Such a very rought draft, but I figured what the hell...it's amazing what a random typo can inspire. Now I have this whole world and story swirling around my head.
The Librariers
By Heathyr Fields Ford
Creation notes: Inspired by a typo in my facebook post on the morning of 29 August 2009.
Prologue
In 5870, the end of the Fifth Age came with a bang. Literally. The demarcation between Ages was always something of debate, giving rise to scholarly battles of pen and vellum across the continent of Antiola. Rapier wit and sharpened stakes of metaphor struck against the stone ramparts of stubborn opinion and the dungeons of simile. The Scholar Battles, as they were jokingly called in taverns and castles alike, were typical--vitriolic, passionate, and mind-numbingly boring. No one sane cared if the Fourth Age started in 5102 or 5104 or if the Third Age’s entire existence was under debate. They cared about food and drink, about sex and love, about living and possibly thriving.
Perhaps tired of such idiocy, or perhaps just being a crazed madman of aggressively intelligent proportions, Barl the Chief Scholastic Alchemist solved the problem of when the Fifth Age would start by blowing up the Library of Paraxandretta. The size of a small city, the Library held the history of Antiola, secrets to magicks long forgotten, and countless important documents, all meticulously catalogued and cross-referenced by the Monastic Order of Preservation and Education. Known officially as the Order, and not-so affectionately as the Mopers, the monks lived up to their nickname by bemoaning the general public’s lack of regard for books and took inordinate pleasure in rapping the knuckles of errant scholar initiates who did not handle a scroll with the level of respect it deserved.
Several Mopers lost their lives in the Library explosion. Mourning was minimal.
Barl overestimated the power of his concoction, whatever it was, and laid waste not just to the Library, but to the entire city of Paraxandretta, its million denizens, the only School of Alchemy and Science in the world, and himself. No one could come within a ten leagues of Paraxandretta as the air turned acrid and burned the chest of any who dared breathe. Numerous looters and treasure-seekers died before this was discovered.
The loss of the Library was unequivocally declared the end of the Fourth Age and the beginning of the Fifth: the Age of Searching.
Several dozen Monks were, at any given time, abroad in the world, seeking new volumes to add to the expanse of Paraxandretta. Their goal was to gather the world’s knowledge entirely in one place, organize it all, and know everything. Barl fucked that up royally, and his name became blasphemy, but what he couldn’t destroy was the Mopers’ beliefs. And what he hadn’t taken into consideration was their remarkable adaptability. The remaining Mopers gathered together in a secret conclave on the first anniversary of Barl’s Folly. They formulated a plan and went back into the world. On the tenth anniversary of Barl’s Folly, they gathered again, this time sequestered with numerous royals from the small countries that dotted the continent’s landscape.
The Accords of Paraxandretta (called such despite being held in Vanot’s capital city of Calvern, quite possibly because Paraxandretta sounded cooler than Calvern) were struck and a militant arm of MOPE was formed. Sanctioned by all royalty across Antiola, the Protectors of Knowledge spread across the lands, seeking out small libraries and privately held collections and offering themselves up as guardians.
Five hundred years after the destruction, rumors arose that Paraxandretta’s air was clearing. It was only a matter of time before looters could sift through the rubble of the greatest repository of mankind’s knowledge. The last half-millenium had been hard on Antiola’s people. Much was forgotten. Much was lost. And the world suffered horribly. Would they find what they needed at Paraxandretta?
The Order and its Protectors were determined to stop that from happening.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Love of Libraries
Few things bring me back to childhood like books. I was shy, and I loved reading, and as a kid, I had a love affair with my town’s library. I can picture the layout of Colville’s library to this day, and my inner self longs to go back there and be that little girl, standing in front of all those books. I had my favourites—obscure kids’ books whose titles tickle at the back of my mind, sometimes coalescing into something searchable on google, most of the time eluding me entirely. I was big into fantasy and into mystery, and if you combined the two, I was in heaven. I ate up old Tom Swift, Hardy Boys, Cherry Ames, Nancy Drew, Vicki Barr, Bobbsey Twins, Happy Hollisters, and more. Phyllis Whitney’s young adult suspense drew me in too. As I grew older, biographies and histories and romantic suspense mysteries, but always, the books of my childhood were there. I never outgrew YA lit, young or old, and I credit my love affair with libraries from an early age for that.
Up the steps, through the door, and to the left were stacks, regular fiction, I think. The main desk of the librarian in front of me. A table to my right and the wide entrance into the kids’ area. Into the kids’ area and turn left immediately to start at the A’s. There—my favourite shelf, filled with L. Frank Baum’s Oz books. All of them checked out by me over and over again, especially The Emerald City of Oz and The Lost Princess of Oz. I had to kneel to look at them. I spent a lot of time on my knees gazing reverentially at rows of books, trying to determine which ones I’d take home with me that day (I still do, but now I like to *own* them, so my kneeling is perfected in bookstores). Stand and follow the wall-inset shelving to the next wall, but then it broke to a door leading into grown-up land. You had to skip that and go to the back wall, where you wound up between a short stack jutting into the room and the books on the walls to the side and behind it. I know this picture makes no sense to you, I would have to draw it to adequately explain it, but I can picture it, I can walk it. I loved being in this corner because it was enclosed by books. I’d sit and have books on three sides of me and towering over my head, and I could glance out and see more books and brighter light and people. Here—Astrid Lindgren. I owned Pippi Longstocking, but this was the Bill Bergson series. Lesser known. Out of print. Impossible for me to find. Today, I can find copies, but I can’t afford them. I want copies, preferably old library copies in hardcover with their plastic protections over the dustjacket. I’m not buying collectibles, I’m buying memories. But these memories come at too dear a price for now. Maybe someday.
Over there—the Thompson continuation of the Oz series. I read some with trepidation and never enjoyed them as much as the Baum originals.
Everywhere—the one-offs, the lesser knowns. Many books before my time, before my parents’ time, but I didn’t know that. I didn’t know that favorite book over there with its idyllic setting and its brave young heroine pre-dated my parents by a good ten years. I just knew it painted a world I liked. This shaped me in ways so intrinsic they are hard to define. I learned words and concepts and occupations and ideals of a multitude of eras and cultures without even realizing I was learning it. To this day, I can be shocked by someone not knowing something that to me seems incredibly basic. Then I remember, I learned it by reading some obscure kids’ book.
It was a perfect spent youth, in retrospect. I wouldn’t change it for the world.
I can picture each of my school libraries as well: Aster Elementary’s is vague and tastes like Dr. Seuss and Put Me In The Zoo (the book I learned to read on in kindergarten). Hofstetter Elementary’s draws me to one particular section where I once found a book that I’d swear had the words “green,” “lacquered,” and “clock.” It was one of those anonymous mysteries where I obviously have the name wrong because I can’t find it anywhere. I read it several times in 4th and 5th grade, but by 6th, I couldn’t find it any more. I couldn’t remember the actual title or the author, so card catalogs were no help. I remembered *where* it was, and I remember looking and looking to no avail, reading through books with unrelated titles in the off-chance I was horribly wrong on the title. I never found it, but I still sometimes dream I’m standing in front of that western wall of books reading title by title by title. It’s a tactile memory, full of a grade-schooler’s interpretations of what something green-lacquered was and the vague recollections of the feel of the book, knowing that I’d recognize it when I saw it. The Junior High library was odd, with its center-set presence between the hallways with no walls, only short stacks, so you could see all around. I still found treasures there, books only I checked out in the three years we spent in its halls. The High School’s library memories are more centered around friends and gathering. I didn’t check out much from that library that I remember. But I remember spending mornings before school at a table with Yvonne and Sarah and Eric and others.
I am happiest surrounded by books. It’s no wonder that when I went to the University of Washington, my safe place was not my dorm room, but Suzzallo Library. Odegaard was all right, with its modern look and bright lights and stacks of books, but Suzzallo was incredible; gorgeous architecture. I walked into heaven the day I walked into Suzzallo, and in the basement, I found my heart’s content – the children’s literature stacks. Dim, musty, and crammed with tall stacks of all the books from childhood I could remember and then some. If I wanted to hide, I would hide down there with a stack of memories at a corner table. It was quiet and peaceful. If I wanted to observe, I’d hit the stacks of medieval lit upstairs. Brighter and busier but still Suzzallo. I would find a book to fit the mood and fit myself in at a personal carrel or a chair in the corner and read and watch and listen.
I’m sure there are secrets to Suzzallo I never discovered, and I need to go back and find them. I’d go back to the Colville Public Library, but I’m afraid it is so changed I would be too disappointed.
These thoughts leave me happy and melancholy, content and full of longing, peaceful and disappointed all at the same time. Do we ever become what we thought we would be? And would we want it if we did?
Up the steps, through the door, and to the left were stacks, regular fiction, I think. The main desk of the librarian in front of me. A table to my right and the wide entrance into the kids’ area. Into the kids’ area and turn left immediately to start at the A’s. There—my favourite shelf, filled with L. Frank Baum’s Oz books. All of them checked out by me over and over again, especially The Emerald City of Oz and The Lost Princess of Oz. I had to kneel to look at them. I spent a lot of time on my knees gazing reverentially at rows of books, trying to determine which ones I’d take home with me that day (I still do, but now I like to *own* them, so my kneeling is perfected in bookstores). Stand and follow the wall-inset shelving to the next wall, but then it broke to a door leading into grown-up land. You had to skip that and go to the back wall, where you wound up between a short stack jutting into the room and the books on the walls to the side and behind it. I know this picture makes no sense to you, I would have to draw it to adequately explain it, but I can picture it, I can walk it. I loved being in this corner because it was enclosed by books. I’d sit and have books on three sides of me and towering over my head, and I could glance out and see more books and brighter light and people. Here—Astrid Lindgren. I owned Pippi Longstocking, but this was the Bill Bergson series. Lesser known. Out of print. Impossible for me to find. Today, I can find copies, but I can’t afford them. I want copies, preferably old library copies in hardcover with their plastic protections over the dustjacket. I’m not buying collectibles, I’m buying memories. But these memories come at too dear a price for now. Maybe someday.
Over there—the Thompson continuation of the Oz series. I read some with trepidation and never enjoyed them as much as the Baum originals.
Everywhere—the one-offs, the lesser knowns. Many books before my time, before my parents’ time, but I didn’t know that. I didn’t know that favorite book over there with its idyllic setting and its brave young heroine pre-dated my parents by a good ten years. I just knew it painted a world I liked. This shaped me in ways so intrinsic they are hard to define. I learned words and concepts and occupations and ideals of a multitude of eras and cultures without even realizing I was learning it. To this day, I can be shocked by someone not knowing something that to me seems incredibly basic. Then I remember, I learned it by reading some obscure kids’ book.
It was a perfect spent youth, in retrospect. I wouldn’t change it for the world.
I can picture each of my school libraries as well: Aster Elementary’s is vague and tastes like Dr. Seuss and Put Me In The Zoo (the book I learned to read on in kindergarten). Hofstetter Elementary’s draws me to one particular section where I once found a book that I’d swear had the words “green,” “lacquered,” and “clock.” It was one of those anonymous mysteries where I obviously have the name wrong because I can’t find it anywhere. I read it several times in 4th and 5th grade, but by 6th, I couldn’t find it any more. I couldn’t remember the actual title or the author, so card catalogs were no help. I remembered *where* it was, and I remember looking and looking to no avail, reading through books with unrelated titles in the off-chance I was horribly wrong on the title. I never found it, but I still sometimes dream I’m standing in front of that western wall of books reading title by title by title. It’s a tactile memory, full of a grade-schooler’s interpretations of what something green-lacquered was and the vague recollections of the feel of the book, knowing that I’d recognize it when I saw it. The Junior High library was odd, with its center-set presence between the hallways with no walls, only short stacks, so you could see all around. I still found treasures there, books only I checked out in the three years we spent in its halls. The High School’s library memories are more centered around friends and gathering. I didn’t check out much from that library that I remember. But I remember spending mornings before school at a table with Yvonne and Sarah and Eric and others.
I am happiest surrounded by books. It’s no wonder that when I went to the University of Washington, my safe place was not my dorm room, but Suzzallo Library. Odegaard was all right, with its modern look and bright lights and stacks of books, but Suzzallo was incredible; gorgeous architecture. I walked into heaven the day I walked into Suzzallo, and in the basement, I found my heart’s content – the children’s literature stacks. Dim, musty, and crammed with tall stacks of all the books from childhood I could remember and then some. If I wanted to hide, I would hide down there with a stack of memories at a corner table. It was quiet and peaceful. If I wanted to observe, I’d hit the stacks of medieval lit upstairs. Brighter and busier but still Suzzallo. I would find a book to fit the mood and fit myself in at a personal carrel or a chair in the corner and read and watch and listen.
I’m sure there are secrets to Suzzallo I never discovered, and I need to go back and find them. I’d go back to the Colville Public Library, but I’m afraid it is so changed I would be too disappointed.
These thoughts leave me happy and melancholy, content and full of longing, peaceful and disappointed all at the same time. Do we ever become what we thought we would be? And would we want it if we did?
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
MSO (Mary Sue Overdrive): A Laurell K. Hamilton Rant
Several years back, I found an intriguing book on the shelves of some random chain bookstore in some random mall in some random town I happened to be visiting. It was called Obsidian Butterfly, and the cover looked fascinating. I missed my due diligence process and somehow managed to not realize this was several books into a series. Reading it through, I quickly discovered this must be a piece of a larger whole, but the story itself stood alone enough that I enjoyed myself. Indeed, I promptly looked up the author and got a full listing of the books in order, ordered them all from amazon.com (books sent to my door. I love technology), and eagerly awaited their arrival.
I ate up the Anita Blake books right up through Obsidian Butterfly again, this time enjoying it even more with my increased understanding. Little did I know at that point that I’d hit the last excellent book in the series with the first one I’d read.
The next book, Narcissus In Chains, is an transitional book. This is where the books truly metamorphosizes from a supernatural private dick series with some great sex into a supernatural sex series with some mediocre private dick stuff. The books got longer. The sex scenes got worse. The plot disappeared. I soldiered my way through The Harlequin in 2007, still stupid enough to buy them in hardcover, because I had SO loved the original Anita Blake, and I kept hoping that Hamilton would find a way to meld her two very disparate styles into one awesomesauce blend, and I could rest happy again.
She didn’t, and I gave up. To compound the problem, once I realized I was loving the Anita Blake series, I started in on her brand new Meredith Gentry series as well. The first one sucked me in, and I liked her new world and new characters. Unfortunately, these followed the same course as the Anita Blake ones: large, cumbersome, no plot development, no storyline movement, and lots and lots of repetitive sex. I gave up at A Lick of Frost.
Don’t get me wrong, I love a good sex scene, and Hamiton writes a frickin' awesome sex scene usually. Heck, I love writing a good sex scene. The first problem with Hamilton is that she doesn’t know when to stop. The second problem with Hamilton is that she found an entirely new reader base that doesn’t want her to stop and is okay with the lesser quality of her works. The third problem with Hamilton is that she is so flippin’ insecure that she can’t take any criticism whatsoever. Have you ever read her website’s forums? There’s so much stroking and “taking care of Laurell” that it makes me ill. And if you have a negative opinion of one of her works, you are just not that intelligent apparently.
Despite already hitting a trifecta of “why not to read” points, Hamilton’s works pile on the reasons.
Her two series sometimes seem to blend, as if she forgot which one she was writing a (sex) scene for. This leaves the reader with zero character continuity. The fae of Genry shouldn’t be piled up in “puppy piles” like the lycanthropes of Blake. It just doesn’t fit what she told us.
Hamilton is also incredibly repetitive in her phraseology. So many of her sex scenes involve a spine bowing that by now, Saint Louis must not possess a healthy spine in its populace.
Several of her later books also take place within a very short time frame (like hours or maybe a day), but they were supposed to be leading up to something and you NEVER GET THERE. One of the Gentry books stopped every few paragraphs to go into lengthy sex scenes and some old fey getting new powers (or the return of their old ones) just by screwing Merry in a hallway or something. We never get to the ball in this book, and it seems completely ridiculous that we don’t.
On the sex bit: one thing she has not learned is that sex can and should be implied sometimes. You can have a paragraph-long bit that shows they just had sex instead of breaking out the six page, spine bowing, omg sex is so good thesaurus.
And Hamilton’s two main characters are not content to be awesome. They must be Everything. They are the Jesus Christs of the Erotic Fantasy World. These are Mary Sues of epic proportions. They are so Mary Sueish as to make most Mary Sues look downright blasé. This is Mary Sue on crack. Anita can’t just be the best damned animator and vampire killer ever with some smattering power and an interesting psychological profile to intrigue the men, human and otherwise. Nope. Not good enough for Hamilton’s little fantasy world. Her Mary Sue has to be everything to everyone and everyone must want to fuck her and once they do, they must love her. I’ve never seen more men willing to confuse a nice lay for a soul mate.
Hamilton’s antics lead one to ponder, “what the hell happened?!” and while I have theories, they are of a fairly personal nature to the author’s psyche, so I’ll stay away from meandering on about them, lest someone interpret them as a slam on her. I’m not. I don’t know her, so I have no opinions about her personally. However, Hamilton as an author has let down a decent-sized fanbase of avid, intelligent readers to produce mass marketed sex books, and she doesn’t have the courtesy to admit it.
Laurell K. Hamilton owes me nothing; this I know. She has made her decisions, they are her creative works, and she gets to do with them what she will. She is successful, and (I hope) happy. She seems like a good person in general, and she's a damned talented author. I still feel she betrayed her work for a buck at a point where she didn’t even need to, since they were selling well anyway. I wouldn't have cared if she had started a series with this new genre and purpose in mind, absolutely not!
So I am done with Laurell K. Hamilton and her Mary Sues and her “working out her life’s angsts via defensiveness and sex”. I miss the old Anita. I miss what Merry could have been. I miss the money I spent on hardcovers and hope.
Recommendation: Don’t bother with the Merry Gentry. Read Anita up to Obsidian Butterfly.
I ate up the Anita Blake books right up through Obsidian Butterfly again, this time enjoying it even more with my increased understanding. Little did I know at that point that I’d hit the last excellent book in the series with the first one I’d read.
The next book, Narcissus In Chains, is an transitional book. This is where the books truly metamorphosizes from a supernatural private dick series with some great sex into a supernatural sex series with some mediocre private dick stuff. The books got longer. The sex scenes got worse. The plot disappeared. I soldiered my way through The Harlequin in 2007, still stupid enough to buy them in hardcover, because I had SO loved the original Anita Blake, and I kept hoping that Hamilton would find a way to meld her two very disparate styles into one awesomesauce blend, and I could rest happy again.
She didn’t, and I gave up. To compound the problem, once I realized I was loving the Anita Blake series, I started in on her brand new Meredith Gentry series as well. The first one sucked me in, and I liked her new world and new characters. Unfortunately, these followed the same course as the Anita Blake ones: large, cumbersome, no plot development, no storyline movement, and lots and lots of repetitive sex. I gave up at A Lick of Frost.
Don’t get me wrong, I love a good sex scene, and Hamiton writes a frickin' awesome sex scene usually. Heck, I love writing a good sex scene. The first problem with Hamilton is that she doesn’t know when to stop. The second problem with Hamilton is that she found an entirely new reader base that doesn’t want her to stop and is okay with the lesser quality of her works. The third problem with Hamilton is that she is so flippin’ insecure that she can’t take any criticism whatsoever. Have you ever read her website’s forums? There’s so much stroking and “taking care of Laurell” that it makes me ill. And if you have a negative opinion of one of her works, you are just not that intelligent apparently.
Despite already hitting a trifecta of “why not to read” points, Hamilton’s works pile on the reasons.
Her two series sometimes seem to blend, as if she forgot which one she was writing a (sex) scene for. This leaves the reader with zero character continuity. The fae of Genry shouldn’t be piled up in “puppy piles” like the lycanthropes of Blake. It just doesn’t fit what she told us.
Hamilton is also incredibly repetitive in her phraseology. So many of her sex scenes involve a spine bowing that by now, Saint Louis must not possess a healthy spine in its populace.
Several of her later books also take place within a very short time frame (like hours or maybe a day), but they were supposed to be leading up to something and you NEVER GET THERE. One of the Gentry books stopped every few paragraphs to go into lengthy sex scenes and some old fey getting new powers (or the return of their old ones) just by screwing Merry in a hallway or something. We never get to the ball in this book, and it seems completely ridiculous that we don’t.
On the sex bit: one thing she has not learned is that sex can and should be implied sometimes. You can have a paragraph-long bit that shows they just had sex instead of breaking out the six page, spine bowing, omg sex is so good thesaurus.
And Hamilton’s two main characters are not content to be awesome. They must be Everything. They are the Jesus Christs of the Erotic Fantasy World. These are Mary Sues of epic proportions. They are so Mary Sueish as to make most Mary Sues look downright blasé. This is Mary Sue on crack. Anita can’t just be the best damned animator and vampire killer ever with some smattering power and an interesting psychological profile to intrigue the men, human and otherwise. Nope. Not good enough for Hamilton’s little fantasy world. Her Mary Sue has to be everything to everyone and everyone must want to fuck her and once they do, they must love her. I’ve never seen more men willing to confuse a nice lay for a soul mate.
Hamilton’s antics lead one to ponder, “what the hell happened?!” and while I have theories, they are of a fairly personal nature to the author’s psyche, so I’ll stay away from meandering on about them, lest someone interpret them as a slam on her. I’m not. I don’t know her, so I have no opinions about her personally. However, Hamilton as an author has let down a decent-sized fanbase of avid, intelligent readers to produce mass marketed sex books, and she doesn’t have the courtesy to admit it.
Laurell K. Hamilton owes me nothing; this I know. She has made her decisions, they are her creative works, and she gets to do with them what she will. She is successful, and (I hope) happy. She seems like a good person in general, and she's a damned talented author. I still feel she betrayed her work for a buck at a point where she didn’t even need to, since they were selling well anyway. I wouldn't have cared if she had started a series with this new genre and purpose in mind, absolutely not!
So I am done with Laurell K. Hamilton and her Mary Sues and her “working out her life’s angsts via defensiveness and sex”. I miss the old Anita. I miss what Merry could have been. I miss the money I spent on hardcovers and hope.
Recommendation: Don’t bother with the Merry Gentry. Read Anita up to Obsidian Butterfly.
Review: Unclean Spirits by MLN Hanover
I am known to pick up books by unknown-to-me authors frequently just based off gut instinct or because something drew me to it. Very rarely is it because I read something about it and am going off recommendation. I like this fly-by-the-seat-of-my-instinct method of book selection, and it has yielded some fascinating reads. Some horrible, some great, some okay, but very few boring. My other half sometimes does this, but I am, apparently, drawn to the weird. Or so he says. I just think I have more eclectic and free-spirited tastes. Oh, I also have an unfortunate tendency to forget to read some of them, so they sit on my shelf awaiting the time when I am back in that same mood that drew me to the book originally. I never regret these purchases though, because I know some day I will be there! There are so many books out there, that if I don’t snag it when it catches my eye, I might never remember it again. {Yes, I have heard of libraries. I love libraries. I support them in concept and theory. In actuality, I like to own stuff and returning a library book is difficult for me to do; it’s like giving up a favourite child. I don’t even sell back stupid textbooks. I keep them forever. It’s an illness. More cowbell and Christopher Walken might be the cure, but I don’t want fixed.}
Books picked this way include: The Good Fairies of New York; Vellum (still on the unread shelf, damn it); Gun, With Occasional Music; Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse; Pride and Prejudice and Zombies; The Secret History of the Pink Carnation; The Alphabet of Thorns; The Pillow Friend; several others I’m sure, and of course, the whole point of this blog entry, Unclean Spirits.
I worried about this one. There is a glut of “urban fantasy” out there and people trying to tap the massive market potentials. Lesser or lighter works tend to skyrocket to the top, yielding the opinion (much-maligned by myself but still at times true I think) that the more popular something is with the average masses the more pablum-based it is. The average masses buy romances, for goodness’ sake, so when they start clamouring for fantasy, I weep for the genre and its eventual ruination under the crush of underwhelming intellects and undiscerning tastes. Then I realize how elitist I sound, and I fight with my inner self over it for awhile.
I don’t mind books appealing to the masses. Unfortunately, once something appeals and is high-quality, a gagillion low-quality publications come out, and we have to sort through and find the winners.
So yes, I worried, for when I see a hot, tough woman with tattoos on the cover, because I don’t want to get hurt again. I am scarred by diving into the Anita Blake series and being treated like so much flotsam on the sea of Screw My Original Fanbase – I Want The Big Money. I worried more spines would bow, and I would weep.
Fortunately, at least with this first book in the series, I made the right choice in pulling it from the shelf and keeping it with me all the way to the register (I change my mind frequently in the book store). It was fun and had depth. I didn’t feel like I had hit one of those more popular urban fantasies where the goal was to suck in the reader with witty banter and a penchant for naughtiness and then toss them around on a frothy wave before kicking them ashore at a quick, pat ending. There was meat to this book, and it lived up to what I consider true urban fantasy.
Unclean Spirits is one of the winners. I am looking forward to the next book to see if he keeps it up.
Recommendation: Yep, read it.
Books picked this way include: The Good Fairies of New York; Vellum (still on the unread shelf, damn it); Gun, With Occasional Music; Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse; Pride and Prejudice and Zombies; The Secret History of the Pink Carnation; The Alphabet of Thorns; The Pillow Friend; several others I’m sure, and of course, the whole point of this blog entry, Unclean Spirits.
I worried about this one. There is a glut of “urban fantasy” out there and people trying to tap the massive market potentials. Lesser or lighter works tend to skyrocket to the top, yielding the opinion (much-maligned by myself but still at times true I think) that the more popular something is with the average masses the more pablum-based it is. The average masses buy romances, for goodness’ sake, so when they start clamouring for fantasy, I weep for the genre and its eventual ruination under the crush of underwhelming intellects and undiscerning tastes. Then I realize how elitist I sound, and I fight with my inner self over it for awhile.
I don’t mind books appealing to the masses. Unfortunately, once something appeals and is high-quality, a gagillion low-quality publications come out, and we have to sort through and find the winners.
So yes, I worried, for when I see a hot, tough woman with tattoos on the cover, because I don’t want to get hurt again. I am scarred by diving into the Anita Blake series and being treated like so much flotsam on the sea of Screw My Original Fanbase – I Want The Big Money. I worried more spines would bow, and I would weep.
Fortunately, at least with this first book in the series, I made the right choice in pulling it from the shelf and keeping it with me all the way to the register (I change my mind frequently in the book store). It was fun and had depth. I didn’t feel like I had hit one of those more popular urban fantasies where the goal was to suck in the reader with witty banter and a penchant for naughtiness and then toss them around on a frothy wave before kicking them ashore at a quick, pat ending. There was meat to this book, and it lived up to what I consider true urban fantasy.
Unclean Spirits is one of the winners. I am looking forward to the next book to see if he keeps it up.
Recommendation: Yep, read it.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Review: The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss
The first thing I have to say about Patrick Rothfuss is wow.
And OMG.
And wow.
And give me more NOW. Please? What if I insert a cute lolcat with begging eyes? THEN will you give me more? How about I follow directions on your fortune cookies? ;)
With his debut novel, The Name of the Wind, Patrick Rothfuss set himself up to either be an amazing success or a complete failure. The book is to tell the story of THE legendary bard, THE wizard, THE storyteller, THE musician (you get my point. The dude is supposed to be able to tell a story like no one else can). That in and of itself doesn’t set an author up for failure. The setup is that the story itself is meant to be told as the legendary bard is relating it to someone else, so in his words. In short, the novel itself must therefore be as compelling as if the greatest storyteller of all times had told it, not as if an author was writing about the greatest storyteller. Nothing like reaching beyond the moon, eh?
Patrick Rothfuss succeeded. He hit one past the moon and the stars. This book is amazing. I almost want to pick it right back up and read it again.
I kept interrupting the other half’s obsessive Playboy-catchup (see previous blog) and WoW playing to quote non-spoiler bits of awesome prose. {Oh and to be fair, the PB-catchup is also tempered by a reading of a very thick, very excellent book on medieval history. However, it’s getting in his way of reading books I want him to read so I can talk about them to him, damn it.}
Recommendation: Absofuckinglutely. Run, don’t walk, and buy this book and read it immediately.
And OMG.
And wow.
And give me more NOW. Please? What if I insert a cute lolcat with begging eyes? THEN will you give me more? How about I follow directions on your fortune cookies? ;)
With his debut novel, The Name of the Wind, Patrick Rothfuss set himself up to either be an amazing success or a complete failure. The book is to tell the story of THE legendary bard, THE wizard, THE storyteller, THE musician (you get my point. The dude is supposed to be able to tell a story like no one else can). That in and of itself doesn’t set an author up for failure. The setup is that the story itself is meant to be told as the legendary bard is relating it to someone else, so in his words. In short, the novel itself must therefore be as compelling as if the greatest storyteller of all times had told it, not as if an author was writing about the greatest storyteller. Nothing like reaching beyond the moon, eh?
Patrick Rothfuss succeeded. He hit one past the moon and the stars. This book is amazing. I almost want to pick it right back up and read it again.
I kept interrupting the other half’s obsessive Playboy-catchup (see previous blog) and WoW playing to quote non-spoiler bits of awesome prose. {Oh and to be fair, the PB-catchup is also tempered by a reading of a very thick, very excellent book on medieval history. However, it’s getting in his way of reading books I want him to read so I can talk about them to him, damn it.}
Recommendation: Absofuckinglutely. Run, don’t walk, and buy this book and read it immediately.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Review: The Way of Shadows and Shadow’s Edge by Brent Weeks
I am 2/3 of the way through his trilogy, and I must say, I am impressed. My picky other half selected Way of the Shadows during one of our bookstore forays, but he is obsessively reading all back issues of Playboy from cover to cover and had been ignoring it.
{He fell behind when he got out of a magazine mood, but because we get them all, he just kept them in a stack. And because I swear he is some bizarre form of OCD, he has to read them all. In order. From cover to cover. No just filing them away for future perusal and starting anew with this month’s. He has to read 18 months worth of articles. Personally, I snag it, read the main articles and the Advisor, and then promptly forget about it, and if I miss one, so be it. I lose no sleep over this.}
Therefore, I saw fit to purloin said Weeks’ novel from his stack of “to read next” books and magazines. I have since read five other books (it’s been a reading sort of month), and he is just now deciding to take a break from the obsessive compulsive backreading to hit some fiction for a change.
When I first started reading, my thought was, “oh. I don’t know if I’m in the mood for another first fantasyist attempt at a guild-driven world with some heart of gold thief or something.” It wasn’t that I dislike those sorts of books, but just that it’s such an overdone deal and so rarely really well done, that I wasn’t “feeling” the desire to try my hand at another. I decided to give it a go, however, and my initial, fleeting thought was quickly ripped to shreds like a bra at a Motley Crue concert and buried in the dark of a moonlit night. This wasn’t one of Those sorts of books at all. With a lighter heart and increased interest, I kept reading.
Several hours later, I was half-way through the book and well past my bedtime. Reading in bed does NOT put me to sleep like it does so many of my friends. Reading wakes me up. I will push on and on to get ‘just one more chapter’ in before I crash. The next day, I got up reluctantly, went to work because I had to, and when I got home, I buried myself back in the book. I came up for air to say good night to those around me and probably for dinner, since if I starved to death I’d have to stop reading.
I finished it that second night and was irked that I had not had the foresight to realize I would love this series and to buy at least the second one. I meandered around his website a bit on a break and read a few reviews. During those wanderings, I found reference to Patrick Rothfuss and Peter Brett. I read about them as well.
And that’s how I found myself in Borders on the night of my Borders’ rant below. I had come to buy the second Weeks book, and hopefully Rothfuss and Brett too. Unfortunately, here is where I messed up. I went on a business trip (aka the final weekend of grad school) the next day and instead of taking the second Weeks with me, I took the Rothfuss. I’d read so much great stuff about his The Name of the Wind that I just had to dive in right then. I’ll write more on that separately.
Anyway, I returned to Weeks and picked up Shadow’s Edge with anticipation. At first, I was so swept up in Rothfuss, I was disappointed with book 2 because it wasn't book 2 of his!
I’ll be picking up book 3 in the next day or two. Brent Weeks has held my interest. He’s built an interesting world that is not afraid to be dark and to show layers of darkness and hope entwined in complex dances. Those looking for a simple tale of fantasy heroes in epic struggles should not look here. Go read Feist; he does it well, in a simple and enjoyable way. There’s something more real here.
What you should not do, however, is pick up something like Patrick Rothfuss’s book in the middle of reading these. He’s of a different caliber entirely, a level of mastery that few can attain, and it sets unrealistic comparative expectations if you read them too close together. This is not to say that Weeks is a soft hitter, because he is not. He’s excellent thus far. I’m hoping this holds up through book 3 and then on to other books.
Recommendation: Absolutely. Go buy the trilogy and some microwave dinners and settle in.
{He fell behind when he got out of a magazine mood, but because we get them all, he just kept them in a stack. And because I swear he is some bizarre form of OCD, he has to read them all. In order. From cover to cover. No just filing them away for future perusal and starting anew with this month’s. He has to read 18 months worth of articles. Personally, I snag it, read the main articles and the Advisor, and then promptly forget about it, and if I miss one, so be it. I lose no sleep over this.}
Therefore, I saw fit to purloin said Weeks’ novel from his stack of “to read next” books and magazines. I have since read five other books (it’s been a reading sort of month), and he is just now deciding to take a break from the obsessive compulsive backreading to hit some fiction for a change.
When I first started reading, my thought was, “oh. I don’t know if I’m in the mood for another first fantasyist attempt at a guild-driven world with some heart of gold thief or something.” It wasn’t that I dislike those sorts of books, but just that it’s such an overdone deal and so rarely really well done, that I wasn’t “feeling” the desire to try my hand at another. I decided to give it a go, however, and my initial, fleeting thought was quickly ripped to shreds like a bra at a Motley Crue concert and buried in the dark of a moonlit night. This wasn’t one of Those sorts of books at all. With a lighter heart and increased interest, I kept reading.
Several hours later, I was half-way through the book and well past my bedtime. Reading in bed does NOT put me to sleep like it does so many of my friends. Reading wakes me up. I will push on and on to get ‘just one more chapter’ in before I crash. The next day, I got up reluctantly, went to work because I had to, and when I got home, I buried myself back in the book. I came up for air to say good night to those around me and probably for dinner, since if I starved to death I’d have to stop reading.
I finished it that second night and was irked that I had not had the foresight to realize I would love this series and to buy at least the second one. I meandered around his website a bit on a break and read a few reviews. During those wanderings, I found reference to Patrick Rothfuss and Peter Brett. I read about them as well.
And that’s how I found myself in Borders on the night of my Borders’ rant below. I had come to buy the second Weeks book, and hopefully Rothfuss and Brett too. Unfortunately, here is where I messed up. I went on a business trip (aka the final weekend of grad school) the next day and instead of taking the second Weeks with me, I took the Rothfuss. I’d read so much great stuff about his The Name of the Wind that I just had to dive in right then. I’ll write more on that separately.
Anyway, I returned to Weeks and picked up Shadow’s Edge with anticipation. At first, I was so swept up in Rothfuss, I was disappointed with book 2 because it wasn't book 2 of his!
I’ll be picking up book 3 in the next day or two. Brent Weeks has held my interest. He’s built an interesting world that is not afraid to be dark and to show layers of darkness and hope entwined in complex dances. Those looking for a simple tale of fantasy heroes in epic struggles should not look here. Go read Feist; he does it well, in a simple and enjoyable way. There’s something more real here.
What you should not do, however, is pick up something like Patrick Rothfuss’s book in the middle of reading these. He’s of a different caliber entirely, a level of mastery that few can attain, and it sets unrealistic comparative expectations if you read them too close together. This is not to say that Weeks is a soft hitter, because he is not. He’s excellent thus far. I’m hoping this holds up through book 3 and then on to other books.
Recommendation: Absolutely. Go buy the trilogy and some microwave dinners and settle in.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Borders' Rant
Let me start by stating that I love bookstores. With an unhealthy, unholy, unnatural love. Would they let me, I would move into one and sleep there, happily surrounded by books. It takes a lot for me to dislike a bookstore.
But the Borders here in my town? Worthy of all the dislike a non-violent, generally agreeable bibliophile can throw at it. Its selection makes me weep. I get excited, because it's a decent size, and this is a podunk town, so it's really the best we have to offer here. Then I go in, and they've rearranged it so the sci-fi/fantasy section is shoved in some corner, illogically laid out, and with shelves so far above my head I have to scour the store to find a stool to see if behind a row of books lies the book I came in the store for. Disgusted, I almost left, knowing that in two days, I shall be near a Barnes & Noble of much higher caliber, and really, within driving distance of some even better independents. Of course, that's a different fish entirely. I love independents, but when I want a huge selection and to meander and know I'll still find several things, a B&N is often the less disappointing way to go.
But I digress. So, I almost leave a bookstore empty-handed, a rare occasion, but finally I find what I was looking for, so I take it and the other random finding and start to meander the general fiction section. Another haphazardly and annoyingly laid out mess that looks as though it were put together by ten-year-olds with no book appreciation (and let's face it, it probably was). I stumble on the also-recently-moved gay literature section, so I stop to see what's new there. Alas. In this Borders, gay literature is relegated to half a shelf, called "gay male" literature, but has several books with "lesbian" in the title, and they are all erotic fiction. Seriously? There's a whole other erotica section. Put the erotica there. I like my erotica all in one place in anyway so I can peruse it all without having to find bits wedged here and there (or god forbid in the romance section, the only one other than religion I avoid like the fucking plague).
There I am, looking at this pathetic half-shelf, and I am incensed. How dare they assume that people looking for gay literature only want erotica? I'm not sold on labeling it separately anyway, any more than I'm sold on separating out black literature or women's literature or whatever. But if you're going to do it, fricking do it right.
I was so mad I only bought three books.
(I know, I know, I should have bought zero on principle, but...um...it was a bookstore. I had books. I. I. I....I have a problem....) Is there an AA for books?
But the Borders here in my town? Worthy of all the dislike a non-violent, generally agreeable bibliophile can throw at it. Its selection makes me weep. I get excited, because it's a decent size, and this is a podunk town, so it's really the best we have to offer here. Then I go in, and they've rearranged it so the sci-fi/fantasy section is shoved in some corner, illogically laid out, and with shelves so far above my head I have to scour the store to find a stool to see if behind a row of books lies the book I came in the store for. Disgusted, I almost left, knowing that in two days, I shall be near a Barnes & Noble of much higher caliber, and really, within driving distance of some even better independents. Of course, that's a different fish entirely. I love independents, but when I want a huge selection and to meander and know I'll still find several things, a B&N is often the less disappointing way to go.
But I digress. So, I almost leave a bookstore empty-handed, a rare occasion, but finally I find what I was looking for, so I take it and the other random finding and start to meander the general fiction section. Another haphazardly and annoyingly laid out mess that looks as though it were put together by ten-year-olds with no book appreciation (and let's face it, it probably was). I stumble on the also-recently-moved gay literature section, so I stop to see what's new there. Alas. In this Borders, gay literature is relegated to half a shelf, called "gay male" literature, but has several books with "lesbian" in the title, and they are all erotic fiction. Seriously? There's a whole other erotica section. Put the erotica there. I like my erotica all in one place in anyway so I can peruse it all without having to find bits wedged here and there (or god forbid in the romance section, the only one other than religion I avoid like the fucking plague).
There I am, looking at this pathetic half-shelf, and I am incensed. How dare they assume that people looking for gay literature only want erotica? I'm not sold on labeling it separately anyway, any more than I'm sold on separating out black literature or women's literature or whatever. But if you're going to do it, fricking do it right.
I was so mad I only bought three books.
(I know, I know, I should have bought zero on principle, but...um...it was a bookstore. I had books. I. I. I....I have a problem....) Is there an AA for books?
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