Reviews and Comments

Love the premise: a young girl realizes she’s an alien and reports on humanity via fax to her people on Planet Cricket Rice. But for this twist, it’s a Bildungsroman that’s much more enjoyable during her childhood vs. adult years. Two passages from the former, one involving her misophonia, truly made me cackle. There’s never a direct confirmation of her origins but her adulthood disappointed for me. Oh well.

A wholly original way of exploring grief that wasn’t depressing. Coral is a lesbian author who finds her brother dead by suicide, and begins responding to texts on his phone as him. Intercut with excerpts from her own dystopian novel and flashbacks from their family’s lives, this was hard to follow at times but always beautifully written. One of those I-love-how-your-mind-works authors, I-could-never.

Really great premise that’s marred by a largely uninterrogated colonialist worldview: Arcane Taxonomy grants a portion of the magic from the thing that’s named. Primarily birds. Vaughn isn’t ignorant of the dynamics this creates for queers, women, and POC (our main characters), or that Western ways of knowing and naming aren’t the end-all, be-all. But the engine driving everything remains the will to conquer.

I enjoyed Book 1 of this duology more. The gay relationship isn’t where we left it, and the typical chopping up of a linear recounting of how it got there was jarring. I just wanted to enjoy them being together. The world continues to be interesting though, and the characters are still likable.

A single day aboard the space station is 16 orbits of the Earth. A lovely book that takes a different approach to being in space: humanist, tenderness for all we are. Rare in the softness it treats the cold darkness of space, mainly stemming from its point of view above the Earth. Inhabiting a place of extreme contradictions, Harvey draws a circle around our hearts.

Yay, we’re not in Three Pines for this one. Kind of a relief actually. But my fatigue with Penny’s formula in this series continues: Gamache’s brown eyes, his quiet, still manner, the corny quips with Beauvoir. 🙄 And the constant questions posed by the narrator that indicate: You are reading a mystery. Just ICYMI. We get it, girl. The larger story creeps along, though, and I’m here for it. The monks too.

Incredible. Gladstone has this ability to write palpably and ephemerally so you catch the meaning even as it slips away. But leaving you with enough so you’re not frustrated or confused. He takes something as grounded as community organizing for housing, the pressures of development and business interests, and wraps it in Craft (magic), wars with gods, and so much more. I’m re-reading this whole series.

Great portrayal of a gay relationship in a future where memories can be edited. Ironically, Tavares needs an editor himself. Way too many ideas, overly complex with pacing issues.

There’s some larger plot to save the whole world that isn’t needed; just focusing on these men and how they keep coming back to each other no matter the amount of editing is enough. Much better than Tavares’ first novel.

What an arresting premise. The opening is great too. And it goes in all sorts of unexpected directions. It drags a bit in places while operating in a context I know very little about: Sri Lankan history and Buddhism, by way of fantasy. I still found much of it engaging and learned of the author’s blog post on “Unbuddhism”that should be read once you’re done with this: vajra.me/2021/10/27/%e0%b6%85%e0%b6%b6%e0%b7%9e%e0%b6%af%e0%b7%8a%e0%b6%b0%e0%b6%9a%e0%b6%b8-unbuddhism/

Set between Puerto Rico and New Jersey, Isla, our half-Boricua protagonist inherits a gift (or a curse?) from the cuentistas in her family: their stories play themselves out in front of her. Naturally, family secrets are unearthed. Lots and lots of them. Dávila Cardinal’s first adult novel, but it read like YA. There’s a flicker of something meaningful near the end, but it feels a little late.

Terrible. I made myself finish. When I play videogames, I like to find the seams, explore, and test boundaries narratively and programmatically. That’s what kept me reading: to see how this choose-your-adventure format operated in terms of story and reader experience. There’s nothing but this gimmick. And a lead who’s obsessed with editing her life over and over until it’s perfect. Girl, go back to Instagram.

Similar to Scott McCloud’s “Understanding Comics” in its examination of visual thinking, what you can do by combining words and images. Sousanis’ panel structure is amazing. As a cartoonist, I learned a lot from that alone. A bit repetitive in places, and maybe longer than it should be, but an enjoyable example of what one can do with this medium.

Picks up after the first book and does everything a sequel’s supposed to: we go outside the walls of Dinétah, Maggie gets a badass lightning sword, encounters more tricksy gods and a more powerful adversary. Everything feels bigger. But it’s not as good as the first book. Still, a fascinating world with some good character progression.

‘Bout to start some shit: getting tired of non-gay men writing gay male characters. True: there’s a long history of slash, fan-fiction, yaoi, and really great gay stories written by non-gay men. True: not every gay man is hypersexual. But it’s starting to feel sanitized, even tokenizing, to have two hot men who are clearly interested in each other not get it on. Or fantasize, masturbate, get hard, or anything embodied.

Yes, we fought hard to not be defined by the sex we have. But many also fought hard to not be shamed for it either: the sluts, people living with HIV, and other “non-respectable” gays. I’m not asking for non-stop fucking (just this once)—it’s not a binary. Rather, more thinking around gay inclusion. What purpose does it serve, you as a non-gay man, writing these characters? What does the presence/absence of sex mean? Otherwise, it feels exploitative.

Went to a reading and Urrea clearly delighted in his own writing. He convinced me to buy a copy even though I hadn’t read the prior book in this duology. It’s about his great aunt, Teresita, The Saint of Cabora, who either has healing powers or is a dangerous revolutionary, depending on who’s asked. An immigrant story that started in 19th Century Mexico in the first book—I plan on reading it soon.