more I think about it, the worse it was (but consuming a large amount of edibles thinking they’re just candy is a pretty good justification for it). But, I think Norman is right to cut him some slack and not get into just how bad it was. Actually, most books (and almost every movie I can think of) would’ve allowed Caleb’s scheme to work for a bit, and would extend the nonsense for far too long before having it collapse for the sake of drama. I am so, so, so glad that Norman didn’t do that. He simply let the idea fall apart and then moved on, making lemonade out of Caleb’s citrus offering.

So, what did I think about Charm City Rocks?

I knew I should’ve read the book as soon as it landed on my doorstep in June. I knew I was missing out on something–and I was. But on the plus side, it’s a pretty good way to start off the year, too. This is just a fun book.

So I loved the whole super-star story and the debacle Margot made of her career and life–it’s a very VH-1 Behind the Music tale. All the behind-the-scenes show business stuff, both in the past and present, were great. But what sold me was the connection both Billy and Margot (and several other characters) had to music–listening to it, performing it, creating it–even just thinking about it. Strip away fleeting fame and money, that’s what counts. That’s why people care about musicians, it’s because of the music that they bring us and what it does for our souls and psyches. As Norman celebrated that, you couldn’t help but respond. (and as flakes wanted to twist that for their own benefit, you respond as well)

One shouldn’t overlook Caleb’s mother–even though I pretty much have–her ARC isn’t pivotal to the book as a whole, but it’s so satisfying. She’d be an easy character to bring on for a few scenes as a plot complication, or just to add a little flavor to the world–but Norman fleshes out her character, gives her an arc, and gets the reader invested in her and her happiness.

There’s another ex- in the picture, and while you know how they’re going to complicate the characters’ lives almost instantly upon their introduction, I can’t bring myself to get into the details. I wanted to say something about a jealous toddler wanting their discarded toy just because someone else has it–but Norman wisely takes that option away. That’s not to say that the character doesn’t muck things up pretty seriously for almost everyone in the book…I’m just saying they’re not a monster.

I think the best way to sum up my reaction to the book is that I noticed that every time I put the book down for some reason, I was grinning. Not because I set the book down, but it just made me happy. Not Billy-happy, but happy.

A little cheesy? Sure. Generally predictable? Sure. Engaging, charming, witty, optimistic, and upbeat? Sure. If you’re looking for more in a rom-com, you’re not looking for a rom-com. This won me over in the beginning and kept my affection throughout. This was a sure-fire winner for me.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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It was true that Miller wanted to be busy; but he hadn’t been counting on picking up such a big case on his first day back. That was the way things went, though. You were desperate for a day or two to catch your breath or even just looking to recharge your batteries after a major inquiry and someone decided to poison their husband or stab a passer-by because they didn’t like their trainers.

People were so bloody inconsiderate, sometimes.

What’s The Last Dance About?

Detective Sergeant Declan Miller cuts off his bereavement leave to return to work. It may be too soon following the murder of his wife (and we get plenty of reason to think that it may be), but the time off isn’t doing him any good and accomplishing things, staying busy, and getting out of the house just might do him so good (and we get plenty of reason to think that it might).

Before he has a chance to reacclimate, he and his new partner are assigned a case—the son (and presumed heir) of a local crime boss has been killed—assassinated, really—in a local hotel. In the next room over, an IT consultant has, as well. It’s unclear what the connection is between the two, or what either was doing in hotel rooms in their hometowns.

The other thing that Miller does to try to return to his pre-widowered life is to go back to the dance class that he and his wife attended. It’s difficult being a single person there, but these were their friends, and it helps him to do so (as much as it hurts, too). We get a whole different set of supporting characters here, a different perspective on things. I really like the way that we get two different sides of Miller like this—yes, there’s a good deal of overlap, but seeing him in such starkly different contexts really helps you understand the character.

DS Sara Xiu

‘I’m your replacement,’ she said. “Well, I was.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘It looks like we’re going to be teaming up.'

‘Even sorrier.’

She smiled. “That’s a joke, right?’

‘Not really.’

It almost seems like a disservice to her character to make Xiu a supporting character. She could star in her own series easily. She’s got the tortured detective thing down—she drinks too much, parties too hard, etc., etc. But on the job? She’s good, and she just might warm to her new partner at some point—at the very least they work together well.

This book might be all about Miller, his inner demons, and eccentric methods—but having him work with such a good partner isn’t a choice many would make. In a book or three, I can see their partnership equaling Bosch and Kiz Rider’s, and she could play a big role in Miller’s unofficial investigation (see below).

Alex Miller

Miller’s wife, Alex, was involved in a major investigation when she was murdered. The police haven’t found her killer—and he’s not particularly certain they’re working too hard on it (it’s a different homicide unit than his). No one from the investigation is updating him either—they want him to stay out of it, for obvious reasons.

And he technically does—but that doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about it a lot, and poking around the perimeter of the investigation—especially in areas that the others don’t seem to be paying attention to.

Apart from that, we spend a good deal of the novel seeing Miller mourn her and talk to an imaginary version of her as both a way to work through his case and her not being around anymore. Those scenes are great on so many levels—the reader gets a real sense of who she was (at least as her husband saw her) and how they related to each other, and how the loss is hitting him. It also gives us a kind of insight into the way his mind works through problems that we don’t often get from procedurals.

Tone

If anyone deserved a plaque on the wall of most local police stations, or a Lancashire Prison System loyalty card, it wag Gary David Pope. He’d been a well-known face — or more usually a photofit – on the criminal scene for as long as any serving officer could remember, and while he never really did anything that would merit serious jail time, and drink or drugs were almost always involved, there was rarely a crime committed anywhere within a twenty-mile radius that Gary didn’t have some connection to. It was like ‘Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon’, only with stolen cars and cocaine.

Gary Pope wasn’t the worst criminal Miller had ever encountered, not by a long chalk, but he was probably the most consistent.

He was a seriously committed wrong ‘un.

It wouldn’t take much to turn this into a very dark read featuring an unreliable and unpredictable detective. Thankfully, Billingham went the way he does—the darkness is still there, it’s just mollified by Miller’s sense of humor and perspective. He really reminded me of Peter Grainger’s DC Smith—but without the almost cozy feel of Grainger’s work. Blackpool is a harsher location than King’s Lake, too.

Still, I think fans of one will appreciate the other. Miller’s humor (and that of the narrator) is a bit sharper, and less subtle than Smith’s—but only by degrees.

You’re able to have a lot of fun given the humor in several situations that aren’t fun at all. But he’s not just funny and eccentric. Miller has a lot of heart, compassion, and empathy for crime victims and survivors. I’m not sure how much he had before his wife’s murder—or how much he let himself show before then. But after it, he’s able to connect with them in a way that few police officers seem to be—or at least are willing to be.

You combine those three elements? I’ll be around for the long haul in any series.

So, what did I think about The Last Dance?

Billingham knows his way around police procedurals—that’s very clear. He also knows how to play with the conventions—and which ones to stay away from or treat straightforwardly. He does it all with skill and panache (not unlike his protagonist).

For example, in his time away, a detective that Miller…hmmm…doesn’t respect, shall we say, has been promoted to DI, and seems intent on making his return as miserable as possible. What is it about almost every immediate supervisor in police procedurals being so intent on being horrible to their star investigators, rather than use their brains to improve their own careers? For every exception to this rule that I can think of, more than a dozen that follow it come to mind. Well, DI Stevens is a shining example of this, and I rather enjoyed Miller’s reactions to him. That’s the only tolerable part of the character.

There are so few quibbles I have with this book—and they’re so outweighed by the good—that I’m not going to bother talking about them. I’m also not going to talk about all the things that Billingham does right with this—I haven’t talked about the victim’s wives, the various crime bosses, even Gary deserves more than that quotation above—and Miller’s homeless informant deserves at least four paragraphs.

Fans of police procedurals or other detective novels are going to love this. I did, and I’m eager for the next. And if it’s nearly this good (and how can it not be, given Billingham’s experience), I expect to be in for the (I hope very) long haul with this series.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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But we are all insane, anyway…The suicides seem to be the only sane people.

—Mark Twain’s Notebook, #40, (Jan. 1897-July 1900)

What’s According to Mark About?

This is tricky to describe, but let’s give it a shot.

Following a bad breakup, a despondent man, Robert, becomes convinced that the spirit of Mark Twain is trying to guide his life and thinking, giving him lessons in the form of quotations from Twain’s works. Eventually, Twain focuses on getting Robert to kill himself. Robert’s eager to follow the lessons of his hero, but things keep interfering with his efforts.

Meanwhile, Robert’s ex, Rebecca, is in therapy trying to deal with the breakup herself.

The novel takes us through Robert’s memories of their relationship while showing us the detritus of his life following the breakup and his efforts to do what Twain is calling him to do. In alternating narrative sections, we see Rebecca’s account of their relationship and we see a little bit of how she’s carrying on. Some of these accounts are synced to give us both perspectives on the events right after each other, some of them come several pages apart so the reader has to do some mental copying and pasting to get a chronological understanding of what happened.

That’s a pretty basic, yet comprehensive, way to tell you what the book is about without giving anything away. And it’s wholly unsatisfactory. Let’s see if I can do better in the next couple of sections.

Rebecca Morely

It’s entirely possible that Rebecca has been in therapy for some time before she and Robert broke up—she strikes me as the kind of person who may have seen therapists throughout her life as a way of staying healthy. Or maybe this is new for her.

Regardless, following the end of their long relationship, she’s in therapy now and her psychotherapist has instructed her to write a letter to herself as a means of coming to terms with the events. Rebecca tells us straight off that she’s struggling with some of the chronology, so we expect that the letter(s) won’t get everything perfectly straight and will hop around a bit, the way memories do. From her, we do get a fairly straightforward account of things between her and Robert—although she does circle around the events that led to their split a little, she doesn’t want to face it.

We see that Rebecca is a sweet woman. A sweet woman who is pushed around a bit by her parents’ expectations and wants for her—one of their big expectations is that she’ll eventually marry someone Rebecca’s known her whole life. He’s essentially an 80s teen movie villain who managed to grow up without Daniel Russo teaching him a lesson by kicking him in the face or Cindy Mancini setting him straight about how to treat women. She’s trapped by her parents expectations, and her understanding of society’s expectations, too.

But she’s finding her own way through that to focus on what’s best for her and what she wants. She wants love, marriage, companionship—and thinks she may have found that (or most of it, anyway) in the eccentric form of Robert. She’s very happy until things start to go wrong in his life and he won’t respond the way she thinks he ought. Little cracks in their foundation start to spread and eventually, things fall apart.

I really liked Rebecca. I empathized and sympathized with her—up to and including her self-recriminations. Possibly because of Robert’s view of her, I couldn’t see her as anything other than a wonderful person who made some tragic mistakes. Their relationship—particularly seen from her point of view—was so sweet even when we know it’s doomed. I found myself rooting for them even harder because I knew it wouldn’t work.

Horatio Robert Foxley

No man has a wholly undiseased mind; in one way or another all men are mad.

—Mark Twain, “The Memorable Assassination”

Robert (who hates the name Horatio), on the other hand…is hard to like (but you will). He’s hard to understand (but you’ll want to). He’s also a pretty unreliable narrator due to the way he sees the world in general, which grows worse as the book progresses. But you’ll get to where you can see through his narration to what’s really going on.

There are clearly a few (possibly several) diagnoses that psychotherapists and their colleagues would give Robert, but he never sees one to be given any diagnoses, medication, or other treatment. It’s tempting to play armchair psychologist and start listing some of them—but I’m going to resist that. O’Neill doesn’t give us the labels or diagnoses, so it’s speculation.

More importantly, this novel isn’t about a person with X. It’s not about his disorder. It’s not about his dealing with whatever issues he has. Those books have their places–and I’ve read my share of them. But O’Neill hastn’t written a novel about a man struggling with or coping with a diagnosis. It’s a novel about a man. It’s about Robert in all his strengths and foibles. He’s a man with many strengths, and some severe weaknesses, like most of us. According to Mark is about Robert’s life and his heart. He’s capable of great love, he’s capable of being loved. And like so many, when some of the supports in his life change or go away, his ability to cope with all the vagaries of life falters. He falters significantly because he needs his supports more than others seem to.

He and Rebecca have a Nancy Meyers-worthy meet cute, and his quirkiness (at least that’s how it comes across initially) attracts Rebecca. They build a life together—sure, she has trouble getting him to fit into hers—her friends and family don’t respond to Robert the way she wants, but they make do. He hits some bumps in the road, and doesn’t respond to them very well. Rebecca responds poorly to his responses.

Then he’s alone and Mark Twain starts whispering in his ear. Robert started reading Twain because of Rebecca, and quickly became a fan. Too much of a fan, one might argue. He read everything Twain wrote that he could get his hands on, and then everything he could about Twain. Rebecca chalked it up to enthusiasm, a sign that he was open to growth and that she had an impact on him—that he respected her opinion. But even she thinks he goes overboard with Twain. He’s driven enough, smart enough, and excessively concentrated enough on Twain that when these whispers start, they are actual quotations that Robert’s absorbed.

Once Twain starts talking to him, whatever was keeping Robert on the rails departs. And we are given a front-row seat to a mind falling apart. It’s horrific when you stop and think about it—but ever so compelling in O’Neill’s hands. More on that later.

Mark Twain

I learned more about Twain—particularly his time in England—than I’d known before thanks to Robert. I mean, O’Neill’s research. And naturally, the quotations that the book is full of make you want to go read more bons mots from him, if not actual works.

But at the same time…Robert becomes a case study in going too far with someone like Mark Twain, and I’ve been reticent to approach his work since then. I don’t think I’d end up like Robert, but…it’s like watching Jaws. You know it’s just a movie, that sharks like that don’t really exist. Buuuuut…maybe you should stay away from beaches/the ocean for a bit, just in case.

The Mark Twain in Robert’s head is an interesting figure—and one has to imagine that the actual Twain would appreciate (on some level) O’Neill’s use of his words.

Can You Laugh at This?

Man, I hope so. There are some moments around the first (that we see, anyway) attempt Robert makes at ending his life that seem to want to make you laugh. I did, anyway—like in Holland’s Better Off Dead—there’s some solid black comedy there (as Twain would want).

But the laughs taper off pretty quickly the more you understand Robert and what he’s going through. Also, his situation and mental health deteriorate steadily, and you forget about laughing and just want the guy to find some help (and, yes, things are already pretty bad as he’s suicidal when we meet him). This doesn’t make the book joyless or tortuous to get through—in fact, absurd moments, and little dashes of (mostly black) humor fill the book.

H. B. O’Neill

You really don’t have to read O’Neill’s website to know he’s a poet. His eye for detail is astounding. There are several instances of him focusing on a feature of a scene, a tiny aspect of Robert’s appearance, or something in his environment that made me put down the book to bask in it for a moment.

You can definitely see his poetry in word choices. There are repeated instances where Robert will look at the street and business signs around him, convinced that Mark Twain is communicating to him through them—the text will just be a string of these signs. And sure, it looks like O’Neill just wandered onto a random city block, took a few notes, and—presto!—had a paragraph for the book. But you know that’s not what happened—instead, he carefully constructed these lines to look like that—and yet to have a wonderful rhythm, provoke just the right images, and push Robert along the way he needs to be. I made a note at one point, “How does someone compose this? How does one revise this?” I’m just going to chalk it up to brilliance and move on.

The prose, the characters, the character arcs…these are all brilliantly conceived and executed, and I just cannot say enough good things about O’Neill’s writing.

So, what did I think about According to Mark?

If you cannot tell at this point, well, then I’ve really done a lousy job. You might want to just go by what I’ve said already because I may start overhyping it here.

This book wrecked me. It dominated my thinking and conversation at the end of November. I became obsessed with it—my friends and family surely got tired of me talking about it as I read on. I started compiling lists of who to recommend it to, who I should just buy it for (the publisher will be happy to know that I have purchased multiple copies already and I’m probably not done). I also have a list of people I’m going to warn away from this book, because, my friends, According to Mark is not for everyone. But the right people are going to love this book.

I’m not sure if I gave too much away above—I don’t think I did. And I tell you truly, I could’ve easily kept going on and on. This is me showing restraint.

It’s hard to put into written form what I want to say about this book. There’s part of Fridland’s Like, Literally, Dude where she shows all the way “Dude” can be used in a conversation with its various shades of meaning. I can see having a conversation with someone who’s read the book largely consisting of those shades.

“So where he makes her a bikini? Oh, dude!”

“And then with the lady at the library? Duuuude.”

“Oh, Dude! The poor dog with the swans!”

“Dude…” (laughter)

and so on. There’s an infamous scene from The Wire with a different four-letter word that would also work as an example of the conversation I could have with someone who’s read it.

But for you, the people that I’m trying to convince to read it? I don’t know how to convey exactly what I want to say.

Trust me. You want to read this. The writing is exquisite. These characters are wonderfully drawn and brought to life by O’Neill. According to Mark entertained me. It horrified me. It moved me. It disturbed me. It rattled me. It broke my heart. It gave me some odd hope. I loathed some of these characters, and loved others to a degree that’s unsettling. It’s been 64 days since I finished this book, and I’ve likely thought about this book on at least 53 of them (and not just because it took me this long to write this post). It’s one of the best books I’ve read in ages, and one I see myself talking about for years to come.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Death in the Dark Woods About?

Chief Jon Flanders has another possible cryptid for Bookseller/Cryptozoologist Morgan Carter to look into. It’s not his case, but he’s serving as the go-between for a Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources Warden. There’ve been a couple of killings in her jurisdiction that she’d like Morgan to look into—and is willing to pay her out of pocket to do so.

Charlie Aberdeen isn’t even the head of the investigations, but she has a vested interest in the outcome. The official cause of death for both men (a bow hunter and a recreational fisherman) is a bear attack, but a witness account and some of the evidence don’t match that. Particularly the wounds. But Charlie’s the only one willing to say anything along the lines of “Bigfoot.” The existence of this particular creature is a known interest of Charlie’s—and local LEOs will send anything along those lines to her.

Morgan, naturally, jumps at the opportunity—no matter how long of a shot it is to find the elusive cryptid, she’s got to take it. Her loyal dog, Newt, jumps at it, too—because he jumps at anything she does.

Not surprisingly, some of the locals aren’t crazy about her meddling—a Sherriff’s Deputy seems particularly hostile (okay, “is” there’s no seeming to it)—but some insist they’ve seen something that could be a Bigfoot themselves. Others just think it’s a pipedream and are mildly amused that Charlie and Morgan are wasting their time. There’s another cryptozoologist sniffing around, too—Morgan’s run into him and his spurious methods before—he’s more interested in making money off of locals than he is in finding anything.

Be Careful

Don’t read the Author’s Note at the back before you finish the book—it’ll spoil things. I occasionally do that—I don’t know why, but I like seeing what an author mentions in their Note or Acknowledgements, so I start there (or take a peak while reading). Man, am I glad I didn’t do that this time.

(but also, maybe bury that information in the second paragraph or later?)

So, what did I think about Death in the Dark Woods?

This was a fun little adventure and a natural next step from A Death in Door County. A hunt for a Bigfoot/Sasquatch-type creature is a bit more familiar in North America than a Lake Monster, but that doesn’t mean it’s tired out. In many ways, Morgan’s hunt reminded me of Gideon Oliver’s in The Dark Place—but I enjoyed the way this one wrapped up much more.

Another thing I want to draw attention to is the relationship between Jon and Morgan—Ryan’s doing a nice job of letting the inevitable relationship grow slowly, and even stumble a bit. It’s really well done.

The narrative and some of the dialogue could be done a bit better—occasionally clunky is the best way to put it. It’s never enough to make me want to do anything other than roll my eyes and push on, but it could be easily made better.

Still, like its predecessor, Death in the Dark Woods is a pleasant diversion with some characters you could want to spend more time with. Which is all I’m looking for in a cozy-adjacent murder mystery. I’ll be back for more.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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It’s a metaphor of human bloody existence, a dragon. And if that wasn’t bad enough, it’s also a bloody great hot flying thing.

What’s Guards! Guards! About?

We start with a motley bunch of people who have been recruited by a mysterious figure to summon a dragon from another world—they don’t know this initially, but the purpose is to take over the city of Ankh-Morpork for less-than-benevolent reasons.

Meanwhile, a tall and naive young man is informed by his father that he’s not who he’s always thought he was. In fact, he’s been brought up by another species. Carrot had spent his whole life believing he was a dwarf like everyone he lived among, rather than a human. “It’s a terrible thing to be nearly sixteen and the wrong species.” Carrot has a hard time accepting this truth but does what his father tells him. He sets off for the city to become a member of the City Watch and will send his wages to his family. It’s impossible (for me, at least) to read Carrot and not think of Buddy the Elf. I don’t know if Ferrell and Favreau had this book in mind when they worked out the character—but they could’ve.

Like Buddy, Carrot doesn’t understand the human world and its nuances. He’s very literal, he’s a hard worker, doesn’t know how to be dishonest, and sees the world in black and white. So he goes about the business of the Watch like that—he’s a one-man anti-crime crusade. Arresting people the rest of the watch doesn’t have the energy to pursue—and those they’ve been told by the city leadership to leave alone.

His presence shakes up the Watch and awakens a sense of duty in them. So when they start finding traces of the dragon—and a corpse or two, this lethargic group gathers itself together and tries to save the city from the dragon, those behind it, and those who can’t be bothered to care.

And a whole bunch of other things transpire, are said, and whatnot. But that’s enough to get you started.

More Than Jokes

“Down there,” he said, “are people who will follow any dragon, worship any god, ignore any iniquity. All out of a kind of humdrum, everyday badness. Not the really high, creative loathesomeness of the great sinners, but a sort of mass-produced darkness of the soul. Sin, you might say, without a trace of originality. They accept evil not because they say yes, but because they don’t say no. I’m sorry if this offends you,”

All good novelists will work in things that have nothing to do with the characters (directly), their development, or the plot to their books. Some sort of commentary on the world, an observation about humanity or a portion of it, etc. If you ask me, the more comedic novelists are better at it than others—it’s probably that spoonful of sugar thing. That could just be my preference, I admit.

Some of the better moments in this book—at least some of the best sentences—come from moments like the above quotation. There’s some cheap cynicism to be found in these lines—but there’s some well-earned cynicism, too, in Pratchett’s ideas about government, the people led by that government, and so on. But there’s some great stuff on love and hope to be found in here, too. Pratchett’s cup is half-full at least as often as it’s half-empty.

The one-liners; the satire of Fantasy tropes, humanity in general; and the overall comedy of his world might be what he’s known for—but at least here (and likely in general), Pratchett’s observations of and commentaries on humanity are just as noteworthy.

The Library/Librarian

The truth is that even big collections of ordinary books distort space, as can readily be proved by anyone who has been around a really old-fashioned secondhand bookshop, one that looks as though they were designed by M. Escher on a bad day and has more stairways than storeys and those rows of shelves which end in little doors that are surely too small for a full-sized human to enter. The relevant equation is: Knowledge = power = energy = matter = mass; a good bookshop is just a genteel Black Hole that knows how to read.

I don’t have the time to write the essay I want to write about the Librarian, the Library, what the Librarian did to save the day, and so on. But I really wish I did (besides, I’m pretty sure someone else has—several someone elses). It’s not the—or a—main focus of the novel, but it really could be. Instead, I’ll just note that the Librarian was a highlight for me, and I hope we get a lot more of him in the future.

So, what did I think about Guards! Guards!?

“I mean, [the dragon] wouldn’t want us to go around killing its own kind, would it?”

“Well, sir, people do, sir,” said the guard sulkily.

“Ah, well,” said the captain. “That’s different.” He tapped the side of his helmet meaningfully. “That’s ’cos we’re intelligent.”

One of the things I like to ask when thinking of a comedic novel is, would it hold up if you took the jokes out and played it straight? It’s hard to answer that for Guards! Guards! because of the satirical and ridiculous aspects of the novel. But…on the whole, yeah…it’d work. Thankfully, it’s not a question we really need to spend too much time on because it’s so funny that you don’t notice parts of the story/plot/characters that might not work—and with the comedy this book is so successful it doesn’t matter.

It took very little time for me to get invested in the story—maybe not the characters (as much as I enjoyed watching Carrot fumble through his new life), but the story and the storytelling carried me until the point that I started to see the various members of the City Watch as anything other than comedy delivery systems (although that’s primarily what they were). I was entertained throughout, so much so that I didn’t really spend much time thinking about comparing this to other Pratchett books or other Fantasy comedies I’ve read—I just wanted to have fun with this. Maybe I’ll do the other stuff with later reads.

My journey to this book—and to giving Pratchett another chance—is pretty well documented. It’s not that I disliked The Color of Magic or The Light Fantastic, but I didn’t get the fuss over Pratchett after reading them. After reading Guards! Guards!? I think I get it. After reading less than a third of Guards! Guards!, I was pretty sure I got it, actually. I’m so relieved…I wondered what was wrong with me that I missed what everyone else saw in his work. There’s this great combination of jokes, situational/character-based comedy, a skewed way of depicting the world that’s honest and true while capturing the absurdities—and wonder—of the world. Pratchett respects the reader enough to not have to spell everything he’s doing out for us, but not so much that he will avoid slapstick or bodily humor.

I’m sold. If you haven’t gotten around to trying this mega-series (and surely there are like 5 of you reading this who haven’t), stick your foot in. If you’re unsure where to start, here’s a great place.

I’ll be back for more soon.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Book of Doors About?

Cassie Andrews grew up in the Northwest and had what you’d call a typical, nice life (with a little tragedy, because we all do). She grew up, had one big adventure, and then settled into New York City, and is having a typical life—with enough fun and love to keep going, but nothing exciting happens to her. Then one day a regular customer that she’d befriended dies and leaves a book for her. It’s a lovely little book, so she takes it home with her.

She quickly discovers that this isn’t any ordinary book—in fact, it’s called “The Book of Doors” and the inscription inside it tells her that every door is any door. An odd thing to say, but she discovers that it means she can open and step through any door with the book in her hand. Cassie and her roommate Izzy have some fun with the book, before Izzy starts to worry about the cost of this magic.

Cassie’s undeterred, however, and keeps experimenting. It’s not too long before a man called The Librarian (by some) finds them—warning Cassie that she’s in danger because of this book. There are many “special books” like the Book of Doors (not all as powerful), and there are those who want to add her book to their collection and will stop at nothing to get it. As these people are equipped with their own special, magical books—the things they can do are pretty remarkable.

Can Cassie stay ahead of these people—or off of their radar entirely? Can she use her book to help the Librarian keep his collection of books safe from a mysterious woman determined to possess them all?

Time Travel

This is more of a Fantasy kind of Time Travel than a Hard Sci Fi Time Travel. That’s really not a profound observation on my part, come to think of it—everything these books do is described as magical. So a lot of your typical rules when it comes to Time Travel are thrown out. You’re not going to get a butterfly effect here, or see what happens if you go back and keep your dad and mom from going to the Enchantment Under the Sea dance together. It’s more along the lines of what the Wyld Stallyns did (at least in the first movie, I can’t speak to the others).

I mention this just so you know what you’re getting into—I have friends who take a very purist approach to Time Travel, and want scientific explanations for everything (hopefully with a good amount of theorizing). They will probably not appreciate this book for that. On the other hand—I have friends who get tired of that kind of thing—they’ll have a lot of fun with Brown’s take. There are probably more people who won’t care, and will just have fun with the wibbly wobbly of it all.

The Rest of the Magic

There are many more books than The Book of Doors running around (more than we’re told specifically about), and all of them have applications you wouldn’t immediately think about. What the Book of Illusion can do by someone who knows what they’re doing? Awesome. The Book of Luck is pretty much what the tin says. The Book of Despair…it’s worse than you think, at least when used by someone who knows what they’re doing (and who should never be allowed to use it).

I’m tempted to keep listing the books, but that would get boring for you and me. The great thing about Brown’s magic system is the wide diversity of magical abilities and the way they’re used. I don’t know how much time he spent coming up with the ideas behind them, or if he just had a handful and then created a new book when he wrote himself into a corner—but either way, a good deal of ingenuity is displayed here, and I want to see more of it. (honestly, I assume he did a thorough job of coming up with the books beforehand, but I just like the idea of him getting to the point where says…”I need a Book of Antigravity so Cassie can float away from a thrown knife.”*)

* Not anything that actually appears in the book.

Quibbles

It’s not a perfect book. Few are, so this isn’t about me listing off reasons to avoid this book. I just want to be thorough as I talk about it.

First off, the book (particularly in the beginning) relies too much on the POV characters looking at reflections of themselves. This is a pretty common thing—some would call it a cliche (particularly as a woman character describes some of her physical attributes)—and the first time that someone did it, I rolled my eyes and moved on. But then it happened again, quickly after that, while it was still echoing in my ear. And then again. And it became a thing I paid too much attention to because it happened so much. If mirrors and reflections had become very important to the magic or plot as a whole—I might have spent a paragraph or two lauding this. But it didn’t. It just distracted and kind of annoyed me.

The “Big Bad” doesn’t have a name. She’s simply, “the woman.” If she was a character who showed up in other places, and we were supposed to figure out which of female characters she was—that’d be one thing. But there’s never a doubt about that, she’s simply “the woman.” She doesn’t even get a nickname like “She Who Must Not Be Named” or even “The Big Bad.” Surely, at some point, the subculture surrounding these special books would’ve started referring to her as something along those lines. A name, a title (like The Bookseller did), something whispered in the shadows. Not just “the woman.”

There are probably other flaws in the book—undoubtedly there are*—but these are the only two that jumped out at me (and kept doing so). In the end—both were easily overcome by the weight of all the good-to-great things about it. But I was irked enough that I had to talk about them a bit.

* Just before I hit “Publish,” I remembered a chapter focused on “the woman” that made me briefly consider stopping entirely. I am so glad that I persevered, and it wasn’t that difficult to.

Now, let’s get back to the good stuff. I probably won’t think about these issues again myself, when I think back on this book, I’m only going to think of what I say next.

So, what did I think about The Book of Doors?

If you took Peng Shepherd’s The Cartographers and merged it with Robin Sloan’s Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore, you’d get something sort of like this. The secret subculture that arose around these special books—subcultures, really—made me think of these books, as well as the devotion to something that’s increasingly archaic—a typeface, paper maps, antique books, etc. There is great power, as well as great affection, in these artifacts of a former age. Sure, they’re not magical or mystical like Shepherd, Sloane, or Brown say. But these novels resonate for the same/similar reasons, these things call to us.

Setting aside all the magic and plot and character—just focusing on what The Book of Doors says about books in general, is pretty special. This aspect alone is going to speak to a lot of readers (most people who’d call themselves “readers,” in fact.). And you could spend time just flipping through those parts of the book.

On the whole, this novel was a slow burn for me—I was instantly drawn to the idea behind the books, I liked Cassie, and the way that Brown showed her reacting to the book. But then once we got into the story about “the woman” and the Librarian, my interest waned a lot. I’m not sure it should’ve, and many will likely have a different reaction, but it did. But as I kept reading, I got more and more invested and my inner-critic shut up because he was as interested in what was going to happen next as the rest of me was.

By the time you figure out what Brown’s end-game was—and Cassie’s, too—it’s so satisfying to see it all play out. It’s really a very tidy book and everything means something. But it’s not just the plot that works so well, all the emotional beats are so well-executed that you will be tempted to go back through Brown’s non-existent backlist to see where he figured out to write them so effectively.

If you like the idea of a kind of magic you’ve not seen before, magical time travel (among other things), an off-the-radar subculture devoted to this magic (or at least the idea behind it), and a quiet bookseller finding her inner strength and perseverance in the face of evil—you’re going to want to check out The Book of Doors. I strongly recommend you do.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Silly Rhymes for Belligerent Children?

The back of the book says:

You certainly don’t need to be a belligerent child to appreciate these silly rhymes by Mystery Science Theater 3000’s and Cinematic Titanic’s Trace Beaulieu – but you may learn a thing or two about handling infected pets or living dangerously through sledding. While the subject matter may make you a bit queasy, you’ll delight in the perfect storytelling encapsulated in each poem. Each selection is a dark and distasteful delight – a fascinating collection of raw honesty, cool understatement and looming tragedy, all brought to life by the whimsical illustrations by Len Peralta. Silly Rhymes for Belligerent Children isn’t the book you’ll keep on the bookcase for decades. It’s the book you’ll keep under your bed within easy reach so you can page through it long after you’ve committed all the poems to memory.

That’s pretty much what the book is—in the forward/Author’s Note, Beaulieu says these poems were inspired by daydreaming, and what better source could there be?

Well, these rhymes are meant for the kind of child I was, and frankly still am.

So don’t come here looking for nice little poems with fuzzy-wuzzy pictures of fluffy cute animals or impossibly happy youngsters fetching pails of water.

This book is intended for kids who hate that kind of stuff: older kids, of course, and adults with… well nothing better to do.

Some are short…some are longer (at least when it comes to page count), they’re all a great mixture of fun rhymes, great images, and eccentric (to say the least) ideas. Some are morbid (in a kid-friendly way), some are just strange, some are gross (in a kid-friendly way).

My One Complaint

There aren’t enough poems.

Or illustrations.

Or anything else.

I want more of everything in this book.

A Quick Word about the Art

WOW. The art is fantastic. Can you go through this book, ignore all the words in black type, and still enjoy it? Probably—some of the pictures won’t make sense without the black text, but yeah, I can see the book working if you think of it as a collection of odd illustrations (I’ve tried this twice, but keep slipping and ended up reading the poems, so I can’t promise).

They are the perfect augment/supplement/accompaniment to Beaulieu’s quirky rhymes and sensibilities.

So, what did I think about Silly Rhymes for Belligerent Children?

This is just silly fun. I, apparently, am an odd adult with nothing better to do, because I’ve read this a handful of times from cover to cover in the last few months and am pleased I did so each time.

You know how there are certain movies/shows that when you’re just mindlessly flipping through the channels (assuming you still do that) you have to stop and watch for at least a few minutes? This book is kind of like that. I cannot tell you how many times since I first read it that I’ve stopped to read a poem or two when I see this book. I’ve yet to pick it up without reading at least three poems. Generally more. And not always the same ones, either.

From the poems to the illustrations and all points in-between, I had a blast with this. I wish I knew about this back when it was first published, my kids would’ve loved it then. I probably can’t get them to slow down enough for it now. Hopefully in a few years.

Track down a copy and lose yourself in these pages. Your inner child (and inner odd-adult) will thank you.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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How Does the Publisher Describe America Fantasica?

HarperCollins.com says:

At 11:34 a.m. one Saturday in August 2019, Boyd Halverson strode into Community National Bank in Northern California.

“How much is on hand, would you say?” he asked the teller. “I’ll want it all.”

“You’re robbing me?”

He revealed a Temptation .38 Special.

The teller, a diminutive redhead named Angie Bing, collected eighty-one thousand dollars.

Boyd stuffed the cash into a paper grocery bag.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said, “but I’ll have to ask you to take a ride with me.”

So begins the adventure of Boyd Halverson—star journalist turned notorious online disinformation troll turned JCPenney manager—and his irrepressible hostage, Angie Bing. Haunted by his past and weary of his present, Boyd has one goal before the authorities catch up with him: settle a score with the man who destroyed his life. By Monday the pair reach Mexico; by winter, they are in a lakefront mansion in Minnesota. On their trail are hitmen, jealous lovers, ex-cons, an heiress, a billionaire shipping tycoon, a three-tour veteran of Iraq, and the ghosts of Boyd’s past. Everyone, it seems, except the police.

In the tradition of Jonathan Swift and Mark Twain, America Fantastica delivers a biting, witty, and entertaining story about the causes and costs of outlandish fantasy, while also marking the triumphant return of an essential voice in American letters. And at the heart of the novel, amid a teeming cast of characters, readers will delight in the tug-of-war between two memorable and iconic human beings—the exuberant savior-of-souls Angie Bing and the penitent but compulsive liar Boyd Halverson. Just as Tim O’Brien’s modern classic, The Things They Carried, so brilliantly reflected the unromantic truth of war, America Fantastica puts a mirror to a nation and a time that has become dangerously unmoored from truth and greedy for delusion.

How Was the Narration?

It was fine—any problems I had with the book weren’t on Wyman’s side. He didn’t work too hard on making each character stand out from the others with a distinct voice so that in each scene you knew immediately who was talking, but this isn’t the kind of book that lends itself to that. Also, the book didn’t become hard to follow because of that—nor did individual scenes. That’s all I really care about (as much as I might enjoy very distinct characters when the narrator does that).

The one heavily accented character’s accent didn’t sound quite right to my ears, but I’m not precisely sure what their accent should’ve sounded like. And…well, in context, I’m not sure their accent should’ve sounded right.

Basically, Wyman did well enough, and I’d easily listen to something else he narrated.

So, what did I think about America Fantastica?

I’m going to sound a little self-contradictory here. I think I missed most of the point of this book/narrative, and O’Brien was as subtle as a pallet of bricks.

There are intercalary chapters/sections (I’d have to see the print version to know for sure) describing the spread of “mythomania” across the nation like an infection (to be followed by COVID). And this is very clearly what the book is supposed to be about—contemporary America’s hunger for lies, half-truths, alternative facts, myths, whatever you want to call it. I’m not disinclined to argue with this as a whole—I just found these portions wanting. I’m not sure what it was I didn’t respond to here–lack of nuance and a feeling that O’Brien was trying to be too clever, come close, but really I just can’t put my finger on it.

Then there’s the narrative—narratives. I didn’t connect with any of them for very long (if ever). I kept going because many of them seemed to be on the verge of paying off, or at least giving me something to sink my teeth into. If I didn’t know this was a satirical novel from the description, I wouldn’t have picked up on it. I’m not really sure I get everything that was being satired (and really don’t care). The best way I can describe the storylines was that someone took a bunch of discarded ideas from disparate Elmore Leonard novels and mashed them together, whether they fit or not, and without Leonard’s skill/craft—then threw COVID into it at the end.

O’Brien had some very clever ideas, some nice writing, and a good line here and there. But the ideas didn’t pay off, the writing went nowhere, and the good lines weren’t worth the effort to get to them.

Maybe this was the right book at the wrong time for me and if I’d read/listened to it a few months ago—or a few months from now—I’d be recommending it, maybe even raving about it. But I listened to it now, so that’s what we’re stuck with. So the me of “now” says that it was an endurance race for me. A determined effort for me to understand why I should like this. A reminder that the sunk cost fallacy is something that I’m very susceptible to.

I’m more than prepared for people to come along and tell me why I should’ve appreciated this. But I can’t recommend this to anyone, and I would recommend you look elsewhere for a good commentary on the U.S.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Warriorborn About?

A little time has passed since we met our heroes—training was completed, people have new jobs, promotions were given, the threat of war looms larger, and so on. The status quo, in short, is in flux and everyone’s trying to settle in before things get really messed up.

The mysterious and deadly Warriorborn, Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster, has been promoted to lieutenant—as one example. And, as you can guess from this novella’s title, we will be focused on him. The Spirearch is sending him on a mission to retrieve certain documents that the Spirearch seems to have misplaced at a colony that’s gone radio silent. As backup, Benedict is assigned three other Warriorborn for this mission—deadly criminals put away by Benedict, who will earn freedom in return for their help here. Not exactly a merry band, but they should be enough to tackle most threats they encounter.

But what they find when they arrive at Dependence isn’t what anyone figured, and “most” quite definitely doesn’t mean “all.”

The Development of the Series

There are a couple of notable things about this novella—first of all, we get a great look into the Warriorborn as a whole, not just what we learned about Benedict in The Aeronaut’s Windlass. The Warriorborn was one of the most intriguing concepts from that book, so getting to learn more about them was a treat. That right there is enough to justify the purchase price.

But even better is the little updates we get about many of the primary characters, setting the stage for where they’ll be in The Olympian Affair. I was already eager to dive in—seeing these flashes of their future, and the way that the war is progressing just makes me want to tear into The Olympian Affair.

So, what did I think about Warriorborn?

This was a fast-moving thrill ride. Yeah, there’s some character development and exploration of some of what makes the various characters (particularly the new ones) tick. Butcher knows how to write action—if you’ve read anything by him, you know this. Throw in some clever dialogue, and that’s enough to satisfy me.

The threat that they discover once they get to Dependence is as creepy as you want. The world of The Cinder Spires isn’t a kind world, and it’s hard for humanity (and felinity) in more than one way, as we’re learning now. But as long as there are people like Benedict and the crew of Predator, maybe there’s hope.

Despite this being a bridge between Books 1 and 2 of the series, this wouldn’t make a bad jumping on point—if you like this quick taste of this world, you’ll want to go see how Benedict and the rest got to this point just as much as you’re going to want to see what happens to them next.

In a podcast interview, Butcher described this as “an apology novella,” due to how long it took to get the second book of the series completed. In the eyes of this fan, apology accepted.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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Walker thought, police work for Sharpe was an intellectual pursuit, a mind game, analyzing the clues to get to the bad guy. It wasn’t about the chase. It was about being smarter than his quarry and everybody else.

For Walker, police work was all about the hunt, and the risk that came with it. As long as he was wearing a badge and carrying a gun, there was no way to truly mitigate the risk that came with a job in law enforcement, which was something Carly either didn’t understand or didn’t want to.

What’s Malibu Burning About?

There are essentially two stories in this novel charging full-steam ahead until they inevitably collide. The first is a heist story—with a good revenge motivation in addition to the “let’s steal gobs and gobs of money” angle. The second is about an unlikely partnership between an experienced arson investigator and a rookie investigator (but former US Marshal, so he’s not that green and has habits to unlearn). It’s not a spoiler for me to say that these stories will converge—for one, what’s the point of them not? Secondly, that’s not the way Goldberg works—there’s no way his robbers aren’t going to be chased by some cops.

The Robbers

Let’s start off, like the novel does, with Danny Cole. If you’re familiar with Goldberg’s oeuvre, think of Nick Fox—only not as outlandish, and you’re pretty much there. If you’re not that familiar, Cole is a con man/thief—he has a few specialists (hackers, hitters, etc.) that he works with to pull off his heists and con jobs.

In the beginning of the book, we see him alllllmost get away with something—and if he hadn’t been forced into a good deed,* he just might have. Instead, he’s arrested, tried, and convicted. He gets his lawyer to push for him to serve his time in one of the convict firefighters’ programs. He spends years fighting fires for the State, forming bonds with others on the front lines, and starting to begrudge the state for how they treat those convicts. Also, he gets to case a few luxury homes while serving his time.

* How much was Cole trying to do a good deed and how much was him trying to avoid being charged with a more serious crime is up for debate—and Cole’s lawyer is ready for that debate.

One of his teammates dies because of State policies and one of those luxury homeowners throwing his money and power around. When his sentence is complete, Cole sets out to get revenge on the convict firefighter system, and that homeowner—all the while enriching himself. I mean, the money’s right there, he might as well. To do so, he and his team have to pull off one of the most audacious—and destructive—heists imaginable. The fact that his plan is actually feasible frightens me more than any horror or serial killer novel ever has.

The Cops

“You’ve shot seventeen men.”

“Is that a lot?”

“I’ve never shot anybody in over twenty years in the department.”

That was hard for Walker to believe. “Not even a little?”

“Is it possible to shoot someone only a little?”

“I’m working on it,” Walker said.

Let’s turn our attention to the good guys now.

Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Detective Walter Sharpe is a detective in his fifties—he’s got plenty of experience and is good at his job. He’s not so great with people—particularly those he works with. He’s rarely satisfied with the easy answer, and will find reasons to think arson when no one else does (he’s also good at finding “accident” when the easy explanation points to arson). It’s not (just) that he’s a contrarian, he just cares more about evidence and understanding fire than anything else. This also applies to firefighters.

“Aren’t firefighters the experts on fire?”

“They are the experts on water.”

Pesky firefighters with all that water, washing away evidence. What are their priorities? Saving lives and buildings? In the end, Sharpe says:

Firefighters are the best friends an arsonist can have.

Against his will, Sharpe has been assigned a new partner. One with zero experience in investigating arson—he’s going to have to build him from the ground up. Former US Marshal Andrew Walker’s wife is pregnant and she’s put her foot down—his job is too dangerous, he needs to decide—her or the job. So instead of chasing down criminals (like Danny Cole), he’s now on the safer end of law enforcement—coming along after the crime is committed.

If you ever wondered what TV’s Raylan Givens would be if he prioritized Winona and Willa over Boyd Crowder, you’d get something a lot like Walker. Incidentally, Carly Walker is an entertaining character, and while I doubt the series will ever focus on her too much, I look forward to spending more time with her. The scenes between the couple feature an interaction that we don’t see a lot in Goldberg.

Anyway, Walker has a lot to learn about arson investigation, and Sharpe is just the right guy to teach him. They get along well enough, but both can see that their styles and personalities don’t necessarily mesh. The above glimpse of their first conversation illustrates some of that. But the higher-ups have spoken, so they work a couple of open and shut investigations together. Then they look around the starting point of a couple of wildfires in the area so Sharpe can show his trainee what to look for and what a natural/accidental fire looks like.

But between Walker asking beginning-investigator questions and some of Sharpe’s observations…these wildfires start to look planned. But why would someone put so many lives and so much property at stake?

So, what did I think about Malibu Burning?

Sharpe took out his phone. “Ill start with the front seat and the body, you shoot everything else. With your camera, not your gun.”

“That’s obvious.”

“Maybe to most people,” Sharpe said. “I’m not convinced it’s true for you.”

Oh, I just had so much fun with this. I realize it’s not that shocking for me to say about a Lee Goldberg book—but when he writes things like this, how am I supposed to react differently?

Danny Cole is such a great character—I don’t know if I could take a frequent diet of him and his antics, but a prequel or two to this with him? Shut up and take my money. Between the (arguable) good deeds he performs and the targets of his cons, it’s hard to see him as a real villain—yes, he seems to commit more felonies by breakfast than most people do all day, but in a Robin Hood sort of way.

Then again…when you think of what he does in this book, and the collateral damage he (seemingly) unthinkingly inflicts, it’s hard to maintain any kind of sympathy.

His targets are harder to work up any kind of sympathy or empathy for. Some are criminals, some are just…rich, entitled slimeballs. It is so satisfying to see bad things happen to them. Another target is the convict firefighting system—assuming Goldberg matched the realities of the system to what it promises the participants (and there’s no reason to think he doesn’t come close), something there needs to be addressed.

But the real star of the show is the partnership between Sharpe and Walker—they’re interesting enough characters on their own, sure—but watching them start to figure out how to work together is the best part of the book. I hope Goldberg doesn’t rush (I don’t think he will, because he’s a better writer than that, but I just want to say it)

Also, arson investigation is one of those things that long-running series dip into from time to time, but I don’t remember seeing a series try to tackle that regularly. I felt like I learned so much just from watching Sharpe work a scene and explain things to Walker. It was like watching Gideon Oliver explain something to John Lau or whatever local law enforcement officer he was dazzling. I’ll read that kind of thing any time.

So, great characters—on both sides of the law—an atypical angle for a procedural, interesting ethical questions, a mismatched partnership that will provide dividends both comedically and narratively for a good while to come, and Goldberg’s knack for making almost anything entertaining? What’s not to like about Malibu Burning? Go get it now, so you can say you got in on the ground floor.

The next book in this series is going to be a cross-over with Eve Ronin, apparently. It’s bound to happen—they all work for the same Sheriff’s Department, after all—might as well get to it early. It’s going to be great—if only to see Sharpe and Duncan together, that dynamic is going to be fun to see.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Nasty, Brutish, and Short About?

The official description is:

Some of the best philosophers in the world gather in surprising places—preschools and playgrounds. They debate questions about metaphysics and morality, even though they’ve never heard the words and perhaps can’t even tie their shoes. They’re kids. And as Scott Hershovitz shows in this delightful debut, they’re astoundingly good philosophers.

Hershovitz has two young sons, Rex and Hank. From the time they could talk, he noticed that they raised philosophical questions and were determined to answer them. They re-created ancient arguments. And they advanced entirely new ones. That’s not unusual, Hershovitz says. Every kid is a philosopher.

Following an agenda set by Rex and Hank, Hershovitz takes us on a fun romp through classic and contemporary philosophy, powered by questions like, Does Hank have the right to drink soda? When is it okay to swear? and, Does the number six exist? Hershovitz and his boys take on more weighty issues too. They explore punishment, authority, sex, gender, race, the nature of truth and knowledge, and the existence of God. Along the way, they get help from professional philosophers, famous and obscure. And they show that all of us have a lot to learn from listening to kids—and thinking with them.

Hershovitz calls on us to support kids in their philosophical adventures. But more than that, he challenges us to join them so that we can become better, more discerning thinkers and recapture some of the wonder kids have at the world.

The book is broken down into three sections: “Making Sense of Morality” (covering ideas like Rights, Revenge, Punishment, Authority, and Language); “Making Sense of Ourselves” (surely non-controversial chapters covering “Sex, Gender, and Sports”; and “Race and Responsibility”); and “Making Sense of the World” (Knowledge, Truth, Mind, Infinity, and God—the easy bits of philosophy). While discussing these, Hershovitz will describe the idea(s) he’s focusing on—or the aspects of them, to be more specific; he’ll then illustrate them with questions from or discussions with his sons; give us a brief history of philosophy on the topic; and then his personal take on them. Usually with more input from his sons along the way.

How was the Narration?

Hershovitz was fantastic. If he gets tired of the whole professor/philosopher gig, he could have a new career in audiobook narration. I can only imagine that his classes are great to sit through.

He delivered the material that in the wrong hands could’ve come across as super-dry, or really jokey and kept it engaging, entertaining, and informative—with a little bit of the persuasiveness needed to keep someone listening to a book about philosophy.

I was quite impressed.

So, what did I think about Nasty, Brutish, and Short?

Oh, I have some serious issues with some of the philosophy here. The chapter on “God” (to the surprise of few who read this blog regularly) really bothered me—but it did underline the importance of Special Revelation to go with General Revelation.

The Conclusion, “How to Raise a Philosopher,” was fantastic. Truly some of the best parenting advice I’ve heard/read in ages (and I don’t even need that any more and I still found myself taking notes). For raising more than just philosophers.

Sure, I disagreed with some of his conclusions—but I loved hearing the way Hershovitz thought through the ideas he was proposing and/or discussing, the way he dealt with his kids and their questions, I appreciated the way he explained concepts both basic and complex in a way that non-philosophers could understand, and he managed to be entertaining all along. Some of his witticisms did cause me to react audibly. There’s a good deal of so-called common sense mixed in with the profound as well—always nice to see for a layman like myself.

This book is a strange alchemy of parenting advice (even if largely given by example rather than by precept), Philosophy 101, and humor. It works so well that it’s hard to explain. I can only hope there’s a sequel or three as Hank and Rex age.

All in all, I heartily recommend this for parents, people who want to get a start in philosophy but aren’t sure where (and don’t want to admit that to anyone), and others. The print version might be nice for easy reference, but the audiobook format is a real winner.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Tainted Cup About?

This is a Mystery/Detective novel set in a Fantasy world. But to say that almost diminishes it. This is a Fantasy world you’re not used to seeing—well, I’m not anyway, you might be better read in the genre than I am. At the core of the mystery story are tropes, characters, motives, and twists that anyone familiar with that genre will recognize and resonate with. Combining the two genres here only serves to make them better.

The instigating event is the murder of a significant, but not hugely important, military figure on an estate of one of the most powerful and rich families in the Empire. That’s enough to get the official investigator, Ana Dolabra, and her assistant, Dinios Kol, involved. When you add in the cause of death—a clutch of trees erupted from the Commander’s chest—well, that’s definitely going to get some official notice. And quickly put you in a Fantasy world. Feel free to read that cause of death a couple of times, it’s still not going to make sense.

There’s just so much to talk about with The Tainted Cup—I’m going to talk about some of the best parts of this book as you would an Oreo cookie. The Mystery part is the creamy center (at least a Double Stuff in this case), and then the crispy cookie halves of the World Building/Setting and the Science of this World.

The Mystery

I already wrote a section below that quibbles with the official description, and I feel bad about doing that twice (am I risking future NetGalley approvals by this?), but I have to. It starts off by saying, “A Holmes and Watson–style detective duo.” You can maybe stretch things and call Ana Dolabra a Holmes-type character. Maybe. But outside of being the first-person narrator, there is nothing Dr. Watson-esque about Dinios Kol. I do not know if Bennett is a Rex Stout/Nero Wolfe reader. I suspect he is, though, because Dolabra and Kol are firmly in the Nero Wolfe/Archie Goodwin mold. (there are other versions of this duo, Pentecost and Parker and Jake and the Fatman spring to mind, but there are others).

I mention this because I think the duo of Wolfe and Archie is one of the greatest achievements in Detective Fiction, and will joyously talk at length about them at length at any opportunity. Bennett using these types at the center of this book almost automatically guaranteed that I’m going to enjoy it. Particularly if he does it successfully. And, boy howdy, does he.

Ana Dolabra is a brilliant and eccentric figure. Our Nero Wolfe. She can be pressed into politeness with enough reason, but on the whole, she’s blunt, crass, and solely focused on things that interest her. For a variety of reasons, Ana rarely leaves her quarters, instead, she has clues, interviewees, and suspects brought to her (and frequently, those she reports to, too). More than once she brings suspects and interview subjects together to question and/or to reveal a solution, putting on a show for others.

She has a new assistant, Dinios Kol, to serve as her eyes and ears in the outside world—and to bring back those bits of the world she needs to do her work. Thanks to a special augmentation, he has a perfect and permanent memory and will remember entire conversations and things he sees perfectly, with the ability to describe them to the detail Ana needs. He looks at crime scenes, records, bodies, etc. for her, conducts initial interviews with witnesses and experts, and so on. He also seems to do his best to keep her interactions with others at socially-appropriate levels (although this is a challenge). If this isn’t Archie Goodwin to a T.

They’ve been working together for a while now—mostly on fraud cases. This is their first murder case—and they wrap it up quickly and efficiently. Except, Ana is pretty sure that this murder will be linked to others—something more than murder is afoot here, she’s certain. And she’s right. (I assume this is almost always the case—Dinios certainly does)

Soon, she and her assistant are assigned to help in the investigation in a nearby city where several others have been killed in the same way. Dinios is partnered up with an experienced Assistant Investigator, Capt. Tazi Miljin, who does some on-the-job training and mentoring while working the case.

Soon, they determine that this isn’t just a murder case—nor is it several connected murder cases, there is something much bigger going on. Something that puts an entire city—possibly the entire Empire—at risk.

The World

I don’t know that I want to get too in-depth here, because the discovery of it all* is part of the magic of this book.

* And by “all,” I mean all that Bennett is going to share with us in this book—there’s much more to learn in books to come.

We find ourselves in a minor city in an Empire at the beginning of the novel before we move to a larger city, a major center of military importance. We don’t know a lot about this Empire—it’s centuries old, there are civic religions/cults but we see very few true adherents, and many people are cynical about the government. But it doesn’t matter—they need the Empire to keep them alive. So they push on.

The military isn’t focused on other nations/city-states/bands of roving mercenaries or outside human threats (although they do take the time to focus on bands of deserters). Instead, they’re focused on the seas. Each year, during the rainy season, monstrously large sea creatures they dub Leviathans (both think and don’t think about other Leviathans you’ve come across—other than large, water-bound, and scary) attempt to come ashore and snack on humans, cattle, whatever.

Places like Talagray, where we spend most of the novel, exist to maintain the wall between sea and land—leviathan and Empire—it’s a massive wall (massive in a way I cannot get across to you) with the occasional weapons mounted to attack the leviathan. I saw Talagray as sort of Jackson’s vision of Minas Tirith, but flattened to one elevation. I’m not sure if that’s what Bennet was going for, but that’s what my mind saw. Maybe a little muddier.

While the local canton is concerned with the murders, naturally, their primary concern during this season is the maintenance of the wall. Some of these murders have threatened the integrity of the wall in important ways, threatening all of Talagray. As important as solving the murder is—stopping further murders and therefore preventing further damage to the wall is far more important. Also…they probably have something special in store for anyone who’d risk the wall in any way.

The Science

I’m disagreeing a bit here with the official description—so take my observation with a grain of salt (but I stand by it). There’s no magic in this Fantasy novel—which, sure, happens sometimes. But it’s still strange and notable.

What this novel does have is “sufficiently advanced technology [which] is indistinguishable from magic.” It’s not often that I get to apply Clarke’s Third Law this way, but it works. This is a very technological society, but nothing we’d recognize, really. There are no circuits anywhere, no electricity…horses and carts are the primary means of transportation for those who are going too far or need to go too quickly to walk. But they practice all sorts of engineering feats, genetic manipulation, medical marvels, and so on.

The source of their raw materials? The Leviathans that threaten them all. When these Leviathans die/are killed, the Empire’s scientists harvest blood, tissue, and bone for all sorts of things to accomplish the above. Leviathan bone is difficult to shape, but it results in tools and swords that are beyond the strength and endurance of metal. Tissues can be manipulated and applied to humans to extend their abilities (augmenting strength, enabling them to have memories that are like eidetic memory to the nth power, control of their pheromones to alter the behavior of those around them, and so on).

Especially when it comes to the abilities that some of these people have, or the freakish contamination that the murderer is using, in a Fantasy book featuring people on horseback using swords, this looks like magic. But it ain’t. It’s just a kind of science that’s sufficiently advanced that 21st-century Western Readers can’t distinguish. And I love that. Bennett does such a convincing and thorough job of describing this (without getting mired in the details) that it just comes alive and you believe it all—and want to learn more about it.

So, what did I think about The Tainted Cup?

My reflex reaction ought to be, I want more of the detective-y stuff. How could I not? That’s my default genre, Ana is a fantastic character, Dinios at work is so much fun, and the pair of them being new incarnations of Wolfe and Archie. But when you add in the world-building, the intrigue and politics, and all the cool science-y bits? I wouldn’t have it any other way. You need all of it to make something this good. And it really does—each section above would probably earn 4 stars or so from me. But when you put them together, the accumulated score has to be at least 5.

Also, all the other stuff in the book distracts from a couple of the problems with the mystery story. These aren’t significant problems by any means, but at one point Ana reveals that Person X is Person Y, and her assistants are shocked and amazed. I assumed everyone realized that as soon as Person Y was introduced and described. For it to take umpteen chapters for everyone to catch up astounded me (am pretty sure Ana was as fast as me, for the record). The other thing that I’d consider a problem, I won’t get into for spoiler-reasons, but I was distracted enough that I didn’t see it until the reveal. Also, it’s the kind of thing that Rex Stout himself would do, so I’m never going to complain about it. Mostly, because it worked really well for the story, so who cares?

Regular readers may have noted that I haven’t spent that much time talking about the characters. I chose not to for time/space reasons. If I focused on writing about Ana, Dinios, and Miljin alone—I’d double the length of this post. If I included every major character I want to talk about? I’d triple the length. No one wants to read me going on that long. So I’ll sum it up by saying that his characters are just as good and developed (and strange) as everything else I’ve talked about.

Bennett doesn’t show a lot of flair in this writing. It has almost none of Elmore’s “Hooptedoodle”—although he violates a lot of Elmore’s other rules (and does so for the betterment of the novel). This is a description, not a criticism, you’re not going to be wowed with his style. He doesn’t need that. The descriptions of characters, structures, and monsters are so vivid, so detailed you have no problem seeing exactly what he wants you to see (with just enough room for the reader’s imagination). The action scenes are well-executed. The descriptions of the trees growing from outside of a person are as disturbing as they should be. There are flashes of humor, flashes of hope and optimism in both the characters and the story—but it’s all in the shadow of the imminent threat posed by the Leviathans and weakened walls. So there’s a strong “The World May Be Ending Tomorrow if not Tonight” feel throughout. I was under the spell of the narration and story from early on.

I didn’t set out to rave about this book. I was going to enthusiastically recommend it, but as I started to put my notes into some sort of order and write, I discovered that I really needed and wanted to rave about this. Fantasy fans are really going to get into this. Mystery/Detective Fiction fans who aren’t afraid to play in other worlds are going to go nuts over this. And I want to read the next book in the series today. But I’m willing to be patient—The Tainted Cup won’t even be published for 26 days. So I won’t start complaining about the delay in getting the next volume for 90 days (that seems fair).

Go place your orders or library holds now.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Blacktongue Thief About?

I don’t know how to answer that question in under 8 single-spaced pages (okay, that’s hyperbole…but it feels honest). Also, this is one of those audiobooks that leaves a listener without a clue how to spell just about everything (for example, I just learned how to spell the main character’s name), so you have to factor into my utter inability to write character/nationality/etc. names to my trepidation about trying to sum it up.

So I’m going to just paste what the publisher’s site says…

Kinch Na Shannack owes the Takers Guild a small fortune for his education as a thief, which includes (but is not limited to) lock-picking, knife-fighting, wall-scaling, fall-breaking, lie-weaving, trap-making, plus a few small magics. His debt has driven him to lie in wait by the old forest road, planning to rob the next traveler that crosses his path.

But today, Kinch Na Shannack has picked the wrong mark.

Galva is a knight, a survivor of the brutal goblin wars, and handmaiden of the goddess of death. She is searching for her queen, missing since a distant northern city fell to giants.

Unsuccessful in his robbery and lucky to escape with his life, Kinch now finds his fate entangled with Galva’s. Common enemies and uncommon dangers force thief and knight on an epic journey where goblins hunger for human flesh, krakens hunt in dark waters, and honor is a luxury few can afford.

The Narration

(I’m sure I’ve said this before) It can be dangerous for an author to narrate their own book, but when they’re good narrators, they can bring something special to the performance as they understand the book in a way a hired gun never can. Buehlman is one of those authors who should read his own material all the time. He did a bang-up job with the accents, the characters, the comedy, and the drama.

I don’t know how this would come across in the print version—I’m assuming it would somehow—but in the audiobook, Buehlman makes Kinch speak with some sort of Irish accent (probably safer to say it’s more Irish-ish so he can deviate when he wants), which communicates so much about him. You hear that, and you automatically get his strange cynical optimism, the poverty he came from, his odd sense of humor. I don’t know how quickly that would be communicated with some other accent—but it immediately made sense to me. Galva’s accent is very different, and utterly fitting, too. I don’t know if other narrators would’ve made choices like he did to communicate that all so well—but I have to give him kudos for that.

So, what did I think about The Blacktongue Thief?

I can’t really discuss what I think of this book and the various plotlines/characters without spoiling the whole thing. So let’s stick to overall impressions.

Buelhman can create a character that shows up for a few pages—or recurs throughout the whole book—that is so well-drawn that you could imagine them carrying their own novella (at least). The magic system (systems?) are inventive—or at least used inventively—and I can think of several mages from other series that would be in trouble if they tried to cross some of these. The main storyline for Kinch seems locked-in early on, but also it’s pretty clear (I think) that he’s going to diverge from his assignment early. But the way it happens is enough to make you sit up and take notice (and perhaps mumble something like, “Are you sure about this, man?”).

Among the many subplots here is a love story—and I don’t know if I’ll come across one so effective for the rest of the year.*note It’s so sweet, so real. And really strange in the way that only fantasy can pull off.

* Okay, I wrote that sentence before I got too far into Charm City Rocks by Matthew Norman a day later, I really shouldn’t make statements like that in January.

By the same token, there’s this rivalry between Kinch and someone he knew in childhood. Their lives took very different paths, and Kinch (somewhat rightly) feels guilt over the way things went—Malk feels a lot of resentment about it (somewhat rightly, entirely understandably). Watching them navigate this reunion in various circumstances is a real treat. There’s some good depth, some believable realism to it—and Beuhlman is able to keep it entertaining.

I don’t want this to sound like it’s a comedy or a light-hearted caper kind of novel. It’s not. There’s a lot of darkness in these pages, a lot of tragedy and bloodshed, there’s some kind of duplicity on almost every page, and absolutely no one comes out of this unscathed. Assuming they come out of this at all. But you will be hooked; you will be invested in these characters; you will be mystified, weirded out, and perhaps a bit grossed-out by the magic; and you will probably want to avoid large bodies of water juuuuust in case one of Beuhlman’s krakens are nearby.*

* I know nobody has happy, shiny krakens full of humor and rainbows. But something about his seemed a degree or two worse.

I picked this up on a whim, mostly out of mild curiosity. But now I have to know what’s coming next.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Blood Betrayal About?

On one night, there were two police shootings in the Denver area. One is the shooting of a possible innocent bystander/possible fleeing suspect in a drug raid. The other is the shooting of a vandal by an officer who (claims? he) mistook a can of spray paint for a gun.

Both of the officers were white, and the men who died were young minorities. Both cases will call for the Community Response team to investigate, neither case will be easy for them (and not just because their limited resources will be stretched by simultaneous investigations of a charged nature).

So let’s deal with these in the order we learn about them…

Case 1

Harry Cooper isn’t a fantastic cop—nor is he a bad one. He’s a solid, middle-of-the-road officer, and has been one for years—and now is near retirement. He’s never used his weapon before, but while pursuing some vandals on foot, he fires a warning shot in the air. Then he’s sure he sees a weapon in the hand of the vandal facing him. So he shoots to kill.

It seems like a tragic mistake, but as he’s part of Sheriff Grant’s force, Lt. Seif seizes the opportunity to do a thorough investigation—to ensure that’s all it was, and to maybe get more intel to help his case against Grant.

A number of things start to not add up—mostly around the “vandal.” He’s not one. He’s an art student who isn’t even from Blackwater Falls. He’s taking part in a legitimate street art contest, for one, not someone tagging random private property. Secondly, Seif thinks the physical evidence may point to something bigger. But he’s just not sure what. He wants Inaya Rahman to lead the charge on this.

Case 2

But Inaya has other concerns. She left Chicago after being assaulted by a number of fellow officers, we learned last time. So when one of those officers shows up on her family’s doorstep, she’s disturbed (to understate it). John Broda has come to her for help—his son is a patrol officer in Denver assigned to help a drug raid on a marijuana dispensary that was known to sell harder drugs, too. In the midst of it, a potential suspect was shot. Officer Kelly Broday was arrested for murder, without saying he shot Mateo Ruiz, he is saying he’s responsible for his death.

John Broda wants her to investigate and clear Kell, and in return, John will give Inaya the evidence he needs to close her last case from her days in Chicago.

She starts to look into things in exchange for the evidence, but she’s soon convinced that Kell was set up—possibly by a gang within the Denver Police. But she can’t figure out if someone wanted Ruiz dead (or why), or if it all has to do with the officer. Or is it both?

Meanwhile, the communities both young men belonged to start to organize and protest—particularly the Hispanic neighborhood Ruiz was from—and the Police Department isn’t responding calmly. Time is of the essence for this investigation.

Everything Else

Which is just a pithy way of saying “Everyone’s Personal Lives and the FBI’s Investigation into the Blackwater Falls Sheriff.” We learn more about every member of the Community Response team (and the civil rights attorney they ally with), and whatever arcs we saw or got hints of in the first book progress nicely (well, at least for the reader—I’m making no promises about how the characters feel).

Those aren’t the important parts of these books, but the more we get invested in these characters, the more compelling we’re going to find how the cases impact them and their lives. As a plus, they’re all really interesting characters so the arcs make for good reading.

As far as the FBI Investigation goes? Well…it’s still a thing. I’m not sure how much more I can say.

So, what did I think about Blood Betrayal?

It’d be easy to write this series off as some sort of “woke” thing where a racially diverse group of police investigators find hate crimes everywhere. Especially when white cops kill black and Latino men. That would be a grave error, however. Khan writes complex stories that cannot be reduced to a simple, one-line explanation, never mind a label or two.

In Blackwater Falls we got one murder that led to the uncovering of a web of more crime and corruption. Here we have two murders that end up being about so much more—both cases are about as complex as the one from Blackwater Falls, but the way that Khan weaves the two stories together (if only because the investigators are the same) makes this an even more complex novel. We get two great crime stories for the price of one. Yes, I think one of the cases was easier for the reader to figure out—possibly too easy. But the way that the clues, motives, and solution were revealed more than made up for that. And the other case? You’re never going to guess the solution until Khan shows it all.

But better than that is the way Khan shows (again) how crimes like this can impact entire communities, and the tensions that result and build up (possibly spill over) between those communities and the police rings so true that you could believe it happening today.

But Khan’s not just good at the big, social commentary—the impact that these killings have on the families is obviously bigger than anyone wants to imagine. And, as she did in the previous novel, Khan shows the grief, confusion, anger, and the other emotions that strike a family at this time with sensitivity and keen observation. Over the last few years, I’ve started noticing this part of a police procedural, and I really appreciate it when the author does it well. Khan’s one of the best around in this aspect.

Throw in some strong writing and great characters to all this? You’ve got yourself a winner. One of the best sequels that I read this year. You’d be doing yourself a favor if you grabbed the two books in this series up and doing so soon.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Mayors of New York About?

New York’s first female mayor has a problem. A few months after taking office, her fifteen-year-old son has run away. It’s not the first time, but it’s the first time since she’s been elected. She’s in the middle of high-stakes negotiations with a police union, so Mayor McCann doesn’t feel like she can turn to them without taking some PR hits/weakening in the negotiations.

So, she has her aide hire Bill Smith (who brings along Lydia, of course). It’s not easy tracking down one of the most recognizable teens in the city without letting anyone know you’re doing that—and it almost seems like the “without letting anyone know” part might overrule the “finding the teen” part of the job.

Now, Lydia’s trying to decide if she takes on a case of her own at the same time. Readers know long before they do that these cases will end up intertwined—otherwise, why would Rozan bring it up? And once Bill and Lydia cotton on to that, a hunt for a runaway takes on a whole new layer. Possibly several layers.

The Characters

Nah, I’m not going to talk about Bill and Lydia today—I honestly don’t know if I have anything else to say about them outside how they’re probably my favorite partnership in Crime Fiction (Robin/Cormoran—learn from these two. They trust each other and communicate frankly. Your lives will be the better for it, and the books will be shorter, too. Everyone wins.).

I want to talk about Mark McCann a little bit. At first, he’s just the target. He’s little more than a MacGuffin to get the plot moving. Then we start to learn a little about him and he becomes an actual character—one I want to learn more about. Then we get to meet him, and I like him a lot. And then Mark goes ahead and does some clever and stupid (read: dangerous) things and I want to see more of him.

The wanting to see more of him goes for everyone who’s alive and not under indictment of some sort at the end of the book—the McCann’s household staff, the people who help Mark along the way (and then help Bill and Lydia), and so on. I know it’s not really Rozan’s style, but if we could run across them in future books for a chapter or so just to spend more time with them, I’d really enjoy that. These all have a little more life to them than your typical witnesses, bystanders, and so on in PI Fiction. I particularly appreciated the way they all want some sort of Mayoral favor shown to their neighborhoods/communities and the way that Lydia takes notes to pass them along. A very nice—and real—note.

I feel like I should spend a few paragraphs on the most interesting character in this novel—Aubrey “Bree” Hamilton, the mayor’s aide who hires Bill to look for Mark. She and Bill dated years ago, and it’s clear from Bill’s First-Person Narration that the chip on his shoulder regarding this particular cheating %#&@ has is still pretty deep, no matter what degree of happiness he’s found elsewhere. It’s not just the way she cheated on him—Bill has no sympathy for her former PR clients (lawyers, largely) or the politicians she now works for, assuming everything they do or say is calculated for their benefit. He trusts Bree less than her bosses—and we see that throughout—but something about a 15-year-old boy who keeps running away from home speaks to Bill, so he has to investigate.

I got off target there, but I thought I’d explain Bill taking the case when he can’t stand anyone involved. Bree is a perfectly designed character—the reader can see how she’s good at her job, calculating, smart, and generally three steps ahead of anyone (aside from our protagonists occasionally). It’s impossible to tell how much she believes a lot of what she says, or if she’s saying it out of duty. And then there’s what she says to yank Bill’s chain a little bit. Bill (and therefore his narration) is so jaded against her that it’s hard for us to know how much of our negative reaction to her is justified and how much it is seeing her through Bill’s eyes. A great move by Rozan.

So, what did I think about The Mayors of New York?

The pace is fast without being breakneck. The dialogue is sharp and witty. Bill’s narration has never been more hard-boiled (his contempt for the client/client’s intermediary helps). The characters jump off the page. It’s what you want in a PI novel.

Early on, I had inklings about what was behind everything (and I’m pretty sure Rozan intended readers to). As the plot moved forward and we received more and more confirmation about those inklings, it made me uncomfortable and a little queasy. Why couldn’t I have been wrong? Why couldn’t these have been red herrings? Thanks to some skillful storytelling you don’t get bogged down in the wrongness of everything that’s afoot—it’s there and it colors everything, but your focus becomes on the characters dealing with it all, the reveals to other characters and the nail-biting way this story is resolved.

Yes, I think Rozan could’ve just as easily and skillfully let the characters and readers wallow in the muck of the crimes behind everything—but it would’ve changed the tenor of the book so much that the early chapters would feel out of place, and we probably wouldn’t have found some resolution that’s as satisfying.

Also, just because some things weren’t red herrings, don’t think that Rozan doesn’t toss enough of them at the reader to keep you wondering.

Rozan has been on a hot streak since Paper Son, and The Mayors of New York shows no signs of her slowing down anytime soon. And I am more than okay with that. If you’ve never indulged in this series before—this would work as a jumping-on point. Almost any of them would, really. The trick is to jump on somewhere for some of the best that PI fiction has to offer. A touch of the classic American PI added to a hefty helping of the 21st century. The Mayors of New York is one I heartily recommend to all.

I've been trying to write about this book since April. I know I'm not going to do this justice, and so I keep procrastinating. But with 2 posting days left this year...I can push it off no longer.

What’s Ozark Dogs About?

One of the bigger hurdles for me in completing this post was figuring out what to put here, I toyed with:

It’s by Eli Cranor, which means it’s going to have a Southern Noir sensibility, is probably going to have something to do with family, and is going to be excellent. That’s all you really need to know.

I still stand by that, but figure you need more, I just wasn’t sure what to say. I’ve finally given up and am just going to paste what Soho Crime has on their website (which, frankly, gives away more than I would’ve).

After his son is convicted of capital murder, Vietnam War veteran Jeremiah Fitzjurls takes over the care of his granddaughter, Joanna, raising her with as much warmth as can be found in an Ozark junkyard outfitted to be an armory. He teaches her how to shoot and fight, but there is not enough training in the world to protect her when the dreaded Ledfords, notorious meth dealers and fanatical white supremacists, come to collect on Joanna as payment for a long-overdue blood debt.

Headed by rancorous patriarch Bunn and smooth-talking, erudite Evail, the Ledfords have never forgotten what the Fitzjurls family did to them, and they will not be satisfied until they have taken an eye for an eye. As they seek revenge, and as Jeremiah desperately searches for his granddaughter, their narratives collide in this immersive story about family and how far some will go to honor, defend—or in some cases, destroy it.

Consequences

Don’t get me wrong—there’s plenty of crime, tension, drama, and all the rest in the novel’s “today.” But in a very real sense the novel isn’t about any of that. It’s about what happened almost two decades before this that set the families on their courses and what the outcomes of those courses are.

This is a book about ramifications, consequences, pigeons coming home to roost—however you want to put it. When you read about those earlier events a part of you is going to ask, “Why didn’t Cranor write about that?” Most—or at least many—authors would’ve, and then some would’ve added something like this as a sequel. Or maybe as Part II in a longer novel.

Cranor’s not about that, though. His focus is on what those events do to the present. How they’ve shaped the lives of those in the present (primarily without their knowledge or understanding), and how the sins of the fathers can be visited on their sons and daughters.

The Author’s Note

Frequent/Regular readers will know that I almost never mention this kind of thing when I talk about a novel. Do read this one after you finish reading about the Fitzjurls, the Ledfords, and the rest.

Unless I miss my guess, you’ll agree with every syllable.

So, what did I think about Ozark Dogs?

This, like Cranor’s first novel, would be really easy to over-hype, so I’m going to try to be restrained here.

The prose is so sharp, so…on point. You can tell every syllable was considered, if you read portions of this aloud (or, I’m sure, listen to the audiobook) you will feel the work that went into it—although it’s so smooth and flowing that it comes across as effortless. You see exactly what Cranor intends you to see, probably feel what he intended, and understand the motivations (even the ones that disgust you) of these people in precisely the way he planned.

The dialogue is so well done that you might find yourself sounding a bit like someone from Arkansas for a day or two after you finish.

These characters—it’s hard to think of them as characters, really, they’re people. People you can imagine seeing on the news or in a documentary about all this. It won’t be the most flattering documentary about anyone, I should add. I think every single one of them crosses a line—more likely many lines—that they’ve known their whole life they wouldn’t cross, at least have resolved they wouldn’t cross again years ago. But they do, sometimes with regrets, sometimes with eagerness. And your heart breaks for them, even for some of them that you hope horrible things happen to by the end of the book. Fully developed, fully realized, very human (read: fallible and flawed) characters on every page.

Earlier I said this book is about consequences, and that’s stuck with me for months. But it’s also about devotion—sometimes devotion that borders on obsession. Devotion to a cause, devotion to an idea, devotion to yourself, or (the most dangerous?) devotion to a person (or group of people). There’s a straight line between every character and what they’re devoted to and those consequences.

But if you don’t want to think about books like that—and you’re just looking for a great read? Ozark Dogs fulfills that, too. It’s a full-throttle, action-packed, revenge-driven, thrill ride with great fight scenes, enough blood and guts to satisfy the reader looking for that, and some twists and reveals that’ll stun you.

Cranor gives us another thriller that you can give to an anti-genre snob, who’ll appreciate it as much as people who only read Crime Fiction/Thrillers will. If you haven’t read him yet, do yourself a favor and get this (and Don’t Know Tough) now and start waiting for his July release while you’re at it.

There are not many people—and as it is desirable that a story-teller and a story-reader should establish a mutual understanding as soon as possible, I beg it to be noticed that I confine this observation neither to young people nor to little people, but extend it to all conditions of people: little and big, young and old: yet growing up, or already growing down again—there are not, I say, many people who would care to sleep in a church. I don’t mean at sermon-time in warm weather (when the thing has actually been done, once or twice), but in the night, and alone.

What’s The Chimes About?

Apparently, the original title of this was: The Chimes: A Goblin Story of Some Bells that Rang an Old Year Out and a New Year In. But for pretty obvious reasons, people shortened the name to The Chimes when talking about it, and this edition went with the short version, too.

The Chimes are the bells in a church steeple–powerful goblin spirits reside in them, (not everyone gets to see the goblins–or this’d be a very different kind of story). Our protagonist, Trotty, is summoned to the steeple by these bells. Bells he’s lived under for years and has come to love their ringing. However, he’s now called to account by them for…essentially losing faith in humanity and disparaging them. Particularly lower-class humanity–like he’s part of.

Trotty is a ticket-porter, barely scraping by–but is a hearty, cheerful man. His daughter is in love with someone who hopes to marry her soon. But Trotty reads something in the news one day (inspired by a true story, incidentally) that makes him doubt people’s goodness. This is followed by him being hired by/interacting with an Alderman and an MP who look down the poor, exacerbating Trotty’s dismay.

These bells show Trotty a future in which he dies that night and how the ripples from his death impact the lives of several of his acquaintances. Very much in a Ghost of Christmas Future kind of way. But these are darker futures than anything Scrooge saw, if you ask me.

Trotty repents of his negative outlook and does something in this vision that proves his sincerity. He’s brought back to the present and life is good–even better than it was thanks to his attitude adjustment.

Oversimplification, I know, but I’m still trying to stay away from details. It’s only been in print for 179 years…

These Guys are The WORST

So this year I’ve read about misanthropes, mass murderers, people who kill without remorse, people who target minorities for fun, demons and other monsters, etc., but I’m honestly not sure that there were people who disgusted me and enraged me nearly as much as Alderman Cute and Sir Joseph Bowley.

Bowley loves to think of himself as a benefactor to the poor, a charitable soul…listen to him brag about it a bit (to an actual poor person),

Every New Year’s Day, myself and friends will drink his [a generic poor person’s] health. Once every year, myself and friends will address him with the deepest feeling….‘I do my duty as the Poor Man’s Friend and Father; and I endeavour to educate his mind, by inculcating on all occasions the one great moral lesson which that class requires. That is, entire Dependence on myself. They have no business whatever with— with themselves.

He does (at least in the vision), bring poor people into a great New Year’s feast with his guests so they can see he and his friends drink to their health and hear paternalistic (at best) speeches about how they need to better themselves, although they probably can’t because if they could…well, they wouldn’t be poor, after all.

Cute dissuades Trotty’s daughter and her beloved from marrying because it’s not like they’ll be able to subsist on whatever money they can eke out–and they’ll just end up having kids they can’t afford to feed, and thereby expanding the need for welfare and whatnot.

Sure, Dickens was probably exaggerating for satirical purposes. But I doubt it was much. And it’d be really easy to imagine these despicable guys as contemporary figures.

Dickens’ Writing

He saw the tower, whither his charmed footsteps had brought him, swarming with dwarf phantoms, spirits, elfin creatures of the Bells. He saw them leaping, flying, dropping, pouring from the Bells without a pause. He saw them, round him on the ground; above him, in the air; clambering from him, by the ropes below; looking down upon him, from the massive iron- girded beams; peeping in upon him, through the chinks and loopholes in the walls; spreading away and away from him in enlarging circles, as the water ripples give way to a huge stone that suddenly comes plashing in among them. He saw them, of all aspects and all shapes. He saw them ugly, handsome, crippled, exquisitely formed. He saw them young, he saw them old, he saw them kind, he saw…

When Dickens first introduced the goblins (and I only gave you a sample), I really enjoyed it. And was reminded that he typically got paid by the word. Not necessarily for this novella–but the impulse was still there. Because the man can go on…never using 5 words when 20 will do.

I have zero problems with it in this novella–but it jumps out at you occasionally.

A few other lines that jumped out at me that I want to bring up…they’re so good.

‘There’s nothing,’ said Toby, ‘more regular in its coming round than dinner- time, and nothing less regular in its coming round than dinner. That’s the great difference between ’em. It’s took me a long time to find it out.’

This gentleman had a very red face, as if an undue proportion of the blood in his body were squeezed up into his head; which perhaps accounted for his having also the appearance of being rather cold about the heart.

‘The good old times, the good old times!’ The gentleman didn’t specify what particular times he alluded to; nor did he say whether he objected to the present times, from a disinterested consciousness that they had done nothing very remarkable in producing himself.

(I’m forever going to be thinking of this anytime I hear someone talk about the good old days)

So, what did I think about The Chimes?

I’m told that the hardcover is gorgeous–I ordered this late, so I can’t confirm (I’ll try to remember to update this post when I get it). The cover looks pretty neat, though. I bring this up so you’ll think about getting your hands on this hardcover edition for your own personal use/shelf decoration.

But what about the novella itself? I dug it. I know I don’t read enough Dickens–and never have. But when I’m exposed to him, I regret many of my life choices that lead to this dearth (not so much regret that I see that I’ll change that anytime soon). I really appreciated his writing, his characters (even the ones I spent time hating). I would’ve appreciated a little more time with some of the characters, but we didn’t need it.

The way the bells show Trotty the future really did make me think of the Ghost of Christmas Future, I know they inspired It’s a Wonderful Life, but I got more of the former vibe than the latter. I’d like for people to tell me what I’m missing, incidentally. Either way, I liked the way Dickens uses this tool to get people to change their way of thinking, even if he uses it too frequently.

The social commentary was well done (if heavy-handed), and probably needed as much then as now. And probably as effective then as now. Oh well, would be nice to think otherwise.

It’s a quick read that packs a powerful punch with some clever writing. If you’re like me, and have never heard of this novella before, take advantage of this opportunity to pick it up. If you’re a better-educated reader and are familiar with it–isn’t it about time to re-familiarize yourself?

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Inside Cover Flap of Alexandra Petri’s US History Say?

A witty, absurdist satire of the last 500 years, Alexandra Petri’s US History is the fake textbook you never knew you needed!

As a columnist for the Washington Post, Alexandra Petri has watched in real time as those who didn’t learn from history have been forced to repeat it. And repeat it. And repeat it. If we repeat history one more time, we’re going to fail! Maybe it’s time for a new textbook.

Alexandra Petri’s US History contains a lost (invented!) history of America. (A history for people disappointed that the only president whose weird sex letters we have is Warren G. Harding.) Petri’s “historical fan fiction” draws on real events and completely absurd fabrications to create a laugh-out-loud, irreverent takedown of our nation’s complicated past.

On Petri’s deranged timeline, John and Abigail Adams try sexting, the March sisters from Little Women are sixty feet tall, and Susan Sontag goes to summer camp. Nearly eighty short, hilarious pieces span centuries of American history and culture. Ayn Rand rewrites The Little Engine That Could. Nikola Tesla’s friends stage an intervention when he falls in love with a pigeon. The characters from Sesame Street invade Normandy. And Mark Twain—who famously said reports of his death had been greatly exaggerated—offers a detailed account of his undeath, in which he becomes a zombie.

What did I think about Alexandra Petri’s US History?

There are 76 pieces in this collection–not all are going to be winners. The odds against that are just too great. The tricky thing is (obviously) the ones I consider winners aren’t necessarily going to be the ones that you identify as winners–that’s probably because you have more refined tastes than me. I’m okay with that (and you should be, too). But I assumed that going in, so the question is: are there enough that you’re going to find funny to make reading all of them (or at least starting all of them before occasionally deciding to move on) worth it?

Absolutely.

Some of these start strong and then peter out–like some Saturday Night Live sketches. Some start strong and build from there. Some are duds from the beginning. And a few (to go back to SNL) leave you wanting Matt Foley to yell about the van down by the river one or two more times.

A few of the pieces that had me laughing were:

• the spider in a certain Northhampton church who took umbrage at some of Edwards’ imagery
• a poem about the other guy who rode the night Paul Revere did, but his name is hard to rhyme
• a conversation about writing the song that became the tune for The Star-Spangled Banner
• an abridgment of The Scarlett Letter
• the man who bought his wife yellow wallpaper trying to get a refund
• what would Gatsby have been like if Hemingway wrote it?
• someone from Sun-Made trying to get Lorraine Hansbury to strike up a partnership
• Build-a-Bear’s attempt to commemorate 9/11

I really could’ve gone on there, but I think between that and the above quotation, you get an idea. I could’ve come up with a similar list of ones that didn’t work for me–but why bother?

f any of the above topics/ideas seem like something you’d enjoy, you’re likely to have fun with over half of this book. When Petri is funny, she’s hilarious. When she’s not…well, there are words on the page that you can definitely read. Her highs are so high and her lows are…still above sea level. I don’t think anything was “bad” here, just some pieces that I really didn’t care for.

I’m glad I read this. You’ll probably be, too. I do recommend this, as long as you go in with open eyes.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Such Sharp Teeth About?

The Publisher’s website says:

Rory Morris isn’t thrilled to be moving back to her hometown, even if it is temporary. There are bad memories there. But her twin sister, Scarlett, is pregnant, estranged from the baby’s father, and needs support, so Rory returns to the place she thought she’d put in her rearview. After a night out at a bar where she runs into Ian, an old almost-flame, she hits a large animal with her car. And when she gets out to investigate, she’s attacked.

Rory survives, miraculously, but life begins to look and feel different. She’s unnaturally strong, with an aversion to silver—and suddenly the moon has her in its thrall. She’s changing into someone else—something else, maybe even a monster. But does that mean she’s putting those close to her in danger? Or is embracing the wildness inside of her the key to acceptance?

This darkly comedic love story is a brilliantly layered portrait of trauma, rage, and vulnerability.

How Was the Narration?

Sieh matched the energy and tone of the book—elevating some of the text with her performance.

So, what did I think about Such Sharp Teeth?

If I took the time to make a pros and cons list…I think the pros would win but by a hair.

The way the book is set up—a high-powered businesswoman from “the City” coming back to her hometown, only to meet with her High School friend who’s been carrying a torch for her since then. Things spark up between them and she’s starting to consider leaving behind all the power and money for this humble guy from a small town. I couldn’t help but think of every single Hallmark Movie parody I’ve seen/read when she talked about “the City.” And most of the storyline surrounding them reminded me of those movies/parodies, too.

The pros, however…Harrison delivers some great werewolf fiction here. The initial bite, the transformations…just about everything that Rory does to investigate her new condition…and more is so well done, and in many ways is superior to every other werewolf novel I’ve read. It’s some really solid and creepy work there, and I wish more of the book lived up to it.

In the end, it was good enough. It kept me engaged, the story moved well, and I can’t say enough about the depiction of lycanthropes. I do recommend Such Sharp Teeth, but with a few caveats.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Miles Morales Suspended About?

In the shadow of his victory against The Warden (see Miles Morales for details), Miles finds himself the brunt of his History teacher’s antagonism. Miles is sure it’s a prejudice against him, his skin color, his background, or…any number of other things. There’s a small chance it’s just his teacher being a jerk. It’s probably a combination of the two.

Regardless, Miles stands up for himself—and a few classmates have his back. And they end up serving an in-school suspension for it. The bulk of the novel focuses on that day—the doldrums of serving it, the homework assignments Miles has to try to focus on during the day, and all the ways his mind wanders through the day (his crush sitting in the desk behind him doesn’t help him focus at all).

Little by little, however, Miles becomes aware of a threat to him and others present that day. And eventually, suspension or not, Miles’ alter-ego has to step in and save the day.

The Narration

We have Guy Lockard back from the first book and this time he’s joined by Nile Bullock. I think the former handles the narration and the latter handles the parts of the book from Miles’ POV. Feel free to correct me.

Both of these performers brought this to life—the narration is very in-your-face (as is fitting, also reminiscent of Stan Lee’s voiceovers in various projects), and the characterization of Miles and the rest ring true.

I don’t really have anything to say about the narration other than I would listen to these two (together or apart) narrate an audiobook anytime

So, what did I think about Miles Morales Suspended?

There is very little plot to this (and not just because it’s just shy of 4 hours in length). What’s more, there’s very little Spider-Man action. Both of these are actually good things—at least this time. What we do get is a lot of Miles Morales action, we see the young man behind the mask just trying to survive high school, make connections, and grow up. These are the aspects of the characters that have helped people connect with Peter Parker and Miles since the 60s.

Now, don’t get me wrong—if this had all been Miles serving detention, it’d have been hard to put up with (not necessarily impossible). So I’m glad that Reynolds gave us a fun bit of Spider-Man action at the beginning and a pretty epic fight scene to wrap things up.

But that’s not the heart of the book—nor is it the heart of the character. Reynolds understands what drives Spider-Man (whoever is behind the mask), particularly Miles. Although, I’d like to see him tackle Peter just for fun, too.

Including so much poetry took me aback initially (or, at least when I figured out that’s what he was doing). But it fits Miles, it fits the girl he’s trying to impress, it fits this world, the themes of this particular book…and Reynolds knows what he’s doing in verse (unlike so many fantasy writers that litter their novels with questionable poetry). The same should be said for Lockard and Bullock—they know their way around reading verse so that it hits.

Is this the book I wanted and/or expected about Spider-Man or based on the previous novel by Reynolds? Nope. Do I care? Nope. Because it was fun, inventive, thought-provoking, and true to the character (yeah, a little heavy-handed, too—but that also sort of fits the classic Marvel modus operandi)

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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Hey, wait!

Listen to the lives of the long-ago kids, the world-fighters,

the parent-unminding kids, the improper, the politeness-proof,

the unbowed bully-crushers,

the bedtime-breakers, the raspberry-blowers,

fighters of fun-killers, fearing nothing, fated for fame.

What’s Bea Wolf About?

In some generic town, there is a treehouse that deserves every accolade you can think of. Treehart has been the headquarters of several of those long-ago kids, where they played, had fun, ate too much candy, etc., etc. Treehart has been ruled by a succession of kings and queens who ruled with generosity until they started to sprout things like facial hair and acne and had to set aside the grown and (ugh) start growing up.

They run afoul of one of the local teachers

Mr. Grindle he was called, for his father was Mr. Grindle

and his mother was Mrs. Grindle, and that is how names work.

With just a touch, Grindle can bring about adolescence—or, even worse, adulthood. He started periodically raiding Treehart, begeezering all he could. And then, he’d clean it.

Ten kids turned teenaged, tired-eyed, ever-texting

eight turned middle-aged, aching, anxious, angry at the Internet.

Nearby, a former king’s cousin has heard of the adultening and sent her fiercest warrior, Bea Wolf, to come and restore frivolity and childhood to Treehart by defeating Grindle. Epic tales are shared, a lot of soda and candy are consumed, and then the two face off in a battle that can only be described as “epic.”

A Bit About the Art

In the Acknowledgements, Boulet said that he really didn’t have time to do the art for this book, but after reading part of the script, he knew he had to. I’m so glad he found—probably made—the time for it. This wouldn’t be nearly as successful without his art.

It’s playful and silly while not turning the whole thing into a joke. There’s pathos, there’s gravity, there’s danger in his drawings. And yet they’re attractive, winsome, and engaging, too. His art is everything the text is and more—yes, I think the book would’ve worked had it only been the text. But…he brings it to life in a way that words alone can’t.

Boulet and Weinersmith are a potent and nigh-perfect match here. I cannot say enough good about this art.

On The Publisher’s page for the book, there’s a link to “Take a Look Inside!” I’d heartily recommend you giving that a glance so you can get a flavor of the look of the book.

About Beowulf

After the tale (at least the first part of the tale) of Bea Wolf, Weinersmith spends a few times talking about what Beowulf is, its history, and the connection between this graphic novel and the source. It even talks about various translations to help a young reader pick one to try.

It’s written in a way that definitely appeals to crusty old guys like me and very likely will appeal to younger readers, too. I’m not kidding, I’ve re-read it just for the jokes.

This essay ends by applying it to the reader:

If you’ve made it this far, all the way to the end of my notes, reading all these words in a book that’s mostly pictures, you must be either a librarian or a future writer. Or maybe both. If you haven’t read the original Beowulf, you may be asking whether you should give it a shot. The answer is yes. It’s scary and it’s not for kids, so you’ll probably really like it. If you’re a speaker of English, it’s the oldest big poem in something resembling your language, and it just happens to be one of the greatest stories ever written.

At one point, late in the original Beowulf poem, a dragon grows angry because a man steals from his golden hoard. Beowulf is part of the golden hoard of our language. Tolkien stole from it for his stories, and you should too. You might summon up a dragon of your own.

I don’t know if this will inspire a future writer or not, but it worked for me.

(yeah, I strayed from my own topic there, but whatever…)

So, what did I think about Bea Wolf?

I had so much fun reading this, from beginning to end. I was able to appreciate it on a few levels—as someone who appreciates cute and clever comic art, cute and clever comic writing, as a cute and comic take on the epic poem, and as a wonderful and romantic vision of childhood (and a vision of adulthood that hits pretty close to home a little too often). There are probably more levels I enjoyed it on, but that’ll work for a starter.

The poetry itself was dynamite. Weinersmith did a fantastic job of capturing the flavor and spirit of the original and adapting it to a Middle-Grade level (while keeping it engaging for older readers).

I honestly don’t know who the market is for this—sure, it’s supposed to be for Children—but I wonder how many will be intrigued by the idea of it (hopefully, they will be prompted by clever adults/peers). On the other hand, I can’t be the only fan of the original from High School/College/after those who finds the notion of this appealing. Thankfully, I do think both audiences will be pleased with the results and the time they spent with it.

There’s at least one more book chronicling Bea’s adventures. I cannot wait to see her deal with Grindle’s mother.

I don’t know if I’m doing a decent job of praising this—but I think you get the gist. Do yourself, your inner child, and possibly your children a favor and run out to pick this up. You’ll be glad you did.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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… it might be nice for the Thursday Murder Club to have a new project that moved at a gentler pace than usual. Something a bit less murdery would be quite a novelty.

What’s The Last Devil to Die About?

What a nice thought—and for a minute, it looked possible.* But no reader expected it to continue, and it doesn’t. In fact, the murder strikes pretty close to home—a character the reader had met recently, but who had strong ties to Stephen and Elizabeth. Which, of course, is how the Thursday Murder Club gets involved. Since the reader does know him, though, we’re invested from the get-go.

* And I’d absolutely read that.

The Club encounters art forgery, a different group of drug smugglers, and some people who make others they’ve faced down seem downright cuddly. (not all of them, obviously, these retirees have faced off with some scary people) The path they have to follow to find the killer—and the object their friend died over—is probably the twistiest they’ve gone down yet.

Yes, there is the “less murdery” case as well—a fellow resident of Coopers Chase is getting fleeced by an online romantic interest, but he can’t see it. So the Club takes it upon themselves to expose the fraud to protect him before he’s totally broke (and maybe get a little of the money back).

Loss, Grief, and Death

Life continues, whatever you do. It’s a bulldozer like that.

This series has always featured death—not just murder. Given the age and health of the protagonists—and the community they live in—it’s a constant presence. But not just death, going on, grieving, learning to cope with the absence of a loved one—and maybe not learning.

We’ve watched Joyce, for example, grieving for her husband from Day 1. Everyone since that time has lost people that were important to them, talked about losing others, and so on. It’s one of the dominant themes of this series.

In The Last Devil to Die, dominant seems to be an understatement. Osman doesn’t let you get away from it—not in a mawkish, maudlin, or over-the-top manner. It’s just there, it’s what the characters are facing and dealing with in a variety of ways (even some of the bad guys!). It doesn’t leave you (too?) despondent, however. There’s hope, there’s life, there’s a tomorrow for the living. It is a bulldozer.

I’ve always been impressed with the way that Osman treats these subjects, he’s at his best in this installment.

So, all in all, I ’ve had a lovely Boxing Day, and am going to fall asleep in front of a Judi Dench film. All that’s missing is Gerry working his way through a tin of Quality Street and leaving the wrappers in the tin. Irritating at the time, but I’d give everything I own to have him back. Gerry liked the Strawberry Delights and Orange Crémes, and I liked the Toffee Pennies, and if you want to know the recipe for a happy marriage it is that.

So, what did I think about The Last Devil to Die?

That’s the thing about Coopers Chase. You’d imagine it was quiet and sedate, like a village pond on a summer’s day. But in truth it never stops moving, it’s always in motion. And that motion Is aging, and death, and love, and grief, and final snatched moments and opportunities grasped. The urgency of old age. There’s nothing that makes you feel more alive than the certainty of death.

This summer, when I did the Mid-Year Freak Out Book Tag, I said that while no book had made me cry this year, I figured something would by the end of the year. I didn’t think it would be a cozy mystery that did it. Almost twice.

But I was laughing—or at least chuckling—within a couple of pages both times. And it didn’t feel like emotional whiplash or like he was undercutting the seriousness of what elicited the tears or almost tears. Osman was just honestly portraying these characters in all their aspects which brings laughter and tears.

I’ve talked a lot about this book’s “downer” parts. Let me assure you that the comedy is great—watching Ron try to understand his son making Cameos, for example. Other things with Ron, too, actually. I’m having trouble coming up with examples—well, Joyce is a reliable source of humor, obviously. Everyone is, as you know if you’ve read one of these books (and if you haven’t, but are reading this post…there’s your homework, go pick up the first one and thank me later). I’m having trouble coming up with other specific examples that I can use in this post, sadly. But they’re there, I assure you.

As always, the characters are Osman’s strong suit. Our regulars are in fine form, as are the some returning characters (including some I was pleasantly surprised to see), and the new characters are great additions to the cast (however temporary some of them might be). They all practically jump off the page fully formed and it’s hard to ask for more.

The online fraud story goes pretty much like you expect it to—this isn’t a Mrs. Plansky’s Revenge kind of thing. But it was very satisfying. The murder mystery, which is theoretically why people pick this book up, on the other hand…I have mixed feelings about it. But I can’t explain that reaction. Osman knows how to construct a mystery, the red herrings are perfect, the suspects are wonderfully designed, and the reveals and wrap-up were done almost perfectly. I can’t think of a single problem with it. But the entire time I was reading it, something just didn’t click.

I want to stress that this is my only issue with the book—sadly, it’s the A story. Maybe it’s the fact that it didn’t feel like it always. Maybe it’s because everything else in the novel was so good and so emotionally strong, that the mystery couldn’t compete. Maybe the book was just too crowded with storylines and this one didn’t have as much time to develop as it needed? It’s also (very likely) just me. I also thought it was pretty easy to guess the killer’s identity—but the motive and the reveal were so well done that I didn’t care. Also, the herrings were red enough that I doubted my guess more than once.

That ineffable quibble aside, this is the best book in the series thus far. I couldn’t put it down—from the “are you kidding me?” beginning through the emotional body-blows over the course of the book, up to the strong conclusion, and all points in between, Osman kept me guessing, kept me invested, and kept me wondering how he could be so good at this.

I don’t need to tell fans to get this (they’ve probably all read it by now), but I can encourage new readers to catch up.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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Continuity Counts

By and large, the Wayward Children books can be read in any order—sure, things will mean more if you read them in order of publication (so far, anyway). It’s easier that way to catch allusions, understand the depth of relationships, come close to tracking what Sumi is talking about, etc. But you can get away with skipping around.

But you really need to read this one after Lost in the Moment and Found. It’s the closest thing to a direct sequel that we’ve had in this series. It’s also kind of a follow-up to Where the Drowned Girls Go (and, as always, touches on several others).

This is largely Part II of Antsy’s story—the story is shared by a group of the students (my favorites in the series) on one of those quests they’re not supposed to undertake—and whoops, I’ve started writing the next section.

What’s Mislaid in Parts Half-Known About?

Antsy is having a hard time adjusting to life at Eleanor West’s School for Wayward Children, almost as much trouble as she’d be having adjusting to anywhere else on Earth. Part of that comes from not being as honest about her circumstances as she could’ve been—understandably so, I think—which just made everything worse.

Still, there are signs that things may get better, helped a little by Antsy being able to find anything for people. Then Seraphina (who can get anyone—with one or two exceptions—to do what she wants) decides to use her abilities on Antsy to get her to find her Door.

Ansty, Sumi, and some others (I’m not going to name them to keep your interest piqued) manage to slip away using Antsy’s ability to find things and her knowledge of how Doors work, eventually getting back to the Shop Where the Lost Things Go. Which wasn’t exactly where Antsy wanted to be—and she learns that things there hadn’t gone as expected when she left and a whole new quest develops.

Not About Jim Morrison’s Band

When I wrote about Lost in the Moment and Found earlier this year, I said:

This entry would be a worthwhile read for fans if only for this one thing—we learn more about the Doors and how they work. I’m not going to go into it, obviously, nor am I going to promise that every question you had about the Doors will be answered—actually you’ll likely end up with new questions, but they’ll be informed questions.

That’s true here, too. In fact, we learn so much about them that I almost don’t want to learn anything more about Doors for another 8+ books so they don’t get too demystified. McGuire being McGuire, I know that if she reveals a whole lot more in the next book, I’ll end up repeating everything I said prior to this sentence—and I’ll be happy and equipped with more questions.

Regardless—what we do learn here is fantastic. It both makes utter sense—in the way that maybe we all should’ve guessed it already (maybe some did)—in terms of storytelling, worldbuilding, and more. I wonder what (some of) the students understanding this is going to do to things going forward. If anything.

Future Continuity

Speaking of things going forward, something major is on the way for Eleanor West. It’s been hinted at before, but so many things in this book point to it happening soon (but in Wayward Children-time, it could take 3-4 novellas for us to get to “soon”). I’m eager to see it, as much as I’m dreading what it might mean.

One Quick Character Note

Every protagonist of these novellas—and a significant chunk of the supporting characters—has been wonderful. With the exception of Seraphina and her crew*, I like all the students we’ve met at the School and want to know more about them all.

* I’m waiting for McGuire to decide it’s time to humanize them so we readers will root for even them, and we’ll feel bad for not doing so earlier.

But…from the moment we met her, Sumi’s been a favorite of mine. I should probably use the definite article there, actually. So I’m not unbiased when I say that in Mislaid in Parts Half-Known she is glorious, but she really is. She’s funny, she’s loopy, she’s brave, and she’s wise. Hard as that last one might be to believe. She’s also rather clever and displays that at the end.

The main parts of the story belong to Antsy and a couple of other characters—but Sumi stole every scene she was in and I really just want a few in a row featuring her.

So, what did I think about Mislaid in Parts Half-Known?

This is not my favorite Wayward Children book, but it’s close. There aren’t one or two big emotional moments like there typically are in these (at least not that hit me…your results may vary). But there were a handful of small emotional moments that worked so well—in terms of what happened to someone, how it impacted the other characters, and the way that McGuire wrote them—that I don’t care. It might even be better this way.

The worlds we saw were wonderful—really, you could set an entire fantasy trilogy in them without reference to any other. The world hinted at on the cover, for example, could easily sustain a 1,500-page trilogy full of whimsy and danger.

There’s probably more humor and smile-inducing moments here than several of these books combined sport. Which was a nice bit of fresh air (in a series that really doesn’t need it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not welcome).

Naturally, there are characters we’re not likely to see again due to the nature of these books, and I’m going to miss them. Although the endings they got were well deserved and well executed.

I almost always walk away from a Wayward Children book feeling satisfied and a little in awe of McGuire—I think that feeling is larger this time just because of the number of emotional and story notes she managed to hit, the storylines she was able to incorporate and resolve, the ones she just moved forward, and…everything else in 160 pages. It shouldn’t be possible. This book (like most in the series) is bigger on the inside.

A few paragraphs back, I said that this wasn’t my favorite in the series—but at the moment, I’m having trouble understanding why (but I’m going to trust my earlier impulse). But it is so, so, so good. I’m having trouble coming up with adequate adjectives at this point.

Go get this in January. Order it now (and/or request it from your library). If you haven’t read these books yet, go. At a bare minimum, get the first, Every Heart a Doorway, and then Lost in the Moment and Found, so you can be ready for this one when it’s released. You can catch up on the others later.

This originally appeared in Grandpappy's Corner at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Saint Valentine the Kindhearted About?

Why do we call our celebration of love on February 14th (St.) Valentine’s Day? Why do we use February 14th, for that matter?

Ned Bustard brings us another picture book Biography to teach young readers about Valentine, who was martyred under Claudius on February 14.

Granted, we don’t know a lot about Valentine and his work, but we have enough to fill this book (and, as I recall from wordier historical treatments, not much more). We get a touch of his early life, a look at his ministry (and the Roman culture), a notable miracle that’s ascribed to him, and a bit about the events leading to his martyrdom. All told in a child-appropriate rhyme.

Let’s Talk about the Art for a Minute

Bustard’s cartoon-y art is as great here as it was in his Saint Patrick the Forgiver. The thing that stands out to me is his inking. (at least that’s what we called it back when I was really into comics and talked about the art, hopefully, it still counts). The way he uses bold lines around his character’s faces/bodies (particularly Valentine’s), really makes them pop off the page and almost look like wooden puppets. (that’s the best I can do as far as describing the pictures)

He’s also able to convey a certain amount of unpleasantness and threat with Roman soldiers without changing the overall feel of the story and its appropriateness for young readers.

Now, in the Patrick book, he worked in a lot of Celtic knots and whatnot to give it a more Irish feel. Here he goes for a lot of differently colored hearts all over the pages. It didn’t even occur to me while reading the book to pay attention to that—it fit the overall Feb. 14th vibe. I should’ve known better—thankfully, he explained it in “A Note from the Author,” so when I read this with the Grandcritter I can seem more knowledgeable. He works in these hearts in different colors to represent the four types of love (eros, storge, philia, and agape) from ancient Greek thought (and a pretty good book by C.S. Lewis), showing how Valentine displayed and interacted with these types of love in various episodes in the book.

You can check out the Publisher’s site for a glimpse at the art and layout as a preview. This will probably give you a better idea than anything I tried to convey.

How is it to Read Aloud?

It’s a nice little bit of rhyming text, and starting off with “Roses are red,” as often as he does, you’re going to get right into the rhythm reflexively, which is a nice touch. Some of the rhymes feel like a stretch to me*, but when you’ve got a good head of steam going as you read you probably won’t notice.

* “ago” and “van Gogh”, really? Also, that only works if you use the American pronunciation—sorry, British readers.

So, what did I think about Saint Valentine the Kindhearted?

I enjoyed this. I do wish we had more history to draw from for Bustard to use here (and, well, other historians writing for older audiences, too), just to fill out some of the details reliably. But this is a good introduction to the figure that’s had such a cultural impact so that even younger readers can know there’s basis to the celebration beyond chalky candies and silly drawings.

I don’t have a lot to say about this beyond that. It’s a fun read for the little folks, it has details and layers that older readers can appreciate and use to talk about bigger ideas with the little ones, too. Color me impressed yet again by Bustard and I’m eager to see what holiday/figure he picks next. Anyone trying to bring Early Church figures to the attention of the pre-K crowd deserves some applause and I’m happy to keep giving it, while gladly recommending you jump on board.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Secret About?

It’s 1992 and Capt. Jack Reacher has been assigned to a task force organized by the Secretary of Defense. He’s the U.S. Army Representative, and there’s someone from the CIA, the FBI, and the Treasury Department. They’ve been brought together to investigate a series of possible murders of scientists from around the country—although there’s the possibility they’re freak accidents or suicides, too.

In the 60s these men were part of a secret project that was abandoned after an accident caused some civilian deaths. But now it appears that someone has found their names and is working their way down a list. Can Reacher and the task force find the killer in time? What’s the purpose of killing them now?

So, what did I think about The Secret?

If this were a thriller about any other character and had someone else’s name on the cover, I might have said it was enjoyable enough.

But it’s about Jack Reacher and Lee Child’s name is on the cover (even if it’s pretty well established that Andrew is doing most of the writing), so there are certain standards that have to be met. The Secret falls far short of them.

I could go on a prolonged screed listing my problems with the book—but I’m going to skip it. Those problems range from minor (there’s no way that a 1992 version—or a 2023 version—of Reacher is going to say “pearl clutching”) to major (there’s no reason for the big multiple attackers vs. Reacher fight in the middle other than it’s been a hundred pages since Reacher’s done anything violent, and that time was pretty quick and undramatic). I’d also say I was disappointed by the use of the rest of the task force, which was subpar at best, the big reveal at the end was lazy, and the concluding chapters were a letdown from the mediocre pages before it.

But for me, it boils down to this—that guy walking around in a uniform wasn’t Jack Reacher. He was a decent Generic Thriller hero who could possibly develop into a character worthy of a series. And that’s a fatal flaw.

The Secret wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t good, either. Reacher deserves better from his creator—and from anyone hired to carry on the character, and he’s not getting it. I’ve tried (and some of my readers have told me I shouldn’t) to give this new arrangement time to develop into something worthwhile, but I think my experiment is over. I’m going to move on to other thriller series now—I may check in with what the Child brothers are doing in a couple of years, but if I’m going to keep a positive regard for Jack Reacher, I’m going to have to focus on my memories (and whatever Alan Ritchson is doing on the show).