hc.newton

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader along with a Q&A with the author

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What’s BaIT About?

Amber is a few short months away from leaving high school behind, going to college, and studying to become a teacher. It will be difficult saying goodbye to her best friend, Jessica, who is moving across the country, and to her boyfriend (and almost certain future husband), Frankie, who is also moving out of state for college—but she’s going to be okay. She has a plan, she’s got her hunk of a boyfriend, and life is looking good. Her future’s so bright, she’s gotta wear shades.

Until one day when a young man comes into the coffee shop that she’s working in and takes her breath away. He’s gorgeous, he’s shy, and she can’t stop thinking about him. It’s not just her, Jessica, is almost as smitten—but Bastian (as they learn he’s called) really only seems interested in Amber.

What neither girl realizes that beyond their giggling lusting and certainty about true love—Bastian coming into their lives brings threats and complications that they didn’t know existed. It’s not long before Amber is involved in ages-old struggles between werewolves and vampires, werewolves and werewolves, and a father and son. None of these characters will move on unchanged.

Worldbuilding

This is the best part of the book, period. The particular take on Werewolves here (and to a lesser extent, Vampires) really worked for me. There’s a little bit of the flavor of The Marrok from the Mercy Thompson series—but there’s group of elders instead of just Bram (and many other differences, but like I said—flavor).

There’s reason to think that this exists in the same world as his Mostly Human books. But it feels like the werewolves are organized differently (for lack of a better term). This raises some questions: are there multiple types of lycanthropes in this world and different types of lycanthropic magics? Has Jolly changed the way he thinks about them in this world? Has he just been inadvertently inconsistent? I ask about this in a Q&A with Jolly that will go up in an hour or so, but I haven’t read his response yet. So go see what he said to get a better take on this paragraph.

There’s also this Djalia-esque place/plane of existence where Bastian communicates with some people who I won’t identify. That was an excellent touch and proved to be a good way for Bastian to develop.

Even the concept of soulmate is an intriguing addition to this world—and if it had been presented differently, I might not have the concerns I’m about to talk about.

Consent

Vague spoilers ahead. Feel free to skip to the next section header.

This novel was pitched to me as “a Paranormal YA-Romance novel focusing on the theme of consent”. This is not my typical cup of tea, but I’ve read enough of all of those to be interested in Jolly’s take on them (especially in combination). When I wrote about his Mostly Human 2, I talked about wanting to see a Lad Lit novel by him, and this might be something in that direction. So I went for it.

First, this is not what I’d call YA. NA/New Adult—sure. But that’s not what I want to talk about.

There is a storyline that comes up later in the book all about consent in the ways you typically think about that storyline. Impaired judgment tied to underage drinking (not for a second saying it’s deserved or excusable, just painting the scene) and some jerk not bothering to get consent (or care about it in the first place). It’s dealt with well, Jolly is really good here. I do wonder if the punishment fits the crime, but hey…when you deal with werewolves and vampires (even if you don’t know it), things happen.

If that’s all that happened, I’d wonder why it was described as “about consent” because while it’s a vital storyline, it happens relatively late in the novel.

I can’t help but wonder, however, how the novel undercuts what it wants to say about consent. Throughout the novel Amber, Jessica, Frankie, and Bastian are really careful along those lines, and everyone is open and honest about their desires. But there’s this magic whammy of the Soulmate at work. Where Amber and Bastian are tied together emotionally, physically, and supernaturally before they know each other.

Can Amber and Bastian truly be said to consent to anything? It’s definitely not an informed consent. Had the whole soulmate thing grown out of their bond, or enhanced what happened naturally, that’d be fine. But truly they had no agency here—they chose to spend time together, to love each other, to be intimate with each other, and so on. But could they have made any other choice? I can’t buy it.

I might have missed something. I might be misinterpreting something—I absolutely am open to that. But for now…ick.

So, what did I think about BaIT?

This is a tough one to write. Jolly and I have interacted a bit over the years and I like him as much as you can like someone you’ve emailed with a couple dozen times. I enjoy his writing on the whole and look forward to seeing new books by him. And I have no doubt that there are people who are really going to get into this book and want more like it. And more power to them.

I am not one of those people.

It’s not just the consent issue (although that’s part of it). It’s not that I’m a prude and this book is definitely (and almost aggressively) “sex-positive” (although both are true, I’ve read and enjoyed more graphic work since this book).

Some of what put me off were the intensity of every thought and emotion expressed—it really felt like everything said, thought, or felt by the characters in their teens and twenties should’ve been accompanied by 5+ exclamation points. The pacing of the relationships, personal growth and change, and the story felt off and too accelerated to be believable.

I really think that this book plays into his strengths (it’s very much along the lines of the parts of Mostly Human 2 that I thought were the most successful). There are some great moments (Frankie witnessing werewolves changing and realizing what he was seeing, for example). There were some promising characters. Again, I really liked the Elders council idea. But for every “pro” in this book, I had two or three “con”s.

I’m not—very carefully and deliberately—saying, “don’t read this book.” I’m saying, “go into it with open eyes.” It’s a book that feels to me like it needs—like its primary characters—to grow up and mature a bit.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader along with a Q&A with the author.

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What’s Kneading Journalism About?

This book is centered on the idea of the kitchen table—a (perhaps mythological) place where people can sit down, have a meal, and discuss a wide range of issues with respect and frankness. What can be found in every culture on the globe on those tables as a staple—particularly when enjoying the company of someone outside your household? Bread.

Ganzer used to work in a bakery and has recently gotten serious about his breadmaking again. He brings bread into this collection in two important ways. First, he includes a recipe for a different kind of bread to accompany every essay. Secondly, he incorporates something about the enjoyment, projection, and/or history of a bread into the essay about journalism (this sounds like it’d take some stretching or forcing of the issue—but it doesn’t. Or Ganzer’s just so good that he can force it without it feeling that way).

Beyond that—the essays themselves are about the state of journalism/news media in the U.S. and in other countries around the world (not exhaustively, just where Ganzer has some experience), along with personal reflections on his career in journalism. Some of the topics he covers are: journalism education (and how it can help “consumers” as well as “producers”); Machiavelli and his relation to the media as well as contemporary equivalents; The Daily Show and similar “journalism cosplay”; and being a reporter in the middle of the Egyptian revolution.

Bread

I want to start by saying how much I love this way of organizing the essays and the motif of the bread.

I’m no expert, but the recipes (advertised as for any level of baker) do look easy enough and pretty tasty. I need to get around to trying them someday.

But more importantly, the way that Ganzer weaves the various breads and factoids about it (wow, Germans seem to love the stuff) into these essays is really commendable and helps hook the reader into the rest.

Journalism

Ganzer is an advocate for and believer in a certain type of journalism—one that cares more about informing citizens for the public good, not one that’s about reinforcing our own bias.

To say that he takes a dim view of most cable news would be an understatement. He’s also not crazy about the way that public figures are calling the press the enemy of the American people—and going out of their way to erode trust in the press. Since Watergate, American esteem of reporters has shifted, and over the last few years that shifting has sped up.

What Ganzer wants to reinvigorate is a respect for constructive journalism. Reminding the reader that reporters can—and should—serve a vital function in society. Particularly in a democracy.

He compares and contrasts, for example, the way the press has been viewed and used throughout history, as well as in other parts of the world—like Egypt and Germany.

I’m going to cut myself off here before I say too much about Ganzer’s arguments—he’ll do a much better job of it, and I don’t want to muddy the waters.

So, what did I think about Kneading Journalism?

This is a great read—challenging, but in a friendly, welcoming way. Thoughtful and thought-provoking without being combative or overly critical. Ganzer has a point of view—and makes no claim about lack of bias here—but isn’t pushing a partisan outlook, just a pro-responsible press outlook. Brief, but not insubstantial.

I enjoyed reading these essays and appreciated the insight and opinions. But I couldn’t stop with just reading—I spent time afterward thinking about the individual essays as well as the book as a whole. Both in terms of the content of the essays as well as in how to apply and evaluate what I read/watch.

I’m afraid this isn’t going to find the readership it deserves—but I hope it does find readers that the message resonates with and that they can at least spread the ideas and carry them into their own lives and media consumption. It’s something all Americans need to think about before it’s too late.

I encourage you to read and think about this. I’d grab a new book by Ganzer without much thought and would hope that there are other books like it out there for me to read, too.

A cat, free from the restraints of flesh, muscle, and organ, stretched on the edge of the wagon, as if that would do anything for its skeletal body. Then it jumped down next to Mina and plodded over to the woman, who had returned to her chair by the fire. A partially- knitted scarf coiled in her lap as she continued to work on it. The skeletal cat found a comfortable piece of the woman’s dress, curled up at her feet, and licked its non- existent crotch with a non- existent tongue.

What’s A Necromancer Called Gam Gam About?

Twelve-year-old Mina is being pursued by armed men—armed men who had just killed her father. She has a special kind of magic, and those in power want to use her because of it.

She runs across a kindly grandmotherly type who introduces herself as Gam Gam. Gam Gam, it turns out, is a necromancer with a soft spot for endangered little girls. (probably endangered women, and males of all ages, too). She takes her Mina in and promises her safety. Gam Gam is a necromancer and can back up that promise (not definitively, but more than most people can).

They tell each other their stories—Mina tells her why she’s on the run, and Gam Gam tells her that she became a necromancer after the death of her grandchildren so she could resurrect them.

But first, Gam Gam decides that she needs to do something to keep Mina safe.

The Types of Magic

The bundle of bones at the top of the stove raised its feline skull and looked at Mina, then disregarded her and returned to a nap. Why did skeletal cats need so many naps?

Great question. But that’s not what I want to talk about here.

We see two types of magic portrayed with our two protagonists—with others floating out there in this world for us to encounter in future installments, I assume.

Necromancy is rarely something I’m interested in reading about unless the necromancer is about to be thwarted. I know there are exceptions (including here), but it’s hard to think about magic involving reanimating the dead as a good thing. But Holcombe not only makes that specialty seem interesting but gives the reader a necromancer you can root for.

I really liked the way one of the characters describes Gam Gam’s magic to Mina. It grounded the practice, for starters—you could understand it. It’s also idiosyncratic enough to fit Gam Gam to a T. From that point on, I could see that explanation at work—even when the text doesn’t refer to it.

Now Mina’s magic is a kind I’ve never encountered before—maybe a few things like it (particularly in SF rather than fantasy)—but it took almost no time at all for Holcombe to convey the potential—both for a character in fiction, as well as for an evil empire to exploit. In the hands of someone with little experience—for example, a 12-year-old—it could be dangerous. Okay, it could be dangerous in the hands of anyone, but people with experience would control and target the damage they inflict, a child would just inflict damage.

Having a novel (or novella, in this case) with a great magic system is a good start—but it’s how you convey the use of magic to the reader that’s the make/break point for me. And Holcombe nails this part. Mina’s as well as Gam Gam’s. This is a big selling point for me.

The Unexpected Content

Tears escaped her and raced down her cheeks. Was it possible to ever run out of tears? She couldn’t possibly have many more before she would start shriveling up.

Okay, you’ve got this friendly and caring Grandmother-type character. You’ve got a lost little girl who needs comfort. There’s a cute (in a certain way) cat. And using knitted goods as a bribe/reward/gift for the undead. Really, this sounds like it’s full of warm fuzzies and maybe a little bit of fun along with the adventure that a Fantasy should bring. Rightly or wrongly, I expected something with a similar tone to A Wizard’s Guide to Defensive Baking.

And it’s there. However…

You’re dealing with a twelve-year-old girl whose devoted father was murdered in his own home trying to protect her. She’s on the run from armed men who are out to use her for their own purposes. You’re also dealing with an elderly woman who mastered an entire type of magic at her advanced age fueled by grief in a gambit to cheat death. There’s nothing warm and fuzzy there.

These two characters are suffering—they need each other to get through what they’re dealing with. There’s healing (and the promise of more to come). But healing, comfort, and all that comes at the end. The cliché “the only way out is through” comes to mind here—most of this book (and likely future books) is in the “through.”

This is a bigger selling point for me.

So, what did I think about A Necromancer Called Gam Gam?

When [the zombie] chose socks, Gam Gam instructed it to lift a foot, then tugged the sock into place.

“Is this necessary, Gam Gam? Can they even feel the cold?” Mina asked.

“Of course it’s necessary, sweetie,” Gam Gam said as she pulled the second sock onto the zombie’s other foot. “Just because they’re undead doesn’t mean they have to be neglected.”

I was charmed instantly by this book, and that only grew throughout. Particularly once I cottened on to the fact that it wasn’t going to be a cozy kind of read—despite the scarves and sweaters. Once I saw what Holcombe was up to, I really got into things.

I don’t want to spoil anything but don’t get attached to any character. Just sayin.’ (okay, it’s called Book One of Chronicles of Gam Gam, so it’s probably safe to get attached to one. Although, given the loose correlation between death and characters doing things in this book…)

Holcombe has created a great little world for his characters to dwell in, and pairing Mina and Gam Gam together is a big one. He knows how to show the emotions of the moment—and to get the readers to buy into it. Even better, his depictions of the way magic works here are really well executed.

Even his choice of novella-length was smart. This isn’t a story that would work well with another 2-300 pages to tell it. Nor should it be the first part of a novel—this tight story is one that needs to be by itself.

I see that there’s a short story in this world that takes place sometime before this novel. I’ll be jumping on that soon while I begin the wait for Book Two.

This is a short read that packs the punch of a longer one, and I encourage you to give it a shot.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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First things first

I read a Beta copy of this—but a late-stage one, I think—so not a lot will have changed between what I read and what you’ll hopefully read. Still, there’s a chance that some things will have improved by the time you get to it.

What’s Mrs. Covington’s About?

This is a cozy fantasy, and as holds true for most of them, the plot could be summarized in a sentence or two. So I’m going to try to do that in a way that leaves some mystery.

Jacob is the son of one of the wealthiest businessmen in the Archipelago*, and is being pressured to join the family business, groomed to take it over, and so on. But he wants his own life. He wants something more than just carrying on his father’s work. Possibly even adventure. A life at sea perhaps?

* Yes, it takes place in the same world as the Azure Archipelago series, but it’s independent of that series and you don’t need to know anything about it to read this.

He’s dissuaded from pursuing that by someone he respects and looks for a new way to establish his own path. While doing so, he stops by a quiet pub in the city he’s visiting for a drink. While there the owner (mostly) jokingly offers to sell him the place. After thinking it over a bit, Jacob does that.

The bar is named for its resident capybara—Mrs. Covington—at sea, the capybara is supposed to bring good luck. She hasn’t seemed to do much for the pub yet, but maybe soon.

The first thing he has to do is find a way to make a profit—he offers the two employees there (a human, Tadrick, and a cigupa, Cora) full partnerships if they help him get this place in shape. Together they come up with a new business plan, redecorate, and start to devise new ways of bringing in customers (not all at once and not necessarily in that order, but I’m trying to summarize). The other thing Jacob does is befriend his neighbor, a widowed faun trying to raise two children and run a restaurant.

These four become friends and start to collaborate in a handful of ways.

When he bought Mrs. Covington’s, Jacob also received the parchment describing a local treasure hunt that belonged to the pub. People have been looking for the treasure for a while, and there’s no reason to think that Jacob and his new friends will have more success than anyone else. But like Wade Watts and his chums, they might as well try, right?

Platonic Relationships FTW

There are plenty of romantic relationships in this book, but none of them are the focus (as much as Cora’s parents try to steal focus with theirs). There’s even a nice past romance and the promise of a potential future one by the end of the book. But the relationships between the core characters are entirely platonic.

I don’t mind romantic stories or arcs—I think they’re a great way to show character, develop character, advance a plot, etc. But a good platonic friendship is one of those things that I admire more and more all the time—particularly between people who’d likely be coupled up in other books.

If the studies and stories I read hold true, friendships between adults are less and less common, and (American, at least) adults are more and more lonely and isolated. So maybe books about good friends are a new form of aspiration/fantasy? We don’t need to read books about swooning over someone we fancy anymore, just stories about falling into deep like?

Whatever lies at the root of it—I liked these friendships. All of them—the mutual support and encouragement in whatever configurations of characters were solid. Mrs. Covington’s sounds like a great place to hang out—maybe if you can’t hang out there with your own friends, reading about others doing it is a handy substitute?

Interludes

Something I should’ve mentioned in my beta feedback are the Interludes.* Three times we walk away from the story to get a glimpse of what’s going on with good old Mrs. Covington.

* Whoops. Sorry, K.R.R.! I’ll make it up to you next time.

These don’t advance the plot, give insight into the other characters, or anything like that—I’m not even sure they give insight into Mrs. Covington, because that would require a level of self-awareness that the rodent doesn’t seem to possess.

They are simply interludes. Nice, short, and quiet breaks from the novel. They’re the literary equivalent of taking a brief break to watch nature videos on Youtube or something. I’m just theorizing here, but it wouldn’t surprise me to find that they’re largely inspired by Lockhaven taking writing breaks to watch capybara videos.

I’m not sure why I used the term “quiet” there, it’s not like I’m talking about an audiobook here, but it fits. I guess it felt to me like there’s a film score playing quietly in the background (except when the band, Bilge Rat, is performing), and then the music dies for these interludes and all you get is crickets in the background or the sound of birds in the distance.

I’ve spent far more time than I originally intended to trying to describe the effect of these breaks. All I meant to say is that they’re an unexpected (unless you just read this) and thoroughly pleasant little addition to this book—and the kind of thing that most authors wouldn’t have thought to throw in.

I doubt that Lockhaven would be able to find enough of a story to justify a novella or novel along these lines. But a collection of scenes/episodes/random days in the life of the titular capybara would be something I’d jump on and probably return to often. Especially if he could get a great illustrator on board.*

* There’s your next Kickstarter, K.R.R. You’re welcome. Maybe this evens the score?

So, what did I think about Mrs. Covington’s?

I joked earlier about the plot being minimal—although it’s true. That’s not to say that the plot is inconsequential or bland. It’s a fun little story–Treasure Hunts have been a tried and true story engine since at least the time when Jason and his pals went on that cruise. And who can’t relate to a group of friends coming together to build something special? There’s enough plot to get your teeth into even while it’s not likely to be what you focus on.

I’ve made it this far and haven’t even talked about the villain of the piece. Ugh. You can tell how much importance I put on him. Think Charles Durning’s Doc Hopper from The Muppet Movie or Chris Cooper’s Tex Richman from The Muppets, or a good number of the men behind the masks in the original Scooby-Doo series. I’m not sure why I’m stuck on examples like them instead of something more highbrow, but that’s the frame of mind I’m in. He’s mean (actually, I don’t think he cares enough to be mean…maybe spiteful?), he’s power- and money-hungry, and doesn’t like anyone not acceding to his whims. He’s perfect for this story—and not that important ultimately. Yes, he’s standing in the friends’ way, so they have to do something—but he’s not as present as other obstacles.

I do have some quibbles about the timing of some of the elements. I think some of the relationships develop too quickly, and I wonder about the timeline for a couple of things. I don’t know if Lockhaven’s able to massage that a bit before the final version comes out, but I do think it needs some tweaking. That said—they’re only quibbles. I liked where every relationship went, how they developed, and so on. And all the events that happen too suddenly for my comfort? I enjoyed them all and understand why he put them where he did. So ultimately, I don’t care if that kind of thing works well because I enjoyed the results. To paraphrase Joel Hogson, “repeat to yourself, “It’s just a book, I should really just relax.”

And it’s easy to relax with this book—because it’s such a pleasant, comfy atmosphere. A treasure hunt with the staff of the friendliest bar this side of Cheers! might be the plot of this cozy fantasy novel. But the book’s core is kindness, community, optimism, and helping. Brought to you in a great fantasy world with a light and engaging voice, Mrs. Covington’s will leave you snug and content.

The book delivers on what it promises—comfort. Warm fuzzies. Kindness. Good times. It’ll brighten your day, and make the world feel like a better place for a bit.

Read it when you can.

What’s 100 Places to See After You Die About?

Ken Jennings provides a handy tour guide through one hundred visions of the afterlife for the modern reader. Complete with tips on places to see, areas to avoid, local lingo, bits of trivia, dining tips, and so on, it’s just the kind of thing you’re going to want to peruse before you shuffle off this mortal coil, so you know where to go.

The book is broken down into: Mythology, Religion, Books, Movies, Music and Theater, and Miscellaneous. Then (alphabetically) Jennings looks at a variety of afterlife locales in each category.

For example, the Books section covers:

Aslan’s Country • The Bridge • The Cemetery • The Empyrean • The Five Lessons • Half-Life • The Inbetween • Inferno • The Kingdom • King’s Cross • Mansoul • The Null • Pandemonium • Paradiso • The Parish • Purgatorio • Riverworld • The Third Sphere • The Time Bubble • The Undying Lands • The Valley of the Shadow of Life*

* From Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia and The Great Divorce; O’Connor’s story “Revelation”; Saunders’ Lincoln in the Bardo; Milton’s Paradise Lost; Albom’s The Five People You Meet in Heaven; Dick’s Ubik; Sebold’s The Lovely Bones; Dante’s The Divine Comedy; Twain’s “Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven”; Rowling’s Harry Potter; Moore’s Jerusalem; King’s Revival; O’Brien/O’Nolan’s The Third Policeman; Farmer’s Riverworld; Matheson’s What Dreams May Come; Oliver’s The Time Bubble; and Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings.

Jennings describes each place with wit, humor, Dad Jokes, puns, irreverence, and plenty of facts.

Dancing Through a Minefield

It’s one thing to talk about places like Valhalla, Hades, The Bad Place, Bill & Ted’s Bogus destination, or Futurama‘s Robot Hell in a light-hearted or flippant fashion. It’s an entirely different can of worms to discuss the LDS Three Kingdoms of Glory, Jannah, Jahannam, Ariel Toll Houses/Telonia, and so on—in the same tone.

I will not say that Jennings was able to fully succeed in discussing the afterlives described in some major religions in an unoffensive manner. Primarily because I’m not an adherent of any of the religions he discussed, so my tolerance for that is really high. Had he tackled something I believe in, I very well could’ve been at risk of insult.

That said, I think he did okay. Yes, he walks close to irreverent. But he maintains a decent degree of respect. The humor largely comes from the way he describes the beliefs not at the expense of an article of faith.

Still, some people might want to skip over a chapter or two if they’re worried about getting their toes stepped on. (but those people probably aren’t going to be reading this book in the first place)

A Few Highlights

Ohhh, there are just so many.

The Books section was my favorite—followed closely by Movies and Television—this is the kind of thing I blog about, think about, and so on, so it makes sense that those sections resonated with me most. The Books section, in particular, discussed portions of those works in ways I could really sink my teeth into.

But there were multiple highlights in each section—I learned a lot about D&D, I couldn’t help singing “Ghost Riders in the Sky” during that chapter, I think he pointed out a good plot hole in It’s a Wonderful Life (I don’t know, maybe he’s not the first), I loved the discussion of Bosch’s paintings, and so on.

The chapter on The Good Life was fantastic—a great systemization of the series’ take on the afterlife (and several characters). The chapter on Nirvana was sublime.

Books, movies, mythologies, songs, etc. that I’ve never heard of, much less, read/watched/listened to/studied were described in enough detail that I could appreciate those chapters and maybe even develop an interest in following up on.

Problems/Quibbles/Things That Didn’t Work for Me

Um. Hold on, I’ll think of something.

…

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oh! Here’s a problem: the eARC came with the typical “don’t quote from this version until verified by the published edition” warning—but it was more pronounced than usual. I really want to use samples throughout this post, but I can’t. (and I wouldn’t have even without this warning, because I know things get tweaked in the final stages).

Actually, I do have a legitimate gripe. There are no footnotes—or even endnotes*—for anything that Jennings says. Most of what the book contains could fall into the category of “General Knowledge” (at least for people who know anything about The Good Place, Dante, or the religion of the Maori). But I wouldn’t have minded a point in the right direction to learn some more details, context, or background on many, many, many things Jennings wrote about.

* It’s been decades since I haven’t asked why a book uses endnotes when footnotes exist, and yet I’d have liked to have them in this book more than the nothing we got. That’s how much this bothers me.

I Can’t Help Pondering…

Given the argument of Planet Funny: How Comedy Took Over Our Culture by Ken Jennings, I wonder about his approach to the subject of the afterlife. Sure, even Planet Funny was frequently funny as it critiqued the overuse of humor in our culture, but for his next book to take this tone, seems to undercut the work.

Or maybe it just shows that even as he can look with clear eyes at some of the weaknesses of our culture, he’s part of it and is subject to the influences. It’s almost like he’s human.

So, what did I think about 100 Places to See After You Die?

This section is going to be shorter than usual because I think I’ve pretty much answered the question already.

From the “throwaway lines” to the big ideas, this was a delight from start to finish. I thoroughly enjoyed this approach to the subjects—quick hits that tell you the essentials and make you smile while telling them.

Jennings' style is one I aspire to, and can’t say enough good things about.

I can’t think of a reason not to give this 5 Stars, but my gut tells me not to. So I’ll knock it down to 4 1/2 (which isn’t a big deal since Goodreads, NetGalley, etc. won’t let me use 1/2 stars, I’ll round up). It’s educational, it’s entertaining, and it’s thought-provoking. You can’t go wrong with this.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Sunbolt About?

We start with a chase scene through a street market that might as well be scored by Alan Menken (although Jafar or Genie is to be found anywhere in the rest of the book, Hitomi would have no problem with a Jafar). Our protagonist, a thief—and someone of a clearly different ethnicity to everyone around her—is scrappy and nimble, getting away from her pursuers (quasi-official mercenaries) with the help of some of the sellers in the market.

We learn that this brash young woman is named Hitomi and she’s allied (somewhat) with a group calling itself the Shadow League, which is trying to stand up to an increasingly corrupt and oppressive government. The government is backed by the Arch Mage Wilhelm Blackflame (who is just about to be running everything through puppets).

Hitomi and some allies head out one night to save a powerful family from arrest and (likely) execution—and almost everything that could go wrong does. Hitomi and some of the family are captured. And then…well, this book about scrappy freedom fighters becomes something very different.

The World Building

At the beginning of the book, Khanani provides a guide to pronouncing some of the names in the book—I always appreciate that kind of thing (if one was grading, I’d have gotten a low B, incidentally, on my own). In her lead-up to that, she mentions that the fantasy world she’s created and the cultures within it “are primarily based on a variety of real-world historical cultures.” I wish she’d have listed (at least a partial list) of those cultures just for curiosity’s sake. I spent a little too much time wondering what X or Y came from after reading that. (and was very likely wrong 60+% of the time)

But ultimately, it doesn’t matter what those sources were, because she’s made them into something new and fit for her world. And whatever the backgrounds may be, they work really well for this novel—perhaps better than it do in our own. It’s familiar and yet foreign all at once. Khanani doesn’t drown us in details or anything like that (thankfully), but you have the impression that everything has been worked out thoroughly (whether or not it has been) and that this a fully-developed world with a fascinating history and a future worth saving.

We only get a hint of the magic system, but has a lot of promise. The variety of magical races (for lack of a better term) is great, and (again) familiar to a fantasy reader, but specific to Khanani’s world. You can’t help but want to learn more about both the magic system and the races, you get enough to carry you through the novel—but you want more.

So, what did I think about Sunbolt?

Sunbolt is short. Freakishly short for the genre, really. But that brevity works so well for this story. Like a wizard and punctuality, this book is precisely as long as it needed to be. It tells the story it needs to in a satisfying manner and then is done. Yes, it prepares you for the second book in the series, but not in a cliffhanger way.

I wouldn’t have minded if the book was longer if it meant we got to spend more time with the characters—but that’s what a sequel is for, right?

There’s a moment really early on that made me grimace—Khanani over-explained a moment robbing it of its power. And as I so often do, I murmured a silent plea (pointless since the book had been out for a decade) for her to trust her audience. But that was the only time that the book stopped me with something like that—most of the writing was subtle, nuanced, and smooth. I did have to stop a few times to re-read sentences because I liked them so much.

Hitomi—fierce, independent, determined, and over-her-head—is one of those characters you gravitate to immediately and while you know she’s making a blunder here and there, you can’t help but root for her. Sadly for her, her blunders tend to work out better than some of her plans—a treat for her readers, however.

I’m going to avoid a deep dive on the rest of the characters, although I think many of them deserve it. I’m not sure I trust everyone in the Shadow League, but they’re all intriguing characters—and I’d gladly read a Shadow League novel tomorrow to get to know them better. The villains are some of the worst I’ve run across this year, and you can’t complain about that. Then there’s someone who becomes rather important to Hitomi in the closing chapters…I think they could go down as one of my favorites of the year (and easily become someone I despise in a future encounter).

A well-paced story, with strong characters, and a great fantasy world to explore. That’s all the makings of a winner in my book. Sunbolt is a quick, fascinating read that will make you want to click on the order button for the sequel as soon as you finish.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Death at Paradise Palms About?

After they solved a murder a few months earlier, the Retired Detectives Club has gained a certain amount of notoriety around the Homestead Retirement Community, so it’s not terribly surprising that when a resident has some concerns they call them for help. Particularly when that resident has had bad experiences with the police previously.

This particular resident is a retired movie star, Olivia Hamilton Ziegler. Her husband is missing, and she suspects foul play. They’re having no problems and it’s not like him to just not come home, not call, not pick up his phone, etc.

The Club jumps in, more than willing to help—they find a handful of decent suspects and start to dig into the background of each when a ransom demand shows up. Now they have a pressing deadline and more than a wife’s intuition. It’s time for these retired detectives to get to work.

Distracted Detectives

I’m not sure if this says something about Broadribb’s view of Americans, but in Death in the Sunshine we see that the three British retirees have things from their past that are hovering over them. I like that dynamic, but it’s good that not everyone has some deep, dark secret. Rick, our DEA retiree, seems to be baggage-free and easygoing. Maybe that just means we haven’t seen his baggage, or maybe Broadribb just thinks Americans are shallow.*

* I’m kidding. Probably.

With our British friends, however, things have happened to push these problems from hanging over their heads to being front-and-center in their minds. Normally this would be good, they’re working on the issues, dealing with the issues. However, when this club is the only one working on this kidnapping—the only outsiders aware of it—dealing with personal stuff becomes a distraction. Potentially a fatal one.

All three of these people make huge mistakes in the course of this investigation, easily observable mistakes (especially to the reader). And it’s not because they’re older, it’s not because their minds are slower, or their bodies aren’t up to what they used to be able to do—it’s because their heads aren’t in the game.

This makes for compelling storytelling, it’s great to see flawed characters battling with their flaws—but it’s a good thing they’re all retired because this is the kind of thing that should hurt a career.

The Series Arc

Ultimately, I think this series going to be telling the story of the shenanigans at the top of the Homestead Retirement Community. In Death in the Sunshine we see pretty clearly that TPTB filter the news and do what they can to prevent anything negative from getting out to the public or into the residents. And if it does show up, it’s quickly erased.

This takes work on the Social Media, old-school media, and possibly even law enforcement fronts—there’s no way that it’s all coincidental, unintentional, or any other excusable motivation. So the questions that need to be answered are why is this being done, who profits, who is hurt by this, and what actions are being taken/pressures applied, to get these various and sundry groups to quash the information.

Some of the residents see that this is going on—but (if you ask me) not enough seem that concerned—Moira sure is and is doing something about it. She’s working with a local reporter, although she has reason to believe that this is not the safest path for either of them to be taking. But that doesn’t seem to deter her.

I really hope that she’s able to get more of the Club on board with this soon—not that I want them distracted from their next big case. But she’s going to need some backup.

So, what did I think about Death at Paradise Palms?

I remember enjoying Death in the Sunshine, but I’d largely forgotten why. It was good to be reminded—this isn’t your typical elderly amateur detective series—this is a grittier take on that trend, full of people who are only amateur now, it wasn’t that long ago they were professionals, and they’ve still got the goods.

I did clock the Main Bad Guy instantly, and can only excuse the Club for not doing the same because of all their distractions (and because they’re not aware that they’re fictional characters, a lot of what tipped me off came from being a reader). So for me, the tension came from wanting to know how long it would take them to get around to discovering the truth—and how they’d use what they learned from the false trails to get there. That was enough for me—the good in this series doesn’t come from the whodunit—but from how they’re caught.

This, like all of Broadribb’s work, is a fast and fun read—it hooks you early and doesn’t let go until it’s good and ready to. Just buckle in and enjoy the ride. I can’t imagine I’ll let the next one of these sit ignored on my Kindle as I did this one.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader along with a Q&A with the author.

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What’s The Hero Interviews About?

The child and sibling of heroic adventurers, Elburn Barr, has taken a different path in life—one fit for someone with his particular set of skills (or lack thereof). He is a Loremaster—no spells, weapons, or danger for him, thank you very much. At this point in his life/career, Elburn has set out to understand what makes a hero tick—what is it that drives them, what early influences molded them, how do they keep going on? Does it vary from type to type? Are Barbarians made of different stuff from a Cleric or a Thief? What about a Ranger or a Wizard?

In addition to interviewing various leading examples of each type of hero, he talks to non-heroes, too. Like a farmer whose farm was saved(?) by some heroes from a dragon, the curator of a hero museum, people who run/design dungeons, etc.

We get these interviews in transcript form—with a little introduction from Elburn at the beginning of each, and maybe a little narrative about what’s going on around them during the interview, or what he does after. But primarily, it’s transcriptions of the interviews.

In addition to trying to understand the heroic psyche in general, Elburn’s hoping to understand and maybe connect with his adventurer-filled family. But he has an ulterior motive for all this—his older brother went off adventuring ten summers ago, and Elburn would like to know what happened to him. He’s hoping to find him alive somewhere but will settle for just knowing what happened.

This sounds heavy—but I should stress that this is a comedy. There’s a serious story (or three) being told, sure. But the book is a comedy.

Comic Footnotes

I’m a long-established fan of comic footnotes in novels—see what I’ve said about Josh Bazell, Lisa Lutz, Thomas Lennon, and K.R.R. Lockhaven for example. But Ewington puts them all to shame.

At least in terms of volume—there are almost 2 per page, although I’d have wagered it was higher than that (that’s an average—there are pages with several). Occasionally, it feels annoying to stop the flow of what you’re reading to check it. All I can say is that if you’re feeling that way, just keep reading and then circle back for the footnote after that bit of dialogue or at the end of the chapter—it’s not going anywhere.

On the whole, they work better in the moment without doubling back, so click the link if you’re not at the annoyed point. I did it both ways depending on my mood and can vouch for both methods. Whatever you do, don’t skip them.

You get a good sense of Elburn’s personality and attitude toward his interview subjects from the main text—but it really shines forth in the footnotes. To really understand the protagonist, you need to read them.

But your comedy-per-word ratio is higher in the footnotes, too. In the main text, comedy has to come out of the words, situations, and characters. In the footnotes, Ewington doesn’t have to do that—he can just make the joke. Frequently, that’s all it is—the joke. Neither is a superior joke-delivery method, it’s just easier to get to the funny bit in the footnote.

Audience

Anyone who’s into Fantasy to one degree or another is going to be able to appreciate most of what Ewington’s doing here. There is a pretty solid D&D-basis to everything, however, so the more you understand and/or have been exposed to the game.

The Length

There’s no getting around this point, The Hero Interviews is long. One might argue that it’s too long. I’m not sure I’d agree—but I wouldn’t disagree.

Early on (maybe around the 20% mark), I started to wonder if this thing wouldn’t work better as a trilogy. Break this into (roughly) thirds, add a 1-3 page Epilogue/Prologue to each to connect them and it’s a lot easier to digest. I think it’d work. Check out my Q&A with Ewington to see why he disagrees with that idea. I’m not entirely convinced, but at the end of the day, it’s not that important.

I do wonder how many readers will find their patience pushed by the length—I’d tell them to stick with it because it’s absolutely worth it (but taking a break every few chapters isn’t the worst idea).

A practical downside to the length is that it’s likely cost-prohibitive to publish this in paperback. This is a real shame because everyone I can think of to give this to won’t read it in ebook. (but I’m trying to think of a way to work around that)

So, what did I think about The Hero Interviews?

I hate when people drag out Douglas Adams or Terry Pratchett when talking about humorous SF/F, but I can’t get away from this one. For a long time, I’ve said that Life, the Universe, and Everything by Douglas Adams isn’t so much a novel as it is a series of comic episodes/scenes/bits trying to look like a novel.* As I’ve been trying to come up with a succinct way to talk about this book the last few weeks, I’ve decided that it’s the opposite—it’s a novel trying to look like a series of comic episodes/scenes/lines.

* I feel compelled to add at this point that I love the book, some of my favorite lines/paragraphs/ideas from Adams are in it. But it’s not a good novel.

It takes a while to see the plotlines emerge—it really does seem to be a light-hearted look at D&D clichés, stereotypes, tropes, etc. at the beginning, but eventually, you start to see the story arcs emerging and even start to see Elburn grow and develop. That’s something I didn’t expect to see when I started reading this.

If only because I have memories of interview transcripts and fantasy humor (and sadly, not much else), I expected this to feel like Off to See the Wizard by Clay Johnson, but it really doesn’t. Ewington’s ambitions are larger—and he packs more jokes into his pages. Ewington is also more interested in playing with the tropes and types of the genre, while Johnson was working within pretty well-established types.

Once I got to the interview with Gwenyn, the poor farmer with a field ruined by a dragon corpse left behind by heroes, I knew this book was for me. The Mime Warrior interview was so ridiculous that I had to love it—and I even came around to the least-Conan-like Barbarian (I admit I had a hard time with that one at first blush). Ewington both seems to embrace and relish going for the obvious joke—but the way he gets there, or what he surrounds the obvious joke with—that’s pretty special and creative. I’m not sure that makes a lot of sense, you’re just going to have to read it to see what I’m trying to communicate.

It’s really easy to see why Jodie recommended this one to me for the 12 Books Challenge, and I’m so glad she did (I wanted to, but hadn’t gotten around to buying it until she did). You should pretend that she recommended it to you, too (here, read her post about it). I mean, I’m recommending it to you—but maybe you’ll listen to both of us more than you’d listen to just me.

You’ll laugh; you’ll chuckle; you’ll grin; you’ll shake your head and roll your eyes while wondering, “Did he just find another way to make the same fireball joke?”*; and you’ll have a lot of fun. No better time than the present to go grab this, you’ll be glad you did.

* Yes, yes he did.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Haven About?

Let’s start with a little background: In a slightly future US, a scientist triggers a sudden mutation in people all over the world matching a certain genetic profile—these people developed certain abilities and displayed physical changes to match. Think X-Men like Beast, Nightcrawler, and Angel. For various reasons, these people take on the generic name of Fae and adopt the names of mythical/fantasy species that line up with their appearances/abilities.

Like every movie and comic book—and common sense—tells us, humans don’t react well to this. In fact, they try to exterminate the Fae. The Fae prefer to live and fight back. Eventually, the war ends and two “reservations” are set up for the Fae to live in. One in northern Canada and one in England. In Europe, tensions ease and the Fae are able to integrate pretty well with humans. In North America, the United States particularly, it gets worse and worse, with vigilantes hunting those newly Changed.

The novel starts fifty or so years after the war on the worst day of Owen Williams’ life. He’s out for a nice evening with his family when everything goes wrong—his wife dies in a traffic accident as he was speeding her to the ER. It turns out that she was in pain because she was beginning to change into a Gryphon. What’s worse—his children have been taken from his home, apparently kidnapped.

Reeling, he’s approached by a Fae who offers Owen a choice. Come along as they smuggle his children to their hidden city for their own safety (it’s likely some or all of his children will Change now) or never see them again. He throws in his lot with the Fae at a time the Cold War between them and the US is starting to heat up.

The Worldbuilding

This is a great piece of worldbuilding—yes, there’s an element to it that feels like The X-Men or Alien Nation or other fantasy series about people thought to be fictional revealing themselves to humanity. But while Domace’s take is familiar, there’s a freshness to it, too.

Also, there’s a reason so many stories are told with a similar framework—it works really well. I’m not criticizing anything by saying it’s familiar, I’m simply describing it.

The differences between the two settlements (we don’t see the UK version, but we hear about it) is a very nice touch. Our focus is on settlement in Canada, Tearmann. It was very well thought out and executed. My favorite thing is that other than what’s required due to physiology (dragons need more space than dwarves, etc.) the city and society is integrated—dwarves live alongside shades and elves. Sure the wolves tend to pack together, but they also are good neighbors.

Quibbles

Please see what I called this section—quibbles. Not “systemic problems” or critiques.

I think this world’s concept of Fae could’ve been introduced better. I hear “Fae,” I think races/species, not mutation. When it was said that Owen’s wife was Changing it threw me—had this been a secret she’d been keeping from him? Could she change back and forth?

His children could’ve been better developed and differentiated earlier—for most of the book, my investment in them was solely based on them being “Owen’s children.” For most of them, that changes by the end. But it takes too long for that (also, I had a hard time keeping them straight because we didn’t get to know them as people). This is fine when it comes to Tiffany, his wife—I’m okay with caring about her solely because she’s his dead wife—she dies so early I don’t need to know much about her (see: Uncle Ben Parker, Scout Finch’s mother, etc.)

One of the quirks of this series is that your fantasy creatures (largely) have everyday names—Jason, Peter, Betty, etc. They’re 0-3 generations away from humans and largely stick with the names they grew up with. This goes down as a plus in my book except for in the beginning—I’m still struggling to figure out what name goes with which of the five Wilson children and I get a Fae team named Jason, Nathan, Tony, Abey, etc. Just so many names flying around without a lot to associate them with. My quibble is only with this being unnecessarily not-easy for the reader.

Lastly, the events of the novel that come after the Wilsons are smuggled out of the country happen too quickly. We’re told the family adapted and fell into a routine after X happens—and then learn that it’d be three days? That’s not time for a comfortable routine for a family of 6. Deep friendships develop far too quickly, etc. (particularly between Owen and the Queen). Change the specifics about days and weeks in this part of the novel, and I wouldn’t have noticed. But they call attention to themselves when they become too difficult to believe.

To sort of take back what I said at the beginning of this section—I guess I have a systemic quibble—Domace needed to give everything more space, let it breathe a little, let the reader as well as the characters, be in the moments a little more so things can develop. I loved the platonic friendship between Owen and the Queen, but it happened too quickly, for example.

So, what did I think about Haven?

I want to stress here that I enjoyed this—but the things I liked are either too specific for a brief post like this or involve spoilers. I spent a lot of space on quibbles because it takes space to explain them. But something like “I loved the platonic friendship between Owen and the Queen,” is just ten words—to say more would ruin the experience for a reader.

Here’s another vague compliment—each Change that happens to a Wilson child is done perfectly—the child’s reaction, the family’s reactions, and the community’s are so great that I wanted to read them again just to see.

There’s a gentle humor shown throughout the book—adding just the right amount of flavor to some descriptions and keeping some dire scenes from being too gloomy. Domace’s descriptions of the people and city of Tearmann are vivid enough to prompt the reader’s imagination to fully see them.

Do I think this book could’ve been better? Sure—most things can. This is book is so close to being very good that its stumbles seem more obvious than others, though.

At the end of the day, I liked this book—and am curious about the sequel, because I think the choices that Domace makes are interesting and I want to see how things get resolved. I recommend this to readers of Mike Chen—it’s a similar mix of SF/F story with family drama (the ratio favors the SF/F than Chen’s typical ratio) as well as all readers who want to see a new and fresh twist on familiar ideas.

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

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What’s Wonky Donkey About?

Lifted from the lyrics of a children’s song, the book starts:

I was walking down the road and I saw…

a donkey,

Hee Haw!

And goes on from there to describe this unfortunate equine in more and more detailed (and ridiculous) ways–starting with its three legs, going on to describe its taste in music, coffee consumption, attitude, attractiveness, and so on.

Let’s Talk about the Art for a Minute

Katz Cowley is fantastic. The natural world and physical objects are presented in a great realistic fashion–heightened just a bit. The titular donkey and a bird that shows up in every scene, however, are a goofy cartoonish exaggeration of that fashion

I don’t know who decided to give this donkey a prosthetic leg–but it only comes up in the illustrations, so I’m going to give Cowley credit for it. It’s a great detail on many levels.

The expressions on the bird and donkey are the stars of the show–better than the words (by a crooked hair). I don’t know how a child can look at them and not want to stare. Or not wanting to pick up the book for another reading session.

Especially when a child is the age of the target audience, the adult reading the book is going to see themselves in the coffee-less expression of the donkey on the page talking about the caffeine deprivation. So everyone wins?

You can see some of the art, and learn more about the book, on Cowley’s website.

How is it to Read Aloud?

Ohhh boy. This is going to be hard to convey. First, it was only after I’d read this that I took the time to track down the song, but I couldn’t help but get a sing-songy cadence and voice as I read it. I also found myself talking faster and faster as I went through the book–like there was this unconscious effort on my part to spend the same amount of time reading each pair of pages–like a snowball rolling downhill, growing bigger and getting faster. This is great and all, but it’s also kind of a workout of both stamina and verbal dexterity.

You can’t help having fun with these lines–even as they build up and repeat like the 12 Days of Christmas. Really, try being expressionless or frowny while saying “He was a hanky-panky crank stink-dinky lanky honky-tonky wink wonky donkey.” You can’t, can you?

You might need to start using a spirometer before cracking this thing open though. As fun as it is, you’re going to end up getting requests for encores, and after 2-3 readings in a row, it’s going to lose a little bit of its charm. So keep something else around so you can switch to it for a minute or two before having to come back.

(between you and me, the song isn’t my style. I really hope the Grandcritter doesn’t discover it, because it feels like the kind of thing that’d you’d have to listen to 30 times a day–like that ditty about an infant scaleless predatory fish)

So, what did I think about Wonky Donkey?

A couple of weeks ago, my wife was telling a friend about our prep work for grandkids, including all the books we’re starting to stockpile. Once she got over being aghast that we’d never heard of The Wonky Donkey, she insisted that we fix this. We dutifully complied and it’s either one of the best moves we’ve made or one of the worst (see what I said above about reading it).

Joking aside, this is a great book for the intended age group. I’m going to have to do a deep dive into both the work of Smith and Cowley.

The other thing my wife’s friend told us was to get the board book–and she was right again. Parents/Grandparents/Etc. Do NOT get the paperback or hardcover. If the child(ren) doesn’t/don’t like the book, you’ll have spent too much money. If they do like the book (the more likely outcome), they will destroy it. It’s going to demand the number of re-re-re-re-reads that anything else won’t hold up to it. It’s also going to end up being one of those books a kid is going to carry around with them and flip through themselves–a lot. Paperbacks/hardcovers will not survive the gumming, accidental ripping, deliberate ripping, and overall expressions of toddler love that are so destructive.

I can’t see where this doesn’t become a tongue-tying obsession. The book you know the kid will love, you enjoy (the first few times a day you read it), you end up memorizing without trying to and just hope your lung capacity holds out during. It’s fun, it’s goofy, and it’s the kind of thing you’ll look back on in fondness.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Lie to Her About?

The first crime scene Bree and her department are called to in this book centers around a man incapacitated by a stun gun and then had his head wrapped in a thick layer of plastic wrap to smother him. If that image doesn’t stick in your head for a while, you probably didn’t pay attention. During the autopsy, when the wrap is removed, it’s revealed that the word “Liar” had been carved into his forehead.

The rest of the crime scene was clean, leading Bree and Matt to conclude that this was a well-planned as well as very personal crime. The question is, was this enough for the killer? Or did they have a list of victims?

Sadly, it seems to be a list—another victim is discovered soon after. It doesn’t take the Sheriff’s Department long to focus on the dating app usage of both men and the women in common from their history.

It then becomes a race against time as the killer may have other targets—and they just might have added Bree to their list.

Chief Deputy Todd Harvey

I’ve had a section with this title for a few books now, and I might be on the verge of dropping it. Leigh’s starting to do right by Harvey! Sure, he had to go through some trauma in Dead Against Her to get to this point, but he’s coming back from it (it seems Bree’s having a harder time with it than Todd is).

Yes, he is still largely there to serve as a conduit for exposition—but in this novel he had both an independent personal story, and conducted part of the investigation on his own, trusting his gut and skills. It’s satisfying to see.

The Time Frame

We’re told (repeatedly) over the course of this book that it’s been almost a year since the murder of Bree’s sister, bringing her to town and to her new career as Sherrif.

It’s only been a year? That’s a lot of serial killers, multiple murderers, and so on for one smaller community. Not to mention all the havoc wreaked on the lives of the county as a whole. But if you just focus on what’s happened to Bree’s family and close associates? It’s a testimony to her that anyone’s still around her (multiple kidnappings, serious wounds, assaults, and attempted murders).

Hopefully, things slow down for them (in series-time, not in the release of books).

So, what did I think about Lie to Her?

Like with many police procedurals (or mystery novels in general), our main characters spend a lot of time pursuing dead ends. The reader isn’t given the killer’s identity here like it so often happens, but most readers will be able to tell that’s what is going on. By the time that Bree, Matt, and Todd are convinced it’s X and head out to make an arrest, the reader will likely have figured it out, though, and know they’re wrong—if only because of how many pages are left. Minor spoiler: Leigh gets our heroes on the right track much quicker than I expected, though.

I mention that because I didn’t spend as much time being frustrated with our investigators as I so often get—they’re pursuing the leads they have in a way that makes sense, and it’s not the case (for most of the novel) that the reader has more information, either. Leigh keeps the story moving at a good enough pace that the reader stays engaged while knowing that the wrong target is being chased.

The mystery itself was pretty satisfying, with a good motive and an interesting plan for the killer. The observations about the motive and method after the killer is stopped helped justify some of the story choices.

The personal storylines were just as satisfying—nothing exciting, just good and steady development.

The Bree Taggert series continues to be a reliable procedural and one I think mystery fans will appreciate. Lie to Her works as a jumping-on point for those who don’t feel compelled to start at the beginning (as do any of the novels in the series), and I’d recommend giving this a shot if you haven’t tried the series yet.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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Before I begin, let me just say that you are wasting your time reading this post when you could be out buying or borrowing and reading this book.

If you’ve made the mistake of sticking around, I’ll go ahead and talk about the book, I guess. But really, your priorities are wrong.

What’s Chain-Gang All-Stars About?

In the not-too-distant future, laws regarding the incarceration of serious felons have been adjusted, and the Criminal Action Penal Entertainment program is born. Under CAPE, convicted murderers (many with other convictions as well) can be set free before the end of their sentence if they agree to participate. Participation however, could result in their violent death.

Under CAPE, these felons will face off one-on-one (sometimes two-on-two) against other felons in a fight to the death. If you survive a bout, you score some points and progress to the next fight (in a week or so). As you gain victories, you can earn points to be used for weapons, better food, clothing, equipment, etc. After three years, you will be released.

These felons are organized in Chain Gangs associated with the participating prisons. Links (as the fighters are called) in the same Chain do not face off against each other, and become (to varying degrees depending on their chain) teams—encouraging each other, giving tips, etc.

This has become the largest sports entertainment in the U.S. Throngs show up for live events or to watch a stream. You can also subscribe to almost constant live feeds of the Links between fights. Some fighters become superstars, with corporate sponsors, merchandise, inspiring their own fashion trends, etc.

Over the course of the novel, we follow (primarily) one Link from her initial bout to the final weeks of her time. We get to know her Chain—a couple of Links in particular—as well as Links from other Chains, so we can see how people join, survive, and (usually) die through this entertainment. We also get to know some of the executives and sportscasters becoming rich from this, some fans and subscribers—as well as some of the protestors trying to stop the program.

The Links

Most of the time we follow Loretta Thurwar and Hamara “Hurricane Staxxx” Stacker. LT’s on the verge of freedom, and Staxxx isn’t far behind. They try (with some success) to get their Chain to act differently, to help each other in ways others don’t. At the same time, they’re dealing with the emotions of LT not being around for much longer (one way or another) and Staxxx moving into the leadership role. We get to know them and their team, what brought them to this point in their lives, and what might be around the corner.

But we don’t just focus on those two—there are other Links, in other Chains, that we watch. Some as they make the transition from prisoner to Link, some in their early (and final) bouts. As horrible as the fights to the death are—and they are—it’s the time with these other Links that really cements the horror of what is happening to and through all the Links. There’s one man who spends a lot of time in solitary confinement and some of what he goes through made a bigger impact on me than the bloodiest death.

None of these links would claim to be a good person—well, there’s one wrongly convicted man, but his innocence doesn’t last long as a Link. They know they’re criminals, killers, and most would say they don’t deserve life or freedom. But none of them deserve this.

Everyone Else

As fantastic as the portions of the novel about the Links are, I think it’s these characters and seeing how they relate to CAPE that is the genius of the novel. A society cannot spend so much money (and earn it, too) on something like this without it shaping it and the people in it. Think of how so much of the US economy, news, and entertainment in January/February is devoted to the Super Bowl. Now magnify that, make it year-long, and add some serious ethical and moral issues.

The corporate figures are easy enough to write off as villains. And Adjei-Brenyah does that really well—but he makes sure we see them as human villains. The kind of people it’s easy to imagine existing given the right circumstances—these are not cartoons.

The protestors we see are complex as well—they’re smart, passionate people, who are trying their best to put an end to this modern slavery. They make bold moves, some stupid ones, too. But they also have to wrestle with the ramifications of their positions. One in particular is the child of a Link—she doesn’t have a relationship with him anymore, she doesn’t want anything to do with him but doesn’t want him killed in this way. But she doesn’t want him roaming around outside of a prison, either. There’s an honesty to the portrayal of these protestors that I find admirable—they may not have the answers about the right way to deal with serious criminals, but they do know what’s wrong and are willing to take their stand.

The portrayal that’s going to stay with me the longest is of a young woman who finds the matches distasteful—not necessarily morally repugnant, but not the kind of thing she wants to watch. But goes along with her boyfriend to placate him—he’s a giant fanboy with strong opinions and facts to back them up. He’s reciting them to her constantly, but she tries not to pay attention. She does start to get involved in the live streams about the out-of-combat lives of these Links—think Survivor meets Big Brother. She eventually becomes invested in some Links through those streams and that opens a can of worms.

The Endnotes

The Endnotes are a particularly interesting feature of this book—so interesting I’ll bite back my default complaint about choosing to use endnotes when footnotes exist.

In this novel, the notes are a fascinating combination. The first type are notes about the characters and events in the novel—a little more background, or other detail that doesn’t fit in the text proper. I don’t remember seeing this kind of footnote in a book as serious as this one, but Adjei-Brenyah pulled it off well.

The second type of endnote material cites laws (real and fictional), studies, and actual history surrounding the contemporary American penal system. In addition to being valuable information for the reader to have in general—or when it comes to talking about this book—this is a clever device for Adjei-Brenyah to keep it fresh in the reader’s mind that while this is a novel, it’s a novel well-grounded in things that matter—things he wants the reader to care about and hopefully take action in response to knowing this material.

So, what did I think about Chain-Gang All-Stars?

This is going to be one of the best books I’ve read in 2023. It’s well-written, the characters are fantastically drawn and depicted, the pacing is perfect—the story doesn’t stop moving, and the perspective jumps just draw you in closer. The moral and ethical questions are real, but not all of the answers are. I don’t know how you walk away from this book unmoved and unprovoked to think and perhaps act. There are moments when Adjei-Brenyah makes it clear that you can enjoy yourself with these characters—but there are many more that will make you hate this world. Most of those will remind you how easily it could be ours.

But you won’t stop turning the pages until the end.

There’s so much that I want to talk about, so many things that Adjei-Brenyah did that many writers don’t—or wouldn’t have thought of. But I just don’t have the time to get into it (or I’d ruin the experience for you).

Here’s one example. At some point around the 20% mark, we’re given an (well-executed and seamless) infodump, that largely serves to tell the reader that anything they’ve surmised about the CAPE program is correct (or to adjust any misunderstandings, I guess) and to give a few more details. A well-timed and well-executed infodump is great to find—one that’s largely a reaffirmation is even better. That affirmation is welcome so that you can move on with certainty.

The author talks about changes in his outlook on the American penal system during the writing and research he did for this book. I don’t know that I can agree with him on those, but it’s something I had to consider because of the novel. And I can certainly empathize with his thinking. I can’t imagine there are many who don’t think our penal system needs reformation of some kind—there’s little agreement on what needs reform, and less on how it should be done. But a side-benefit of this novel is that the reader will have to think about their own positions some. It’s not all a diatribe about our prisons—it’s a book that you can just read for the story—but you’ll not want to.

Lastly, for a book that’s about death—violent death at the hands of violent people who only hope to go on so they can kill again—the book is really about life. It’s a celebration of life, a call to protect it, a call to see it for what it is. It’s a reminder that “where life is precious, life is precious.”

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Swamp Story About?

This is hard to summarize, really. Which is part of the beauty of the book.

Most of the characters in this book aren’t what you’d call likable. They’re not really villains or antagonists, they’re just…people you don’t want to spend time with in real life, people with more greed/ambition than common sense (or decency). There are a couple of guys living in a cabin in the Everglades trying to assemble enough footage for a reality show pilot (basically, the good-looking one of the pair walking around shirtless interacting with native wildlife). Their weed dealer owns a failing convenience store/bait shop and has a “so stupid it just might work” plan to put his family’s store on the map. There’s a would-be talent agent (or just anything to ride the coattails of his buddy who happens to make a little money). Oh, and there’s a lawyer and a cabinet secretary/presidential aspirant, too—can’t forget them.

On the villainous side, there’s the weed dealer’s supplier—a former football player who is still large enough to intimidate active linemen who will not tolerate missed deadlines. Two ex-con brothers who are the textbook definition of nasty are also running around. There’s also an Eastern European gangster and some of his employees from the old country who should make everyone quake with fear.

On the likable side, you have the shirtless would-be star’s girlfriend and mother of his child (who really regrets ever giving him the time of day, no matter how pretty he is). The weed dealer’s brother who really needs something to motivate him to do more than play games on his phone, might have found that motivation in her. You’ve also got a couple of aides to the secretary, who really need a better job. An alcoholic ex-reporter desperate to make a buck is just what the weed dealer wants for his idea. I can’t forget either the aging TV reporter desperate to cling to her former relevance or the champion snake hunter.

Put all these characters in a small geographic region, throw in a large amount of buried Confederate gold and a couple of viral videos, shake well, and serve. Swamp Story is the result.

This Book Could’ve Been Shorter

Around the 70% mark (I’m keeping it vague because I don’t know how it’ll go in the final edition), a couple of the characters have an exchange that essentially goes along these lines:

Character A: I hope nothing else happens.

Character B: What else could happen?

Character A: …

and then there’s a map showing the immediate vicinity and some of the major buildings/landmarks of the story, making it very obvious that, based on what we know, all the characters are really near each other and that the likelihood of them running into each other in the very near future is pretty high. The reader will not be able to look at this map and not start imagining how all that running into each other is going to go.

I made a note at this point, that Barry could’ve ended the novel at that point—that exchange, the map, and the reader’s imagination—and it’d have been a fun and satisfying read.

However, odds are, your imagination isn’t as good as Barry’s is (mine sure isn’t), and as zany as I thought things were going to get from this point, the truth was far zanier. His conclusion to the novel (not just the immediate every character and storyline coming together in one spot, but everything that followed) was better than any of the ideas I came up with (and I liked most of my ideas a lot).

Still, there’s part of me that wishes he’d left things with that line and the map. I’d have laughed hard at that.

So, what did I think about Swamp Story?

I really enjoy reading Barry’s novels, and Swamp Story is no exception. It’s a different kind of humor (largely) than Barry’s columns or books, but it’s just as satisfying. I’d want to say that it’s more subtle, but that’s not true at all. There’s more character-based humor, and some of it’s the dialogue—which strikes you differently than the straight humor pieces he’s best known for.

Now, that said, there’s a scene at the beginning—involving a rich child’s birthday party, a couple of costumed performers, and a difficult-to-crack piñata, that absolutely cracked me up and I’ve been replaying it in my head since I read it—it’s perfect slapstick.

Putting aside the humor, all the story arcs worked really well and I can see toned-down versions of all the arcs working well together in a grim version of this story. I’ve argued recently that a good test of a comedic novel is if the plots would work without the laughs—in this case they largely wood. But they’re so much juicer and more enjoyable in this comic and heightened versions.

There are genuine bad guys, some actual threats, several characters in search of a good idea,* and a couple of people you hope catch a lucky break and escape from everything they’re surrounded by relatively intact. Throw in some good laughs, and some clever writing, and you’ve got yourself a fun few hours of reading. That’s likely what the reader looks for in a Dave Barry novel, and that’s what Swamp Story delivers. Strongly recommended.

* Apologies to Pirandello.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Hard Rain About?

It’s been six months since Annie McIntyre solved a murder and began training as a Private Investigator under her grandfather and his partner, Mary-Pat. It doesn’t seem like Annie’s really sure of her current path, but at least it’s a path—hopefully out of Garnett at some point.

A High School classmate—not really a friend, but more than an acquaintance—approaches her with a job. Mary-Pat tells her she’s ready to take the lead on their next case, and is about ready to apply for her license. So, she’s primed and ready—at least she thinks so.

A couple of weeks previously a flash flood had wreaked havoc on the town and the cost in property damage and lives is high. Bethany, however, was saved through the actions of someone that she fears is a victim. But his body was never found. She wants Annie to find either the body or, preferably, the man so she can thank him properly. Not expecting the latter, and equipped with only a vague description, Annie takes the job.

The police have nothing for her, and the local fire and rescue people found no sign of this man—many people think that Bethany imagined him. But Annie keeps looking—searching downstream from the area Bethany had been found in, Annie does find a body. But not of the man she’s been looking for—but a murdered woman. Now Annie has to ask, is her target a killer or a hero?

As Annie investigates, she finds herself in a new layer of crime, corruption, and danger.

The Sense of Place

When talking about the previous book, Pay Dirt Road, I had a few things to say about the city of Garnett’s depiction. I won’t repeat them here—but I really could. I don’t think it’s an issue so much with Allen’s writing, just my ideas about Texas communities. (not that I’d complain if Annie made some mention of the population size)

What I failed to appreciate—or at least write about—was Allen’s depiction of, and description of, the natural environment. Given the storms and flood surrounding this book, it’s hard not to take note of it. Allen nails this material.

I really can see the flood damage, the sky, the geography in general—Allen pairs her vivid imagery with a little bit of wry commentary (frequently, but not always) to really help the reader get a handle on the sights and sounds. I was reminded of Chandler describing L.A. This is not typically the kind of thing I spend a lot of time thinking about when reading a P.I. novel, but I really couldn’t help but do so this time—both because of the nature of Annie’s investigation and because of Allen’s skill at it. Particularly the latter.

The Portrayal of Evangelicals

So, so, so often lately—including in books I really like—evangelicals are brought in as bastions of corruption, hypocrisy, and prejudice. Especially if they happen to belong to a mega-church.

The church that Bethany is part of, that her husband and father-in-law are pastors of, that some of the flood victims belonged to, that her missing man and the murder victim may be tied to, isn’t a mega-church yet, but is well on its way to being one.

Yes, some of the members are tied to criminal activity, unethical activity, and some other hypocritical kinds of things. But by and large the members of the church are honest, faithful, and human. They’re not perfect, but they’re working at it. It’s an honest depiction, and while not necessarily flattering, it’s not vilifying, either. I appreciate that.

Learning the Ropes

I described this series as a friend recently as “a PI version of the Eve Ronin books,” and the more I think about that, the more I like it.

Yes, Goldberg and Allen have very different tones. The tenor and flavor of the books are different—each fitting their setting and authors. But at the core, you have determined young women in settings that aren’t necessarily hospitable toward them, dealing with family issues and learning the ropes of their current professions. They make mistakes that experience would provide, get correction and guidance from their mentors (and their own reactions to their errors), but have good instincts and the drive to improve.

They’re very different series and very different kinds of stories, but I like seeing Eve and Annie as different outworkings of the same idea.

So, what did I think about Hard Rain?

Last year, I said that I’d have been satisfied with Pay Dirt Road as a standalone, but that I’d be in the front of the line for a sequel. I’m glad I came back—this world and this character deserve the time a series affords (I see there’s already a third volume scheduled for next year).

I enjoyed this one more than last year’s—I don’t know that it’s that much better, but Annie being more confident (maybe only by degrees, but it’s there) and the type of story made that possible. If you haven’t read Pay Dirt Road, Hard Rain will work as a stand-alone or as an entry point to the series, but you’d be denying yourself seeing Annie’s growth.

Atmosphere, character (not just the protagonists, but all the supporting characters as well—maybe next year I’ll find/make the time to talk about Annie’s family, for example), and story—Samantha Jayne Allen delivers the goods on all fronts. I heartily recommend Hard Rain to your attention.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Please Return to the Lands of Luxury About?

Jane, Timothy, and Rodney are three children living in the community of Yarborough. Yarborough is a small(ish) group of people living on an island of trash. I’m not being metaphorical here—it’s a landmass that serves as a dumping ground for the refuse of the rest of the world (at least a continent). Like the rest of their neighbors, the children spend their days scavenging for things they can use and eat out of the refuse. Robots that run the place provide a daily allowance of water for each resident.

One day Jane finds a doll—almost pristine in condition—the nicest thing she or her friends can remember finding. The boys encourage her to cherish it and take it for her own—but the one who can read tells her that the attached tag says, “Please return to Gloria Thatcher.” It includes an address—in Paradise City, the source of the rubbish they live off of and among.

Jane knows that if she’d lost something so fantastic she’d be heartbroken without it—and she has the means to get it back into Gloria’s hands. She only has to risk her life to escape the island and make it to Paradise City. It seems like the right thing to do—and it shouldn’t take that long, she can probably get it done and be back in time for the next water distribution.

Her friends try to talk her out of it—but they fail. Once they realize she’s gone, they attempt to find and rescue her.

All three of them end up in dangerous situations—for both their physical and emotional well-being—and end up learning a lot about the world they live in.

It’s Dystopian, but Not

Most Dystopian novels are about people realizing the problems in their particular dystopia—or realizing they have the opportunity and ability to fight against those problems. I have nothing against those novels—I have (and likely will continue to) like many of those.

What I appreciate more (at least I think I do…maybe I’ll take this sentence back) is another kind of dystopian novel. The protagonists are sometimes aware the system is rigged, that things could be better. Sometimes, they don’t realize that’s where they are—like the fish who doesn’t realize it’s wet, it’s just life. But they press on, making do with what they have—or making things a little nicer for themselves and those around them—however temporarily. Those seem more realistic, more relatable, you know?

This falls into the latter camp—the people (even the kids) in Yarborough realize that life is hard and that theirs is harder than most. They don’t spend time dreaming of social change, of bettering their station in life, or anything like that. They’re surviving, helping each other, and trying to stay alive—finding joy in little treasures they find and in each other (and in hiding a harmonica from someone who doesn’t know how to play one, but keeps trying anyway*).

* Any parent—including, at one point, my own—can relate to this move. Yes, it’s mean—but it’s merciful to everyone else.

Stand-Alone vs. Series

This is kind of related to the previous point—I was a little discouraged to learn that this is part of a planned trilogy (at least, maybe more). I liked visiting this world and not having any real explanation for how things got to this point. How society evolved in the way it did, how a community emerged on a trash pile that should be bereft of life, what may happen now that some people in Paradise City know that the government and/or company have been lying to them about what goes on on the trash piles, and so on.

Sure, I was mildly curious, but I was more invested in the story than the world.

But now, to tell the story of Jane, Rodney, and Timothy after this book, we’ll need answers to the above—and maybe more—if the story is going to hold up. And I can’t imagine that the answers will make this a more interesting place—or that the following stories will match this one. Also, I’m a little worried that it’s going to end up being preachy—always a danger for books aimed at this audience, and I think the danger is greater in a dystopian world.

I hope that Tilton is able to make me eat my words and that he delivers a satisfying series. But at the moment, this story is enough time in the world for me.

So, what did I think about Please Return to the Lands of Luxury?

My finger is not on the pulse of MG fiction—I don’t know that in the recent resurgence of dystopian fiction (especially on the YA front) if it’s carried over into the MG world too much. I can remember a little bit of it from when I was that young, but I don’t remember my kids reading much like that. So take everything I say about MG dystopian fiction with a grain of salt.

I really liked the way that Tilton presented this world. Sure, there are things I’m not sure are all that consistent. For example, I don’t know how or why Timothy learned to read—particularly as much as he does. I absolutely get why Rodney and Jane can’t. There’s a lot about the culture in Yarborough that I don’t understand—and it’s fine, I don’t need to for this novel. But what we saw was enough. The tech makes sense (both the good and the bad about it), the consumerism seems more realistic than what we see in most dystopian fiction, and so on. And it was all really well communicated to be understood by the target audience.

The characters were great—everyone was well-designed. I liked how the adults in Paradise City were earnest, caring, well-intentioned, and clueless about what they were doing. Given time and a little opportunity for thought, I think the latter could work itself out. They just didn’t have the time to wrap their brains around what was happening in order to be anything other than clueless. But the way they stepped up when presented with the need and opportunity is exactly the kind of thing I like seeing in MG fiction.

It was exciting enough—with good tension (even if it was pretty easy to see who would survive and how—at least for older readers). But as good as the life-and-death material was, the interpersonal relationships were better. It mattered more how Rodney and Timothy got past the mutual offenses than if they lived. I cared more about Jane’s feelings, misunderstandings, and care for her home and friends than I did about the danger she faced—and so on. Tilton did a good job balancing all the aspects of this novel—and majored on the right aspects when he had to make a choice.

A quick aside—this cover just pops! It feels playful and vibrant, but there’s something undeniably ominous in those robots—so, you know, it matches the book. Sylvia Bi did a great job on this cover.

Misgivings about the next books aside, I’m coming back for them. I recommend Please Return to the Lands of Luxury for adults who find the idea of MG dystopian fiction intriguing and I heartily recommend it to anyone who might be shopping for an MG reader.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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1. I don’t think I adequately expressed how good this book is below—it’s always a problem I have when I’m as enthusiastic about a book as I am about this one.

2. I typically post about a pre-publication book less than a month before publication, this is more than three months in advance. I just couldn’t wait that long to read it. See what I said about “enthusiastic” above.

3. Related to #1, I really don’t know if this is all that coherent–I get rambly when I’m this enthusiastic. I’m also not sure I rambled about the right things. You get what you pay for here.

What’s Fearless About?

I’m going to be vague and/or withholding a lot here because Ben Koenig/M.W. Craven will give you the details in a more satisfying manner than I will/can. So live with that—or go order the book. (the better option)

Ben Koenig used to be a U.S. Marshal. Well, he never resigned, so maybe he still is one. But he’s no-showed enough that he probably isn’t anymore. Before he went off-the-grid six years ago, he headed up the Special Operations Group—a task force that went after the worst of the worst on the Marshals’ caseload. They’re the kind of guys that Raylan Givens would call when things got over his head (or hat, I guess).

Koenig literally cannot feel fear—which is a great asset in a situation fraught with danger—it’s also a major problem. Fear keeps people from reckless and foolish moves. A move he might not have made if he’d hesitated a moment (but that he doesn’t regret) put him in a situation where he needed to disappear. No one is better at disappearing than someone who is great at tracking anyone.

But something has happened, and the Marshals have to go to extraordinary lengths to find him. The Director of the Marshals Service, Mitchell Burridge needs his help. Mitch was Ben’s mentor/friend/father figure, so he’d agree to pretty much anything. Mitch’s daughter went missing from her college some weeks ago, and no one has a lead on her—no police force, no Federal agency. Mitch asks Ben to bring his daughter home (at this point, probably her body, but no one admits that out loud). And as for those who took her? Well, that’s also best left unsaid. Ben will address that when it comes time.

As Mitch puts it, Ben’s an apex predator and there’s no one else who can do all of what needs to get done. He may be that, but he’s been acting more like prey for a long time so he makes a few stumbles along the way as he shakes the dust off. But it’s not too long before Koenig catches a scent and starts following it.

That’s an Unfortunate Name

There’s a figure mentioned pretty early on and then repeatedly throughout the book—it takes a while to know if he’s a victim of something, involved in the disappearance, tangentially connected to the abductors, a dupe, or a red herring—or something else entirely. But the name keeps coming up, and it threw me.

The name is Spencer Quinn. Spencer Quinn is also the pen name of Peter Abrahams. Readers of this blog will recognize that name as the author of one of my favorite PI series, The Chet and Bernie Mysteries, among other things. The name is distinctive enough that it jumps out at you—it took me out of the moment each time. In a way that Rob Parker, Pat Cornwall, or Tom Harris might not (or even the non-nickname versions of their names). Will this be a hiccup for anyone who isn’t a Quinn reader? Nope. Was it easy to get over? Yeah, but there’s the instinctual flash of name recognition throughout.

Craven had no idea he was doing this (as I’d assumed, although I’d theorized that he could be a major fan or a major detractor—depending on how things went with the character), although I have to confess I’m a little surprised that no editor stopped him along the way.

Still, it’s a cool name, you can’t blame a guy for wanting to use it. Just ask Peter Abrahams.

Michael Westen-Moments

The show Burn Notice would regularly feature the protagonist giving voice-over lessons on spycraft, weapons, strategy, etc. to the viewer, and that’s the name I inevitably give to moments in thrillers when the first-person narrator, or the protagonist’s thought process described by the third person narrator, breaks down the hero’s decision making, etc.

I love this stuff. Almost every thriller writer has to feed the reader this kind of thing because most of us don’t know how much pressure you have to exert on the trigger of Gun X to get it to fire, or why it’s important that the guy on the left is holding the knife the way he is so the hero knows he’s more dangerous than the larger guy on the right with the shotgun. Sometimes the protagonist—either through confidence (cockiness?) or to help intimidate the opposition—will deliver this in dialogue. I always appreciate the flair that gives.

Ben Koenig is great at this kind of thing. When he Michael Westons his way through the way he approaches a certain building in the final confrontation, why he picks the type of car he does to use on his mission, why he punches this guy the way he does, etc. the reader can actually believe they’ve been given some information they can use in their daily life. You know, the next time they need to drive a car into another state to locate the missing child of their old boss.

But my favorite Michael Westoning in this book—and the scene that hooked me—is early on when Koenig takes time to critique the group of deputies who came to bring him into custody for the way they went about it—location, timing, where the person with the shotgun was standing in relation to everyone else, etc. Sure, Koenig was the one being detained—but there was no doubt who was in control (and who could’ve made everyone’s day much, much worse had he wanted to).

Incidentally, it’s been too many years since I read the book, but you can’t tell me that this scene wasn’t a tip of the hat to Child’s Killing Floor—and a suggestion to the reader that this character is going to be their next Reacher (who is also good at Michael Westoning).

Who Wrote This Again?

I’m not going to try to claim that I’m an expert on M.W. Craven—but I’m fairly familiar with his work (I’ve read 6 of his 7 previously published novels—don’t ask me to explain the missing one). It’s easy to see that the Avison Fluke novels are written by the same author that gave us the Washington Poe novels. This makes sense, it’s fairly common amongst writers of multiple series—no one is surprised to learn that the Mickey Haller books are written by Bosch’s creator; the Sunny Randall and Virgil Cole/Everett Hitch series and the stand-alone Double Play are clearly the work of the Spenser writer; even if John Rebus wasn’t Malcolm Fox’s white whale, everyone could tell those series were written by the same man; and so on.

But Fearless? It probably took me less than 50 pages to stop thinking of this as ‘the new Craven’ book and ‘the first Koenig’ book. If Koenig shares any DNA with Fluke or Poe, it’d take 23andMe or Ancestry.com to figure it out. If you know nothing about Craven’s previous work, all you’ll see is someone writing a book in the mold of Jack Reacher and Peter Ash—with a little bit of Nick Mason and Nick Heller thrown in. Well, writing in that mold—and matching each series at their best.

So, what did I think about Fearless?

I think the past 5 years have demonstrated pretty clearly that I’m probably going to love whatever Craven writes—and now I know that’s true even if it doesn’t feel like a Craven book.

This just worked on every level—Koenig is a fertile character, well-designed to carry a series for quite a while. His assets are perfect for a Reacher/Peter Ash-type character. His flaws keep him from being invincible, and provide plenty of ways for him to be his own greatest adversary. His quirks (e.g., fixation on chocolate milkshakes, absorption of odd bits of trivia) round him out nicely. The reason he’s off the grid is better than being a Luddite/technophobe. Can he grow—and can the reader grow in their understanding of him? Sure. He can also believably regress and find develop new hindrances and weaknesses to work through or overcome.

The narrative voice that Craven uses here will suck in the reader and keep the pages turning between action scenes. The action scenes might as well be directed by John McTiernan, Shane Black, or Chad Stahelski. I don’t know how “realistic” they are, but I don’t think you have to suspend much disbelief. And they’re so fun, who cares?

The story could have been a little more intricate—just a tad. But given everything else that this book had to do—introduce Koenig, establish the series and his backstory, provide some good potential recurring characters—some things have to be sacrificed. Then again, I can point to several beloved and best-selling thrillers that aren’t as intricate as this one. So don’t take this point as anything but me being greedy.

I did have a quibble or two with the novel—it’s not perfect. But I hesitate to get into them as I read an ARC, and there’s still a chance for them to vanish before publication. Also, they’re pretty much at the straining at gnats level, and I try to avoid that. In the end, those quibbles only serve to underline how great the rest of it is.

This is clearly the first in a series (even if all the promotional materials didn’t call it that, you’d get that sense throughout—and the last five pages make it abundantly clear that there’s more to come. So I do think future books will have a slightly different flavor than this one—which could’ve very easily served as a standalone.

To put it simply, I loved every second I spent reading this, Fearless was the highlight of the month for me—and I expect that I’ll keep talking about it throughout the year—I can’t wait for it to get published here so that American audiences can meet Craven. Put your orders in now, folks, July will be here before you know it, and you don’t want to miss this.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Vera Wong’s Unsolicited Advice for Murderers About?

I’m not sure that I can answer this question without just recapping the entire novel—but without the charm and warmth.

Just Try…

How much time do you have?

It Publishes Today, You Need to Get Something Posted. Just Give Us the Setup

Okay, okay, I’ll attempt it—but I really want to spend the next hour just regurgitating the whole thing.

Vera Wong is an older Chinese woman, the owner of a small tea shop in San Francisco’s Chinatown. It’s dark, dingy, and doesn’t get much in the way of customers. She has one regular that she can count on to stop in early in the morning, and then spends most of the rest of the day waiting for someone else to walk in and order. Typically in vain. But it’s her life—she has nothing else to do with her time—her husband is dead, and her son is busy with work. So busy that he rarely has time to visit—or acknowledge all of the super-helpful advice she gives him to succeed at work and/or to find a wife. This doesn’t stop her from texting or calling him frequently to offer the advice, it should be noted.

Then one day, she comes down the stairs from her apartment above the shop to discover a dead body in the middle of the floor. She has little faith that the police will be able to tell her who killed the man, so she decides to discover the identity of the killer for them. How hard can it be? She’s watched plenty of procedurals, is smart, and (unlike Sherlock Holmes) is a suspicious Chinese mother. The murderer doesn’t stand a chance.

So she helps herself to a little bit of the evidence before the police arrive so that she can hunt for the murderer. It’ll be a good change of pace for her.

She sets a trap for the murderer and ends up with four good suspects, it’ll just take her some time to figure out who killed him and why. In the meantime, she sees at least three younger people that need some guidance to get their lives in order—she decides to take that on along with her murder investigation.

Vera

I’d like to spend a few pages talking about Vera—I’m certain that if you ask me in December, she’s still going to be one of my favorite characters of 2023.

She is so human—such a mass of contradictions and differing impulses. The fact that at her, um, advanced age she’s able to chart a new course for her life, to let people in, and adapt gives me a little hope.

But it’s her spirit, her way of looking at the world, and not backing down that’s really inspiring.

Once she’s done with these characters, I could use a grandmother like this.

Be Careful

Vera knows her tea, she spends a lot of time and energy on it—certain that she can make someone just the right kind of tea for whatever they’re facing to help them through the day. If you can make it through a chapter or two (especially in the early chapters) without needing a cup of your own, I’d like to know how.

But other than needing to take the time to boil water and steep your tea, that’s not a big deal (unless you’re inspired to go shopping for more teas, which can get expensive—and can distract you from your reading). However, Vera also spends a lot of time cooking for her new friends and suspects. And she ends up spending more time cooking than making tea.

This is where you need to be careful—if you’re not, you could find yourself putting on a few pounds before the killer is identified. Sutanto’s descriptions of Vera’s creations—and the way everyone responds to them—are so vivid, so enticing, they can send you to your pantry for a snack—or to your food delivery app of choice to order some Chinese food.

I’m not saying that you should avoid these portions of the book—just be prepared so you can fight temptation (or have a handy justification to indulge yourself, if that’s more your preference).

So, what did I think about Vera Wong’s Unsolicited Advice for Murderers?

By the time I got halfway through the opening paragraph, I’d started coming up with a list of people to recommend this book to. There was something about the voice that just jumped off of the page (er, screen) and said, “You’re going to have fun with this.” And I absolutely did—but there was more to it than that, being around these characters felt comfortable. I just wanted to spend time in their presence—like Stars Hollow, CT; the locker room of AFC Richmond; the Parks and Rec Department of Pawnee, IN; the Jigsaw Room of Cooper’s Chase retirement village; or Knight’s Bookstore in Abbi Waxman’s L.A. I don’t remember the last time that I read a cozy mystery that was so worthy of the title “Cozy.”

Yes, I wanted to figure it out. Yes, I wanted to know what happened to the characters and wanted closure for this period in their lives. But I read as slowly as I could because I wanted to linger.

It’s not just Vera that creates that feeling—it’s the other characters’ reactions to her, as well as their relationships with each other. Yes, she is undeniably the center of this little world, but it wouldn’t work without the others.

There’s a lot of gentle humor and heart—that’s what fills this charming work. But that’s not all of it—there are laugh-out-loud moments, as well, and real emotions. There’s a budding romance, a rekindled friendship, family ties, and a lot of people finding the confidence to step out into something new—or into something they’ve tried before and have been scared to try again. The found family that’s created along the way makes all of that possible—particularly the last part—the mutual support (in various forms) and encouragement from the others enable the others to make those steps.

I don’t want to give the impression that this book is all sunshine, flowers, and good times. There are portions of this that are hard to get through, sure—there’s a suspicious death, criminal behavior—at the very least the actions of a scoundrel—heartbreak and a great deal of loneliness and despair. But Sutanto doesn’t leave us there for long—she grounds the book in it, but provides a way forward—through grit, determination, and the help of others.

The murder investigation was fine—probably more than fine, actually. It was a clever little story, with plenty of good suspects and nice twists. But the book isn’t all that interested in the murder investigation, really. It’s just an excuse for these people to come together and start interacting. Vera herself doesn’t really want any of her suspects to be guilty—she’s too busy meddling in their lives to improve them (in selfless acts of assistance only, she’d hurry to tell you). But she keeps plugging away at her little list of suspects because it’s something she’s started—and wouldn’t it be exciting to actually find a murderer? (even if it’s someone she doesn’t want to get into any kind of trouble).

I talk about mysteries more than anything else here, and the fact that I’d started wrapping up the post without addressing the mystery part of this book says a lot to me. It’s the driving force behind the plot and the instigating incident—but again—it’s secondary to the rest of the storylines. Still, most readers will have a hard time finding sympathy for the murdered man, and more than once you’ll likely wonder if it’d really be that bad if no one figures out who did it. You probably won’t feel the way you usually do when a murder is solved when the culprit is named, either.

There’s just so much to commend about this book—and so little to quibble with—I’m on the verge of repeating myself and/or overhyping this thing (but boy howdy, does it deserve a lot of hype!). So I’m just going to leave it with this—go get your hands on a copy, brew yourself a nice pot of tea (I promise you’re going to want tea), and lose yourself in this book for a few hours.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Good Dog, Bad Cop About?

Pete Stanton, when he’s not building up a tab for Andy Carpenter at their favorite sports bar, is in charge of the Homicide Division of the Paterson PD. He doesn’t have the budget for more police detectives, but he had a healthy budget for consultants (figure that one out if you can). So he’s hired the K-Team to look into some cold cases for him.

The first one they pick is a doozy. A few years ago, a retired detective and mentor to Corey Douglas was found shot on his boat, a woman’s body was also found there. Some suspicions about a murder-suicide were floated, but nothing stuck. Corey wants to look into it, and Pete approves it with one caveat—they have to investigate the murder of that woman’s husband. He, too, was a Paterson police officer who was murdered. Other than his wife, there’s no obvious connection between the cases, and they weren’t investigated that way.

Corey and Laurie knew going in that Pete would assign them both if they requested one—and honestly, they wanted it that way. All three were aware of the game they were playing, and they all did their part. Now, hopefully, the K-Team and help the PPD close these cases and get some justice for the victims.

Simon

This is really Corey’s book—Laurie’s in it a decent amount, but she doesn’t seem to play as vital a role as usual. Marcus isn’t around much—but is when it counts. Where it comes up short is, as is often the case, Simon’s involvement.

We need to see more of him—Corey even jokes about it at one point, saying Simon’s going to be jealous about something he’s up to without him. That’s all well and good–but it’s not enough.

This is a series about detectives who name their team after a dog. Corey’s a former dog handler. The dog needs to be around more. Do we get some good Simon action? Yes. Are the lines about him and the action involving him good? Absolutely (equating him to Marcus is a great idea). But c’mon, Rosenfelt—give us more Simon.

Poor Sam

Okay, it’s been evident for quite some time in the Andy Carpenter books that while Sam is a good accountant, he enjoys his side gig as a computer researcher for Andy (who isn’t impeded by things like ethics or laws), and he’s more than happy to help out with the K-Team.

But these guys are starting to rely on him too much—sure, they do the legwork. They put a lot of the clues together—but Sam got most of those clues for them. And the number of times that Corey called with new tasks for him was borderline outrageous. They’re working this guy to the bone.

It occurs to me that I said something very similar about the computer tech in the DC Maggie Jamieson series. Is there maybe a union for overworked tech geniuses in Mysteries/Procedurals? Maybe Tilly Bradshaw can organize something.

Corey as a PI

Corey is really coming into his own as a PI (at least as far as fictional PIs go). In the first book or two, he tried to do things the right way—he was very aware that he was no longer a cop and had to act in a certain manner because of it. But he still acted like a police officer, with those kinds of instincts.

Laurie had spent enough time as a PI, was more comfortable in the role, and accepted a greater degree of looseness when it came to protocols. I doubt Marcus ever cared about them in the first place. But Corey was pretty uptight and had to be cajoled into doing certain things.

He seems over that now—he’s willing to color outside the lines, ignore certain rules/laws, and so on. It’s about getting the results and taking care of details and technicalities later.*

* I want to stress that I’m okay with this because we’re talking fictional detectives. The casual attitude toward privacy, phone records, financial transactions, and breaking and entering in a real person would be intolerable—I don’t care what their profession is.

It’s great to see him grow and develop. He’s not the same character that he was when we met him in the Andy Carpenter books–or when this series started. I’m sure that growth with slow and/or stop soon—but for now, I’m liking the journey.

The M Word

As much as he’s growing in his new profession, Corey’s got a long way to go on the personal front. Sure, he’s made great strides since meeting and starting to date Dani. He’s in a long-term committed relationship and isn’t thinking of running for the hills or making some lame excuse to break up.

But he can’t even bring himself to say—or think (including in his narration)—the word “marriage.” He will call it “M” throughout the book—and he’s thinking about it pretty frequently in this book. Sure, it’s immature—he realizes it. But that’s not enough. This is also one of those things that the reader has to suspend disbelief and just roll with. If you do, it’s a fun running joke (it’s easy to do, because if anyone can make a somewhat emotionally stunted man entertaining, it’s the creator of Andy Carpenter).

So, what did I think about Good Dog, Bad Cop?

I know this series (like the Carpenter books) aren’t technically cozies—Marcus by himself keeps them from being considered that way. But I don’t know if there is a pair of series (or one) that I feel so comfortable in. Within a paragraph or two of the protagonist showing up, I’m enjoying the book and feel at home.

Sure, there are better entries and lesser entries—characters moves I like more than others, and so on. But I know as soon as I start one of these books that I’m going to have a good time. That’s what happened here.

I’m enjoying Corey’s transformation into a more typical PI—there are a couple of moments where he felt like the 1990s-era Spenser (just with a dog that wouldn’t run from gunfire). I’m not going to complain about that—ever. I enjoy the dynamics between the team, between the team and the police/other law enforcement entities, between the team and Andy, and so on. I simply enjoyed myself here.

ysteries on top of that were good, too. I admit that I got suckered into a red herring or two, and things that I was sure of along the way were wrong (I was on the right path, and was only one connection away from being in step with Corey).*

* I’m sure I probably sound defensive there, but that’s only because I am.

I don’t know what else to say—this is a good installment in a reliable series. Fans of Carpenter, the K-Team, or lighter mysteries will gobble this one up. Satisfaction assured.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s A Man Named Doll About?

Happy Doll is a cop-turned-P.I. in Los Angeles, he now primarily works in doing security in a massage parlor* to make ends meet, but he used to do more investigative work.

* The employees may happen to negotiate other services.

When we first meet him, he’s talking with his mentor in the LAPD, a man who took a bullet for him and who now comes to him for a big favor. He needs a kidney transplant. Hap says he’ll think about it. That’s not good enough for Lou who ends up doing some very short-sighted things to get him that kidney. Happy doesn’t know that at the time, or he’d have said yes sooner.

An altercation with a high client at the parlor leaves Happy injured and under scrutiny by a couple of detectives from the LAPD. He’s also loopy on painkillers (which he counters with ADHD meds to really impair his judgment).

This leaves him in a bad spot when he has to investigate what Lou had gotten himself into and with whom. But he keeps plugging along obstinately (also, fueled by undeserved confidence).

Irving Ash

I picked this up because Chris McDonald said that this is the book that inspired him to write his novel Little Ghost. I tried, usually successfully, to not compare the two as I read.

I can see the shadow of A Man Named Doll on Little Ghost—there’s a similar vibe to the protagonists being up against forces they’re not ready for, but not backing down or allowing themselves to think of it. There’s a similar feeling of events quickly spiraling out of control for everyone involved, and the protagonist being in a very different place when the book is over.

I’m not suggesting that McDonald borrowed much from this book, but the novels share some DNA (and the protagonists likely do, too). The two novels can—and should—be entertaining on their own, and don’t need to be considered in relation to each other in any way. I just found it interesting to see how an author could draw inspiration from a novel and run with it.

So, what did I think about A Man Named Doll?

There were multiple twists that I didn’t see coming. I had to stop and go back to re-read a few paragraphs to make sure I just read what I thought I did, because…what author does that? Apparently, Jonathan Ames does.

I do think that this book moves a bit too quickly. I’d have liked to see Doll have to work a little harder to connect the dots between everything. I’d have liked to see the LAPD detectives play a larger roll in things (although I can’t imagine how they could’ve without ruining things for Doll’s investigation). It’s not a fatal flaw, but I think the book would’ve been better with just a little more of everything.

Ultimately, this reminded me of Eoin Colfer’s Daniel McEvoy books—just leaner and not quite as funny*. Although the latter could be a result of the former. I did laugh though at some of Doll’s narration—so not quite as funny does not imply not witty or funny at all. Both series share the same kind of worldview, the same kind of violence, and the same kind of twisted logic.

* It occurs to me that Doll does tell us that he’s half-Irish. But that part of his family hasn’t been in Ireland for quite some time, unlike McEvoy. But maybe there’s something to that heritage and the way he reacts to things. I only thought of that connection, as I was preparing to hit “Publish,” so I’m not going to spend time on it. It’s entirely possible that it won’t hold water. But it might.

I thought the emotional and psychological elements were handled perfectly—the way that Doll (and his friends) react to the events that befall them seems perfectly handled. And I really liked the Epilogue and the repercussions of the events of the novel for the characters. It comes across as a little more realistic than some PI novels would have it.

This didn’t completely wow me as I hoped—but it was a satisfying and surprising read. I want to see what else Ames is capable of and will be returning for the sequel as soon as I can.

Somehow I made it through this entire post without mentioning George, Doll’s half-Chihuahua, half-terrier dog. Shame on me. Briefly, he’s just adorable and goes through too much because of his doped-up human.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader along with a Q&A by the author.

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N/B: After I wrote this post, I saw that Matulich calls this “an adult novel with YA sensibilities” in our Q&A. That is a great way to describe the book, but I read it under the impression given by a certain eBook seller who labeled it as for readers of 12-18, and judged it accordingly. Some of what I said below reflects that. So take those with a grain of salt.

Finally, the Captain spoke: “You’re insane.”

“And that’s what will save us all,”Feng Po said with a smile. “We have about ten seconds before our friends out here realize we aren’t going to fall out of the sky by ourselves. If you have a brighter idea, I will be glad to execute it.”

The Captain spent five of those ten seconds in silence. He came back on the wire with a grunt and an unhappy tone.

“This is what Mme. Streif hired you for. You’d better be right.”

“If I’m not, I’ll be dead and wrong, and that should make you very happy in the Afterlife.”

What’s The Silk Empress About?

Our hero is Algie Pigggrem (not surprisingly, nicknamed “Pig” by many), a twelve-year-old First Mate’s apprentice on the airship Wu Zetian flying along the High Silk Road between China and Europe. In the first chapter he and the first mate, Feng Po McLaren, try out some experimental weapons to fight off some air pirates. Algie is fueled more by adventure stories from penny dreadfuls than by common sense or an instinct for survival and takes risks with a panache that will endear him to the reader immediately.

This attack, and the way that Algie and Feng Po succeeded, will bring them (especially Algie) to the attention of the owner of their company, a regional British governor, and others—before he knows it, Algie is in the middle of some high-stakes intrigue.

The Flashbacks

"I am depending upon you to do something both brilliant and short-sighted.”

That comes late in the novel, but it’s in the flashbacks that we get to see how Algie develops this ability.

We get to see a little bit of what happened to Algie right after he was orphaned—how he reacts to that, both in good and unfortunate ways—in flashbacks scattered throughout, leading up to the time he joined the crew of Wu Zetian. The way his mother raised him and the books that he read shaping his mind to act in certain ways (or at least attempt to) tells us a lot about him in the present, and how he has grown and learned from those days.

He shows his gallant and would-be heroic impulses from the beginning—his impulsivity and creativity, too. He learns (the hard way) that he can’t win every time, but it doesn’t stop him.

The Worldbuilding

if you have problems believing that a man from Nigeria might be able to outdo the best minds of the British Empire, I could bring in Mister Liu to explain the science of these fire suppression spheres,” Mme. Streif said coolly. “His English is quite good and he can speak very slowly if you have problems with the larger words.”

The worldbuilding here is outstanding. The obvious thing to look at in a Steampunk book is the tech—I really enjoyed that, both the airship Wu Zetian (and the rest) as well as the smaller, everyday tech. The revolutionary stuff that Algie and the rest encounter—like the clockwork dragon, and similar automatons, is just fantastic. It’s precisely the kind of thing you go looking for in a Steampunk work—it sounds great and you get just a hint of the kind of science that would make it possible. It’s enough like your typical Steampunk technology to feel familiar, but Matulich puts his own spin (helped in large part by the setting) on it, so it feels fresh.

The setting and the people it’s populated with, however, are probably even better than the Steampunk-ness. In addition to the typical Victorian English that usually populate Steampunk, you have people like the Scottish-born (and accented), Feng Po McLaren. But beyond him, there are characters of ethnicities and nationalities like Uyghurs, Chinese, Nigerians, Americans, and French citizens. These all come from a variety of religious, social, and economic backgrounds and combine in this book with a mix of curiosity and acceptance—as well as a decent helping of elitism and racism (as is to be sadly expected). It’s a great way to show how the kind of transportation and technology in this world is bringing things together a little faster than it did in our reality—in addition to the diversity just making things entertaining.

The use of so many non-English phrases (translated in endnotes) is a fun—if occasionally frustrating—plus as well. There were times I was annoyed by having to break from the action to look up the translation—although context would carry you through a scene if you want to finish it before checking the note.

The Illustrations

There are a few illustrations by Seth Lyons (who also did the great cover) starting off each chapter. A few didn’t do much for me, most were pretty good—a few were excellent. I don’t know that the book needs them—but I certainly don’t think they hurt it. Overall, they’re a nice little touch and do a great job of capturing and reflecting the tone and gadgets of the book. They might be a real bonus to a young reader dipping his toe into steampunk for the first time and isn’t sure how to imagine some things.

So, what did I think about The Silk Empress?

“There is a picaroon cutter lying in wait for us about seven kilometers off the port bow.”

“Air pirates?”

“So they are called in Adventure Stories for Boys. I usually just call them well-armed layabouts. Less pressure to live up to expectations that way.”

I’ve tried to stay pretty vague above while talking about a few things that really stood out—because half of the fun of this novel is in the discovery of this world and learning with Algie just what he’s found himself in the middle of. It’s a bonkers adventure—fit for one of Algie’s adventure novels.

I’ve only read one other YA Steampunk—Westerfeld’s Leviathan trilogy—so that’s all I have to compare this to. Matulich’s world is just as intricate and volatile, this book is just a bit leaner than any of Westerfeld’s. Also, this is more fun. That’s not a knock on Leviathan—they’re in a war and trying to stop it. This is more of an action/adventure lark (at least initially). But fans of one should check out the other. Some of the humor is a bit more “adult” than YA—but it’ll either fly right over the heads of a reader or give them a grin.

It’s not just the action or antics that make this an entertaining read—Matulich’s a writer that you want to read. There is a subtle charm to his phrasing, for example—he can take a pretty straightforward sentence or sentiment and tweak it just a bit to make it something that’ll stand out.

I don’t know if there are more books in this universe planned—but man, I hope so. I could live with this as a stand-alone, but I’d really appreciate at least a duology. I’m betting you’ll feel the same way. But first, you need to read The Silk Empress, and I encourage you to do so (and then pass it along to a YA reader).

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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So, you can tell from the title of this post [on my blog, it's called "A Funeral for Dreams"], that this is not a happy tale. The other big hint along those lines is the author’s name. I’m sure that Tiffany McDaniel is perfectly capable of writing a fun romp of a novel—I just have no evidence that she’s interested in doing so.

When you do see her name on a cover, you know a few things going in—the book is going to feature some sort of childhood trauma; the beautifully stylized dialogue (that doesn’t even pretend to be realistic); and prose that can only be described as gorgeous.

Everything else may differ from book to book, but the above are pretty much a given at this point.

What’s On the Savage Side About?

We meet 6-year-old twin sisters Arc and Daffy on the day their father died. Believe it or not, this is likely the best their life is going to be for the rest of this book. They spend most of their childhood in a home with their mother and aunt (I’m very carefully not saying they were raised by their mother and aunt), prostitutes who spend what little money they have on drugs—heroin, primarily. There are brief periods where the children are taken care of by their grandmother—who is kind, loving, and able to take care of them—but those are brief.

We see them age—struggling to separate themselves from their mother and aunt, and eventually following in their footsteps in addiction and profession. As adults, Arc’s focus is her (more fragile) sister’s safety and well-being. It’s because of Daffy that she finds a rehab facility, there’s a (probable) serial killer out there leaving women’s bodies in the river, and Arc is determined to not let Daffy become the next. Hopefully, she can prevent her friends from being the next, too.

Interspersed with chapters describing their lives (with some time jumping involved), we get some selections from their mother’s diary—back when she was capable of keeping one. We see her struggle with addiction and knowing the danger she poses to her daughters (and I was so glad when the book gave us that—it was the first maternal action I saw from her, but we didn’t get to see it for a long time).

We also get chapters describing the point-of-view of the river that flows near their town. How it reacts to being where the bodies of women are discarded, along with its thoughts on other things as well. It’s these chapters—particularly early on—that give the novel its depth and perspective. It feels to me like those chapters are McDaniels speaking with the least amount of artifice. The river feels like her voice unfiltered through the devices she uses the rest of the time.

Chillicothe, Ohio

Until I started this book, I knew Chillicothe, Ohio as the birthplace of Archie Goodwin of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe books. I half-assumed it was a fictional location, and never bothered to look it up. Now I know that it exists, and I’m going to have a hard time reestablishing the positive associations I had with the name. It feels like a great place to be from, not a great place to be. I’m sure that it’s a perfectly fine place in reality, but the small city does not come across very well in these pages.

So, what did I think about On the Savage Side?

This was just a brutal read. Every time you get a glimmer of hope, a glimmer of a feeling that things might be okay for some of these characters—something snuffs it out. But there’s another source right around the corner. But, to go back to that line from the novel I borrowed above—the book is full of funerals for dreams.

But there’s beauty in the darkness. And a drive to keep persevering shared by the reader and the characters. I wondered more than once why some of them kept trying—but they did. The mother of one of Arc’s adult friends is a strong vision of enduring love and hope—she’s always ready to help her daughter no matter how tight the grip of addiction is on her at the time. She’s always trying, always striving to give her daughter the care she needs—even when (especially when) there’s no reason to think it’ll do any good.

I mentioned a serial killer above—it’s not a serial killer novel, though. It’s a novel about the women that may be his target and their fears about it. But people looking for a Thomas Harris read will be disappointed. Actually, people looking for most things you find in typical novels will be disappointed. Many of the looming questions in our characters’ lives are left unanswered. But you don’t walk away frustrated that you don’t get the answers like you would from other novels—because we’re given answers to questions we never thought to ask. Some of those are more important, too.

Like always, Tiffany McDaniels delivered a book that’s going to stay in my subconscious for a while—lurking there, making me rethink what I read from time to time. It’ll probably stay there until her next novel comes along (Betty‘s been there for a couple of years, and really only was dislodged by this one—and The Summer that Melted Everything is still there all these years later). It’s somber, it’s sober, and it’s difficult to read. But it’s so worth it in ways I cannot adequately explain. It’ll make you think. It’ll make you feel.

I’m having a hard time articulating exactly why you should read this without getting into the details—if you’ve read McDaniels before, you know what I’m saying. If you haven’t—it’s time to.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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This ended up being one of those books that I could say almost nothing about or could just as easily have said far too much about. It took me a week and a half just to figure out—I hope—the way to strike the balance.

What’s Lost in the Moment and Found About?

Antoinette (known as Antsy) is a little girl whose life is shattered when her father dies unexpectedly. Her mother quickly remarries for security and her stepfather is the stuff of nightmares. He dismantles her idyllic-sounding childhood, almost removing her from the family. When darker (much darker) things loom, Antsy runs away.

Naturally—well, supernaturally—as this is a Wayward Children book, she’s soon presented with a Door. She steps through it, as sure as someone who isn’t even ten can be. And enters a shop. Unusually for this series, she’s not in a new world—but a shop. The Shop Where the Lost Things Go to be precise.

The shop is managed by an old woman named Vineta and a very large (and talking) magpie named Hudson. In addition to the Shop being the place that Lost Things go—those that are needed by their owners can come be retrieved. There is a Door in the Shop that Antsy can open to other worlds (Antsy’s door, and that of those coming to Find something, appears in a different location)—there’s never any telling what world will be on the other side of the Door. If it looks appealing, Vineta and Antsy will go through and purchase some things to sell in the Shop (and feed themselves), otherwise Antsy will close the door and try again.

At some point, Antsy begins finding ominous notes trying to tell her something—will she figure out what the notes are trying to tell her in time?

Worldbuilding

One of the more entertaining things—for me, anyway—about this series is hearing about worlds that we don’t get to spend time in (or more than a quick glimpse, anyway). Just a brief mention along the way to some other point, and you get to fuel your imagination for a bit. Given this setting—and the way the Shop flits between worlds for Antsy and Vineta to go pick up stock, Lost in the Moment and Found is rife in these glimpses, hints of what else is out there. I had so much fun with that—McGuire’s really created a universe for these stories where she can indulge any whim she has for storytelling and it’d work.

But that’s not really what I wanted to talk about.

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.

Depth of Darkness

On the whole, this series hasn’t featured “bad guys”—largely, the antagonists have been people with competing visions for the way things ought to be. People who were trying their best, but who couldn’t understand their children (before and/or after their door)—and so on. A lot of people you don’t want to be around and you don’t want to see have much success as they are, but typically it’s possible to see where they’re coming from and why they do what they do (as much as you might object to it).

But in this book? There are a minimum of two evil characters. People that need to be stopped, and you sort of wish Toby Daye would make a cameo and do what she does best.

McGuire’s painted some bleak circumstances for her Wayward Children—but this seems bleaker (I haven’t spent a lot of time reviewing the older books, so I’m prepared to be corrected) and darker than we’re used to. There’s a period where you can forget that, where it almost feels like Antsy is out for a very long lark and everything will be a fun adventure.

I don’t know if this is a turning point and that we’ll see more books like this in the years to come. I doubt it—I think this is a story that needed to be told, but we’ll be back on more familiar ground—with a more familiar tone—soon.

So, what did I think about Lost in the Moment and Found?

This is clearly a personal story of McGuire (just read the Author’s note that precedes the text) and there’s a rawness to the writing that isn’t typical for this series (or McGuire, period). But it’s oh, so fitting.

I find myself slipping into misconceptions about this series—I enjoy the characters (so many of our protagonists are just loveable), the concept behind the series and West’s school, and so on—it’s easy to remember the nonsense worlds, the joy that characters frequently experience in finding a Door, going home, or leaving home that you forget that almost everyone goes through a Door from our world to get away from something. When I pause to write something like this or describe the series/a particular novella to someone—all of that comes rushing back. Only to be forgotten again until I start reading the next book.* Antsy’s situation is perhaps the most disturbing we’ve seen—and what she ultimately finds in the shop is equally (but in a very different way) unsettling.

* I hope I’m not alone in that, but I have to assume the rest of you are more careful in your reading/remembering.

The novella is not all dire and troubling—there’s a lot of fun to be had as we follow Antsy. The quick excursion to the lost animal department could’ve filled a novella or two. The reader might see some old friends out of the corner of their eye, too. Most importantly, there is hope. That last line is earned (as we’re told time and time again, nothing comes free), and is so reassuring.

Unsurprisingly, I recommend this book—unlike most in the series, I don’t think this would serve as a good entry point. It’s a good number 8 (these are all novellas, so reading eight of them isn’t that big of an investment). It’s raw, it’s unsettling (at the very least), it’s emotional, and it’s full of some of McGuire’s best prose. I’m sure those who’ve read 1-2 (or all seven) others don’t need me to say this, you’ve probably already read them. But for everyone else, it’s time to start reading these books.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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I did a lousy job on this…I’m just not capable of discussing this book properly. But I gave it a shot, though.

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What’s The Perception Of Dolls About?

There’s no way to simply talk about this book. Period. So this is going to take a bit, bear with me. Let’s start with this from the Publisher’s site:

“It’s almost as if history is trying to erase the whole affair.” – Anthony Croix

The triple murder and failed suicide that took place at 37 Fantoccini Street in 2001, raised little media interest at the time. In a week heavy with global news, a ‘domestic tragedy’ warranted few column inches. The case was open and shut, the inquest was brief and the ‘Doll Murders’ – little more than a footnote in the ledgers of Britain’s true crime enthusiasts – were largely forgotten.

Nevertheless, investigations were made, police files generated, testimonies recorded, and conclusions reached. The reports are there, a matter of public record, for those with a mind to look.

The details of what took place in Fantoccini Street in the years that followed are less accessible. The people involved in the field trips to number 37 are often unwilling, or unable, to talk about what they witnessed. The hours of audio recordings, video tapes, written accounts, photographs, drawings, and even online postings are elusive, almost furtive.

In fact, were it not for a chance encounter between the late Anthony Croix and an obsessive collector of Gothic dolls, the Fantoccini Street Reports might well have been lost forever.

But that’s not all—the late Anthony Croix was an independent journalist, and from that encounter with the doll collector, he gets on the trail of 37 Fantoccini Street and what happened there—from the murders to the repeated trips by students from London North University looking into paranormal activity on the site.

Croix conducted those interviews with those from the visits who were still alive and capable of being interviewed, and wrote up descriptions of the photographs and videos (he wasn’t permitted to copy them or use them in his final work), compiling all this into a book that he was unable to finish before his death.

Enter Russell Day who took the notes and drafts compiled by Croix and assembled them into a (mostly) publishable form. (that’s not a knock on Day’s work, he did what he could to honor Croix’s particular style)

Reading a Documentary

Back in junior high/high school, I remember watching documentaries and documentary-style TV shows about paranormal investigations and unsolved crimes. This reads a lot like one of those. Those would feature a lot of intercut interviews telling the story—some contradicting the others—with a little, but not too much voice-over narration stitching them together. There’d also be some questionable photographs and some dark video clips that are hard to see a whole lot of detail in.

That’s pretty much what The Perception Of Dolls is—just in book form. It’s surprisingly effective—it doesn’t take a whole lot of imagination on the part of the reader to “see” the whole thing. Yeah, the format of interview transcripts and descriptions of the visuals are pretty bare-boned, but you’ll find yourself supplying all the necessary details with almost no prompting from the text.

When Style is Not a Style

Whether I’ve discussed a short story or a novel by Day, one of the things I inevitably talk the most about is his style.

None of that is evident here. Not one bit. As I said, this reads as dryly as a transcript of a documentary—which is exactly what Day was going for. The absence of style is as much work—if not much more—than Day’s typically flashy and gorgeous styles.

“Dry” doesn’t mean dull—not for a second. Day dives so far into the persona of Croix—eliding obscenities, odd typography, purposefully including typos, sentence fragments, etc. that the text of the novel itself becomes a character as vibrant as any of the others.

So, what did I think about The Perception Of Dolls?

So…when I first saw this advertised, I didn’t think this would be my cup of tea—it’s not really a genre I’m all that fond of, and rarely want to try. But then I remembered that the genre of “Things written by Russell Day” is definitely one of my favorites, so I went for it.

I’m so glad that I tried this.

Objectively, I’d say that there’s little reason on the page to feel unease, dread, anxiety, or much of anything actually. But because of the subject matter and/or the way that the story is told—I don’t see how you don’t feel dread, anxiety, and a growing sense of creepiness throughout. The last photograph described by Croix is going to stick with me a little longer than I’m comfortable with, I’ve got to say. It’s impossible to say what precisely happened—at almost any point the book describes—at 37 Fantoccini Street or with some of the related events, but something’s not right about that place. Everything that ever happened there needs to be narrated by Robert Stack.*

* I don’t know if that will mean anything to anyone who wasn’t watching U.S. TV in the late 1980s, but I assure you, it’s an apt observation.

Okay, I take that back—there’s objectively at least one scene that should make any reader feel creeped out and possibly anxious. Croix gets to view the doll collector’s collection. If imagining 897 dolls of various types and conditions in one room (I’ll leave the details to the book) doesn’t give you the heebie-jeebies, you should seek professional help.

Everything in this book is unreliable—the narratives in the newspapers from the original killings were only printed in a newspaper that doesn’t exist anymore, and the photographs from that story—or anytime after that, are only described. Even a documentary related to murder is of dubious quality. You’ll find plenty to question in the witness accounts of what happened—particularly when they differ (and, yes, I’m sure they’re all lying—it’s tough to decide which one is lying when). The reader is given plenty of reasons throughout to wonder about Anthony Croix’s accuracy—and there appear to be pages missing from his manuscript that could change our understanding of the whole thing. All of which serves to increase my general feelings of unease about the whole narrative.

Near the end of the book, Croix is talking about someone he interacted with a lot saying they’re a perfect “reflector”

of the overarching story of number 37. Facts present themselves but offer no revelations and produce questions, not answers.

That’s precisely what this book delivers—and it does so in a way that even people who demand a lot of resolution from a story can be satisfied with it. I wondered more than once what I’d end up thinking about this book as I walked through it, I was uncertain most of the time I spent reading. But the last few chapters solidified things for me. And the days I’ve spent afterward thinking about the whole thing make me even more sure—it’s one of those books that gets better the more you think about it—I’m dazzled by this book. I’m not in awe—and I certainly didn’t enjoy most of it (if by enjoy you mean “had fun while reading”). But I was hooked. I was captivated. I was (at least momentarily) obsessed with it.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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My mind is out to kill me, and I know it. I am constantly filled with a lurking loneliness, a yearning, clinging to the notion that something outside of me will fix me. But I had had all that the outside had to offer!

What’s Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing About?

This isn’t full of—but does contain—some good, behind-the-scenes stuff about Friends, Fools Rush In, The Whole Nine Yards, Mr. Sunshine, The Odd Couple, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, and other projects. But those don’t make up the bulk of the material. And those are interesting, amusing, and support the overall thesis of the book—he’s an addict who has been blessed with more good things than he knows how to handle.

There’s some juicy (largely nameless, but you can read between the lines) bits about his love life—as the title suggests. But again, there’s not much of that overall—and those, too, serve to support the overall thesis—even more than the professional matters do.

Then there’s the Big Terrible Thing—his addictions themselves, how he got started, how he maintained them, and his several attempts to get sober (of varying successes and lengths of success). He also goes into graphic (perhaps too graphic) detail about the physical toll they’ve taken on him—and the financial, emotional, and mental toll they’ve taken on those close to him.

How Perry Comes Across

When this book first came out (or just before it) there were more than a few headlines about some (I’m going to be charitable and call them) questionable jokes he made about Keanu Reeves and some people casting doubt about some of the particulars of some of his stories. Given how impaired he was during most of those disputed events (and just about every other event he recounts), I’m not surprised he doesn’t remember them correctly, and I don’t think it should be held against him. The Reeves jokes, on the other hand, might have seemed like a good idea at the time—but his editors really should’ve stopped them. I jotted down a note after the second one that “someone at Macmillan must have it out for him to let this make it to print.”

But both of those things pale in comparison to everything that Perry admits to in this book. He doesn’t come across as a good guy at all—and I don’t think he’s trying to. Sure, the fact that he’s (seemingly) coming clean about everything and (seemingly) taking responsibility for the lies, destructive behaviors, and despicable actions might make some people want to think better of him—but I don’t think he really wants that.

He comes across—and I realize this could be entirely calculated—as someone who is being honest about his shortcomings, seeking to explain the devastation his addictions have wrought on himself and many, many of those around him—how he’s somehow managed to have some success in the midst of that. He gives credit to some of those who’ve helped him get to this point in recovery—or kept him alive long enough to get there. In the end, however, Perry’s not a good guy and doesn’t pretend to be one. He’s a mess who will very likely kill himself if he relapses a time or two more.

So, what did I think about Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing?

I’ve been a big fan of Perry’s since Friends (I can point to the joke that made me one)—I’ve seen almost everything he’s done (sometimes not because of him, but I appreciated his involvement). But I put this book under the category of “will get around to eventually, maybe.” Until I saw people reacting to how much of the focus of the book is on the Big Terrible Thing. And that piqued my interest.

That sounds ghoulish, I realize, but hearing a well-documented addict talking about their struggles is something that I appreciate. It helps me empathize with those I know fighting that fight, and I hope, helps me understand and appreciate their struggles.

Perry’s clear that he’s been given every opportunity, tool, and help to get sober and to maintain that sobriety. And he’s squandered almost every one of them. And it has yet to work. The amounts he takes on a regular basis when he uses is…it’s a shocking amount—and only someone as wealthy as he is could pull it off.

At the same time, there’s a glimmer of hope. A faint glimmer, sure. But there is one—and if someone whose rock bottom is as low as Perry’s was can maybe make it—there’s hope for others, too. And that’s the big thing I took away—there’s hope. Hope for other addicts, hope for Perry.

I thought this was a riveting and disturbing read—made tolerable by Perry’s off-kilter and somewhat humorous telling of the stories. It’s not like most celebrity memoirs I’ve read (but I don’t think it’s that ground-breaking)—but definitely worth the time.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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She’d thought to herself many times that the town was too shiny, too perfect, a vision of Americana, with fern-green pastures unfurling north of the reservoir, and pickup trucks and ranches that spoke of a vanished dream: the hardworking people of the heartland.

But there were hate crimes and harassment in this heartland, communities who lived at the mercy of their employers, and vigilantes and cops who were there to make them obey. In Chicago, the exercise of power was naked and direct; she knew that all too well. Blackwater’s old-fashioned gentility masked its insistence on the status quo, an insight that made her uneasy.

What’s Blackwater Falls About?

Well, I could put this in a very bare-bones way—a pair of detectives take over a murder investigation in a small town outside of Denver. There’ve been a number of complaints about the Sherriff, so Denver PD has sent them. One high school girl has been killed, and there are rumors of two others that are missing. The detectives deal with local roadblocks, an antagonistic Sherriff’s department, and some internal troubles as they search for answers.

This is not a new idea to Police Procedurals—at all. And for good reason—that’s the makings of a good story. But…let’s put some meat on those bones and see what Khan does that makes this novel stand out.

Detective Imaya Rahman has recently moved from Chicago to Denver, following some professional failure and personal trauma (it’s initially unclear what both were). She’s part of the Community Response Unit—which is assigned to any case calling for police accountability, particularly in cases involving overpoliced communities/areas. The unit was formed following the protests of 2020, and Rahman was involved in police oversight back in Chicago, it was a natural fit. The murder victim—a Syrian refugee—was a member of the same mosque that Rahman and her family attends (her father’s a criminal defense attorney, and her younger sisters attend a local college, I’m not sure what her mother does other than worry about getting her daughters married), and was discovered in that mosque. Her body was posed and displayed in a way that seemed to invoke both Christ’s crucifixion and the Virgin Mary. Between the victim, the building, and the imagery—this screams hate crime. And the tensions between the Sherriff’s Department and the (largely immigrant) Muslim community in the area are at a boiling point.

Enter CRU and Det. Rahaman, in particular. Her partner was a former trauma therapist who moved into criminal psychology, bringing valuable insights and profiling abilities. Before joining the CRU, Det. Catalina Hernandez had worked for years on the border helping immigrants with legal and medical aid. With her eye for detail, her ability to relate to the immigrant population of Blackwater Falls, and her people skills; and Rahman’s investigative instincts and shared background with the victim’s families—they’re the ideal team for this case.

There’s no dearth of suspects—there’s an evangelical megachurch in town where the preaching is as frequently anti-Muslim and anti-immigrant as it is pro-Christ. There’s the Disciples, a Christian motorcycle club—they appear to be the enforcers of the outlook of said megachurch (and make an aggressive appearance at the victim’s home the day of her body’s discovery). There’s the private (and very white) school the victim attended, where she’d been harassed and assaulted for her race, her apparel, and her success. Part of that success was getting a coveted internship at a local tech firm that she’d recently been fired from. Lastly, her father had been part of a movement to organize a union at the plant he worked at—and management’s response was both aggressive and seemingly targeted at the families of the organizers.

It seemed like a large suspect pool when I was reading it, but having typed it all out just now, it seems even more daunting.

As I said earlier, the Sherriff’s department is hostile—naturally because no one likes being pushed off a case, and possibly because there’s a good reason for them to be removed. At the same time, they seem awfully well-informed about what’s happening in the investigation (as do some of the potential suspects)—does the CRU have a leak?

The Subplots/Worldbuilding

Yeah, even with all of that going on, Khan is able to work in a handful of subplots—some of which serve the story, some establish the characters, and some help build the foundation of a series. It doesn’t feel over-stuffed and nothing is given short shrift. I’m not going to go into them all at this point because I don’t want this post to get too long, so I’ll be vague here.

This is a fantastic world here (well, okay, it’s a horrible world because it’s pretty realistic—but it’s a fantastic world for the purposes of an ongoing series. I’m pretty sure that the entities that proved to have nothing to do with the murder will be seen again in relation to a future crime.

The tensions and problems within the CRU will give all the characters opportunities for growth and development as that Unit becomes better (or devolves into uselessness).

Over the course of the case, Rahman and Hernandez form an alliance (and possible budding friendship) with a local attorney and minority rights activist—the potential for mutual aid and clashes within this group of women alone is enough to fuel readers’ imaginations for a few books.

Also, you have to account for Rahman’s backstory, family, and potential romantic entanglements that we’ve only scratched the surface of in this book, it’s going to take a few more to really explore all of this. And I’m sure the other members of the team could have similar arcs as well.

Culture Clashes

Blackwater Falls is a pretty diverse community at the present (but not historically)—you’ve got the families that have made this community over the generations—largely white, Protestant (of various types), and moderately-to-very affluent. There’s a new Muslim community appearing—Rahman’s family, Syrian refugees, and significant numbers of Somalis—largely brought into do blue-collar work. Denver’s CRU itself is pretty diverse.

The key to both success when it comes to this case and for the health of the community is understanding each other to some extent. Khan makes this point subtly throughout, but you can’t walk away from the book without it making an impression. The detectives struggle to overcome their lack of understanding of parts of the communities, cultures, and religions in the town, as do the citizens/residents, the suspects, and (I think I can say without spoiling anything) even the killer is tripped up by not really understanding things. The lack of mutual respect and awareness will destroy this unit and community until bridges are built—and used.

For the way she handles this theme alone, Khan deserves a kudos or two.

So, what did I think about Blackwater Falls?

I think I’ve tipped my hand already here. I was very impressed by this book—I’ve seen a lot of people talk about how a good police procedural can be written post-George Floyd. Here’s the answer. Khan tackles the struggles of a police department trying to do the job they’ve always done while making slow changes and resisting others—the CRU’s lieutenant (who I’ve ignored solely for reasons of space up until now) is the poster child for this. There are outside voices wanting these changes to happen more rapidly and others decrying the entire idea—and these detectives are stuck in the middle while trying to stop a murderer.

Is this a template for others? No. But it’s a shining example that the subgenre can survive and thrive. Possibly even drawing new readers in, too.

The character work—both major and minor—is fantastic, there’s not one of them that couldn’t walk off the page as a living, breathing person. The pacing is tight. The tension is organic and ratchets up throughout just the way it should. The mystery(ies) are well-plotted and executed. Khan left a giant red herring for readers to be distracted by, wondering why the detectives weren’t following one line of investigation—and my notes are full of my grumbling about it, smug in knowing that I’d figured out a significant part of the case (and maybe the killer’s identity) hundreds of pages ahead of them. And as I called it a red herring, I clearly couldn’t have been more wrong, but I didn’t give up on it until I had to.

Right now, I have this sense that there are a point or two that I intended to make that I’ve completely forgotten about—and I feel bad about that, because this is one of those books that you can really sink your teeth into. At the same time, I have a sense that I’m nearing the “said too-much” line, so I’ll leave this here and not try to think of those neglected points.

This is a great procedural in the way it embraces the defining traits and pushes them in new ways, it’s a great character study, a good commentary on several issues facing the country—and it’s a pretty solid mystery, too (can’t forget that). I’m more than eager to see where this series goes next. Get your hands on this one, friends.