tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21024912092840642002024-03-19T01:47:55.275-07:00BibliomamaComedy, Tragedy, Horror and Drama. And I also like reading.Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.comBlogger1400125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-62451437234018482412024-03-15T15:41:00.000-07:002024-03-15T15:41:21.673-07:00Five for Friday<p>1. I am very grateful to the people who confirmed that toxins being swished around the body can lead to malaise, because 1) I've been a little worried about how I've been feeling and 2) it makes me feel better about spending March Break reading and walking and sleeping a lot. My husband has had executives in town and has been going out for work dinners and coming home late. He mentioned that he felt bad he hadn't taken a day off so we could do something during the break and I said "oh, but...then I'd have to do stuff." One night I texted him to ask if he was going out for dinner again. He said 'yes, is that okay?' I said 'of course, just wondering how much I can half-ass dinner'. He texted back 'full half-ass!' which was good, albeit a little mathematically confusing. </p><p>2. After physio on Tuesday I went to the bookstore to look for a book by a favourite author that I had gotten as a library ebook and then decided I wanted to buy a copy and read the paper book. I didn't have sky-high hopes they would have the one copy the website said they did, but it was on the way home. I looked at the new books shelf on the way in and picked up a book that looked cool and sounded interesting and was slightly discounted. Then I checked the relevant shelf for the book I wanted. Not there. I found a computer. Entered the title. Computer went into spinning wheel mode, so I walked away and looked around some more. Came back to computer, and it said "are you still there or should we start a new search". Tried again, computer went bananas again. I was annoyed, and looked at the book in my hand and realized there was no earthly reason to buy this book when I have dozens of unread books at home not even counting the library books. Walked out without buying anything which is very unusual for me. (But still ordered the original book I wanted when I got home, so the growth is minimal. Still -- growth.)</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" height="387" id="id_40ac_858_3263_6848" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/18Au7mS1dOWGensmAS-vKJbjqOEQsXlUs=w290-h387" style="height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" width="290" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p>3. I have a thing with exercise where if I'm going to do it, I prefer it to be the first thing I do. There is a silly thing here where exercise is still coupled with hard and unpleasant work in my mind, even though I mostly walk and do yoga and for the most part I LIKE these things. I miss doing weights, but I haven't been able to figure out how to get the gym back into my routine since lockdown. But I still feel exercise looming in my brain causing anxiety when I'm doing the other stuff I do in the day. I'm trying to change this. Sometimes I think "I'm just going to read today", and of course usually I do a whole bunch of other things. When I DO try to just read, I will exercise then do some kind of task on my list and then go up to my reading chair in my bedroom in the afternoon to read, and..... often this causes me to fall asleep. This is infuriating to me because if I read a book at night, I can start at ten and sail right through until 4 a.m. without a yawn. </p><p>Today I woke up and decided to read first and then go for a walk or do yoga later. I spent a lovely hour in my chair and then did some other stuff, read a bit more and then did yoga. Then I showered and read a little more (last weekday of March Break, milking it) and now I have spent a lovely day reading and doing exercise and didn't fall asleep and everything felt like it was happening at the right time.</p><p>Not to say there weren't challenges...</p><p><img alt="" id="id_10bc_5a8f_77fd_3718" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1mN7wJjgXrFZYodHIVE4bmHWLoRKVaN6B" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>I found a workable solution, but I wouldn't say all parties were totally satisfied.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_acfe_ae1a_aefb_845c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1nvYYQJWhAooXtqp5akN9Q1vYVave9H2L" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>It's good sometimes to figure out that I'm not too old to change. A little. Sometimes.</p><p>4. Sometimes I forget about hard-boiled eggs. Yesterday I remembered about hard-boiled eggs and made a half-dozen in the instant pot and today I had one for breakfast and it was perfect. Also, I tried again to make Jeffrey Eisner's instant pot peanut noodles because last time I tried it came out terrible which seemed weird because generally I find his recipes to be foolproof. Then I looked at the bottle of sesame oil I had used and thought, am I entirely sure I didn't buy this bottle of sesame oil TWO living spaces ago, which would make it very old indeed. I bought a new bottle of sesame oil (once every two decades whether we need it or not) and yesterday they turned out brilliantly. Except it's hard to eat them without them hitting my face, and I have a horror of food touching my face. The ways in which I am weird are numerous and varied.</p><p>5. I haven't heard from Angus in a bit. How strange that I have this whole entire person that came out of me and is out living an independent life in the world, completely separate from me. Going to text him now and complain about that a bit. </p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-77869202189080768102024-03-13T17:06:00.000-07:002024-03-13T17:19:07.770-07:00Baking Stuff, Burning Stuff, Stretching Stuff, Complaining About Stuff<p> I am having a weird sensation (weird but not unaccustomed) where thinking about sitting down to write a blog post feels like going for a colonoscopy or writing a math exam. This makes no sense - writing a blog post is neither mandatory nor unpleasant. Just going to free-associate here to get something down so I can stop feeling like I'm in front of a firing squad. </p><p>I got these new notecards and I am currently obsessed with them. Making a list of people I can send them to. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_5ab9_cb7_f1e0_ed21" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1thf1ymU0Bnxm0DopOf6GOkFCYFeauUhL" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_24a4_9e8f_1a8a_a416" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1kks9aUICwktyFIF7sK6g7MJIOvrEgWVt" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_e975_57d5_5dce_d782" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1VN0C9mPTuXLB_FFcgyyev7aHt7s6N_2X" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>On Saturday I threw a party for Matt and our friend Margot, who were born two days apart. I made them each their favourite cake and then realized I'd inadvertently made it look like I was having a party for my 6-year-old twins.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_a130_db76_6a5a_b0e5" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/127jbnziIDdJQVCS5axNk3df6Y_p-wRuY" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>And yes, we did light candles and sing happy birthday to them - as a group we really commit to a bit when a bit is there to be committed to.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_ad7_5567_967a_3eb9" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1B_7m5PsHPPdZVqGjryqVwtJh-X6V_CLR" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_4587_2cc7_981a_2478" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1SjimpbkFMdZcSV0kvTa7HVagJT5J98x4" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>I got my hair cut and coloured last week. I really like my stylist - she is funny and kind and loves Eve (whose hair she also cuts) and works with me on my wonky hair. The past few times, though, I feel like she either forgets what we usually do or doesn't really listen to me. I know it's hair and it grows back, but it's expensive enough and my hair is troublesome enough that I get cranky when I don't get to have my magic hair for a few weeks after it's done. I was not feeling great and complaining to Eve on Facetime a couple of nights ago (while totally aware this is a totally first-world problem) - particularly that one streak of my bangs was blonde instead of brown which was making it not lie well with the rest of my bangs. I knew I would probably feel better the next day (more on this later), it was just really vexing me. I'm more just saying this because weirdly, I quite like the pictures of me from the party.</p><p>This is a dress I bought at a fun store downtown while Zarah was visiting last summer. If I'd thought I would like the picture I probably would have moved the Roots bag.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_371e_a1f3_4300_c7c1" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1q-GQrF7ijNtxwnmgqeZa5Na8XWk6vXnq" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>I had to crop this more severely than I usually would because I accidentally made it look like I was wearing a tiny Elmira College baseball hat (and like Angus is about to fire a ball over my shoulder).</p><p><img alt="" id="id_74cd_90d3_7d7e_89c2" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1AqixQmbxkX44f5GRf2ZvUDuL0nuRof8w" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_16d0_b418_fc64_f330" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1n6jRhLEhvGYEeM93bdvwVK839FOSr8V-" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>Margot took this one, so it has less weird stuff needing to be cropped out. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_b7d9_c825_2954_9b65" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1wsTIsSgFx57R4nhI2GGxtW_nKYZO0TOc" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>In a few weeks when I look back at these pictures and don't like them anymore they probably will have disappeared from this post, so no harm done? </p><p>The "gentleman in his little vest, sipping" that <a href="https://www.swistle.com/" target="_blank">Swistle</a> mentioned from <a href="https://bibliomama2.blogspot.com/2024/02/hey-good-lookin.html" target="_blank">this post</a> is our friend Tony, and Lucy finds him similarly enchanting.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_bd32_e648_398a_911b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1rfqLEXElbaGWiBNtAyiuFnl4naUBD_Wv" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>Had my first big air fryer fail. I tried to make roasted Brussels sprouts. The recipe said to use the Air Roast function, which I hadn't used before, and may not again. When I do them in the oven, the Brussels sprouts get crispy outside and soft inside and the little leaves that fall off get super crunchy. In the air fryer, the bigger pieces of sprouts were uncooked after being roasted the recommended time, and the outer leaves were black. I ate one experimentally and Matt tried not to laugh when I yelped "it's charcoal" while spitting it into the sink as quickly as humanly possible. Big fan of every other vegetable I've cooked in it. </p><p>So about the night I wasn't feeling well. Earlier in the day I had tried to go for a walk and it was sunny but so bitterly cold and windy I felt like the sun should be dinged for false advertising. My eyes were watering so much I couldn't see where I was walking, and my lower back immediately started to ache. I flounced home after a short walk and decided to do yoga instead. I went to YouTube and looked for something healing or comforting because I was sore and frazzled. I ended up doing a 'yoga for lymphatic flow'. It felt really good at the time, and the backs of my thighs were pleasantly achy afterwards. When I went to bed and tried to read, though, I felt wretched. My shoulders, neck, back, hands and ankles all hurt. Just the blankets resting on my feet was incredibly painful. I was coughing more than I had in months, and everything just generally sucked. I had no idea what was going on, and finally just turned off the light and tried to sleep, while feeling moderately sorry for myself. </p><p>The next day I found some woo on the internet about lymphatic massage making you feel momentarily ill because of the lymphatic system moves toxins through the body so they don't stay and make you sick. For the life of me I cannot decide if this is good sense or wacky woo, but the next day I felt much better. Maybe the recent intense physiotherapy and yoga are just overtaxing my immune system and hey look, it's March Break, maybe I'll just calm down and read and rest for a few days. Also, my bangs are fine and I am aware that it was probably the flushing toxins talking. </p><p>There, that wasn't so hard. You're not that scary.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_66fa_c038_4576_8293" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1fqGfZZW8gieF4imRIFgZp39L6v5F1ich" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-10288650556295826652024-03-05T10:59:00.000-08:002024-03-05T10:59:10.830-08:00In Recovery Of Various Sorts<p> I just went for a walk with Lucy. We are having wholly unseasonable spring-ish weather and while everyone else has been rhapsodizing about it I've been sort of obstinately sullen, partly because I don't feel like having to go sleeveless to be comfortable already but mostly because of an unattractively self-righteous sense of WAKE UP PEOPLE THIS IS NOT A GOOD THING. I've been dimly aware that this is dumb for a number of reasons, but principally because my being a churlish malcontent doesn't CHANGE the weather one iota. And today I woke up and the window was cracked and the light and the air were delicious so I decided to get over myself. </p><p>Wore a t-shirt. Was still too hot by the end.</p><p>A few weeks ago a blog friend said she was not going to discuss a difficult family situation because that didn't fit in with what she wants her blog to be, which is a cheerful place to talk about books and pets etc. I thought oh shit, does that mean I shouldn't be putting heavy stuff on my blog? Not that I usually discuss big world events, because other people do that with more insight and intellect than I can, and I recognize that a lot of it would be ineffective hand-wringing. But I do talk about depression semi-frequently. Should I stop? </p><p>Then I thought, I'm doing it again. She's talking about HER blog, she didn't say anything about MY blog. </p><p>I've accepted in the past few years that I am not nearly as neurotypical as I always thought I was. Mostly this has been a welcome realization because it explains a lot. I've become really good at masking, which works in most situations, but the core issues are still there, and every now and then the mask slips. I've always had a really hard time just admiring someone close to me without this frequently translating to thinking I have to be exactly like them, down to really ridiculous details. The first year or two I knew Collette (HI COLLETTE), every time she was making me tea and she asked how I took it I'd say "same as you", thinking that I would be happy enough drinking it clear, or with a little milk and/or some sugar. Finally she looked at me and said "just tell me WHAT YOU WANT IN IT". Once I was talking to my neighbour back in the days when we were friendly but not really good friends yet, and she said she was 36 and I said "me too" I WAS NOT THIRTY-SIX I WAS THIRTY-FOUR.<br /></p><p>Anyway. I was thinking about this on my walk and sort of laughing and cringing at the same time. I still do it, but I'm more aware of it. That'll have to do for now.</p><p>Yesterday I woke up tired, went to work, dragged myself around at work and then went to physio. Went to pick up Lucy, went home, made dinner, did a couple other things, realized I felt like absolute hell and went to get ready for bed. Matt got home and I said I was afraid I was getting the flu, or possibly experiencing a sudden-onset full-body cancer. He asked what my day was like and I told him. He suggested that maybe I was just having a reaction to physio.</p><p>I said "hm, yeah. He pounded on my back and neck and needled my neck and both arms." Matt was like "well, yeah..." and I said "oh, and used the shockwave gun". Matt: "Jesus Christ, so you were punched and stabbed AND shot and you're wondering why your body is mounting a bit of an immune response?"</p><p>I'm not putting in a picture which feels unnatural but my fucking pictures keep fucking disappearing from my fucking posts and it's fucking pissing me off. </p><p>I am now in our group chat trading funny German compound words and I can't even remember how this discussion started but I love my friends (omg, it was because I got home and Michael was talking about being in his backyard in a t-shirt worrying about sunburn and global warming and asked if there was a word that meant feeling both happiness and dread and I said probably something German, we have COME FULL CIRCLE, and also wow, my memory is really bad). </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-23122320071669272542024-02-29T19:56:00.000-08:002024-03-02T12:21:00.350-08:00Hey Good Lookin'<p> So. The air fryer.</p><p>I was still planning on hemming and hawing and second-guessing myself a little more even after the comments on <a href="https://bibliomama2.blogspot.com/2024/02/five-for-friday-oscars-edition.html" target="_blank">this post</a> convinced me that I probably would get an air fryer at some point. But then my parents were over for Eve's slightly delayed birthday dinner on Sunday since she was home for break, and my dad asked me if I had an air fryer, and then said "dammit" when I didn't, because he had decided they were getting an air fryer and wanted me to tell them which one to get. While I was looking up the comments on the post to read to him and noodling on the internet at the table, it popped up that Best Buy had the Ninja Max XL on sale for a hundred dollars less than regular price. Suddenly my dad was barking "do it!" and I was ordering two air fryers.</p><p>I was a bit apprehensive about finding counter space, but then I always am, and then it invariably turns out that I keep a lot of crap on the counter and even though it seems like that crap really has to live on the counter, it actually really doesn't.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_6c31_c0cc_89a8_853d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1OyYYfYdws8_cC9P6tFa7N-bvhP2uyBkT" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" />I</p><p> set it up and then might have ended up leaving it sitting there until I screwed up my courage to use it, much like my instant pot, a Black Friday impulse buy that lurked balefully on the counter for a year and a half while two separate friends offered to come over and walk me through how to use it before I threw caution to the winds and pressure cooked some Mongolian beef one madcap Friday night. </p><p>Matt was deep in prep for the Valentine's Day Guys Cook night, but he had also made homemade bread crumbs from a rock-hard baguette (he watches chefs on Youtube and then randomly does stuff, it's mostly cool, sometimes alarming). He had been planning to do some kind of chicken schnitzel while Eve was home but it didn't end up happening, so while he was grocery shopping I was making cilantro lime instant pot chicken for Eve to take back (because the instant pot is my bitch now, I've come so far) and had a leftover chicken breast, which I cut into strips and breaded with his bread crumbs and cooked in the air fryer. And whoo-hoo, I was now a person who fried stuff with air. </p><p>This is my small gallery of air fryer stuff: kale chips, Cuban ham and cheese tarts and maple-chili pork belly bites that I made to go with garlic noodles and broccoli last night. For the foreseeable future, expect me to be obnoxiously air-fryer-positive with the zeal of the newly converted. It's so easy! It's so much less scary than the instant pot! You can open it WHILE IT'S GOING. I love roasted vegetables but I hate heating up the oven for a the small amount I make because leftover roasted vegetables are mushy and gross. It's so easy to work at counter-height! It saves my back!</p><p><img alt="" id="id_8e5d_4482_662_2812" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/17-GdunxHrWha4BkRKLLUMINIg48Wligq" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_dacf_d32c_8460_ee95" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1J6ZwxPC0wdq6z5nvKmamlTEKC3O45uaX" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_8fe8_9a6_7fb1_881c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/13KlWkp5DpdEwqR0S8eOYI7JTwVAbYnPq" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>My parents have only made chicken legs so far, but my dad was half rapturous, half pissed off because he thinks they might even be better than barbecued, and he barbecues in every calendar month (and this is northern Canada, we got weather). The little recipe book that came with it has one for mini cheeseburger meatloaves, which will probably make Angus want an air fryer too. </p><p>Will my enthusiasm inevitably wane? Almost certainly. I am comfortable with this, I have spent more money on dumber things (during lockdown I bought a spaetzle maker. A SPAETZLE MAKER.) </p><p>Our dinner party was fabulous. The guys knocked it out of the park. There was lobster bisque, a salmon poke bowl, beef cheek with escargot and jellied mustard, seared wagyu beef with smoked salmon and peach, and Matt made maple pudding, crepes with maple buttercream and candied prosciutto, maple fudge and maple and bacon glazed pecans and then most of us slipped into a sugar coma (is there such a thing as homi-monoglyceride-cide?)</p><p><img alt="" id="id_2ba1_1332_3ca4_4c5d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1kNmp5VJdS2OBGnQr1XcJhi8XeSlZbDJj" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_3053_220f_c7c9_2522" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1wN-4cclYgEtXGugN6rfoDPln1gjW0vPH" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_f567_8968_1862_351b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1q04O2KCYVOuiVm_pvjfqB1cpXv7vU5r3" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_577_86bb_7e88_747f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1felWsc13m_iePTdX3vNZasvk88sMYumv" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_cd5c_79c7_3a14_c24c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1bt9_FZEPuV8TbUCz1ojLr3XXIlhRAd8S" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_d692_bd9d_68c6_f7a8" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1fsYB18DnR0wNepBIh6EWhmsBqnVRdJ08" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_39db_2b21_24d1_5b21" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/169jQDPbBUu4Mwvl5Kag1oUoORgfm4izo" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_a86f_39ff_896c_142e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1nlYgris4c5ZjF598mFGnUdvjI_OuiotN" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_cac_9e83_b3b7_ab82" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1YzH0gva8KKVE4uT7bUAxOhJvbsPYWzYG" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>I'm probably missing stuff, because around course three I took a tiny bottle of vodka from the bathroom emergency box and made Collette do a deconstructed vodka tonic with me and after that things were still delicious but less pronouncable (wtf is kohlrabi anyway). </p><p><img alt="" id="id_a909_8a18_1c2e_c9a8" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1yE2C1yV4uUPDG2THSDhES1uyW488CjOT" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_c568_84c6_730e_4105" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1yZOP0AZ-i6QS7J_xYLVXAobAhH6Eu6gQ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>Even with all the amazing food, the highlight of the night was probably Cody, Collette's mom's bird who worked the room like a tiny feathered lothario and could have gone home with anyone's wife. Or Dave.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_cca8_920d_b008_bbc2" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1FDFsA4fkDvXkXKqlqRYvY5LfBRyCHn0N" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_4ea1_7a58_f7ac_ae02" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1LVND3rzJKo5aEG6x4SkXQd7nzPDFn-8o" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_2a67_4b0e_8dd5_a97f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1LTBaHlg_6w96Ex9Byo6HLEKIOM0ewVhc" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_6003_108f_9013_59d8" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1CQ30LBSNz93VJsa_atC1nNcWq7qdIxdp" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-7057390137069083272024-02-23T14:26:00.000-08:002024-02-23T21:25:01.557-08:00Happy Eve Week<p> It feels like longer than a week since that last post. </p><p>Saturday I came down in the morning, planning to have breakfast and then get groceries for Eve's week at home. Matt was watching tv and looked up and answered a couple of my questions but then went back to watching tv, moving a little closer. I was running water and dishing out food and I was feeling a little self-conscious about making noise while he was watching tv. So, like a totally normal person, I got mad at him for watching tv and making me feel like I might be disturbing him. He looked understandably confused by this. After I got home from grocery shopping I apologized for being weird and bitchy and getting mad at him for watching tv at me. I said I was feeling oddly nervous, which didn't make sense because the only anomalous event approaching was Eve coming home, which I was totally happy about.</p><p>Matt said cautiously that I sometimes have a bit of trouble adequately differentiating myself from Eve and I said "OH, I'm being crazy because half of me is on a train?" and he said "probably, yes".</p><p><img alt="" id="id_4d45_405b_ada2_9387" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1nbU-0oOlfabCgkNpKEaNotONHMvrV0xY" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip=""></p><p>The week has been great. We went for a family day sunny cold dog-walk. Eve and I went to the mall - the only time I approach anything that could be termed enjoyment involving a mall is when I'm with Eve. We watched the Simpsons. Her friend Jackson came over and we watched Drag Race and ate burned nachos. We went to see Mean Girls. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_f6a8_65b1_2d43_4b02" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1YckkaeW6OouHSWdv6HVoFuLK1dh2tMfQ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip=""></p><p><img alt="" id="id_ea8d_d6ea_6113_ad35" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1AFmk73Neu2ckcpyzMJtSx9z6XryCggPl" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip=""></p><p><img alt="" id="id_2bbf_b320_a28c_9a9" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1mDjpI59Uf8roCXJjaqbKmGpbJLsfEvwW" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip=""></p><p>She's worn the same dress to the last two Arts and Science formals and she wanted to look for something new that was less traditionally formal. We found a fun pink skirt in the first store, and then floundered a little looking for the right top, but I think the end result is going to be really fun. This is the outfit - I will post a pic when she actually wears it for the formal. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_1957_18b_4f78_14ea" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1c3s5hBHdmjJdKfPgPVDrd4Nu0U0axGiZ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip=""></p><p><img alt="" id="id_46b_61b6_957c_260" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1FvNryw1oAtDXxP7AnRp8N7zRk0S44uSd" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip=""></p><p>She mentioned that she wanted a couple of tops for bar-hopping, because she doesn't really have a lot of going-out tops and she's finally in a bit of a going-out era. We marched into Garage and said we were there to try on every slutty shirt they had. It was hilariously fun - one looked very pretty from the front, and from the back? NAKED. One was almost naked all over, and looked great but she knew she'd never actually wear it. She found a gorgeous black tank with wide straps, a square neck and gathered sides, and an adorable pink short-sleeved crop top - she's loved pink forever but it's suddenly around in clothing this season. </p><p>Saturday night Matt and I started watching The Maestro, one of the four last Best Picture contenders I need to watch. I read an article that began "Bradley Cooper really wants an Oscar", which I tend to think whenever someone stars in a biopic, and oh boy, was this ever not an exception. I liked what we watched, but halfway through I started falling asleep (this is not usual for me, but I think my overidentifying with Eve's train journey wore me out - it was nothing to do with the movie, I'm looking forward to finishing it). </p><p>Work was crap today. The challenging class is still much improved, but, strangely, my first two classes who are usually great bucked the trend. The second teacher often sends students individually or in groups to get books so it doesn't turn into a socializing period. The first teacher said he might do the same. Generally this means they send students during the class's library period, which is 20-25 minutes long. Somehow today students came for an hour and twenty minutes. And they were loud and destroyed the shelves. And I think some of them came back more than once.</p><p>I was as baffled as I was angry. By the time I finished classes at recess I was so worn out and on edge I slapped a sign on the door saying the library was closed - often I let students come in and read or work quietly - just so I could hear myself think for ten minutes. Then I texted the other librarian to help gauge whether I was over-reacting (she didn't think I was). Then I emailed the teachers and asked if they would consider only sending students during their actual library time, which seemed like an obvious thing, but here we are. Actually I don't really mean that to sound as bitchy as it does, they are good teachers and teaching is really freaking hard, and I hope and assume today was just a one-off.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_9c76_9b91_c66a_7059" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1CIIL9FSOe9qE-NIBeZVcx9jafGTlstpN" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip=""></p><p>On the way home I had to stop and pick up contact lenses, and my head was pounding and I was exhausted and I almost didn't stop to get the mail, but I did, and you guys.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_21d5_b33a_4f79_ebe8" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1dkMO1I9REjlZvBUsbCkbKvA-M978DsLn" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip=""></p><p><a href="https://lifeofadoctorswife.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Suzanne</a> sent me a Valentine. </p><p>I don’t think Idris Elba stuffed in an envelope would have lifted my spirits more comprehensively.</p><p>In conclusion, please enjoy this random collection of pics of Eve being home, weird chemistry stuff left by my workspace, her adorable laptop stickers, and the blurry dark selfies we ended up with after forgetting to take them when we were anywhere aesthetically pleasing and well lit.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_ac41_e89f_328_f404" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1XIf6IsXHPvL3QMAAdmcsvdRawg6siKQS" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip=""></p><p><img alt="" id="id_4a86_ed59_7ea0_69db" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1DOYxMcpHTePmEgJnO3_SPh5xCT1PqPxy" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip=""></p><p><br></p><p><img alt="" id="id_2883_a84b_75bc_6790" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1w8Jw_xvmi3sQya__1Xd_ir9f3feNaobx" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip=""></p><p><img alt="" id="id_84e5_2b51_5a8b_b29e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1RA2EP37y19o4Ui8wXktzvyOjtpv20hB8" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip=""></p><p><img alt="" id="id_24a2_baf1_5484_201d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1yNO50_fhzX1-GsbHpxpTlXMhLDGRyPa1" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip=""></p><p><img alt="" id="id_98fb_455d_ce9e_b7a3" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/15E-8dsJSVz2MPcBb1dRfkDaPneBlorSW" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip=""></p><p>Also, I got an air fryer. </p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-41398118798173014412024-02-16T11:32:00.000-08:002024-02-16T11:32:09.885-08:00Five For Friday: Oscars Edition<p> I am having a weird week in a weird month in a (typically, so is it even weird) winter, and I sat here literally unable to figure out or remember how to begin a blog post, so thank fuck I remembered it's Friday and I can just do FFF. It has gotten cold and snowy again after a couple of weeks of mild grayness, and I like this more, although I don't volunteer that widely. Except I guess I just did. Oops. Weird. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_c42f_8a7a_84f0_654a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1xRiM9ff5L_rFiFQuWKOiGrw1Ec5Lgcg9" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>1. I decided a couple of weeks ago to try to watch all the Best Picture nominees for the Oscars. The main reason is so I could make a list and cross things off the list and feel list-accomplished for doing nothing but watching movies, because low-stakes validation is helpful right now. </p><p>There are ten movies up for Best Picture. That is too many, in my opinion. I thought five was a good number. Also, what the heck, precisely, is 'best picture' supposed to mean? Okay, I googled desultorily and I am not interested in going down that road too far. </p><p>Here are the ones I have watched, alone or with others, and my opinions, which I do not expect anyone to share:</p><p>-Barbie: Saw in the theatre with Eve and her friend Jackson and my friend (Eve's other friend's mom who is now my friend) Jody. Liked it a lot. The aesthetic, Margot Robbie's and Ryan Gosling's and America Ferrera's performances, the satirizing of the patriarchy. I love Greta Gerwig as a director.</p><p>- Oppenheimer: I missed the chance to do a Barbenheimer experience when they were both out. My husband is an engineer with a degree in Engineering Physics, so it was an obvious choice for us to watch, but the timing didn't work out. He rented it one morning while I was still asleep and he was about to leave the country yet again, and told me there were a couple days left in the rental for me to watch it. Which I did, but in shifts, because it is long and I was having attention span issues. </p><p>I liked it. It didn't blow me away. It seemed like a very obvious "Best Picture" sort of movie in a Hollywood way. Cillian Murphy was compelling. My husband was disappointed that it didn't go more into the physics. He said "it was more just about...." and I said "...Oppenheimer?" and he said "shut up". I understood what he wanted, but I would have thought it was unlikely in this type of movie. Favourite line: "you're not just self-important, you're <i>actually</i> important". </p><p>-Killers of the Flower Moon: watched alone on Netflix, again in shifts, more because I found it too upsetting to watch all at once. I thought it was really, really good. Personally I think Leonardo DiCaprio should have been nominated over Robert De Niro for Best Supporting Actor - Collette (HI COLLETTE) said he was too old to be convincing in that role, which may be but I am crap at judging people's ages, and his mannerisms and way of talking and his way of bearing himself seemed to embody the character perfectly and were utterly convincing to me. Lily Gladstone was fantastic. </p><p>-Past Lives: rented while Matt was away for three weeks in January and watched alone. I loved it - I think it's my favourite so far, by a tiny margin. I love the way it concentrates on moments and lets silences stretch out. All the actors were phenomenal, and I could watch Greta Lee - her expressions, her hair swinging, the way her demeanour seems to change subtly depending on whether she's speaking English or Korean. It's a bit like a more cerebral, Korean Sliding Doors. The characters are allowed to show vulnerability in a way that almost challenges belief. I also loved the blithe use of "12 years pass" twice. </p><p>-Anatomy of a Fall: I rented this at the same time but didn't watch it while Matt was away. We planned to watch it one Saturday night when he got home but I had a migraine, so we watched it with our dinner from <a href="https://takeanotherbite.com/" target="_blank">Take Another Bite</a> on Valentine's Day (which was amazing). </p><p>It was long. It was really, really long. And French. And maybe not the best choice for Valentine's Day. Matt said "it's kind of like Kramer vs. Kramer if one Kramer is dead". We were doing the dinner in courses, which was kind of good because we would pause the movie and chat a little and take a break, because two and a half hours of people demonstrating intense anguish is a lot. But my humorous puerile whining aside, it's very well done as a character study and I can see why Sandra Huller (sorry, can't figure out how to do an umlaut) was nominated - the actor who played the son was fantastic as well. Also, if it's at all accurate, French courtroom procedures are very different from, well, from what I know of American court procedures from American tv, so who the hell knows. But there was a lot of unchallenged speculation. </p><p>-The Holdovers: watched with Collette last night. We were going to see it in the theatre but by the time we coordinated a time it was only playing late, so I bought it on Apple TV, which was cheaper than both of us buying a ticket anyway. It was excellent. Paul Giamatti is the perfect embodiment of the set-in-his-ways, socially awkward, erudite boarding school teacher, not really fitting in with his colleagues and lamenting the "vulgar, rancid Philistines" he has to teach. Dominic Sessa also really tears it up - bold, angry, vulnerable - and Da'Vine Joy Randolph? WOW. I had a sense of how the movie would play out, but the details were magnificent. It was the only one that made me cry. </p><p>We're going to watch American Fiction (which is based on a book by Percival Everett, whose book The Trees was insanely good) next week. Then I have Poor Things by Yorgos Lanthimos (loved The Killing of a Sacred Deer, from what I've heard of this one I am interested and a little grossed out already), The Zone of Interest, and The Maestro. </p><p>2. From The Holdovers I learned that I have been mentally pronouncing Anaxagoras with the emphasis on the wrong syllable. Wait, no, I just looked it up and according to what I found, Paul Hunham actually pronounced it wrong. Huh. </p><p>3. Last Monday a student walked up to the desk and barked out "Minecraft books", which is a thing I tend to gently correct. I said "you mean 'can you please help me find the Minecraft books?'", but I guess he didn't hear the 'you mean' part, and he said "I don't <i>know</i> where they are, that's why I asked you." Which was funny. </p><p>4. Eve comes home tomorrow for the week and I cannot WAIT to squish her. She has a semester that is way heavier on reading and writing than her usual science-heavy fare, and it's been fun having her bounce ideas off me and doing some editing of her papers. I have never done that Google Docs thing where I can suggest edits and she can incorporate them in real time and it's like a different version of FaceTime that is really fun. Also, she had to write a reflection on the book <i>Cassandra</i> by Christa Wolf, and the first line was "Before I started this book I asked my mom what she knew about <a href="https://www.britannica.com/topic/Cassandra-Greek-mythology" target="_blank">Cassandra</a> because she reads everything and knows everything about books", which was, obviously, not true, but still nice to read. I'm so lucky I got the kids I did. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" id="id_178f_904b_750a_fae0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1g9KldddGXeXuV0zvoF9rwpDKGhvxtB32" style="height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Picture of Eve from Valentine's Day Facebook memories</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>5. I have been resolute that I would not get an air fryer, but should I get an air fryer? </p><p><br /></p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-89368667372706103452024-02-08T17:14:00.000-08:002024-02-08T17:14:57.649-08:00Black Cats and Horseshoes and Birthdays<p> Predictably, now that I've finished the book review posts, I am feeling a magnificent disinclination to blog. Or rather, I think "I should blog" and then think "but about what?" How do I begin, if not by cutting and pasting book titles and plot rundowns and looking up quotes in my book notes? </p><p>January is always a slog for me. I almost invariably have a headache for most of the month - a few things have been investigated, but it seems to come down to some weird combination of atmospheric pressure and my body chemistry being, well, weird. I still had a headache at the very beginning of February, but then it stopped for a few days, and now it's intermittent, which is an improvement. My mental health plummets no matter what I do to shore it up (to be clear, what I do is not all that heroic - drink lots of water, get a bit more sleep than usual, try to move a little more but fail often because just getting to and from work is exhausting). </p><p>I forget where I was going with this - I swear I think I was going somewhere other than Whine City, Population: Me (quick, somebody tell me to take <a href="https://bibliomama2.blogspot.com/2022/07/oh-hey.html" target="_blank">Highway 52 to Copetown</a>). Oh, maybe I kind of remember. So it was the first week of February and things were looking up a little and I had done some cleaning and organizing and cooking in addition to working and then reading and stuffing an assload of carbs in my face. And then yesterday SUCKED. I woke up with a weird headache at the back of my head. So many kids were annoying ("I'm looking for that book with a bug on the front". "Sorry, I don't know what you mean, do you know that title?" "What's a title?") My two grade six classes in the afternoon who are usually lovely had a sub instead of the teacher that I love. The substitute looked about seventeen and was wearing track pants and a white t-shirt with sneakers - I thought he was a high school co-op student. It would have been funny if he then turned out to be surprisingly competent, but this was not the case. In the first slot, he held court before a group of adoring sixth-grade girls while the rest of the class did cartwheels and screamed their heads off. In the second slot the kids were basically okay, but this was probably not due to his behaviour, which consisted of sitting at a table with one other kid and looking at Guinness World Record Books. </p><p>It seemed like every road I tried to drive on was blocked by someone driving weirdly. Lucy, who hadn't peed on the stairs once in Matt's long absence, peed on the stairs. I finished a puzzle and there were two pieces missing (actually that one didn't bother me as much as I would have thought, especially since it was a regift and not a purchase).</p><p>I was pretty cranky at work, until one boy asked me how my day was going and then said he hoped the rest of it was good and I got over myself a little. By the time I went to bed it was seeming fairly amusing, but I hoped today would be better.</p><p>It was almost freakishly better.</p><p>I was getting ready for work, wherein I start stacking all the things I need at the top of the two stairs down to the entrance. My purse, my bag with the seat cushion that saves my back, my fan, my water bottle and my lunch bag, another water bottle for my longer commute on Thursdays, and the bag with my boots to change into at school. Today there was also a table fan that I needed to leave in the mailbox for someone from the Freecycle group to pick up. So there was a lot going on, and I tipped over my water cup, which had a lid, but the lid had a hole, and a fair bit spilled. But it spilled in the one direction where it got absolutely nothing wet, and there was a towel right there that I was about to throw downstairs for the laundry.</p><p>I got a really good parking spot at work. The first two classes are grade sixes and come in groups, and they were all happy and chatty and asked me questions and thanked me for every answer. Then my challenging class showed up. They've had a new teacher, starting last week. </p><p>You guys. I don't know what the hell she did, but holy shit, it was a one hundred and eighty degree difference. They lined up quietly. They came in and I congratulated them on that and handed out their cards. They got their books and sat at tables and read or drew bookmarks. I had cordial interactions with many of the boys who could not have been more jerkish a few weeks ago. I'm trying really hard not to think that other teacher was bad. Maybe they just didn't click with her. Maybe all the good will evaporate and it will be back to crappy normal next week. It was a really nice change anyway.</p><p>My last class was awesome - we read a book about a dog who does ballet. </p><p>After work I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things. I walked in and tried to pull out a cart, already bracing myself because at this store you have to pull a cart out by its front, not its handle, and they almost always refuse to separate from the one behind. There was a woman getting a cart from the next row, and without missing a beat she reached over and held onto the cart behind mine so I could pull mine out smoothly. I thanked her profusely after I picked up my jaw from her insanely well-timed act of thoughtfulness. </p><p>ANYway, in the midst of all this, my youngest child turned TWENTY-ONE, *stacks my dusty bones on ice floe preparatory to being shoved off into oblivion*. After her hellish week of being sick she had a hellish week of catching up on all the stuff she had to do less of while being sick, culminating in an organic chemistry mid-term at SEVEN O'CLOCK on a Friday evening, which seems like a wholly dickish time to plan an organic chemistry mid-term. And then she went out drinking AFTER IT (this is not unusual for most university students but is somewhat for my early-bedtime loving homebody). They went to a speakeasy with a door behind a bookcase that you needed a passcode for, just in case you weren't already feeling like your life could be way cooler than it is. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_96_2015_bc59_7e1e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1AP0BwSCLYeW3maXIDXC74fJrCSQIt1tv" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_b7a9_fb9e_dfc7_2f94" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1tm8tRoL8z4vMNSjLQqYiN7cDWHIn7aBR" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_6a17_49b_bf5d_2d61" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1ssr60Jqbww53_1orMdVvDM8uuv5ilt1L" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>If that wasn't trippy enough, she went out AGAIN on Saturday, although she had to chug a mini-Coke to stay up until they went out at eight-thirty. </p><p>When she lived here, we would always take a picture of her the night before her birthday, on her last night of being the age she was. Now she has to send me one, sometimes with bonus housemates.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_d4f0_8eb7_54be_738d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1mQiHwOCS2CZFFwY4rjFI6w2btbN4OeEU" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>On her actual birthday yesterday I ordered fancy cinnamon buns for the house instead of a cake. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_4541_2314_458b_8616" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1XEfZp3xaF8jJPTylKsgtMf9s6FvGR3EK" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>She's home for reading week week after next, when we can do the family celebration. My Facebook memories yesterday were a parade of birthday posts.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_2ea3_bf66_6ee0_721d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1ExKk6RLEd6TP4y-oM1J8-Jc26PiJbjod" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_6a6_7964_9ff2_1f3a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/14Ryzc-NEcTKYig1FZTPMBw0oE1UbYNuQ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_26fb_e756_b590_581" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/d/1MoGaJ-DfCsp--PvPAPkKVQBd4Gu7w5AA" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>Now that she can legally drink in the United States (which she celebrated by drinking fake-illegally), perhaps I will raise a glass in Canada. Or maybe not - my head kind of hurts again, maybe I'll just go to bed. But look, I blogged and didn't talk about books! Much!</p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-64668994522435989522024-01-31T17:21:00.000-08:002024-01-31T17:21:12.406-08:00Books Read in 2023: The Five-Stars<p>This one took me SO LONG. </p><p>I figured out why I was a year behind reading the Giller Prize shortlist - something which is both screamingly obvious and surely important to no one but me, but it was nagging. The shortlist comes out in October, and duh, I didn't read them all by the end of the year, I spread them out into the next one. </p><p>This is also the point in these posts where I start to realize books are missing. I forgot to add them to Goodreads, or Goodreads was screwed up, or I accidentally missed or deleted them while composing the posts. I know there's at least one for last year - Cemetery Boys, which I think was recommended by Marilyn (HI MARILYN). YA Fantasy, LGBTQ, really good, I remembered it when I was reviewing Promise Boys in this post. It doesn't make me feel happy that I read more books when this happens, it pisses me off that my total was WRONG and the posts are incomplete. Hmph.</p><p>Engie, international woman of mystery, decided to torture us all (or maybe just me) in her comment on the last post which read in part "I agree that is a 3.5-4 star read. It was good but not as good as I wanted it to be." PLEASE CLARIFY, ENGIE. Also, I know exactly what you mean about The Maid. I would not have read it except I was stuck for a book for 'most popular book at your library last year'. I am terrible for stubbornly refusing to read or watch things everyone else insists are wonderful, even if it's likely I will love them. It's particularly bad when it's my husband doing the suggesting. Why ARE we like this?</p><p>So out of the ones I managed to keep track of, last year I read 101 female authors, at least 2 non-binary, several queer, and 21 non-white women authors. Not terrible, but I could do better. I will try to this year, except when I forget. </p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Five-Star Reads</u></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>YA</u></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Katzenjammer</span> by Francesca Zappia. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">American Horror Story meets the dark comedy of Kafka's The Metamorphosis as Cat searches for a way to escape her high school. A tale of family, love, tragedy, and masks--the ones others make for us, and the ones we make for ourselves. Katzenjammer will haunt fans of Chelsea Pitcher's This Lie Will Kill You and E. Lockhart's We Were Liars. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Cat lives in her high school. She never leaves, and for a long time her school has provided her with everything she needs. But now things are changing. The hallways contract and expand along with the school's breathing, and the showers in the bathroom run a bloody red. Cat's best friend is slowly turning into cardboard, and instead of a face, Cat has a cat mask made of her own hardened flesh. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Cat doesn't remember why she is trapped in her school or why half of them--Cat included--are slowly transforming. Escaping has always been the one impossibility in her school's upside-down world. But to save herself from the eventual self-destruction all the students face, Cat must find the way out. And to do that, she'll have to remember what put her there in the first place.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj5K8wtq1iCDgAQ6R-jCmWPHSG_yaIgRTnEiHtGSlZCHUZIYwKuj99m5Yk2N8ZLOlcXERghR1MCjLmEgc-6LsEVVixIAsyrlJyeUHAJk4o2HUXg9xJSQyeGjEft4O6ebySbcm6D9MjzS2APISwXfOZ1ugEJAXaoRdRM1JM-4CapS0lUeUZoBO7lDr7ywiz/s2700/katz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2700" data-original-width="1800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj5K8wtq1iCDgAQ6R-jCmWPHSG_yaIgRTnEiHtGSlZCHUZIYwKuj99m5Yk2N8ZLOlcXERghR1MCjLmEgc-6LsEVVixIAsyrlJyeUHAJk4o2HUXg9xJSQyeGjEft4O6ebySbcm6D9MjzS2APISwXfOZ1ugEJAXaoRdRM1JM-4CapS0lUeUZoBO7lDr7ywiz/s320/katz.jpg" width="213" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-41bc421e-7fff-5275-a1d2-1d208ccc5099"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”Urinals line one wall, sinks the other, and a few stalls on the far wall have been ripped out to make way for a portal to hell.</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>It’s a large black hole with a flagstone staircase leading downward.”</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">This sent chills through me, directing a merciless gaze on things that many of us have grown away from and yet can recall with perfect clarity. The surrealism of the imagery coupled with the plainness of the descriptions make everything more vivid than if it was told in a purely realistic style. It's terrible and weirdly beautiful and sometimes blackly hilarious and very sad. I read it in July and can still remember most of it. </p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>Promise Boys</u></span> by Nick Brooks. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A Boston Globe-Horn Book Award 2023 Honoree.</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">"Thrilling, captivating, and blade-sharp." ―Karen M. McManus, #1 New York Times bestselling author of One of Us Is Lying. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">The prestigious Urban Promise Prep school might look pristine on the outside, but deadly secrets lurk within. When the principal ends up murdered on school premises and the cops come sniffing around, a trio of students―J.B., Ramón, and Trey―emerge as the prime suspects. They had the means, they had the motive . . . and they may have had the murder weapon. But with all three maintain</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">ing their innocence, they must band together to track down the real killer</span></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> before they are arrested. Or is the true culprit hiding among them? </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Find out who killed Principal Moore in Nick Brooks's murder mystery, Promise Boys ― The Hate U Give meets One of Us Is</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> Lying.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEickwStm8nUk0tgNQ-N7YVyIhAb8G4Zdn0APdJCb08mAlj4bvTTTDPAT6iOs11koupdoT9LHxi6x4430U3lbNWt9aAZ6t0NZCYGhL1HRC5lPzeCKCBwuOVXMJ8aBN1jyLn-yChxuIJ1tQOG7bVgVywhMSNYrQY6aNsSFI4_HfUeAy3dwjwE2IzgsyhzHG5M/s400/promise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEickwStm8nUk0tgNQ-N7YVyIhAb8G4Zdn0APdJCb08mAlj4bvTTTDPAT6iOs11koupdoT9LHxi6x4430U3lbNWt9aAZ6t0NZCYGhL1HRC5lPzeCKCBwuOVXMJ8aBN1jyLn-yChxuIJ1tQOG7bVgVywhMSNYrQY6aNsSFI4_HfUeAy3dwjwE2IzgsyhzHG5M/w133-h200/promise.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-337f9983-7fff-da7e-ae10-e39da988aaf4"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>-”Now I see the unfairness of the world turning him back to the angry boy I used to know. It fills me with fear, and sadness.</i></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="text-wrap: nowrap;"> </span></span><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But I am past blame. I am seeking understanding. The last limpia showed me the truth: that the pure good soul of my youngest grandson is being injected with blood, a thousand tiny bleeding wounds, and it’s from walking in a world like this, and maybe even in a school like Promise. It wasn’t Moore’s blood that was in that bowl, it was my grandson’s.</span></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="text-wrap: nowrap;"> </span></span><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Every day we send our children out into the world, they are inflicted with a thousand tiny cuts. And all the limpias in the world can’t clean it, because the wound is open.”</span></i></span></p></span><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Propulsive and impactful. A good variety of viewpoints from several young POC with distinct personalities and home situations and hopes for the future. Really effective depiction of the untenable situations these kids find themselves in, where every move is scrutinized, condemned or criminalized - I felt a fraction of that unbearable frustration and injustice just reading about it. No one should have too much power over a group of people, even if that person appears to have pure motives. There was one loose thread that I am baffled about regarding the female teacher - where was the editor? Did they just forget about it? What the heck? Did I miss something? But overall I feel like this book is timely and powerful.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ7wnWx-1UpaUqYCK-q74qo5t3TlTzPwjRzySZD62U2FUG2Ekeemo3ImdDNKHY6FnzUOsRmIJQNehFz_MxfRTNufdFewy7Ya7Q1k-RSoB0wYJziPoQeRVOqQ9gSouSUeyF6BEM7z07Rk_H1fDIfYcEoEx7dbcGnzEmrOk5qxDsy0us2sABxjsO107J02cC/s400/pet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="267" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ7wnWx-1UpaUqYCK-q74qo5t3TlTzPwjRzySZD62U2FUG2Ekeemo3ImdDNKHY6FnzUOsRmIJQNehFz_MxfRTNufdFewy7Ya7Q1k-RSoB0wYJziPoQeRVOqQ9gSouSUeyF6BEM7z07Rk_H1fDIfYcEoEx7dbcGnzEmrOk5qxDsy0us2sABxjsO107J02cC/w134-h200/pet.jpg" width="134" /></a></span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><u>Pet</u> by Akwaeke Emezi. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">A thought-provoking and haunting novel about a creature that escapes from an artist's canvas, whose talent is sniffing out monsters in a world that claims they don't exist anymore. Perfect for fans of </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Akata Witch</i> </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">and </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Shadowshaper. </i></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">There are no monsters anymore, or so the children in the city of Lucille are taught. Jam and her best friend, Redemption, have grown up with this lesson all their life. But when Jam meets Pet, a creature made of horns and colors and claws, who emerges from one of her mother's paintings and a drop of Jam's blood, she must reconsider what she's been told. Pet has come to hunt a monster--and the shadow of something grim lurks in Redemption's house. Jam must fight not only to protect her best friend, but also uncover the truth, and the answer to the question</span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;"> How do you save the world from monsters if no one will admit they exist? </i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">In their riveting and timely young adult debut, acclaimed novelist Akwaeke Emezi asks difficult questions about what choices you can make when the society around you is in d</span></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">e</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">nial.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">-”Bitter tilted her head, and something sad entered her eyes. ‘It is not easy to get rid of monsters,’ she said. ‘The angels, they had to do things underhand, dark things.’ The sadness in her eyes deepened, and Jam took her hand, not understanding what pain was coming up but feeling its ripples in the air. ‘Hard things,’ her mother continued. ‘You can’t sweet-talk a monster into anything else, when all it does want is monsterness. Good and innocent, they not the same thing; they don’t wear the same face.’”</span></i></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">So bold and confident and imaginative. With a hopeful vision of a future world - allowing children to explore the full spectrum of gender and sexuality, welcoming different family configurations, erasing inequality and injustice - but a sobering realization that, if humans are in charge of fixing things, humans are always susceptible to human failings. Interrogates our concept of 'monsters'. I can see how some would think it veers into preachiness at times, but it worked for me over all.</span></p><p><u style="background-color: white; font-size: large;">Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Horror</u></p><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><p style="color: black; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">How High We Go in the Dark </span></u>by Sequoia Nagamatsu. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A debut that follows a cast of intricately linked characters over hundreds of years as humanity struggles to rebuild itself in the aftermath of a climate plague. </span></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: x-small;">Beginning in 2030, a grieving archeologist arrives in the Arctic Circle to continue the work of his recently deceased daughter at the Batagaika crater, where researchers are studying long-buried secrets now revealed in melting permafrost, including the perfectly preserved remains of a girl who appears to have died of an ancient virus.</span></p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;">Once unleashed, the Arctic Plague will reshape life on earth for generations to come, quickly traversing the globe, forcing humanity to devise a myriad of moving and inventive ways to embrace possibility in the face of tragedy. In a theme park designed for terminally ill children, a cynical employee falls in love with a mother desperate to hold on to her infected son. A heartbroken scientist searching for a cure finds a second chance at fatherhood when one of his test subjects—a pig—develops the capacity for human speech. A widowed painter and her teenaged granddaughter embark on a cosmic quest to locate a new home planet.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; margin: 0px; white-space-collapse: collapse;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;">From funerary skyscrapers to hotels for the dead to interstellar starships, Sequoia Nagamatsu takes readers on a journey spanning continents, centuries, and even celestial bodies to tell a story about the resiliency of the human spirit, our infinite capacity to dream, and the connective threads that tie us all together in the universe.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj523NnrJSeulGGBKrrbwrHtCqEEXqaPWoidMhKYFAuMbiq0LRz1t58DCHlpcAzRAEXixTYhluYl15ucYj9pejPUFqV3u99jaZMQmgvQG0rh33LI_JAfwhPfIsVa8YiNmnNz-3zHn6IqxI7XmvM2OsqscfWyjCtKfg74y3zXGAhUENpJH2yj1hEsRxhDFJ0/s648/how%20high.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="444" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj523NnrJSeulGGBKrrbwrHtCqEEXqaPWoidMhKYFAuMbiq0LRz1t58DCHlpcAzRAEXixTYhluYl15ucYj9pejPUFqV3u99jaZMQmgvQG0rh33LI_JAfwhPfIsVa8YiNmnNz-3zHn6IqxI7XmvM2OsqscfWyjCtKfg74y3zXGAhUENpJH2yj1hEsRxhDFJ0/s320/how%20high.jpg" width="219" /></a></div><br /></span></span></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I started this earlier in the year and abandoned it when it expired, then started again and finished it as the year came to an end. It's a series of linked stories relating to a pandemic that begins with thawing Arctic ice. Every chapter has something about living as an Asian - filial relationships, racism, etc. - subtly. It's so sad, and so beautiful - the living trying to find a compassionate way to care for the dying, the new relationships formed in the wake of tragedy, the luminous moments that come from squeezing all the love and joy possible out of the ruins of the previous world. And the pig story? Omg, sobbing mess. Soaring, elegaic, wonderful. And isn't Sequoia Nagamatsu an awesome name? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><u>The God of Endings</u> by Jacqueline Holland. </span>Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">By turns suspenseful and enchanting, this breathtaking first novel weaves a story of love, family, history, and myth as seen through the eyes of one immortal woman. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Collette LeSange is a lonely artist who heads an elite fine arts school for children in upstate New York. Her youthful beauty masks the dark truth of her life: she has endured centuries of turmoil and heartache in the wake of her grandfather’s long-ago decision to make her immortal like himself. Now in 1984, Collette finds her life upended by the arrival of a gifted child from a troubled home, the return of a stalking presence from her past, and her own mysteriously growing hunger. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Combining brilliant prose with breathtaking suspense, The God of Endings serves as a larger exploration of the hum</span></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">an condition in all its complexity, asking us the most fundamental question: is life in this world a gift or a curse?</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;">This showed up as a hold and I had no memory of why I had requested it - Book Riot, Goodreads, a blog friend. This happens a lot. Never mind the plot, by the second chapter I was already smitten with the writing and the world-building - it's nominally a vampire novel, but not in the schlocky genre sense (not that those don't have their place, big fan). </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpGpD3wDnQ_INXf6F876sG7D97RCyExCqNNgF2U3gRF8NaCA-wWctxYeJlfhIBvrdoq3_sj2SJv_HWMlcse3rqGZGhqE7inRtH1KExblmBBgtboQqixcNAO564fhkUBtQVn1j35vnpiL7fDeRmra9KVy7Dtjwam-bo7j1kwzd3K1YWFnnwCU-Hntb7rWB/s400/endings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="266" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpGpD3wDnQ_INXf6F876sG7D97RCyExCqNNgF2U3gRF8NaCA-wWctxYeJlfhIBvrdoq3_sj2SJv_HWMlcse3rqGZGhqE7inRtH1KExblmBBgtboQqixcNAO564fhkUBtQVn1j35vnpiL7fDeRmra9KVy7Dtjwam-bo7j1kwzd3K1YWFnnwCU-Hntb7rWB/w133-h200/endings.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The beauty and ugliness (book bingo square) comes up in the sense of living a long </span><a style="background-color: white; color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;" tabindex="-1"></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;">life and seeing much of what the world contains, geographically, historically and emotionally. The language is precise and deliberate and I could visualize everything clearly. This won't be for everyone, some Goodreads reviewers found the pace too slow, but it was perfect for me.</span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;"> Where They Wait </span></u>by Scott Carson. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Recently laid-off from his newspaper and desperate for work, war correspondent Nick Bishop takes a humbling job: writing a profile of a new mindfulness app called </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Clarity.</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> It’s easy money, and a chance to return to his hometown for the first time in years. The app itself seems like a retread of old ideas—relaxing white noise and guided meditations. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But then there are the “Sleep Songs.” A woman’s hauntingly beautiful voice sings a ballad that is anything but soothing—it’s disturbing, and more of a warning than a relaxation—but it works. Deep, refreshing sleep follows. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">So do the nightmares. Vivid and chilling, they feature a dead woman who calls Nick by name and whispers guidance—or are they threats? And her voice follows him long after the song is done. As the effects of the nightmares begin to permeate his waking life, Nick makes a terrifying discovery: no one involved with </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Clarity</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> has any interest in his article. Their interest is in </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">him</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">.</span></span></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><i>-"The night was silent and I was awake and alone. The hours passed as slowly as any I'd ever known, an interminable, purgatorial wait. Several times I thought about getting out of bed to read a book or watch a movie on my iPad or do any damn thing except stare at the blackness. I didn't move, though. It felt strangely out of my control. The wait for morning was supposed to be a long one, I thought, and I was required to endure it all."</i></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFj5k5MMmqolpkvpTiHWhnGuK2iSq1abVS8LMul9jAEkTmFepaDLhY7nXlhSoxvEbjiwDlzutW6ir6SrrhHkCVBgZ3b9ttfn1oXbyr5roUtBnK-AAwYDNIHEc-duBEiYyik4lVnWBGbrBQMxDbOeObfKSp2iTHZmW7I8GxRQXEpoJAqf4hF_lxEW7bKw9A/s2105/where%20wait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2105" data-original-width="1400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFj5k5MMmqolpkvpTiHWhnGuK2iSq1abVS8LMul9jAEkTmFepaDLhY7nXlhSoxvEbjiwDlzutW6ir6SrrhHkCVBgZ3b9ttfn1oXbyr5roUtBnK-AAwYDNIHEc-duBEiYyik4lVnWBGbrBQMxDbOeObfKSp2iTHZmW7I8GxRQXEpoJAqf4hF_lxEW7bKw9A/w133-h200/where%20wait.jpg" width="133" /></a></i></span></span></div><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></span><p></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Scott Carson is a pen name of Michael Koryta, who I've reviewed in past posts and appreciated as a fairly literary thriller writer. After this, though, I would prefer if he would devote himself wholeheartedly to writing horror - can anyone see if they can get him on board with that? A recipe for perfect horror for me is something like, take your average man or woman, probably experiencing some kind of life crisis or radical self-doubt, add in some kind of family issue, mix liberally with some kind of gnarly folklore - real or fake, I'm not picky - and tell it in a conversational style suffused with a kind of hopeful melancholy. All here. </span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Knock Knock, Open Wide</span></u> by Neil Sharpson. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Knock Knock, Open Wide weaves horror and Celtic myth into a terrifying, heartbreaking supernatural tale of fractured family bonds, the secrets we carry, and the veiled forces that guide Irish life. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Driving home late one night, Etain Larkin finds a corpse on a pitch-black country road deep in the Irish countryside. She takes the corpse to a remote farmhouse. So begins a night of unspeakable horror that will take her to the very brink of sanity. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">She will never speak of it again. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Two decades later, Betty Fitzpatrick, newly arrived at college in Dublin, has already fallen in love with the drama society, and the beautiful but troubled Ashling Mallen. As their relationship blossoms, Ashling goes to great lengths to keep Betty away from her family, especially her alcoholic mother, Etain. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">As their relationship blossoms, Betty learns her lover's terrifying family history, and Ashling's secret obsession. Ashling has become convinced that the horrors inflicted on her family are connected to a seemingly innocent children's TV show. Everyone in Ireland watched this show in their youth, but Ash soon discovers that no one remembers it quite the same way. And only Ashling seems to remember its a small black goat puppet</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> who lives in a box and only comes out if you don’t behave. They say he’s never come ou</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">t. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Almost never.</span></span></span></p><p><span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"It didn't matter that neither Feidhlim nor his neighbors could remember the details of his great-grandfather's transgression. Memory was ephemeral. Hatred was a rock."</i></span></span></span></p><p><span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"She felt certain that if she were to turn her head to look out the window, she would see an awful, shambling mob of famine specters keeping pace with the car, skin hanging from their translucent bones, driven on by a hunger so fierce even death could not quiet it."</i></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ261gH3QpL2MDvynvKeJllfVqjFfo6-4EjOblNOkZent53FPdnpGueBgW62nDwma34L6s43trVs675kPQfEZgH0fmaJnuJRCREz1AiMwUuSOUAYszZVpBA-C4pEK3yjLorx5GLXwhvXSS6v1YyTj7bR7eXvre8-qkvOf_4hE7UZp1U17tmQYNr7tQTIAP/s2560/knock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1656" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ261gH3QpL2MDvynvKeJllfVqjFfo6-4EjOblNOkZent53FPdnpGueBgW62nDwma34L6s43trVs675kPQfEZgH0fmaJnuJRCREz1AiMwUuSOUAYszZVpBA-C4pEK3yjLorx5GLXwhvXSS6v1YyTj7bR7eXvre8-qkvOf_4hE7UZp1U17tmQYNr7tQTIAP/w129-h200/knock.jpg" width="129" /></a></i></span></span></span></div><span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Folklore? Check, and it's Irish, so, you know... Family issues? Hoo boy, and how. Like all the best horror, a beautiful love story or two are at the heart of it, along with the fear of losing the ones you love. The modern university drama culture hangs beautifully on the Irish folktale framework, and the personalities are strong and compelling. Ashling and Betty - *dreamy sigh*. The sad parts are rendingly sad, but there's redemption also, and it was just a delicious and satisfying story. </span></p><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Lute</span></u> by Jennifer Thorne. Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;">On the idyllic island of Lute, every seventh summer, seven people die. No more, no less. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;">Lute and its inhabitants are blessed, year after year, with good weather, good health, and good fortune. They live a happy, superior life, untouched by the war that rages all around them. So it’s only fair that every seven years, on the day of the tithe, the island’s gift is honored. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;">Nina Treadway is new to The Day. A Florida girl by birth, she became a Lady through her marriage to Lord Treadway, whose family has long protected the island. Nina’s heard about The Day, of course. Heard about the horrific tragedies, the lives lost, but she doesn’t believe in it. It's all superstitious nonsense. Stories told to keep </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;">keep newcomers at bay and youngsters in line. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;">Then The Day begins. And it's a day of nightmares, of grief, of reckoning. But it is also a day of community. Of survival and strength. Of love, at its most pure and untamed. When The Day ends, Nina―and a</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;">nd Lute―will never be the same.</span></span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="auto"><span id="docs-internal-guid-55e0eb1a-7fff-12df-5c0d-ce6d6686b07e"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>-”The wind blows, I blink, and when I look again, I’m not surprised to find her gone. Even when she was visible, that woman was gone, dead, vanished.</i></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Dead is </i></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK2QRJnH0_CueOVaJIglc1i6E9SyEmMqQ6N1SqWEUe8VE792xpWuIwW143rEZ1W6qAhgD9UdupwzdN-4RbIKullzu10OyelxuMU7Fl9UJgknm_NeOPP84tLdGrG1ZqtqrP3lisbyG-EMb4G8aeKtEMJnxtPFPzxzdd5C-HQJCY2MIPBC5nj8LDd2GGld98/s1434/lute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1434" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK2QRJnH0_CueOVaJIglc1i6E9SyEmMqQ6N1SqWEUe8VE792xpWuIwW143rEZ1W6qAhgD9UdupwzdN-4RbIKullzu10OyelxuMU7Fl9UJgknm_NeOPP84tLdGrG1ZqtqrP3lisbyG-EMb4G8aeKtEMJnxtPFPzxzdd5C-HQJCY2MIPBC5nj8LDd2GGld98/s320/lute.jpg" width="223" /></a></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i> whether it happened five minutes ago or a thousand years past. Time changes nothing. No wonder it’s so layered here, the past so present.”<br /></i></span></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-c999c7d2-7fff-b722-a861-5b5b5a086422"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>-"And isn’t every day like this, really? We sit on the knife’s edge, enduring this gift for as long as it’s given to us, but this is the first time I’ve fully felt it in my blood, how brief it is. How horribly miraculous.”</i></span></span></span></p></span></div></div><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia;">Another one that could hardly have fallen more squarely in my wheelhouse. This fits the criteria for a horror novel, but it is so much more - frightening, yes, but also philosophical, thought-provoking, bittersweet, and beautiful. </span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia;">Nina is the perfect character to center in this story - the trauma of her past positioning her to be a skeptical, apprehensive voice against the apparent mythology of The Day on Lute when seven people must die in order to ensure the peace and prosperity for the intervening seven years. If it's true, would it be worth it? But it can't possibly be true, can it? </span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia;">There is no gore for gore's sake. The atmosphere of tension and unease is perfectly pitched, all the more so because of the island setting, and the cast of characters is perfectly varied and vivid. I felt for these people, and admired them and mourned for them. I just really loved this book.</span></span></p><p><u style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; font-size: large; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Non-fiction</u></p><p><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><u>One Strong Girl</u> by S. Leslie Buxton. </span>Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">One Strong Girl is a mother's vivid account of what it is like to lose her daughter, India, to a rare debilitating disease. The story is a bold description of what it means to deal with deep sorrow and still find balance and beauty in an age steeped in the denial of death. At ten, India climbed the highest on the rope at gymnastics, yet by sixteen was so weak she was unable to even dress herself. The narrative follows the six-year fight for answers from the medical community. Finally, after the genetic testing of India's DNA, it was discovered there were two mutations on her ASAH1 gene, a deadly combination. Today her cells are alive in a research lab at the University of Ottawa. This is a legacy that cuts both ways, a point of pride and pain. One Strong Girl is a story of what it's like to outlive an only child. It describes the intensity of loving a dying child and most importantly, the joy to be found, even amidst the sorrow.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUH1v3i59LK8GdsmPAWUoLoU82C96Z1WE1YsyfyR1pldFFC02sGxTrEAsAcsDhyphenhyphen2BsBUN2unVFWmDVi6AqH5acXk3cStU1PNIdor5jHR-MWnoizPYeE75NwzcWIqz9Kco3PalUSc_gmmlZyAkFpjymeEqI_EMpF8XzGaod4hzKMI93UMzFbsUyBWhhkxCY/s515/strong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="515" data-original-width="344" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUH1v3i59LK8GdsmPAWUoLoU82C96Z1WE1YsyfyR1pldFFC02sGxTrEAsAcsDhyphenhyphen2BsBUN2unVFWmDVi6AqH5acXk3cStU1PNIdor5jHR-MWnoizPYeE75NwzcWIqz9Kco3PalUSc_gmmlZyAkFpjymeEqI_EMpF8XzGaod4hzKMI93UMzFbsUyBWhhkxCY/w134-h200/strong.jpg" width="134" /></a></div>India was a childhood friend of my friend's daughter, so I was peripherally aware of this family's monstrously unfair plight. I knew I had to read this book, although of course it was heartbreakingly sad the way only this kind of book can be. <br /><p></p><p><u style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Frida Kahlo and My Left Leg</span></u><span style="background-color: white;"> by Emily Rapp Black. Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">Frida Kahlo was an amputee in the last part of her life, and long before that her right leg was forever compromised by a childhood bout with polio. Since adolescence, Emily Rapp, herself an amputee since the age of four, felt that there were many things she had in common with Frida Kahlo. From the first sight of Kahlo's painting of the devastating bus crash that almost killed her, Rapp felt a sense of kinship with the artist. They both endured numerous operations; both alternately hid and revealed their altered bodies; and both found a way to live and create despite physical and emotional pain. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">In this riveting read, Rapp gets to the essence of Frida Kahlo through her art, her letters and her diaries. She tells her own story of losing a child to Tay-Sachs; finding love, and becoming pregnant with her daughter; and of how Kahlo's life and work helped her to find a way forward when all seemed lost. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">Containing several full colour images of Kahlo's art and clothing, Rapp offers a unique perspective on the artist and the challenges she faced.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSq9liEikAEpcwuyXCRDy9n0mDSZ24cwo_F2pTPAH_wd8PQAyYs-ekTnVrnmZWJEK8nG_uNS4K5wZ5IsmHIwsI8TAPXve82IBOwAt9bcItmFdqfRu8hxoqhW3m29T_HTr8GkEGC9M-3Qa9Aas2n_PQhqQ9_uQ6LP1M2mXeXG0k45uguf3mwb6m5Bh-Sipv/s400/leg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="250" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSq9liEikAEpcwuyXCRDy9n0mDSZ24cwo_F2pTPAH_wd8PQAyYs-ekTnVrnmZWJEK8nG_uNS4K5wZ5IsmHIwsI8TAPXve82IBOwAt9bcItmFdqfRu8hxoqhW3m29T_HTr8GkEGC9M-3Qa9Aas2n_PQhqQ9_uQ6LP1M2mXeXG0k45uguf3mwb6m5Bh-Sipv/w125-h200/leg.jpg" width="125" /></a></span></span></div><span style="background-color: white;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">I discovered this by accident when looking for books on Friday Kahlo in the library catalogue. I'm always up for a book where a writer uses a work of literature or art or an artist's life to mediate parts of their own experience. Rapp has a wide-ranging knowledge of art, literature, philosophy and religion, and a bracing willingness to be pissed off and express it using all of these. <br /></span></span><p></p><div dir="auto"><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white;"><p style="color: black; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><u>The Skin We're In: A Year of Black Resistance and Power</u> by Desmond Cole. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">In his 2015 cover story for </span><em style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Toronto Life</em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"> magazine, Desmond Cole exposed the racist actions of the Toronto police force, detailing the dozens of times he had been stopped and interrogated under the controversial practice of carding. The story quickly came to national prominence, shaking the country to its core and catapulting its author into the public sphere. Cole used his newfound profile to draw insistent, unyielding attention to the injustices faced by Black Canadians on a daily basis. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">Both Cole’s activism and journalism find vibrant expression in his first book, </span><em style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">The Skin We’re In</em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">. Puncturing the bubble of Canadian smugness and naive assumptions of a post-racial nation, Cole chronicles just one year—2017—in the struggle against racism in this country. It was a year that saw calls for tighter borders when Black refugees braved frigid temperatures to cross into Manitoba from the States, Indigenous land and water protectors resisting the celebration of Canada’s 150th birthday, police across the country rallying around an officer accused of murder, and more. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">The year also witnessed the profound personal and professional ramifications of Desmond Cole’s unwavering determination to combat injustice. In April, Cole disrupted a Toronto police board meeting by calling for the destruction of all data collected through carding. Following the protest, Cole, a columnist with the Toronto Star, was summoned to a meeting with the paper’s opinions editor and informed that his activism violated company policy. Rather than limit his efforts defending Black lives, Cole chose to sever his relationship with the publication. Then in July, at another police board meeting, Cole challenged the board to respond to accusations of a police cover-up in the brutal beating of Dafonte Miller by an off-duty police officer and his brother. When Cole refused to leave the meeting until the question was publicly addressed, he was arrested. The image of Cole walking out of the meeting, handcuffed and flanked by officers, fortified the distrust between the city’s Black community and its police force. </span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;">Month-by-month, Cole creates a comprehensive picture of entrenched, systemic inequality. Urgent, controversial, and unsparingly honest, </span><em style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;">The Skin We’re In</em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;"> is destined to become a vital text for anti-racist and social justice movements in Canada, as well as a potent antidote to the all-too-present complacency of many white Canadians.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbf1rRMGKsdZsbrK39YKT-fYZGvaIhSwy6jnrLTLAztrh-ByEwqjq-ZpJiZGKRqQ-yrb6ELi6dhZRsEIAEhyphenhyphenNe3oWiCgIxOEK2BmPLXELT5PfteLHsgQkabRAWumqxRLT2AfHWO9hIsZO_VULACDGfqqiXElsckNcE1aoqeHeVSGO5Q7aNRWb9AbyuJgAW/s400/skin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="267" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbf1rRMGKsdZsbrK39YKT-fYZGvaIhSwy6jnrLTLAztrh-ByEwqjq-ZpJiZGKRqQ-yrb6ELi6dhZRsEIAEhyphenhyphenNe3oWiCgIxOEK2BmPLXELT5PfteLHsgQkabRAWumqxRLT2AfHWO9hIsZO_VULACDGfqqiXElsckNcE1aoqeHeVSGO5Q7aNRWb9AbyuJgAW/w134-h200/skin.jpg" width="134" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></span></span></p><p style="color: black; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><i>-"It's a self-fulfilling prophecy -- white settlers deny Black communities the necessities of life, then blame us for the social dysfunction that follows."</i></span></span></span></p><p style="color: black; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><i>-"Canada wanted Black women to prove they were exceptional in order to work as nurses, even while, in the immediate aftermath of the war, many places in Canada suffered from a shortage of qualified nurses."</i></span></span></span></p><p style="color: black; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;">Will put this on my shelf beside So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo. I really appreciated the format of following his experiences throughout a year to demonstrate the effects of institutional racism in Canada. To put it bluntly, it's all kinds of fucked up, and he has the facts and figures to back that up. Anyone who is still clinging to the "Canadians are such nice people" fallacy has to read this, and wake the hell up. </span></span></span></p><p style="color: black; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><u>The Drowned and the Saved</u> by Primo Levi. Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Shortly after completing THE DROWNED AND THE SAVED, Primo Levi committed suicide. The matter of his death was sudden, violent and unpremeditated, and there were some who argue that he killed himself because he was tormented by guilt - guilt that he had survived the horrors of Auschwitz while others, better than he, had gone to the wall. THE DROWNED AND THE SAVED is Levi's impassioned attempt to understand the 'rationale' behind the concentration camps, was completed shortly before his tragic death in 1987. THE DROWNED AND THE SAVED dispels the myth that Primo Levi forgave the Germans for what they did to his people. He didn't and couldn't forgive. He refused, however, to indulge in what he called 'the bestial vice of hatred' which is an entirely different matter. The voice that sounds in his writing is that of a reasonable man...it warns and reminds us that the unimaginable can happen again. A would-be tyrant is waiting in the wings, with 'beautiful words' on his lips. The book is constantly impressing on us the need to learn from the past, to make sense of the senseless'.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3VGy5B5w5-8JFycXg7sFz-bO0xm3je_jH_96kDYaJ3JqwX9eMimtMVxNOIlodktND_wBCynFXRs7OC1qmY2kQVyD-33NBxLUNd3I2tKxwJzTj9opbnr-09cjWQ-yaQwndlt66_mo51xoR4Jj-q365SOX_5ZomFjXK67RUu-Ajb4HCF7w9QXalqR1saU4/s2132/drowned.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2132" data-original-width="1400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3VGy5B5w5-8JFycXg7sFz-bO0xm3je_jH_96kDYaJ3JqwX9eMimtMVxNOIlodktND_wBCynFXRs7OC1qmY2kQVyD-33NBxLUNd3I2tKxwJzTj9opbnr-09cjWQ-yaQwndlt66_mo51xoR4Jj-q365SOX_5ZomFjXK67RUu-Ajb4HCF7w9QXalqR1saU4/w131-h200/drowned.jpg" width="131" /></a></span></span></div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span><p></p><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: collapse;">This was my first buddy read with my daughter - we've given and recommended books to each other, but this was the first time we read the same book at the same time. She came home for break starting it for a course, and when I realized I hadn't read any Primo Levi, I ordered a copy. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: collapse;">Sometimes I've wondered how anyone can stand to be called an 'intellectual', it seems to pretentious and bombastic. I think, with this book, I got it. Primo Levi lived the experience of the concentration camp, and yet he describes it, not unemotionally, but without letting emotion overcome his reason. He talks about occupants of the camp who informed on their neighbours to gain privileges, and says he can't condemn them because he's not sure he would have the strength of character to resist taking the same opportunity - this is amazing to me. I did some further reading on Levi afterwards, and I'm not comfortable with those who have decided that his death was absolutely a suicide - it seems to give in to the very mawkishness that he resisted in his writing. </span></div><p style="color: black; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><u>Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands</u> by Kate Beaton. Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">Before there was Kate Beaton, </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">New York Times</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"> bestselling cartoonist of </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Hark A Vagrant</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"> fame, there was Katie Beaton of the Cape Breton Beatons, specifically Mabou, a tight-knit seaside community where the lobster is as abundant as beaches, fiddles, and Gaelic folk songs. After university, Beaton heads out west to take advantage of Alberta’s oil rush, part of the long tradition of East Coasters who seek gainful employment elsewhere when they can't find it in the homeland they love so much. With the singular goal of paying off her student loans, what the journey will actually cost Beaton will be far more than she anticipates. </span></span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: x-small;">Arriving in Fort McMurray, Beaton finds work in the lucrative camps owned and operated by the world’s largest oil companies. Being one of the few women among thousands of men, the culture shock is palpable. It does not hit home until she moves to a spartan, isolated worksite for higher pay. She encounters the harsh reality of life in the oil sands where trauma is an everyday occurrence yet never discussed. Her wounds may never heal.</span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;">Beaton’s natural cartooning prowess is on full display as she draws colossal machinery and mammoth vehicles set against a sublime Albertan backdrop of wildlife, Northern Lights, and Rocky Mountains. Her first full-length graphic narrative, </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;">Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;"> is an untold story of Canada: a country that prides itself on its egalitarian ethos and natural beauty while simultaneously exploiting both the riches of its</span></span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">l</span></span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">and and the humanity of its people.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-8e2isjLJpTpKTIdDtxKQyaJwq9QDs_-WhUq5Wyk8LfmdoBUhhpQnVFIO6zOqOAdZ21shtwYe3Wp0O8ekPi4jiUzr97ZNz84gDHl40Fbm0pkEgybvXwpPAGe7VO8XgwTNbnfvrfPKuyYPSaWttR5p0siw11PuU64KZHABRiSFcTyKN1wKTy39U3z9MQPW/s1024/ducks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="711" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-8e2isjLJpTpKTIdDtxKQyaJwq9QDs_-WhUq5Wyk8LfmdoBUhhpQnVFIO6zOqOAdZ21shtwYe3Wp0O8ekPi4jiUzr97ZNz84gDHl40Fbm0pkEgybvXwpPAGe7VO8XgwTNbnfvrfPKuyYPSaWttR5p0siw11PuU64KZHABRiSFcTyKN1wKTy39U3z9MQPW/w139-h200/ducks.jpg" width="139" /></a></span></span></div><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p style="white-space-collapse: collapse;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">A Canada Reads book. With this, Kate Beaton becomes the author who has probably made me feel the most extreme range of emotions. <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10767466-hark-a-vagrant" target="_blank">Hark, a Vagrant</a> and <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23848561-step-aside-pops" target="_blank">Step Aside, Pops</a>, are so sharp and absurd and laugh-out-loud hilarious, and then this comes along and just rips your freaking heart out, still with pictures. </span></p><p style="color: black; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><u style="background-color: transparent; font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Fiction</u></p></div></div><p><u>The Sleeping Car Porter</u> by Suzette Mayr. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">When a mudslide strands a train, Baxter, a queer Black sleeping car porter, must contend with the perils of white passengers, ghosts, and his secret love affair. </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">The Sleeping Car Porter</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> brings to life an important part of Black history in North America, from the perspective of a queer man living in a culture that renders him invisible in two ways. Affecting, imaginative, and visceral enough that you’ll feel the rocking of the train, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">The Sleeping Car Porter</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> is a stunning</span></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">accomplishment. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Baxter’s name isn’t George. But it’s 1929, and Baxter is lucky enough, as a Black man, to have a job as a sleeping car porter on a train that crisscrosses the country. So when the passengers call him George, he has to just smile and nod and act invisible. What he really wants is to go to dentistry school, but he’ll have to save up a lot of nickel and dime tips to get there</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">, so he puts up with “George.” </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">On this particular trip out west, the passengers are more unruly than usual, especially when the train is stalled for two extra days; their secrets start to</span></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">leak out and blur with the sleep-deprivation hallucinations Baxter is having. When he finds a naughty postcard of two queer men, Baxter’s memories and longings are reawakened; keeping it puts his job in peril, but he can’t part with the postcard or his thoughts of Edwin Drew, Porter Instructor.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgffcoJK6cLLFSuOxAUrUGMrGQYjPh_AC4PZWal0omLeFKiXEQ6GFA6Zx-GHTewLmQ81wq1JMJ0Ems6NgNlsYdfY9Y9tqhg0fN6tHCmlrEY9cadXDuCJ5hLrBOhx1cLoeykG9xc7RTQgwDnvwSe4Bsl-X9MkqyZT8bndRhAdzbxb6Ipnqe3X_zRfjXmREUR/s440/sleeping%20car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgffcoJK6cLLFSuOxAUrUGMrGQYjPh_AC4PZWal0omLeFKiXEQ6GFA6Zx-GHTewLmQ81wq1JMJ0Ems6NgNlsYdfY9Y9tqhg0fN6tHCmlrEY9cadXDuCJ5hLrBOhx1cLoeykG9xc7RTQgwDnvwSe4Bsl-X9MkqyZT8bndRhAdzbxb6Ipnqe3X_zRfjXmREUR/s320/sleeping%20car.jpg" width="204" /></a></div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">-”He jabs a five-dollar bill at Baxter, and Baxter reaches for it, dizzy at the gargantuan amount of money. Mango jerks it back and rips it in tow; he offers one half to Baxter and winks, his lips sneering around the cigar. Time lashes to a stop. Mango is one of those nasty types, one who wants Baxter as an alibi or witness for some stupid or terrible thing he hasn’t done yet but he knows he’s going to do. Baxter folds the half bill in two, slides its foulness into his uniform breast pocket. Baxter remembers that Mangos have big, obtrusive pits."<br /></span></i></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-ad87c5ad-7fff-64df-3218-a858801c338d"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">-”Every so often when Baxter blinks, he has a thimble-sized dream. One about a radish sprinkled with salt. Another in which he rides astride an ant."</span></i></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I didn't realize until I had finished this book that I had read a previous book by the same author - Dr. Edith Vane and the Hares of Crowley Hall. I hated it. Thank goodness I didn't remember, or I might not have read this. This was the Giller Prize winner, along with the Governor General's Literary prize, both well-deserved. The writing style manages to capture perfectly the rhythmic, unceasing, slightly jerky motion of the train, and Baxter's aching, hyper-aware too-long-awakeness. The manifold indignities he has to endure cheerfully, and his dreams for the future (dentistry school - hey, if it's good enough for Hermey the Elf...). I love any book that can make historical fiction this immediate and personal. </span></span></span></p><p><u>Tom Lake</u> by Ann Patchett. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">In this beautiful and moving novel about family, love, and growing up, Ann Patchett once again proves herself one of America’s finest writers. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">In the spring of 2020, Lara’s three daughters return to the family's orchard in Northern Michigan. While picking cherries, they beg their mother to tell them the story of Peter Duke, a famous actor with whom she shared both a stage and a romance years before at a theater company called Tom Lake. As Lara recalls the past, her daughters examine their own lives and relationship with their mother, and are forced to reconsider the world and everything they thought they knew. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Tom Lake is a meditation on youthful love, married love, and the lives parents have led before their children were born. Both hopeful and elegiac, it explores what it means to be happy even w</span></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">hen the world is falling apart. As in all of her novels, Ann Patchett combines compelling narrative artistry with piercing insights into family dynamics. The result is a rich and luminous story, told with profound intelligence and emotional subtlety, that demonstrates once again why she is one of the most revered and acclaimed literary talents working today</span></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVOPIjggKqzgv0XrvkszpTxBryXJsgxH2AFiCzcwN4CySEO1N-nYZVa-OBfYnP6mbin_G319fe7KtfAbPnDT5xDtnJAR8ORpvJw8xerhajxpoMA0qZNcUrPKcKYi2qaCdTVN4JaNl-86T4_zaQGdt3o00uTIp3HFIi7fEeE8DllAfTLpJyIX6y9us3ZyhX/s978/tom%20lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="978" data-original-width="648" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVOPIjggKqzgv0XrvkszpTxBryXJsgxH2AFiCzcwN4CySEO1N-nYZVa-OBfYnP6mbin_G319fe7KtfAbPnDT5xDtnJAR8ORpvJw8xerhajxpoMA0qZNcUrPKcKYi2qaCdTVN4JaNl-86T4_zaQGdt3o00uTIp3HFIi7fEeE8DllAfTLpJyIX6y9us3ZyhX/s320/tom%20lake.jpg" width="212" /></a></span></span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">I love Ann Patchett. Bel Canto is in my Top Ten of All Time. I first read her memoir about her friendship with Lucy Grealy, a troubled fellow writer whose face was disfigured by cancer in childhood. I then went on to her fiction, and her essays, which are both phenomenal. Her writing is so simple and non-show-offy, and the words just kind of fall down like raindrops and suddenly you're washed away in this tsunami of story. This is about different kinds of family, different kinds of love at different stages of life, different paths taken and not, and how to keep sowing and hoping for an abundant harvest even when it seems unlikely.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><u>Fight Night</u> by Miriam Toews. </span>Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Fight Night</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> is told in the unforgettable voice of Swiv, a nine-year-old living in Toronto with her pregnant mother, who is raising Swiv while caring for her own elderly, frail, yet extraordinarily lively mother. When Swiv is expelled from school, Grandma takes on the role of teacher and gives her the task of writing to Swiv's absent father about life in the household during the last trimester of the pregnancy. In turn, Swiv gives Grandma an assignment: to write a letter to "Gord," her unborn grandchild (and Swiv's soon-to-be brother or sister). "You’re a small thing," Grandma writes to Gord, "and you must learn to fight." </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: preserve;">As Swiv records her thoughts and observations, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Fight Night</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> unspools the pain, love, laughter, and above all, will to live a good life across three generations of women in a close-knit family. But it is Swiv’s exasperating, wise and irrepressible Grandma who is at the heart of this novel: someone who knows intimately what it costs to survive in this world, yet has found a way—painfully, joyously, ferociously—to love and fight to the end, on her own terms.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I was going to maybe flip this from the a book you want your child to read' bingo square to 'a book my child wanted me to read', but it also fit 'sat on your shelf for over a year'. I loved Miriam Toews before my daughter, but she may have lapped me in fandom. She gave me Fight Night for Christmas last year but it took me until recently to read it for... reasons, I dunno, I have a lot of books, I only read paper books when I won't wake up my husband with the light, whatever, leave me </span><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;" tabindex="-1"></a><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;">alone. Also refer back to the 'perversely refusing to read things I will love'. I am infinite, I contain super dumb multitudes.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoupXcahXWSkpoq_jcI3uoBIIC5WDClIBMjhJl_zF-exjfL8iRf0ydVVvyvyaDz23gaNFQVsu0vakYQ4f3P25-cP7l3YEwxA5KDQ-iRhdmVjKqUKPppn-cfWkEVmlcIBQaWZW8oIDRCUd6bSXh9dRTnbds9gp9y__FHzxhioTgrEz8seVAiQR55Nr6Fsqs/s450/fight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="293" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoupXcahXWSkpoq_jcI3uoBIIC5WDClIBMjhJl_zF-exjfL8iRf0ydVVvyvyaDz23gaNFQVsu0vakYQ4f3P25-cP7l3YEwxA5KDQ-iRhdmVjKqUKPppn-cfWkEVmlcIBQaWZW8oIDRCUd6bSXh9dRTnbds9gp9y__FHzxhioTgrEz8seVAiQR55Nr6Fsqs/w130-h200/fight.jpg" width="130" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span><p></p><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVED it, I'm an asshole for not reading it sooner. It's written in the most perfectly rendered pre-teen kid voice since Scout from To Kill a Mockingbird, but with more swearing. I laughed out loud multiple times, all with the knowledge that it was at least as heartbreaking as it was funny because Swiv is only so fierce and profane because she is fighting as hard as she can to hold her bizarre family together. And her bonkers, infuriating, absolutely charming grandmother, and her pregnant actress mother round things out perfectly. I come from a family that deals with fear and sadness with black humour, so I don't know if this will be everyone's cup of tea, but I absolutely adored it.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia;"><u>Foster </u>by Claire Keegan. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; white-space-collapse: collapse;">Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A small girl is sent to live with foster parents on a farm in rural Ireland, without knowing when she will return home. In the strangers' house, she finds a warmth and affection she has not known before and slowly begins to blossom in their care. And then a secret is revealed and suddenly, she realizes how fragile her idyll is.</span></span></div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Winner of the Davy Byrnes Memorial Prize, Foster is now published in a revised and expanded version. Beautiful, sad and eerie, it is a story of astonishing emotional depth, showcasing Claire Keegan's great accomplishment and t</span></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">alent.</span></span><div><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-86222cd2-7fff-9652-5a2a-0f73707619e4"><span style="color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”I wonder why my father lies about the hay. He is given to lying about things that would be nice, if they were true. Somewhere, farther off, someone has started up a chainsaw and it drones on like a big, stinging wasp for a while in the distance. I wish I was out there, working, as I’m unused to sitting still and do not know what to do with my hands. Part of me wants my father to leave me here while another part of me wants him to take me back, to what I know. I am in a spot where I can neither be what I always am nor turn into what I could be.”</i></span></span></span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><span><span style="color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">This probably has the most meaning-to-word-count ratio of any book I've ever read. The tightly compressed story, the plain language with worlds of meaning shimmering just below the surface, made me feel like I could read this a dozen times and still not wring all of the significance out of it. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_3nLsBERq-PitV4o-zq1jWZdwYZAei9ToDycNruv1MonRWNzGGwwU0AgagtsPKN2EAdVzp7yuW8JrsFpgbDdZ7UmPELd1iUCWiwGDE9ybBvrm7DOOOGW6LeLTGiGl_tz6eZkyR5ZHctaYNmdVAgJKGrerXL9ZpjjCHVoRiaOGYb06uNdsCagELCcLFES7/s434/hunting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_3nLsBERq-PitV4o-zq1jWZdwYZAei9ToDycNruv1MonRWNzGGwwU0AgagtsPKN2EAdVzp7yuW8JrsFpgbDdZ7UmPELd1iUCWiwGDE9ybBvrm7DOOOGW6LeLTGiGl_tz6eZkyR5ZHctaYNmdVAgJKGrerXL9ZpjjCHVoRiaOGYb06uNdsCagELCcLFES7/s320/hunting.jpg" width="221" /></a></div><br /></span></span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><u><br /></u></span></span></span><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space-collapse: collapse;"><u>Hunting and Gathering </u>by Anna Gavalda<u>. </u> Synopsis from Goodreads: </span></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Camille is doing her best to disappear. She barely eats, works at night as a cleaner and lives in a tiny attic room. Downstairs in a beautiful, ornate apartment, lives Philibert Marquet de la Durbellière, a shy, erudite, upper-class man with an unlikely flatmate in the shape of the foul-mouthed but talented chef, Franck. One freezing evening Philibert overcomes his excruciating reticence to rescue Camille, unconscious, from her garret and bring her into his home.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;">As she recovers Camille learns more about Philibert; about Franck and his guilt for his beloved but fragile grandmother Paulette, who is all he has left in the world;</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: collapse;"> and about herself. And slowly, this curious quartet of misfits all discover the importance of food, friendship and love.</span></span></div><div dir="auto"><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span><div dir="auto"><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Used this for 'a love story' in book bingo. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">My book club friend's husband (we trade books sometimes) found this in a Little Free Library and liked it, so passed it on. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I don't tend to be an Anglophile or Francophile, but I have to say, lately I've been mainlining British murder mysteries on Britbox, and somehow murder in British is just ... better. And this book stripped down was basically a rom-com, but French, and thus ... better. Cock-eyed and weird and quirky, profane and even off-putting </span><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: georgia;" tabindex="-1"></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">in a couple of places. The love in question is not only romantic but also familial and .... I can't think of an adjective that means the love between friends, but that (the internet says 'philia', but I don't like it, it is the suffix of too many gross words). It did nothing to disabuse me of my conviction that most, if not all, professional chefs are batshit crazy.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white;"><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><u>Black Cake</u> by Charmaine Wilkerson. Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">In present-day California, Eleanor Bennett’s death leaves behind a puzzling inheritance for her two children, Byron and Benny: a black cake, made from a family recipe with a long history, and a voice recording. In her message, Eleanor shares a tumultuous story about a headstrong young swimmer who escapes her island home under suspicion of murder. The heartbreaking tale Eleanor unfolds, the secrets she still holds back, and the mystery of a long-lost child challenge everything the siblings thought they knew about their lineage and themselves. </span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Can Byron and Benny reclaim their once-close relationship, piece together Eleanor’s true history, and fulfill her final request to “share the black cake when the time is right”? Will their mother’s revelations bring them back together or leave them feeling more lost than ever? </span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Charmaine Wilkerson’s debut novel is a story of how the inheritance of betrayals, secrets, memories, and even names can shape relationships and history. Deeply evocative and beautifully written, </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Black Cake</i><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;"> is an extraordinary journey through the life of a family changed forever by the choices of its matriarch.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRRZXbN8Si-3tUYmuMVV1wlcDbDHGfSqAP45NxF62YiQEgrVDjqVOLXmPl4-WhBNE0egDz53zXVtrVz5R8_zI0o0ZiERbTWq9b7SuPsmpt0mhKGd8A7fsFz28vEOdiZDFaMYOuNVrKyxjDoRZ7QGHXxYWkR7S_TX4gJpq-2iDLcYg-bgHyZHodY1ylr6zh/s400/cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRRZXbN8Si-3tUYmuMVV1wlcDbDHGfSqAP45NxF62YiQEgrVDjqVOLXmPl4-WhBNE0egDz53zXVtrVz5R8_zI0o0ZiERbTWq9b7SuPsmpt0mhKGd8A7fsFz28vEOdiZDFaMYOuNVrKyxjDoRZ7QGHXxYWkR7S_TX4gJpq-2iDLcYg-bgHyZHodY1ylr6zh/w131-h200/cake.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><br /></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-b8903277-7fff-8733-a202-646ed17d34ff"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">-"Most of the goods in her pa’s store were lost. The rest was too smoky to be sold. On the day after the blaze, she overheard Pearl telling the helper from next door that she didn’t think Mister Lin should have to be ruined because of someone else’s bad deeds. Mister Lin, Pearl said, was perfectly capable of ruining things for himself.”</span></i></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-d42095b9-7fff-c712-207b-57d3df53a934"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>-”Terrain and climate aside, food was often about who had colonized whom, who had been based where during wartime, who had been forced to feed what to their children when there was nothing else left. And, of course, it was about geography, too, so Marble decided to narrow her focus to traditional foods made with indigenous ingredients or foods that had been produced locally for more than a millennium.”</i></span></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">One of the first books I read in 2023. Book bingo square for Own Voices or Revenge. I loved it - I sometimes read straight fiction more slowly, but I couldn't stop reading this and couldn't wait to pick it up again. It has quite a few different characters and time periods but the author keeps it all in check. The Caribbean setting is beautifully rendered, all of the characters are wonderful and it really shows how even family members who love each other fervently can fall </span><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: georgia;" tabindex="-1"></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">prey to stubbornness and misunderstandings. The threads of cooking/baking/nourishing, swimming/water and the particular intimacy that occurs between women are really effective.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><u>Greenwood</u> by Michael Christie. Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;">It's 2034 and Jake Greenwood is a storyteller and a liar, an overqualified tour guide babysitting ultra-rich vacationers in one of the world's last remaining forests. </span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;">It's 2008 and Liam Greenwood is a carpenter, fallen from a ladder and sprawled on his broken back, calling out from the concrete floor of an empty mansion. </span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;">It's 1974 and Willow Greenwood is out of jail, free after being locked up for one of her endless series of environmental protests: attempts at atonement for the sins of her father's once vast and violent timber empire. </span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;">It's 1934 and Everett Greenwood is alone, as usual, in his maple syrup camp squat when he hears the cries of an abandoned infant and gets tangled up in the web of a crime that will cling to his family for decades. </span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;">And throughout, there are trees: thrumming a steady, silent pulse beneath Christie's effortless sentences and working as a guiding metaphor for withering, weathering, and survival. </span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;">A shining, intricate clockwork of a novel, </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;">Greenwood</i><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;"> is a rain-soaked and sun-dappled story of the bonds and breaking points of money and love, wood and blood—and the hopeful, impossible task of growing toward the light.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmYcQlj879MxIS6U7-1OwJh1-mkJ4Myp9Hw6e4x7AgISM1SDXufDUeDHitX_ppK_s2LR7H4rsZ1oWDk01ZQwCteVTqsZp0kmZJC2XjjSpWMtFFimsyFG6J1xk1Dv-InLiIqO-KyYt3kg5QBtl_vqZJK-TaHe82KskgyW2CSoLqFMU9oXdahFLTGRJvoubq/s400/greenwood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="259" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmYcQlj879MxIS6U7-1OwJh1-mkJ4Myp9Hw6e4x7AgISM1SDXufDUeDHitX_ppK_s2LR7H4rsZ1oWDk01ZQwCteVTqsZp0kmZJC2XjjSpWMtFFimsyFG6J1xk1Dv-InLiIqO-KyYt3kg5QBtl_vqZJK-TaHe82KskgyW2CSoLqFMU9oXdahFLTGRJvoubq/s320/greenwood.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br /></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-4ef5c41e-7fff-aa2d-4da8-0ba912fbc319"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>-”’You think trees are sacred,’ he says. ‘That they love you. That they grow for your enjoyment. But those who really know trees know they’re also ruthless. They’ve been fighting a war for </i></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>sunlight and sustenance since before we existed. And they’d gladly crush or poison every single one of us if it gave them any advantage.”</i></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-2247413a-7fff-61e6-8087-7715d63ec506"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>-”Her lips tighten over her teeth. ‘That must have been painful,’ she says. ‘To see all those people torn up like that.’ And her statement’s naked simplicity unlocks something in Everett’s chest. How easily she’s linked what he witnessed in the War with the disquiet that afflicted him afterwards, like a blade that’d entered him through his eyes and broken off inside his head.”</i></span></span></span></p><div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></div></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My fourth Canada Reads book last year. This was stunning. It is likened to Cloud Atlas and The Overstory in the description, both of which I loved. It's probably closer to the Overstory - the sections are less equal than Cloud Atlas, although they still start in the future, travel back, then return. It is about ecology and climate change (terrifyingly, appropriately) and also about family and heritage and the <a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="-1"></a>ways in which history and memory are corrupted and lost, and trees. There are fiercely principled characters who I admired and also kind of disliked, and and less scrupulously moral characters that I could understand. I read it interspersed with other books and it took me quite a while, but I always felt like I was newly immersed and engaged every time I came back.</span></div></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Michael Christie has two kids named Lake and August and a wife with the unlikely name of Cedar Bowers, which seems equally pretentious and cool to me.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHXN8FCE1mdoWoHdkKtwumYNjI2PIBO3nBL3l9xqFCkEAoJCjdYp3s4RPzMVU0iB25rkEBBT9ZCVKTtRunoFdBSrHC418RXH5J99Vv1ziNfgvk2HSCB34XPcoo-WsyVx_4_DbJzVOE8Yw5qlqq58U5XuObn_oOq55P-m7wmMQd3swqBQMBusS8ZLfTeLgO/s400/measure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="272" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHXN8FCE1mdoWoHdkKtwumYNjI2PIBO3nBL3l9xqFCkEAoJCjdYp3s4RPzMVU0iB25rkEBBT9ZCVKTtRunoFdBSrHC418RXH5J99Vv1ziNfgvk2HSCB34XPcoo-WsyVx_4_DbJzVOE8Yw5qlqq58U5XuObn_oOq55P-m7wmMQd3swqBQMBusS8ZLfTeLgO/s320/measure.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><u>We Measure the Earth With Our Bodies</u> by Tsering Yangzom Lama. Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;">In the wake of China's invasion of Tibet throughout the 1950s, Lhamo and her younger sister, Tenkyi, arrive at a refugee camp in Nepal. They survived the dangerous journey across the Himalayas, but their parents did not. As Lhamo-haunted by the loss of her homeland and her mother, a village oracle-tries to rebuild a life amid a shattered community, hope arrives in the form of a young man named Samphel and his uncle, who brings with him the ancient statue of the Nameless Saint-a relic known to vanish and reappear in times of need. </span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;">Decades later, the sisters are separated, and Tenkyi is living with Lhamo's daughter, Dolma, in Toronto. While Tenkyi works as a cleaner and struggles with traumatic memories, Dolma vies for a place as a scholar of Tibetan Studies. But when Dolma comes across the Nameless Saint in a collector's vault, she must decide what she is willing to do for her community, even if it means risking her dreams.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;">Breathtaking in its scope and powerful in its intimacy, </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;">We Measure the Earth with Our Bodies</i><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;"> is a gorgeously written meditation on colonization, displacement, and the lengths we'll go to remain connected to our families and ancestral lands. Told through the lives of four people over fifty years, this novel provides a nuanced, moving portrait of the little-known world of Tibetan exiles.<br /></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: collapse;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-f97f9398-7fff-7123-9dff-8a6e143dedca"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">-”’You will smash every statue inside,’ the head soldier shouted. Our monastery had hundreds of statues, some so small that they could fit in my palm, while the largest was a three-story gold statue of Guru Rinpoche containing precious stones.</span></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘They will make bullets of the statues,’ Lhaksam whispered.</span></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘Don’t lie. How?’ I asked.</span></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">‘They melt the statues and use the metal to make bullets, Lhamo. Then they will kill us with our own gods.’”</span></i></span></p><div><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></div></span></div><div dir="auto" style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-afdfdfb7-7fff-7fb8-25c9-0b738f6f1059"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><span style="background-color: transparent; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">-"Long ago, our world was full of enchantment. When Ama was alive, when we roamed our pastures and lived beside lakes and mountains filled with gods. Then we crossed over the mountains and magic snagged on the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">ridges. It slipped off our bodies and we lost our beauty</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">."</span></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p></span></div><div dir="auto"><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Another Giller Prize shortlister. It's hard to believe this is a first novel. I didn't know a lot about the Chinese invasion of Tibet in 1959 that resulted in large numbers of Tibetan refugees in camps on the border of Nepal. For the first few pages I felt like I wasn't going to be able to get into the story, and then I was ravenous for it. It goes back and <a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="-1"></a>forth between 1960s Nepal and present-day Toronto, and captures the experiences both of refugee camp life and exile in Toronto heartbreakingly well. Family, and the ramifications of intergenerational trauma and exile in several forms are woven throughout. I love the descriptions of how real the gods and spirits are to the Tibetan people. The title refers to pilgrims traveling by prostrations - lying down and then rising, over and over. This whole book felt like that kind of act of devotion. </span></div><div style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></div></div></div></div></div><p><br /></p></div></div>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-43520072222005438882024-01-25T19:20:00.000-08:002024-01-25T19:20:25.378-08:00Books Read in 2023: Four-Star Fiction<p>Regarding Run Towards the Danger - I should have specified that the 'Cup of Tea' square in book bingo was subtitled 'Cozy or Dishing the Dirt', and I thought a good part of this was kind of dishing the dirt on the various productions she had been in.</p><p>The penultimate book review post! I'm usually in a love-hate situation at this point - scared of trying to figure out what to blog about when these posts are done, but also running thin on adjectives and insights. </p><p>We had freezing rain last night, and when I got home from work the plow row at the end of the driveway was a rock-hard mound of ice. I chipped away at it a little, but it's going to be ugly for a bit. On the happy side, when I opened the passenger door side of the rav to get my work stuff out, I found a mitten that I thought I had lost - a dark gray alpaca mitten from a pair that I bought because when I took Eve and her friends to the Van Gogh exhibit in Montreal in January 2019, just before everything went screwy, I lent one of her friends my gray alpaca mittens and one got lost. I was planning to search my mitten bin to see if I still had the remaining mitten and if it was the right one to make a pair with the current remaining mittens. I have now typed the word mitten so many times it has lost all meaning, but it makes me so sad when I lose one mitten of a good pair, so that was a good thing that happened in January.</p><div><u><span style="font-size: large;">Four-Star Fiction</span></u></div><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Yellowface </span></u>by R.F. Kuang. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Athena Liu is a literary darling and June Hayward is literally nobody. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">White lies W</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">hen Athena dies in a freak accident, June steals her unpublished manuscript and publishes it as her own under the ambiguous name Juniper Song. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Dark humour </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But as evidence threatens June’s stolen success, she will discover exactly how far she will go to keep what she thinks she deserves. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Deadly consequences…</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">What happens next is entirely everyone else’s fault. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">With its totally immersive first-person voice, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Yellowface</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> grapples with questions of diversity, racism, and cultural appropriation, as well as the terrifying alienation of social media. R.F. Kuang’s novel is timely, razor-sharp, and eminently readable.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVsLYpXyQErTdWgfYsprYMdYgZiGevuG7GJAysHKkPPa4WTj7ru13rl6z7Ibpa6YrZ28CUGw_UDMDi77bYfr2cjIw8a0Z0tD2d3UNA_XHUhJfH2K14TRKCdAhrYAaF1a_it-0Rmivx5ZcKY6bfDJw3BQ9IYnL0vLw6mghKUq9fLKwZP2pM8xy7ksDggTGh/s2400/yellow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="1593" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVsLYpXyQErTdWgfYsprYMdYgZiGevuG7GJAysHKkPPa4WTj7ru13rl6z7Ibpa6YrZ28CUGw_UDMDi77bYfr2cjIw8a0Z0tD2d3UNA_XHUhJfH2K14TRKCdAhrYAaF1a_it-0Rmivx5ZcKY6bfDJw3BQ9IYnL0vLw6mghKUq9fLKwZP2pM8xy7ksDggTGh/w133-h200/yellow.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></span></div><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">I kept hearing about this book, eventually got the express ebook, and then it expired before I got to it. I then found it in a Little Free Library, which always seems magical, buuuuut for some reason I still didn't read it. Over the Christmas break my eye fell on it and I thought it would be nice to get it read before the end of the year, but had no idea that once I cracked it I would not be able to put it down. I have read so many reviews with competing assertions at this point that my thoughts are clang-y and confused about, well, ABOUT the book. I think a lot of the satire is very on-point, and the narrative energy was off-the-charts. There are opinions about Kuang using mouthpieces to state her own opinions, and about how much of her own life is in the book. I don't know that I care overly about that - part of the twisted charm is Kuang doing what white writers have done for years from the other side. </span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Maid</span></u> by Nita Prose. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Molly Gray is not like everyone else. She struggles with social skills and misreads the intentions of others. Her gran used to interpret the world for her, codifying it into simple rules that Molly could live by. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Since Gran died a few months ago, twenty-five-year-old Molly has been navigating life's complexities all by herself. No matter—she throws herself with gusto into her work as a hotel maid. Her unique character, along with her obsessive love of cleaning and proper etiquette, make her an ideal fit for the job. She delights in donning her crisp uniform each morning, stocking her cart with miniature soaps and bottles, and returning guest rooms at the Regency Grand Hotel to a state of perfection. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But Molly's orderly life is upended the day she enters the suite of the infamous and wealthy Charles Black, only to find it in a state of disarray and Mr. Black himself dead in his bed. Before she knows what's happening, Molly's unusual demeanor has the police targeting her as their lead suspect. She quickly finds herself caught in a web of deception, one she has no idea how to untangle. Fortunately for Molly, friends she never knew she had unite with her in a search for clues to what really happened to Mr. Black—but will they be able to find the real killer before it's too late?</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6tGugviTV-k2Z9lCdrx8_6WkxO3TwGxI99HTxxuHqDf5wzEF7Ola2ep7yDZzh1aCpukThLSwcufSBWlOUC492lYNyvFOyUsJWKMDu6G9XnmcxTsNQwj3F_lT8x3OPzuhWkgr_C-c05y03Xeihpitg5t4UOeblQrSpfeQRBdyxH9suS21Ox0I-ACZRPTB0/s441/maid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="441" data-original-width="290" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6tGugviTV-k2Z9lCdrx8_6WkxO3TwGxI99HTxxuHqDf5wzEF7Ola2ep7yDZzh1aCpukThLSwcufSBWlOUC492lYNyvFOyUsJWKMDu6G9XnmcxTsNQwj3F_lT8x3OPzuhWkgr_C-c05y03Xeihpitg5t4UOeblQrSpfeQRBdyxH9suS21Ox0I-ACZRPTB0/w131-h200/maid.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>-’There’s nothing quite like a perfectly stocked maid’s trolley early in the morning. It is, in my humble opinion, a cornucopia of bounty and beauty.”</i></span></span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-29d6529d-7fff-2dd4-fc90-44771d8cd762"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>-"‘Right,’ he said. ‘So those two men you saw in that room? That bag they had? That was Juan Manuel’s bag. It wasn’t theirs. It definitely wasn’t mine. It was Juan Manuel’s. Got it?’</i></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>‘I understand, yes. We all have baggage,’ I paused, allowing ample time for Rodney to pick up on my clever double entendre. ‘That’s a joke,’ I explained. ‘Those men were literally carrying baggage, but the expression usually refers to psychological baggage. You see?’”<br /></i></span></span></p></span><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;">More like three and a half. There was a book bingo square for Most Popular from Your Local Library in 2022. Well, I wasn't going to go near Where the Crawdads sing, and this was next on the list. I liked it quite a lot, even though it was a little too... something for me (neatly tied up, slightly saccharine in places, a bit too deus-ex-machina at the end?). I liked Molly a lot, and the pleasure she took in her work. What a lovely and well-tempered world it would be if the right person could find the right work like this always, and people weren't judged for liking work that others find menial or demeaning. One of the reviewers I read doubted that people in the world could still be this clueless about people on the spectrum, and I strongly disagree - many, many people lack the curiosity and compassion to comprehend neurodivergence, leaving aside the people who just haven't come across it. The whole 'nefarious plot' part of the, um, plot, I could have done without, but I guess it advanced the narrative. I would have liked a little more subtlety, but I still wanted to keep reading. </span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Like One of the Family: Conversations From a Domestic's Life</span></u> by Alice Childress. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Like One of the Family,</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> which provides historical context for Kathryn Stockett's novel, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">The Help,</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> is comprised of a series of conversations between Mildred, a black domestic, and her friend Marge. They create a vibrant picture of the life of a black working woman in New York in the 1950s. Rippling with satire and humor, Mildred’s outspoken accounts capture vividly her white employers’ complacency and condescension—and startled reactions to a maid who speaks her mind. As Mildred declares to a patronizing employer that she is not just like one of the family, or explains to Marge how a tricky employer has created a system of “half days off” to cheat her help, we gain a glimpse not only of one woman’s day-to-day struggle, but of her previous ache of racial oppression. A domestic who refuses to exchange dignity for pay, Mildred is an inspiring conversationalist, a dragon slayer in a segregated world. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">The conversations in the book were first published in </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Freedom,</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> the newspaper edited by Paul Robeson, and later in the </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Baltimore Afro-American</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">. The book was originally published in the 1950s by in Brooklyn–based Independence Press, and Beacon Press brought out a new edition of it in 1986 with an introduction by the literary and cultural critic Trudier Harris.<br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSnJiOyid_MsaXL3yUuguV13Uuun0OISfuhoNtgOHyahl336GmHOmkEm7e6MzpzcppRSkZuYsluoNAbL6UFiSJXZ7KcbW2d5Lzpc9OAyaJYhnD0uDb_euhezOr5_xjpPrG6MiFL7JiwQkt4WwaXYtj9r6f3UOifd9J0a_omsp50-PiksaAvhQ7fcBX-zTC/s450/family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="302" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSnJiOyid_MsaXL3yUuguV13Uuun0OISfuhoNtgOHyahl336GmHOmkEm7e6MzpzcppRSkZuYsluoNAbL6UFiSJXZ7KcbW2d5Lzpc9OAyaJYhnD0uDb_euhezOr5_xjpPrG6MiFL7JiwQkt4WwaXYtj9r6f3UOifd9J0a_omsp50-PiksaAvhQ7fcBX-zTC/w134-h200/family.jpg" width="134" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">A little tough to rate in some ways. I think I might have read about this in Well-Read Black Girl, but don't quote me. Some of this is pretty repetitive, and some of it verges close to wish-fulfillment, but the fact is it's just good to read, and I would hope is encouraging to write, this character who is so empowered, courageous and unapologetically willing to speak plain truth to her white employers.</span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">When Everything Feels Like the Movies</span></u> by Raziel Reid. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">School is just like a film set: there's The Crew, who make things happen, The Extras who fill the empty desks, and The Movie Stars, whom everyone wants tagged in their Facebook photos. But Jude doesn't fit in. He's not part of The Crew because he isn't about to do anything unless it's court-appointed; he's not an Extra because nothing about him is anonymous; and he's not a Movie Star because even though everyone know his name like an A-lister, he isn't invited to the cool parties. As the director calls action, Jude is the flamer that lights the set on fire. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Before everything turns to ashes from the resulting inferno, Jude drags his best friend Angela off the casting couch and into enough melodrama to incite the paparazzi, all while trying to fend off the haters and win the heart of his favourite co-star Luke Morris. It's a total train wreck!</span></span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #1e1915;">-</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;">-”They made portraits of me too. They were my graffiti tabloids. I was totally famous. I’d imagine that the drawing in the handicap stall of my alleged crotch with ‘Hermafrodite Jude/Judy’ sciribbled next to it was the cover of the National Enquirer. Misspelled headline included. I was addicted to them. I’d look all over the bathroom and on all the walls in the hallway, and if there wasn’t one waiting for me on my locker for Jim to paint over at the end of the day, I was crushed. I wanted them to hate me; hate was as close to love as I thought I’d ever be.”</span></span></i></p><p><i style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">-"So when everything feels like the movies/ Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive" - Iris, Goo Goo Dolls</i></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">This was a Canada Reads book in the past. one of the years I tried to read all five but didn't get to the </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOMD1Gy9lZGIoCmVhJ88QrzsGSun6Z4mrEHMMkVrve75KEpfmAx-1k8J-RIFXfDubRDTyqqcCzhNVAQL2BE36Ac2kEyAyZSHwaDJpaUK3ljKO0jrjwUthibEGIwwwS-VjCubqR9K-5q45WriVXAw7bJQr18WxFsQtqq3IWZqomhzdgsQOOLta8sCQf1E-f/s460/movies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="318" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOMD1Gy9lZGIoCmVhJ88QrzsGSun6Z4mrEHMMkVrve75KEpfmAx-1k8J-RIFXfDubRDTyqqcCzhNVAQL2BE36Ac2kEyAyZSHwaDJpaUK3ljKO0jrjwUthibEGIwwwS-VjCubqR9K-5q45WriVXAw7bJQr18WxFsQtqq3IWZqomhzdgsQOOLta8sCQf1E-f/w138-h200/movies.jpg" width="138" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br />last one. Also a book bingo square for a banned book. Not a comfortable or enjoyable read, but a brutally effective one. It's hard to like Jude - a blazingly bright character, a genderqueer 15-year-old at the intersectional points of several minority statuses. His determined cinematic sensibility is both persuasive and heartbreaking in the face of the very real emotional and physical threats he faces daily. With a choice about being invisible or obnoxiously in-your-face flamboyant about his identity, he's chosen the latter, and who can blame him, as infuriatingly self-destructive as it seems. This won the Governor General's Award for YA literature and is, predictably, very polarizing (oh ha-ha, yes it's YA, I am just utterly incapable of categorizing things correctly is what's happening here). </span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Also, I was long finished the book when I realized that When Everything is Like the Movies is from a Goo Goo Dolls song, which just goes to show how being an un-hip fifty-year-old can rob you of questionably valuable additional context for some things. In case that was ever in doubt.</span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Leave the World Behind by Rumaan Alam.</span></u> Synopsis from Goodreads:<span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span><span style="color: #050505; font-size: x-small; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">A magnetic novel about two families, strangers to each other, who are forced together on a long weekend gone terribly wrong. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">Amanda and Clay head to a remote corner of Long Island expecting a a quiet reprieve from life in New York City, quality time with their teenage son and daughter and a taste of the good life in the luxurious home they've rented for the week. But with a late-night knock on the door, the spell is broken. Ruth and G. H., an older couple who claim to own the home, have arrived there in a panic. These strangers say that a sudden power outage has swept the city, and - with nowhere else to turn - they have come to the country in search of shelter. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">But with the TV and internet down, and no phone service, the facts are unknowable. Should Amanda and Clay trust this couple - and vice versa? What has happened back in New York? Is the holiday home, isolated from civilisation, a truly safe place for their families? And are they safe from one another?</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #050505; font-size: x-small; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjolH5felArxQH176m3Ng2Lac3Jl5CmgjinV_n4yhvmYQeEEtIQb1AmGJPjUoRe6hhlzqMt8AMEqiscHFb49BHzjYZPMLpaaO8nkaU46TzzykNfV2TnDg9AOh2HmOrbkPf6PhTJnWssSdE1U00Bl7_cprT1fC6E9zpk0laLgp3Ze1_iZSMjybG9k8Xenbeq/s2429/world.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2429" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjolH5felArxQH176m3Ng2Lac3Jl5CmgjinV_n4yhvmYQeEEtIQb1AmGJPjUoRe6hhlzqMt8AMEqiscHFb49BHzjYZPMLpaaO8nkaU46TzzykNfV2TnDg9AOh2HmOrbkPf6PhTJnWssSdE1U00Bl7_cprT1fC6E9zpk0laLgp3Ze1_iZSMjybG9k8Xenbeq/s320/world.jpg" width="211" /></a></span></span></div><span style="color: #050505; font-size: x-small; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #1e1915;">This ended up fitting a book bingo square for a book made into a movie. Oddly, when I saw someone mention in a review that it was currently being filmed with 'fabulous casting including Denzel Washington and Julia Roberts!', I initially though she was joking. I'm not even sure why (and Denzel isn't in it, but Julia Roberts, Ethan Hawke and Mahershala Ali are.) I watched a bit of it and then stopped. I'm not sure if I didn't like what I was seeing or if I'm just scared to watch it play out visually.</span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was such an interesting reading experience. I was monitoring my own reactions in a bemused/amused sort of way as much as I was following the plot. This meant </span><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: georgia;" tabindex="-1"></a><span style="font-family: georgia;">that I never fully surrendered to to the story, but not that I didn't enjoy it. I started reading, okay, yes, family settling in for vacation. Hm, vacation makes everyone horny - went to the whole sex thing a little early, okay, I can get on board with that. Okay, clearly this is one of those stories where the focus is on people's reactions to the Big Bad Happening, rather than on the BBH itself. I often find that interesting, that's fine.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then the writing started to seem quite ponderous. There were moments and turns of phrase that were incisive and discerning. There were others that were pretentious and obvious - and yet not incorrect. I liked that issues of race and class were slipped in deftly with subtlety, rather than trumpeted.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The actual progression of events was completely credible and relatable for me, almost eerily so (nuclear family, older boy, younger girl). There's something fascinating about the way Alam focuses closely and meticulously on a very particular stage of an enormous event experienced by a very small number of people, with the larger circumstances only alluded to in passing. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The whole issue of some people being able to go about their daily lives while the situation of huge numbers of other people grows steadily worse is well taken, and really hits home here. For some reason I assumed this author was female until just now when I looked it up. I have no idea what that indicates (probably nothing, really).This is really thought-provoking and I'm tempted to put it on my book club list because it feels like it would generate a lively discussion.</span></div><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Look At Me</span></u> by Anita Brookner. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A lonely art historian absorbed in her research seizes the opportunity to share in the joys and pleasures of the lives of a glittering couple, only to find her hopes of companionship and happiness shattered.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmSIIaQG0dEPdiwR9bE8Yp3cSMx-fOaPdgeckK0Rr_txgNFXOISph7nmR-znShwv-eUz79ZFDktFmYoAluidLT_1188s8jlGzNBku2hhgKc_V4JsPtfDCS5nABGpFCMd3xYog-Q5PicJKVHcxQYliZJz4ppAhnWs2RCrIG0mJe9t_v9xa9RWLylEr3teyO/s475/look.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="307" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmSIIaQG0dEPdiwR9bE8Yp3cSMx-fOaPdgeckK0Rr_txgNFXOISph7nmR-znShwv-eUz79ZFDktFmYoAluidLT_1188s8jlGzNBku2hhgKc_V4JsPtfDCS5nABGpFCMd3xYog-Q5PicJKVHcxQYliZJz4ppAhnWs2RCrIG0mJe9t_v9xa9RWLylEr3teyO/w129-h200/look.jpg" width="129" /></a></span></span></div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">I read this for book club, and it was a paper book that I borrowed so I didn't end up making notes, which is both good and bad, because I probably would have ended up copying down most of the book. I don't think I've read any other Brookner, Apparently comprehensive character studies of lonely people are where she excels, which is shiningly evident here. The level of detail here is splendid and a little claustrophobic - the world is so well made that I could feel myself falling into it and sometimes felt like I couldn't escape. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>My Phantoms </u></span>by Gwendoline Riley. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Bridget's mother is dying. An extrovert with few friends who has sought intimacy in the wrong places; a twice-divorced mother-of-two now living alone surrounded by her memories, Helen (known to her acquaintances as 'Hen') has always haunted her daughter. Now, as together they approach the end, Bridget looks back on their tumultuous relationship - the performances and small deceptions - and tries to reckon with the cruelties inflicted on both sides. </span></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">With so little time left, can these two warring women find a bruised accord?</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Also read for book club, also a slender paperback. Not dissimilar to the Brookner, but on an even more microscopic level. This character study of Bridget's parents almost feels as if it was detached from a larger work. Again, the level of scrutiny feels a touch suffocating, but is also extremely convincing. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_CafV_KV0yMC2bo7TAGArsucxY1yr9fDphnOHVNBTanRDK2flYsxWgEQHd1YFNOR8GLg1Wyvcw2tpw8Pa6s1ZuoApR479AAwzBx1eu4QK5OwewTVvGAzgs1zKlQIr-moG9v55JOlpqHC3wqNSTdbZWENDVjPOme-RDsi_vSQqdQReXNB7dyUu_c9tIu7/s627/phantoms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="627" data-original-width="400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI_CafV_KV0yMC2bo7TAGArsucxY1yr9fDphnOHVNBTanRDK2flYsxWgEQHd1YFNOR8GLg1Wyvcw2tpw8Pa6s1ZuoApR479AAwzBx1eu4QK5OwewTVvGAzgs1zKlQIr-moG9v55JOlpqHC3wqNSTdbZWENDVjPOme-RDsi_vSQqdQReXNB7dyUu_c9tIu7/w127-h200/phantoms.jpg" width="127" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Pond </span></u>by Claire-Louise Bennett. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Feverish and forthright, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Pond</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> is an absorbing chronicle of the pitfalls and pleasures of a solitudinous life told by an unnamed woman living on the cusp of a coastal town. Broken bowls, belligerent cows, swanky aubergines, trembling moonrises and horrifying sunsets, the physical world depicted in these stories is unsettling yet intimately familiar and soon takes on a life of its own. Captivated by the stellar charms of seclusion but restless with desire, the woman’s relationship with her surroundings becomes boundless and increasingly bewildering. Claire-Louise Bennett’s startlingly original first collection slips effortlessly between worlds and is by turns darkly funny and deeply moving.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">-"Names in books are nearly always names from real life and so already the reader is bound to have some knowledge about a person with a particular name such as Miriam and even if that reader's mind is robust and adaptable some little thing about Miriam in real life will infiltrate Miriam in the book so that it doesn't matter how many times her earlobes are referred to as dainty and girlish in the reader's mind Miriam's earlobes are forever florid and pendulous."</span></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"I turned on the cold tap and watched the water swish away my surplus and I opened the window and didn't move. If we have lost the knack of living, I thought, it is a safe bet to presume we have forfeited the magic of dying."</i></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC9jqw_QIhC-myq8W1GJDF_I7HDlYmR9WWUG2F7ua6AdoUuOJhXAJ7ZNOoYB0YmV_FSDjYnb3Wa4OAlO-7LfNMjR-X1nMfpw2Oa0zhdvyU8gLtpMbmy4osLfpWj0AASZkroLu6BTlS77_CqDx4_ChjGAg0sFmKHKaQRkSMv0dBOrxWMb16BcVeogV5QQDB/s365/pond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="365" data-original-width="233" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC9jqw_QIhC-myq8W1GJDF_I7HDlYmR9WWUG2F7ua6AdoUuOJhXAJ7ZNOoYB0YmV_FSDjYnb3Wa4OAlO-7LfNMjR-X1nMfpw2Oa0zhdvyU8gLtpMbmy4osLfpWj0AASZkroLu6BTlS77_CqDx4_ChjGAg0sFmKHKaQRkSMv0dBOrxWMb16BcVeogV5QQDB/w127-h200/pond.jpg" width="127" /></a></i></span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i><br /></i></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Another polarizing read, for the form a bit more than for the content. Stream of consciousness doesn't always work for me, but this seemed just this side of nonsensical, and individual bits are so clever and amusing and sharp. I'm not sure I really 'got' what Bennett was going for here - if there was some clearer shape that was meant to rise through the blanket of the wider narrative, I may have missed it. Regardless, I enjoyed the journey immensely. </span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Hotline</span></u> by Dimitri Nasrallah. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">A vivid love letter to the 1980s and one woman’s struggle to overcome the challenges of immigration. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">It’s 1986, and Muna Heddad is in a bind. She and her son have moved to Montreal, leaving behind a civil war filled with bad memories in Lebanon. She had plans to find work as a French teacher, but no one in Quebec trusts her to teach the language. She needs to start making money, and fast. The only work Muna can find is at a weight-loss center as a hotline operator. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: preserve;">All day, she takes calls from people responding to ads seen in magazines or on TV. On the phone, she’s Mona, and she’s good at listening. These strangers all have so much to say once someone shows interest in their lives--marriages gone bad, parents dying, isolation, personal inadequacies. Even as her daily life in Canada is filled with invisible barriers at every turn, at the office Muna is privy to her clients’ deepest secrets.</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-b9b80567-7fff-d460-860a-1b9628f764d5"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”In this city, no one has ever had to walk home along Sherbrooke the day after the passengers of the STM’s 24 bus had been slaughtered with machine guns. When was the last time a car bomb exploded outside the McGill University gates? A militia would never attack the Imperial </i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>movie theatre. It’s unthinkable. Montreal is prosperous enough to build a new city of neon and tile right underneath the old one. People here worry instead about things like losing weight.”</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">-’It’s 1987, and I might as well just be a weight-loss consultant,’ I say to myself in the mirror now that the steam has cleared. A hotline operator, a phone-order taker, a shipper of boxes, an ear whose only purpose in life is to swallow the sadness of strangers.”</span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVCfd5tRTS7PiUa2kIvNy5iXXyYLdgXUwRGawANdOR9mwKnDQQ3k6POdRL3dcFIwTGTweszAD1BcNwZ_VI863dvCtXXGFRJONEUli261T2X-AkfmqAe09ETmI2xpAS5H7dv4u0V6eK0NkAkfxRfWn5CuVToKTs73xJq_ON5rIA-aPxz6WsI4CbUdSsF3D1/s2269/hotline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2269" data-original-width="1521" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVCfd5tRTS7PiUa2kIvNy5iXXyYLdgXUwRGawANdOR9mwKnDQQ3k6POdRL3dcFIwTGTweszAD1BcNwZ_VI863dvCtXXGFRJONEUli261T2X-AkfmqAe09ETmI2xpAS5H7dv4u0V6eK0NkAkfxRfWn5CuVToKTs73xJq_ON5rIA-aPxz6WsI4CbUdSsF3D1/w134-h200/hotline.jpg" width="134" /></a></span></i></div><i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></i><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I did it! I read all the Giller Prize shortlist books and all the Canada Reads books for 2023 for the first time ever! (Not a huge accomplishment in book total, but in overcoming procrastination and disorganization? MAJOR). Except I didn't, I recently realized I read all the Giller Prize shortlist books for 2022 and I am baffled as to how I screwed that up, but whatever, still counting it. This takes place in Montreal so I stretched it a bit and called it a local author for book bingo. I liked it - a realistic, touching portrayal of a single-mother immigrant struggling to raise her son and make a living. Not entirely sure how </span><span style="color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="-1"></a></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I feel about the depiction of the weight-loss industry - there's basically only one point where she feels any doubt at all about recommending the products - but that's a different issue and doesn't take away from the effectiveness of the story, and honestly, moral compunctions were a luxury she could have ill afforded. I appreciated that Muna's relationship with her missing husband isn't told as a flawless perfect love story - it would be hard to believe that a relationship wouldn't be impacted by the stress and struggle of war and hardship. Muna's voice is clear and sympathetic, and I was fully engaged in the details that evoked the hardship of multiple immigrants and the ones that were individual to Muna herself. </span></p></span><p><span face="Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">My Dark Vanessa</span></u><span style="font-size: 15px;"> by Kate Elizabeth Russell. Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">2</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">000. Bright, ambitious, and yearning for adulthood, fifteen-year-old Vanessa Wye becomes entangled in an affair with Jacob Strane, her magnetic and guileful forty-two-year-old English teacher. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">2017. Amid the rising wave of allegations against powerful men, a reckoning is coming due. Strane has been accused of sexual abuse by a former student, who reaches out to Vanessa, and now Vanessa suddenly finds herself facing an impossible choice: remain silent, firm in the belief that her teenage self willingly engaged in this relationship, or redefine herself and the events of her past. But how can Vanessa reject her first love, the man who fundamentally transformed her and has been a persistent presence in her life? Is it possible that the man she loved as a teenager—and who professed to worship only her—may be far different from what she has always believed? </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Alternating between Vanessa’s present and her past, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">My Dark Vanessa</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> juxtaposes memory and trauma with the breathless excitement of a teenage girl discovering the power her own body can wield. Thought-provoking and impossible to put down, this is a masterful portrayal of troubled adolescence and its repercussions that raises vital questions about agency, consent, complicity, and victimhood. Written with the haunting intimacy of </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">The Girls</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> and the creeping intensity of </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Room</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">My Dark Vanessa</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> is an era-defining novel that brilliantly captures and reflects the shifting cultural mores transforming our relationships and society itself.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvx2n8-VIkVNZS3OE3RAlJ4YNVO37kRhtXIQxxVKzTYqQJvqDBGfvyVV1n6m0UnrU5IuLDR1hQJrf_MwUZtDwbQOTeF5rCpSj3JopeTjXffBKKu94hciKTJPKZJfuEekz3uO_fek9ALzFPjOpFqR1MKDyBbLAn7tV6_WqdL-Dra9lcaUzchz00vmtEYIwR/s648/vanessa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="426" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvx2n8-VIkVNZS3OE3RAlJ4YNVO37kRhtXIQxxVKzTYqQJvqDBGfvyVV1n6m0UnrU5IuLDR1hQJrf_MwUZtDwbQOTeF5rCpSj3JopeTjXffBKKu94hciKTJPKZJfuEekz3uO_fek9ALzFPjOpFqR1MKDyBbLAn7tV6_WqdL-Dra9lcaUzchz00vmtEYIwR/w131-h200/vanessa.jpg" width="131" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"'I just feel...' I press the heels of my hands into my thighs. 'I can't lose the thing I've held on to for so long. You know?' My face twists up from the pain of pushing it out. 'I just really need it to be a love story. You know? I really, really need it to be that.' 'I know,' she says. 'Because if it isn't a love story, then what is it?'"</i></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia; font-size: 16px;">I told myself I wasn't going to read this, based on hearing a rough synopsis and assuming it was romanticizing the relationship between a student and a much older teacher. Then a couple of friends read it and liked it and I was pretty sure they wouldn't like it if it did that. So I read it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">It's a hard read. Vanessa is a complicated, sometimes infuriating character - not nearly as infuriating as the older, manipulative, self-indulgent, self-deluding, hot mess of a teacher, of course. The way the relationship casts a suffocating shadow over her entire life is almost panic-inducing to read, while thinking that this exact thing happens to millions of girls all the time. The way the school and her parents are never really on her side is also enraging, and the way she sometimes seems to not be on her own side as well, although how could she be when this whole goddamned thing started when she was fifteen? The relationship IS romanticized at times, which is down to the character, not the author, but it gets hard to discern the difference at times, particularly once some of the backstory about the author comes out.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">It's hard not to lapse into indicting the whole of patriarchy while I just want to review the freaking book. I think the book was well done, and I wish I could never think about it again.</span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Nightcrawling</span></u> by Leila Mottley. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Kiara and her brother, Marcus, are scraping by in an East Oakland apartment complex optimistically called the Regal-Hi. Both have dropped out of high school, their family fractured by death and prison. But while Marcus clings to his dream of rap stardom, Kiara hunts for work to pay their rent--which has more than doubled--and to keep the nine-year-old boy next door, abandoned by his mother, safe and fed. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">One night, what begins as a drunken misunderstanding with a stranger turns into the job Kiara never imagined wanting but now desperately needs: nightcrawling. Her world breaks open even further when her name surfaces in an investigation that exposes her as a key witness in a massive scandal within the Oakland Police Department.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-QdP_ZFf-wEN16QsWqgGhDokzFkO0tjtiMrdJ1E9N7RHk3tfChgTb9BNd3jSF-k26RdZSOZSpQxZeYJG3MOy0Znea5lLeCCkAcwb0wWN4l8QVQSTgfHwXKWHvAuqH8ykZKluuwehY05LyD8RyKEk9b4ruQgOwX6cHgIlTasN6gL5LC4MOSGlL25BHNSJA/s499/nightcrawling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-QdP_ZFf-wEN16QsWqgGhDokzFkO0tjtiMrdJ1E9N7RHk3tfChgTb9BNd3jSF-k26RdZSOZSpQxZeYJG3MOy0Znea5lLeCCkAcwb0wWN4l8QVQSTgfHwXKWHvAuqH8ykZKluuwehY05LyD8RyKEk9b4ruQgOwX6cHgIlTasN6gL5LC4MOSGlL25BHNSJA/s320/nightcrawling.jpg" width="214" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><i>-"An orchestrated love is almost more precious than a natural one; harder to give up something you spent that long making."</i></span></span></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><i>-"Inside, the heat of the room pushes down from the ceiling and this is a different kind of bodies on bodies: these ones grind and, instead of joy, there is so much wanting, everything Mama says not to do. We're all wanting something, though; most of us replacing what we really want with skin, which works until you wake up and the mirror is a blur of time twisting around the throat."</i></span></span></p><p>I kept seeing this book in the library ebooks and being annoyed by the title and synopsis because it didn't define what Nightcrawling was. I put the question out to my Facebook friends and no one else associated the term 'nightcrawling' with prostitution right off. Any, beyond having a silly amount of trouble getting over my annoyance, the book is very good, in a terrible, excoriating, anguishing sort of way. This is both an illustration of the multiple ways our society is broken and corrupt, and a vividly rendered story of an authentic character and her experiences. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7VfJefNyTRJDD66KgfzV9y2Hm1GUOvfomZlmOU7gsZlLwZNhgKoJbANniYNXOlN89GnhhsR_gXWWCAvylGN-dsHXF3Psn6cxoKoJuI0LtbGPsmKmtpD7G7hkJiD44ljFBsXmPCIibQZJvDZCH5lCJXPR00Ctaay7JJWAwTCSkRuFAjhaMkZ4hWbD1RBAb/s1219/frying.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1219" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7VfJefNyTRJDD66KgfzV9y2Hm1GUOvfomZlmOU7gsZlLwZNhgKoJbANniYNXOlN89GnhhsR_gXWWCAvylGN-dsHXF3Psn6cxoKoJuI0LtbGPsmKmtpD7G7hkJiD44ljFBsXmPCIibQZJvDZCH5lCJXPR00Ctaay7JJWAwTCSkRuFAjhaMkZ4hWbD1RBAb/w131-h200/frying.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Frying Plantain</span></u> by Zalika Reid-Benta. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">K</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">ara Davis is a girl caught in the middle — of her Canadian nationality and her desire to be a “true” Jamaican, of her mother and grandmother’s rages and life lessons, of having to avoid being thought of as too “faas” or too “quiet” or too “bold” or too “soft.” Set in “Little Jamaica,” Toronto’s Eglinton West neighbourhood, Kara moves from girlhood to the threshold of adulthood, from elementary school to high school graduation, in these twelve interconnected stories. We see her on a visit to Jamaica, startled by the sight of a severed pig’s head in her great aunt’s freezer; in junior high, the victim of a devastating prank by her closest friends; and as a teenager in and out of her grandmother’s house, trying to cope with the ongoing battles between her unyielding grandparents. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A rich and unforgettable portrait of growing up between worlds, </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Frying Plantain</em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> shows how, in one charged moment, friendship and love can turn to enmity and hate, well-meaning protection can become control, and teasing play can turn to something much darker. In her brilliantly incisive debut, Zalika Reid-Benta artfully depicts the tensions between mothers and daughters, second-generation Canadians and first-generation cultural expectations, and Black identity and predominately white society.<br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Really well-written and evocative. At one point I thought "why are immigrant parents often so hard on their kids?" and then immediately realized "oh right - because of all the racism, they feel like they have to make sure their kids are perfect". Characters with strong personalities who all come through, and of course vivid descriptions of food.</span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Snow Road Station</span></u> by Elizabeth Hay. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">In the winter of 2008, as snow falls without interruption, an actor in a Beckett play blanks on her lines. Fleeing the theatre, she beats a retreat into her past and arrives at Snow Road Station, a barely discernible dot on the map of Ontario. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">The actor is Lulu Blake, in her sixties now, a sexy, seemingly unfooled woman well-versed in taking risks. Out of work, humiliated, she enters the last act of her life wondering what she can make of her diminished self. In Snow Road Station she decides she is through with drama, but drama, it turns out, isn’t through with her. She thinks she wants peace. It turns out she wants more. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">Looming in the background is that autumn’s global financial meltdown, while in the foreground family and friends animate a round of weddings, sap harvests, love affairs, and personal turmoil. At the centre of it all is the lifelong friendship between Lulu and Nan. As the two women contemplate growing old, they surrender certain hard-held dreams and confront the limits of the choices they’ve made and the messy feelings that kept them apart for decades.</span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-n5Ww1n6SxCBFZXkqACQy5MwJT9VNSD2pbP816HHMU3cRddFp-0Y1D_Sde0WJabQi7zH-0lCSd5_YLIa57uLhf7bbgWZJintbrskDPTgirtoJ_lZ7h9Uz1Havddc3D-pd2Wi-CjHsb5lnG8i4tDGvMx6CSgWHTnXV7mrGEUoNZ0ER7qVjB34Z3As865Ak/s400/snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="267" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-n5Ww1n6SxCBFZXkqACQy5MwJT9VNSD2pbP816HHMU3cRddFp-0Y1D_Sde0WJabQi7zH-0lCSd5_YLIa57uLhf7bbgWZJintbrskDPTgirtoJ_lZ7h9Uz1Havddc3D-pd2Wi-CjHsb5lnG8i4tDGvMx6CSgWHTnXV7mrGEUoNZ0ER7qVjB34Z3As865Ak/w134-h200/snow.jpg" width="134" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span></span><p></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><i>-"Closing her eyes, Lulu saw her dressing station overtaken by Olivia's crap and the visual blow landed a hard second punch, decades old, of switching on the light in Tony's bathroom to see another woman's earrings on the back of the toilet. So it takes a matching pain to wake up the earlier one. Friction, she thought. Two sticks to start a fire."</i></span></span></span></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><i>-"Then the further thought sank in that everything around her had been swung at or chopped down at one time or another. And that living in the woods helped you get used to things being over, because you were closer to the living truth that soon they would be gone."</i></span></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="color: #1e1915;">Book bingo square for a book suggested by someone in the group. I had read two or three other books by Hay and liked them, but not the one that features some of the same characters as this one. For the first three or four chapters I was having trouble staying engaged - I felt like I was too aware that these were characters someone was writing a story about. Then rather abruptly the edges disappeared and I was completely in the story. Simple yet complex, beautifully descriptive about how landscape can affect mood and behaviour. Carefully pulls apart some of the ways people hurt each other, and how healing can sometimes - not always - be possible. Deliberate, vibrant writing. I couldn't wait to pick it up again, it was just really lovely. </span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Summer of My Amazing Luck</span></u> by Miriam Toews. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Lucy Von Alstyne sends fictitious letters to her friend Alicia, pretending to be the father of Alicia's twins, and the two welfare mothers and their five children set off on a journey to find him, facing along the way the complications of living in poverty and raising fatherless children.</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuKFkDsB0AeXUJChgGycYVq18EmK_6uDq9g3Xikt3_4trla0fJ0Wd0axIkJfUGqCjEcdLAr8ozxk3wZ5Z8utm2RbLcWrJk3NHRMebsan1pKcLSTPX75PwDPZ0ORObKXwxx2Nqk334ANuzvnfkXXkYAdooQ71WULax9pUPzYQ9DT5dR_MZ2b4vIaX86UK7h/s475/summer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="314" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuKFkDsB0AeXUJChgGycYVq18EmK_6uDq9g3Xikt3_4trla0fJ0Wd0axIkJfUGqCjEcdLAr8ozxk3wZ5Z8utm2RbLcWrJk3NHRMebsan1pKcLSTPX75PwDPZ0ORObKXwxx2Nqk334ANuzvnfkXXkYAdooQ71WULax9pUPzYQ9DT5dR_MZ2b4vIaX86UK7h/s320/summer.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white;">It has been so much fun sharing books with Eve, and Miriam Toews was one of the first authors I introduced her to that she instantly loved. She's been oddly lucky at finding copies in Little Free Libraries, and she brought this home for me to read over Christmas Break. So far I'm incapable of rating a Toews book less than four stars - the only wobble I have here is not exclusive to this book. Toews has a crazy talent for making the darkest subjects hilarious, which is not bad by any stretch - sometimes they are, and my family relies heavily on black humour as a coping mechanism. Here it seemed on occasion like the humour verged on erasing the very real hardships endemic to the situation - like, we're poor and treated badly by the government, but the madcap antics we get into make it all okay! It also, though, made it plain that the people in that situation are people, and of course they don't just sit around bemoaning their fate all day. Anyway, Eve totally disagreed with me that it was an issue at all. <br /></span></span><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Birnam Wood</span></u> by Eleanor Catton. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Five years ago, Mira Bunting founded a guerrilla gardening group: Birnam Wood. An undeclared, unregulated, sometimes-criminal, sometimes-philanthropic gathering of friends, this activist collective plants crops wherever no one will notice: on the sides of roads, in forgotten parks, and neglected backyards. For years, the group has struggled to break even. Then Mira stumbles on an answer, a way to finally set the group up for the long term: a landslide has closed the Korowai Pass, cutting off the town of Thorndike. Natural disaster has created an opportunity, a sizable farm seemingly abandoned. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But Mira is not the only one interested in Thorndike. Robert Lemoine, the enigmatic American billionaire, has snatched it up to build his end-times bunker--or so he tells Mira when he catches her on the property. Intrigued by Mira, Birnam Wood, and their entrepreneurial spirit, he suggests they work this land. But can they trust him? And, as their ideals and ideologies are tested, can they trust each other? </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: preserve;">A gripping psychological thriller from the Booker Prize-winning author of </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The Luminaries</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: preserve;">, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Birnam Wood</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> is Shakespearean in its wit, drama, and immersion in character. A brilliantly constructed consideration of intentions, actions, and consequences, it is an unflinching examination of the human impulse to ensure our own survival.</span></span></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-"To have talked himself down from a more drastic course of action gave Tony a pleasing sense of his own judiciousness and clemency, and when he finally traipsed downstairs a little after one o'clock, ravenous, and not yet showered, it was with the calm conviction of a man who had faced a moral rest and chosen right."</i></span></span></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-"He often acted out of impulse just so that he could then devote his leisure hours to mulling why; he relished self-analysis, though he had never undergone any form of therapy in his life, and never would. What thrilled him was the sense that he alone could understand himself."</i></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Me looking at my last few book bingo categories for last year: "Shakespeare. Crap, what am I putting for that?" Me looking at the only book on the 2023 Giller Prize shortlist I've read and seeing that it's called Birnam Wood: "Hot damn!" (yes, we do interpret the categories very loosely at times).</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqcHVE-BkiDgBm6twh45-ElHVFrWtnJ-FUPPuf5q-QCAxgFOgC-tnPlX4tKs10ODV4QnGz6eum7uukhcH5-nS3hLpwloOH2Z-xybTfMbuR6vFyLTGIAOaw93iWUuuBy9nSVt-apyS23YdaiQfyOtHhffV7B_13dxm7SQqs0wwDN51v3AY8_AtyxjlAutSA/s499/birnam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqcHVE-BkiDgBm6twh45-ElHVFrWtnJ-FUPPuf5q-QCAxgFOgC-tnPlX4tKs10ODV4QnGz6eum7uukhcH5-nS3hLpwloOH2Z-xybTfMbuR6vFyLTGIAOaw93iWUuuBy9nSVt-apyS23YdaiQfyOtHhffV7B_13dxm7SQqs0wwDN51v3AY8_AtyxjlAutSA/w134-h200/birnam.jpg" width="134" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have The Luminaries on my shelf, but I haven't tackled it yet - more out of a fear of the physical challenge of holding the giant-ass motherfucker than worry about the length. I didn't know what to expect from this. I read a lot of <a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="-1"></a>genre, but also a lot of literary fiction, and sometimes I just can't get my head around how something like this springs from the mind of a writer - these marvellous, complicated personalities with labyrinthine (one might say Shakespearian!) personal philosophies and dilemmas. I loved the beginning part with the group struggling within itself - who is the most ideologically pure, who is the least reproachable? It rang so true and was so ruefully hilarious. Halfway in, the action took a hard left turn, and I was mad about it and STILL I couldn't stop reading. It's not often that I stay up way too late reading pure fiction.</span></div><p><br /></p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-80987389302607603812024-01-23T15:28:00.000-08:002024-01-23T15:28:41.721-08:00Books Read in 2023: Four-Star Non-Fiction<p>Everything seems a little bit terrible, but it is the last full week of January and I'm hoping next week will seem a little bit less terrible. I started doing yoga again and remembered how it makes me feel better being inside my body even if the body is much less than perfect. I did a sloppy snow-melty puddly walk with Lucy today and did not enjoy it overly, but it always feels better to get out and get a little sweaty before I take my shower, so that part was good. Work was good yesterday but I slept badly so I was sleepy and a little nauseated - also might be from my antibiotic pills, which are roughly the size of golf balls so they hurt both going down and staying down. I try not to take my cocaine syrup more than once a day, but I might have to double up to squash the cough now that it's become so comfortable in its new home. </p><p>Eve has turned the corner on the sickness, but is struggling with that weird alienated feeling you get when you've been locked away sick (extra for her because she was trying not to infect her roommates, so was stuck in one room rather than just one house), so I'm trying to talk her through not being tough on herself. She's going to go to rehearsal for a bit tonight to just be there, probably not do any movement or singing, to acclimate herself to being back in the world.</p><p>I always mean to read more non-fiction than I do. I almost never reach for it without some kind of prompt - book club or a personal recommendation - but then frequently love it when I force myself. </p><p><u><span style="font-size: large;">Four-Star Non-Fiction</span></u></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><u>Well-Read Black Girl: Finding Our Stories, Discovering Ourselves</u></span> edited by Glory Edim. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">An inspiring collection of essays by black women writers, curated by the founder of the popular book club Well-Read Black Girl, on the importance of recognizing ourselves in literature. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Remember that moment when you first encountered a character who seemed to be written just for you? That feeling of belonging can stick with readers the rest of their lives--but it doesn't come around as frequently for all of us. In this timely anthology, "well-read black girl" Glory Edim brings together original essays by some of our best black female writers and creative voices to shine a light on how we search for ourselves in literature, and how important it is that everyone--no matter their gender, race, religion, or abilities--can find themselves there. Whether it's learning about the complexities of femalehood from</span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;"> Their Eyes Were Watching God</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">, seeing a new type of love in</span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;"> The Color Purple</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">, or using mythology to craft an alternative black future, each essay reminds us why we turn to books in times of both struggle and relaxation. As she has done with her incredible book-club-turned-online-community Well-Read Black Girl, in this book, Edim has created a space where black women's writing and knowledge and life experiences are lifted up, to be shared with all readers who value the power of a story to help us understand the world, and ourselves.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggqNDOnLz07TJcnZE9p-BRwzJjmi6mudzK6hTt5vmBHb0zjSWD774JoYmae2D0UpqFdYr_gRbwB1wLF6tir8ApbS33-wN2WbNgYLvV1LxvNiwTQz07No0SDCXUoWoISO1CATcIEJbR26Iiz4p6aAJ4CH9t_3xN5oDVEr0B5sNqLO6meqzuWzJzvpXO7nRf/s400/well%20read.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="303" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggqNDOnLz07TJcnZE9p-BRwzJjmi6mudzK6hTt5vmBHb0zjSWD774JoYmae2D0UpqFdYr_gRbwB1wLF6tir8ApbS33-wN2WbNgYLvV1LxvNiwTQz07No0SDCXUoWoISO1CATcIEJbR26Iiz4p6aAJ4CH9t_3xN5oDVEr0B5sNqLO6meqzuWzJzvpXO7nRf/s320/well%20read.jpg" width="242" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-1bc51d7b-7fff-ccb2-9d4e-97034cc6aff2"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">-”As a grade-schooler, I sat at my teacher’s feet as she gave us a dramatic reading of Philip Hall Likes Me, I Reckon Maybe. I had no idea that there were black children out in the world deprived of images of themselves. Keep in mind that this was Atlanta, Georgia, in the 1970s and 1980s. This was Chocolate City just after the civil rights movement. We had our black mayor, black school board president, black police chief. As my father would say with satisfaction, ‘We have black everything down here!’ We were segregated, but prosperous. I </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;">understood that the United States was majority white in the same way that I understood that the Earth was seventy percent water. I knew it, but standing on dry land, I couldn’t quite believe it." -Tayari Jones, Her Own Best Thing.</span></i></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></i></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">Found this while trying to add in more non-white female writers and also fill a book bingo square that was 'A Book About Your Hobby' (note to self: consider diversifying interests somewhat). Really happy this led me to it though, because it was wonderful. A terrific range of experiences in reading and in life. Some authors had an electrifying first experience of recognizing themselves in literature, and some, like Jones, had never felt the lack of it. Some had worldly parents and childhoods rich in artistic experiences, and some came to it later in life. There are multiple points of view about the multiple ways reading and writing help to mediate the experiences of people who are marginalized by virtue of skin colour or gender or both. I could probably have highlighted most of the book, so much of it was striking and true and quotable. I always find it a particular pleasure to read about a great writer's early reading experiences. </span></span></p></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>How Fascism Works: The Politics of Us and Them</u> </span>by Jason F. Stanley. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">As the child of refugees of World War II Europe and a renowned philosopher and scholar of propaganda, Jason Stanley has a deep understanding of how democratic societies can be vulnerable to fascism: Nations don't have to be fascist to suffer from fascist politics. In fact, fascism's roots have been present in the United States for more than a century. Alarmed by the pervasive rise of fascist tactics both at home and around the globe, Stanley focuses here on the structures that unite them, laying out and analyzing the ten pillars of fascist politics--the language and beliefs that separate people into an "us" and a "them." He knits together reflections on history, philosophy, sociology, and critical race theory with stories from contemporary Hungary, Poland, India, Myanmar, and the United States, among other nations. He makes clear the immense danger of underestimating the cumulative power of these tactics, which include exploiting a mythic version of a nation's past; propaganda that twists the language of democratic ideals against themselves; anti-intellectualism directed against universities and experts; law and order politics predicated on the assumption that members of minority groups are criminals; and fierce attacks on labor groups and welfare. These mechanisms all build on one another, creating and reinforcing divisions and shaping a society vulnerable to the appeals of authoritarian leadership. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">By uncovering disturbing patterns that are as prevalent today as ever, Stanley reveals that the stuff of politics—charged by rhetoric and myth—can quickly become policy and reality. Only by recognizing fascists politics, he argues, may we resist its most harmful effects and return to democratic ideals.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfuOjef_qTDeEFK5qiDVEJNQV1SsomGd736d31rgqeCYCpj5OzqdecfNUPgik2V9EEP6vcveU7BVjessvdyTDFUD5FQyQsWhNkbghijUjWB3do-tdI4mu6lxiN9mEgNpZ7M2NaTORQlJFMzw1ppOy891CWhX2pGO2y5BBYrkyCFihSzh5L6St4KeadbWO/s2407/fascism.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2407" data-original-width="1552" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtfuOjef_qTDeEFK5qiDVEJNQV1SsomGd736d31rgqeCYCpj5OzqdecfNUPgik2V9EEP6vcveU7BVjessvdyTDFUD5FQyQsWhNkbghijUjWB3do-tdI4mu6lxiN9mEgNpZ7M2NaTORQlJFMzw1ppOy891CWhX2pGO2y5BBYrkyCFihSzh5L6St4KeadbWO/w129-h200/fascism.jpg" width="129" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">I read this after a spirited argument in which someone I knew claimed that fascism was by definition a phenomenon originated and deployed exclusively by the political left, based on a book they had read from the 1940s. Um.... ? Realizing that I wasn't as able as I assumed I would be to articulate a robust defense against this argument, I read this book. Holy crap, it is a lot. Not to say it isn't readable, and I did feel much more able to state my case, but this book probably requires frequent rereading and consolidating. The historical perspective, put together with more recent examples, put together a well-analyzed and supported argument, bleak as it is. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>I'll Show Myself Our: Essays on Midlife and Motherhood</u></span> by Jessi Klein. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: small;">In </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;">N</span></span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">ew York Times</em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: small;"> bestselling author and Emmy Award-winning writer and producer Jessi Klein's second collection, she hilariously explodes the cultural myths and impossible expectations around motherhood and explore the humiliations, poignancies, and possibilities of midlife. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: small;">In interconnected essays like "Listening to Beyonc� in the Parking Lot of Party City," "Your Husband Will Remarry Five Minutes After You Die," "Eulogy for My Feet," and "An Open Love Letter to Nate Berkus and Jeremiah Brent," Klein explores this stage of life in all its cruel ironies, joyous moments, and bittersweetness. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: small;">Written with Klein's signature candor and humanity, </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I'll Show Myself Out</em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: small;"> is an incisive, moving, and often uproarious collection.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I can see why some of the criticisms of this book were made. I felt them welling up a bit myself as I started reading, particularly since it's been years since I had baby-and-toddler issues to deal with. Then I laughed really hard a couple of times and decided not to be a judgy jerk. Parenting is hard. Even when it's privileged and you have a ton of help, it's hard. Even when it's easy, it's hard. Especially if you've had infertility issues and you're a little older than most when you finally have a baby. So yeah, Jessi Klein had a night nanny and then a day nanny, and paid someone to install her carseat, and some of her problems seem trivial when put against the problems of others. Who cares? Everyone's problems seem trivial when compared to someone's, until we find that mythical person who literally has it the worst of anyone ever. Parenting is hard, and she is funny about it.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA2g8cLiTrJyEr3LjXIHCnYzawjKEzOgIzsQt_tO24DEsk8RqQoh5mFjGW_ntVFC63tZSG2I9JfNljmt8SXEqXqtkqd_WMbDKVgwSsZmaLGcaG71T-bnNDz_vLQIjWpkZw81OkadgSIKqD4ReWG4EQJnRBbAcYnCwhl2XpzlTEeKJUpprXNQ0uy0uBVs4_/s400/show%20myself.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA2g8cLiTrJyEr3LjXIHCnYzawjKEzOgIzsQt_tO24DEsk8RqQoh5mFjGW_ntVFC63tZSG2I9JfNljmt8SXEqXqtkqd_WMbDKVgwSsZmaLGcaG71T-bnNDz_vLQIjWpkZw81OkadgSIKqD4ReWG4EQJnRBbAcYnCwhl2XpzlTEeKJUpprXNQ0uy0uBVs4_/w133-h200/show%20myself.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>Run Towards the Danger: Confrontations With a Body of Memory</u></span> by Sarah Polley. <span style="font-size: x-small;">Synopsis from Goodreads: <i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">These are the most dangerous stories of my life. The ones I have avoided, the ones I haven't told, the ones that have kept me awake on countless nights. As these stories found echoes in my adult life, and then went another, better way than they did in childhood, they became lighter and easier to carry. </i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Sarah Polley's work as an actor, screenwriter, and director is celebrated for its honesty, complexity, and deep humanity. She brings all those qualities, along with her exquisite storytelling chops, to these six essays. Each one captures a piece of Polley's life as she remembers it, while at the same time examining the fallibility of memory, the mutability of reality in the mind, and the possibility of experiencing the past anew, as the person she is now but was not then. As Polley writes, the past and present are in a "reciprocal pressure dance." </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Polley contemplates stories from her own life ranging from stage fright to high-risk childbirth to endangerment and more. After struggling with the aftermath of a concussion, Polley met a specialist who gave her wholly new advice: to recover from a traumatic injury, she had to retrain her mind to strength by charging towards the very activities that triggered her symptoms. With riveting clarity, she shows the power of applying that same advice to other areas of her life in order to find a path forward, a way through. Rather than live in a protective crouch, she had to run towards the danger.</span></span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY301y9LWn1QbwlPf-8AeCr17Lrnq0CXzqYKvi5MRkVztFmF8CnPpWbA2Tc2IZaLhHLO5rN7dq5Z4gjfUTBmye1UpMdHYefox0YqsV6cJjaUMfnZK87RFJSjFdROx4NIsPEXpABz5GkbYchxFv1rCsiQNwLeDRbjzAVTcJ67Pyp4pN67cfmmUZ8tGSRPkT/s400/danger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY301y9LWn1QbwlPf-8AeCr17Lrnq0CXzqYKvi5MRkVztFmF8CnPpWbA2Tc2IZaLhHLO5rN7dq5Z4gjfUTBmye1UpMdHYefox0YqsV6cJjaUMfnZK87RFJSjFdROx4NIsPEXpABz5GkbYchxFv1rCsiQNwLeDRbjzAVTcJ67Pyp4pN67cfmmUZ8tGSRPkT/w133-h200/danger.jpg" width="133" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> Read for a book bingo square called 'A Cup of Tea'. It's a little reductionist to call this 'dishing the dirt', but a lot of it really did read that way - behind the scenes of filming The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, Road to Avonlea and doing Alice Through the Looking Glass at Stratford. As usual, I came away convinced that no children should ever be in show business of any sort - the protections that are supposed to be put in place seem to be </span><a style="background-color: white; color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;" tabindex="-1"></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;">almost never enforced, and parents are too easily swayed by the cult of celebrity. This poor woman had a tumultuous and unsafe childhood on a number of fronts. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;">We read this in book club, and a few of us, although we really enjoyed reading the book, felt that calling these 'essays' was imprecise, since a lot of it was mostly recounting with not a whole lot of analysis. That doesn't mean Polley isn't self-critical or self-aware, and it was definitely eye-opening about a lot of things. The parts where she talks about her Jian Ghomeshi experiences and the guilt she still feels around them are particularly upsetting. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Also, she has a daughter with the same name as my daughter - apparently I've told my daughter this more than once, as if it's brand new information every time. So just a fun little connection to me losing even more of what remains of my mind. </span></span></p><p>Frida Kahlo: An Illustrated Biography by Zena Alkayat, Nina Cosford (illustrator). Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Step into the world of one of history's most celebrated artists and feminist Frida Kahlo. This beautifully illustrated biography is full of colorful details that illuminate the woman behind the artwork, including excerpts from Kahlo's personal letters and diaries on her childhood dreams of becoming a doctor, the accident that changed the course of her life, and her love affairs with famous artists. Featuring handwritten text alongside lovely illustrations in a charming case with foil stamping and debossed details, Library of Frida Kahlo provides a captivating window into the vibrant life, work, and creative vision of the beloved Mexican artist.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I found this at the giant booksale in the gym of my Thursday school last spring. It is a beautiful, colourful little book and I was elated to find it in a giant pile of otherwise unassuming volumes. I have long found Frida Kahlo to be a fascinating character, and the bright, eclectic illustrations seemed to really fit with her artistic, messy, painful life. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwhSspNbBJB5znfCaMTfEKIAggoaPKUPU3d2hYXWDfqvw-P23vd7NGWzON-ls0u6xTAteZWfWycGwyiI19z0dVR2iurDoWfngtOBrbti2608a36khr6oAwSuwTo4Pb7HX70R_EvUmIoyAA2S4y9PDMLIy005BcuMADRLeusqAzD1QtuefbqxR0Hf8mEM7K/s220/frida.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="219" data-original-width="220" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwhSspNbBJB5znfCaMTfEKIAggoaPKUPU3d2hYXWDfqvw-P23vd7NGWzON-ls0u6xTAteZWfWycGwyiI19z0dVR2iurDoWfngtOBrbti2608a36khr6oAwSuwTo4Pb7HX70R_EvUmIoyAA2S4y9PDMLIy005BcuMADRLeusqAzD1QtuefbqxR0Hf8mEM7K/s1600/frida.jpg" width="220" /></a></span></span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Still Point of the Turning World</span></u> by Emily Rapp. Synopsis from Goodreads:<span style="font-size: x-small;"> <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Like all mothers, Emily Rapp had ambitious plans for her first and only child, Ronan. He would be smart, loyal, physically fearless, and level-headed, but fun. He would be good at crossword puzzles like his father. He would be an avid skier like his mother. Rapp would speak to him in foreign languages and give him the best education. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But all of these plans changed when Ronan was diagnosed at nine months old with Tay-Sachs disease, a rare and always-fatal degenerative disorder. Ronan was not expected to live beyond the age of three; he would be permanently stalled at a developmental level of six months. Rapp and her husband were forced to re-evaluate everything they thought they knew about parenting. They would have to learn to live with their child in the moment; to find happiness in the midst of sorrow; to parent without a future. </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">The Still Point of the Turning World</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> is the story of a mother’s journey through grief and beyond it. Rapp’s response to her son’s diagnosis was a belief that she needed to “make my world big”—to make sense of her family’s situation through art, literature, philosophy, theology and myth. Drawing on a broad range of thinkers and writers, from C.S. Lewis to Sylvia Plath, Hegel to Mary Shelley’s </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Frankenstein</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">, Rapp learns what wisdom there is to be gained from parenting a terminally ill child. In luminous, exquisitely moving prose she re-examines our most fundamental assumptions about what it means to be a good parent, to be a success, and to live a meaningful life.</span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”Our home, our life with Ronan, was not the definition of heartbreak. It was, to put it bluntly, the truth about life: that it exists side by side with death. Other cultures and traditions are acutely aware of this intimate pairing.”</i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizGEYvE_nuF-F7neBZo3R-qt_8kSjtfLe2WOJfW1wGs8Mr7SWSEXeJM8iJUtdR38n0unzuQVcr041hGHyUOKH2UJPTySwyv9XvOK8pbi6ZMIdNgGPoEBAZAzI1yuBrTwUcDfFCKTtEaByEnxNHhAqNRNIF2lscoiEnLnOtisQSxWD1Syzn_cDQLwRx65h/s475/still%20point.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="313" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizGEYvE_nuF-F7neBZo3R-qt_8kSjtfLe2WOJfW1wGs8Mr7SWSEXeJM8iJUtdR38n0unzuQVcr041hGHyUOKH2UJPTySwyv9XvOK8pbi6ZMIdNgGPoEBAZAzI1yuBrTwUcDfFCKTtEaByEnxNHhAqNRNIF2lscoiEnLnOtisQSxWD1Syzn_cDQLwRx65h/w132-h200/still%20point.jpg" width="132" /></a></i></span></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span><p></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”For Ronan, it could be. That was the secret of unlocking his myth: that was the way to read it, the guide. He lived and always would live in those gaps of knowledge, those careful, fragile holes in the script of story and meaning.”</i></span></p><p><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">While looking for more Frida Kahlo books at the public library, I accidentally stumbled on the title Frida Kahlo and My Left Leg, a memoir by Emily Rapp, which will be in my five-star post. This led me to read two other memoirs by Rapp. This one is about her first child, who she lost to Tay-Sachs disease when he was just a toddler. It is, of course, laceratingly sad, and also beautifully written. Rapp draws on her studies of literature, philosophy and theology to try to give some kind of graspable shape to something incomprehensible. </span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Sanctuary: A Memoir</span></u> by Emily Rapp Black. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">"Congratulations on the resurrection of your life," a colleague wrote to Emily Rapp Black when she announced the birth of her second child. The line made Rapp Black pause. Her first child, a boy named Ronan, had died from Tay-Sachs disease before he turned three years old, an experience she wrote about in her second book, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">The Still Point of the Turning World</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">. Since that time, her life had changed utterly: She left the marriage that fractured under the terrible weight of her son's illness, got remarried to a man who she fell in love with while her son was dying, had a flourishing career, and gave birth to a healthy baby girl. But she rejected the idea that she was leaving her old life behind--that she had, in the manner of the mythical phoenix, risen from the ashes and been reborn into a new story, when she still carried so much of her old story with her. More to the point, she wanted to carry it with her. Everyone she met told her she was resilient, strong, courageous in ways they didn't think they could be. But what did those words mean, really? </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">This book is an attempt to unpack the various notions of resilience that we carry as a culture. Drawing on contemporary psychology, neurology, etymology, literature, art, and self-help, Emily Rapp Black shows how we need a more complex understanding of this concept when applied to stories of loss and healing and overcoming the odds, knowing that we may be asked to rebuild and reimagine our lives at any moment, and often when we least expect it. Interwoven with lyrical, unforgettable personal vignettes from her life as a mother, wife, daughter, friend, and teacher, Rapp Black creates a stunning tapestry that is full of wisdom and insight.</span></span></p><p><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">-”The work ahead of me would be to find a way to live in the world – full of cruelty and beauty – that I clearly could not disavow. This, of course, is everybody’s work, to live through suffering, to search out a safe resting place, the heart’s sanctuary, although each of us is given a different task to manage – most often one we didn’t ask for. The world doesn’t care if you choose to stay alive, but it will hold you for as long as you are living. This indifference not only provides solace, I would later understand, but also is cause for celebration.”</span></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcUceF8Tl6V1jrcOCg3oVzSXexwbJnY348i0QwbNDc-RXaPaGAElZqya6p3iQJXFTdopIBttXIK4YG-b7gGfH_8JFVveeg5CER9yvUwoTchl_3lubeglV6vMqaqGARh9s90Oe05dZHprCqAl6-H8PdHULRkNhnpDe7h6KAvELi-_EMXBrL0KtEB-Cfn8j0/s400/sanctuary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcUceF8Tl6V1jrcOCg3oVzSXexwbJnY348i0QwbNDc-RXaPaGAElZqya6p3iQJXFTdopIBttXIK4YG-b7gGfH_8JFVveeg5CER9yvUwoTchl_3lubeglV6vMqaqGARh9s90Oe05dZHprCqAl6-H8PdHULRkNhnpDe7h6KAvELi-_EMXBrL0KtEB-Cfn8j0/w133-h200/sanctuary.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></i></span></div><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">This is all on me, but this was one too many books to read by this woman, about the tragic events of her life, in one month. I was familiar with her writing style, which is still intelligent and lyrical, but the transitions started to become more visible. I completely, completely understand the inclination to start thinking of yourself as somehow wiser and above mere mortals who haven't dealt with the same losses, and yet it became ever-so-slightly grating to have her, in one paragraph, talk about how she could still be annoyed by the day-to-day irritations of parenting her daughter even though her last child had died, and then in the next roll her eyes at the shallow foolishness of other parents for doing and worrying about 'normal' things regarding their children. I could tell when she needed to find some life event in order to segue into talking about the next great work of literature. I appreciate reading about events and conditions that make me uncomfortable, and for those of us lucky enough to have escaped this kind of ordeal it is good to have a reminder that not everyone is as lucky. Her insights are sharp and passionate, and she writes beautifully. I'm not at all sorry I read it, I just should have left more time between books. </span></p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-77825540135259355532024-01-21T16:38:00.000-08:002024-01-21T16:38:11.632-08:00Books Read in 2023: Four-Star Horror Part Two<p>Why am I writing these posts while sick? Because I am reading about people getting into a Fresh! New! Routine! for the new year, and working out and starting new projects and I already tend to feel bad about myself in January so just working and then dragging myself home to read in bed until I fall asleep with the book on my face is not ideal for my mood. I can do the posts while sitting down with kleenex and my inhaler (and vat of opioid juice) beside me, and stop when I get tired, and I find them soothing to do. That said, I'm not one hundred percent sure I haven't trailed off in the middle of a sentence here, so do let me know. Twice in recent days I have misspelled 'your' as 'you're' *visceral shudder*. That's the fever, right? RIGHT? </p><p>I did finally get back to yoga today. It's pretty cold here and Angus's old bedroom where I do yoga is freezing, but I warmed up once I got going. I felt done in after yoga and showering, but it felt good and my back audibly released at one point. </p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Four-Star Horror</u></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>Thornhedge</u></span> by T. Kingfisher. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Thornhedge</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> is the tale of a kind-hearted, toad-shaped heroine, a gentle knight, and a mission gone completely sideways. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">There's a princess trapped in a tower. This isn't her story. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Meet Toadling. On the day of her birth, she was stolen from her family by the fairies, but she grew up safe and loved in the warm waters of faerieland. Once an adult though, the fae ask a favor of Toadling: return to the human world and offer a blessing of protection to a newborn child. Simple, right? </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But nothing with fairies is ever simple. </span></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Centuries later, a knight approaches a towering wall of brambles, where the thorns are as thick as your arm and as sharp as swords. He's heard there's a curse here that needs breaking, but it's a curse Toadling will do anything to uphold…</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugHjBOQQjDZHgs_lm1RAn06mL-0tnAikqpT7493tBgyCXOvnSSRjbeR8Vc1btSTA0FHE1sRr8fpjasVnVUUzNNTGXaFjc0q9YRB9vyaXPL9ZLs7dmmeRwETVhbFpmvieIAMXq8Qfvk642IM8ZWnJDLrSVuiZlme9k0lv465xS-EJFk8HSbaP6zBk6VeMd/s1440/thornhedge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugHjBOQQjDZHgs_lm1RAn06mL-0tnAikqpT7493tBgyCXOvnSSRjbeR8Vc1btSTA0FHE1sRr8fpjasVnVUUzNNTGXaFjc0q9YRB9vyaXPL9ZLs7dmmeRwETVhbFpmvieIAMXq8Qfvk642IM8ZWnJDLrSVuiZlme9k0lv465xS-EJFk8HSbaP6zBk6VeMd/w125-h200/thornhedge.jpg" width="125" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: small;"><i>-"The fairy was the greenish-tan color of mushroom stems and her skin bruised blue-black, like mushroom flesh. She had a broad, frog-like face and waterweed hair. She was neither beautiful nor made of malice, as many of the Fair Folk are said to be. Mostly she was fretful and often tired."</i></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;">-Hi, hello folks, this is totally not a horror novel, just stuck it in to see if you were paying attention, ha ha ha ha <b>sob</b>. I love T. Kingfisher. She writes some great classic horror, but also takes on some traditional forms and subverts them very enjoyably. I always love when someone takes a fairy tale and then writes about someone other than the main character. This is so melancholy and yet hopeful, bitter and yet sweet, and her writing is just so cadenced and charming. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDWfX_YpAj8H3UDquwy0vvFUWPvDRcFxkiWJ5r4c2GjCXBIwDLr-tWU6cx0WK765QkDX9a3_HDACDg-5ZHYlbjgPlG8K3ceh2LSILXKnZXOHP395AEZL680wryR5GTFWpe8ronVaTYXfvQHKYLVl9-AvA9fIOftxsD1VRJJdp7tQgtquLmtTat-NnBcupR/s2560/house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1701" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDWfX_YpAj8H3UDquwy0vvFUWPvDRcFxkiWJ5r4c2GjCXBIwDLr-tWU6cx0WK765QkDX9a3_HDACDg-5ZHYlbjgPlG8K3ceh2LSILXKnZXOHP395AEZL680wryR5GTFWpe8ronVaTYXfvQHKYLVl9-AvA9fIOftxsD1VRJJdp7tQgtquLmtTat-NnBcupR/w133-h200/house.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><u><span style="font-size: medium;">A House With Good Bones</span></u> by T. Kingfisher. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">A haunting Southern Gothic from an award-winning master of suspense,</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: 600;">A House With Good Bones</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"> </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">explores the dark, twisted roots lurking just beneath the veneer of a perfect home and family. </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">"Mom seems off." </i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Her brother's words echo in Sam Montgomery's ear as she turns onto the quiet North Carolina street where their mother lives alone. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">She brushes the thought away as she climbs the front steps. Sam's excited for this rare extended visit, and looking forward to nights with just the two of them, drinking boxed wine, watching murder mystery shows, and guessing who the killer is long before the characters figure it out. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But stepping inside, she quickly realizes home isn’t what it used to be. Gone is the warm, cluttered charm her mom is known for; now the walls are painted a sterile white. Her mom jumps at the smallest noises and looks over her shoulder even when she’s the only person in the room. And when Sam steps out back to clear her head, she finds a jar of teeth hidden beneath the magazine-worthy rose bushes, and vultures are circling the garden from above.<br /></span><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So presumably I stacked up the two T. Kingfisher books and then didn't realize one was a different genre. I really enjoyed this. I'm not sure it's actually Southern Gothic, possibly because one genre I like even less than 'Gothic' is probably 'Southern Gothic'. Southern Gothic with a twist, maybe, but there's too much humour and too much of a modern sensibility for that label to fit. Complicated family dynamics and mother-daughter relationships pair nicely with horror, and that is definitely present. Sam is a wonderful character - the interjections about entomology and her confidence about elements of her personality that traditional women find horrifying are delightful, and sometimes laugh-out-loud funny. This has a lighter touch than Kingfisher's other horror books, and sometimes that doesn't really hit the spot for me, but this was well done. </span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">A Good House for Children</span></u> by Kate Collins. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Once upon a time Orla was: a woman, a painter, a lover. Now she is a mother and a wife, and when her husband Nick suggests that their city apartment has grown too small for their lives, she agrees, in part because she does agree, and in part because she is too tired to think about what she really does want. She agrees again when Nick announces with pride that he has found an antiquated Georgian house on the Dorset cliffs—a good house for children, he says, tons of space and gorgeous grounds. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But as the family settles into the mansion—Nick absent all week, commuting to the city for work—Orla finds herself unsettled. She hears voices when no one is around; doors open and close on their own; and her son Sam, who has not spoken in six months, seems to have made an imaginary friend whose motives Orla does not trust. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Four decades earlier, Lydia moves into the same house as a live-in nanny to a grieving family. Lydia, too, becomes aware of intangible presences in the large house, and she, like Orla four decades later, becomes increasingly fearful for the safety of the children in her care. But no one in either woman’s life believes the stories that seem fanciful, the stuff of magic and mayhem, sprung from the imaginations of hysterical women who spend too much time in the company of children. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Are both families careening towards tragedy? Are Orla and Lydia seeing things that aren’t there? What secrets is the house hiding? </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizEYviWI4wkfhTkm_RV2rvqfOOEpDHhgQm_HlZXCikX1IgJ2S-uJ8yggJlaB_eMVTZlh69XdvUEvHFjcQeLyjI2bSdzCuAy98kuLM5Pwb2ZIilWIUlYEXO3NUdtPXTh4DzV-67kLeNmmhnw3TNxjEerXXioGDsAvTenKEaiD7LgerzELDsCpYb8JsaRnvo/s400/good%20bones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizEYviWI4wkfhTkm_RV2rvqfOOEpDHhgQm_HlZXCikX1IgJ2S-uJ8yggJlaB_eMVTZlh69XdvUEvHFjcQeLyjI2bSdzCuAy98kuLM5Pwb2ZIilWIUlYEXO3NUdtPXTh4DzV-67kLeNmmhnw3TNxjEerXXioGDsAvTenKEaiD7LgerzELDsCpYb8JsaRnvo/w131-h200/good%20bones.jpg" width="131" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A feminist gothic tale perfectly suited for the current moment, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">A Good House for Children</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> combines an atmospheric mystery with resonant themes of motherhood, madness, and the value of a woman’s work.</span></span><p></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><i>-"Mornings are a promise, afternoons are a heartbreak. Evenings are sly, and they deliver you into the thin arms of each dark night. But mornings hold such possibility, the tangible weight of better: <b>today will be different</b>. When the evening comes (such dreadful hours), the promise of the day has been broken because nothing is different -- you are still yourself. To return to that, every day, to return to the truth of who and where you are, if more than a person should have to bear."</i></span></span></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Feminist gothic now! It's like I don't even read the descriptions of these books! Just kidding, I do, I just ignore them and then complain afterwards if necessary. There was atmosphere to burn here, and plenty of that enraging stuff that comes from women being marooned with the children and having valid concerns and men fucking off on the regular and dismissing all the valid concerns, plus the ones that sound a little less valid because they're about supernatural stuff, whatever, if you think the house is so unhaunted Jeff why don't YOU stay home today? Anyway, this wasn't scare-forward, but the creeping dread was peerless.</span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Whistling</span></u> by Rebecca Netley. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Alone in the world, Elspeth Swansome has taken the position of nanny to a family on the remote Scottish island of Skelthsea. Her charge, Mary, is a troubled child. Distracted and secretive, she hasn't uttered a word since the sudden death of her twin, William—just days after their former nanny disappeared. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">With Mary defiantly silent, Elspeth turns to the islanders. But no one will speak of what happened to William. Just as no one can explain the hypnotic lullabies sung in empty corridors. Nor the strange dolls that appear in abandoned rooms. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Nor the faint whistling that comes in the night... </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">As winter draws in and passage to the mainland becomes impossible, Elspeth finds herself trapped. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But is this house haunted by the ghosts of the past? Or the secrets of the living?</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIzuzsrUYluNWbP-Di0jG8a35xSb7vWfCCJEFEgb_f_Jhko62gIESZuKdpb7I4jxLsjYXc_5bYQSzSsoiIN4nzvNsQ6jtyMtpQNTTZNudPCNXdHEv3vgcZteZaEhi7g9YCw0Z4MsGyUVyNrAuQtZY3kbLLNoZQ6GQP_bjISg2Kwo1Ey3O2vit5N-QqHp_/s500/whistling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="323" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIzuzsrUYluNWbP-Di0jG8a35xSb7vWfCCJEFEgb_f_Jhko62gIESZuKdpb7I4jxLsjYXc_5bYQSzSsoiIN4nzvNsQ6jtyMtpQNTTZNudPCNXdHEv3vgcZteZaEhi7g9YCw0Z4MsGyUVyNrAuQtZY3kbLLNoZQ6GQP_bjISg2Kwo1Ey3O2vit5N-QqHp_/w129-h200/whistling.jpg" width="129" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><i>-"As I entered the hall, Iskar felt different. The resonance of Mary's grief was replaced with something else -- the mute unacceptability of William's life and the acceptance of his death."</i></span></span></p><p><i style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">-"I was aware of my human weight on the treads, their reassuring firmness, the way my heart beat inside my living chest. The mind, my father had always taught me, was the most unreliable of man's organs. Hearts could fail, kidneys could grow septic, but the brain was capable of further reaches; we trust what we see and hear, but how do we truly justify the conclusions we reach?"</i></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This was an obvious companion read to the previous book - spooky houses on cliffsides above water, just an older time period. In a way it reminded me of a Turn of the Screw that I didn't hate (sorry not sorry Henry James, you know what you did). </span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Nestlings</span></u> by Nat Cassidy. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Nat Cassidy is at his razor-sharp best again with his horror novel</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: 600;">Nestlings</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">, which harnesses the creeping paranoia of</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: 600;">Rosemary's Baby</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"> </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">and the urban horror of</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: 600;">'Salem's Lot</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">, set in an exclusive New York City residential building. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Ana and Reid need a break. The horrifically complicated birth of their first child has left Ana paralyzed, bitter, and struggling―with mobility, with her relationship with Reid, with resentment for her baby. Reid dismisses disturbing events and Ana’s deep unease and paranoia, but he can't explain the needle-like bite marks on their baby.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRyGjIBEoVINJPL1yeY-2RuumFnO9Z5EvQkvxCz0yRj2EjIA80VhYesEIzqQVm_02b3KymrdIM3Bm2gP3oJatO4J2HhzbHzzL8fQABn3VFpuNOT4-IEHV8n0miZRF__up77SjMZCrIkvSWbcG_njWwZC5UC8SqJRlrKFkrl83eJhOSLGxQBcA9Rrzu_Q3Z/s2560/nestlings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1682" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRyGjIBEoVINJPL1yeY-2RuumFnO9Z5EvQkvxCz0yRj2EjIA80VhYesEIzqQVm_02b3KymrdIM3Bm2gP3oJatO4J2HhzbHzzL8fQABn3VFpuNOT4-IEHV8n0miZRF__up77SjMZCrIkvSWbcG_njWwZC5UC8SqJRlrKFkrl83eJhOSLGxQBcA9Rrzu_Q3Z/w131-h200/nestlings.jpg" width="131" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><i>-"Remembering that, the craving came on strong. That puncture. That poop. Most people hated needles -- hell, even a lot of junkies hated needles -- but not Bizzie. For Bizzie, every needle felt like a new line separating the past from the present."</i></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A couple with a troubled relationship move into an exclusive New York City residential building, WHAT COULD GO WRONG. What I liked most about this was that Ana was allowed to be a 'bad' mother. She doesn't suffer in silence, and resents the hell out of the baby who is the proximate cause of her disability. This is not un-formulaic, but it's a capable and satisfying iteration, and the ending bucks the trend. There's a place for own voices, but the writing about motherhood is impressive given the author is a man. The afterword, about events in the author's life that inspired the novel, adds a certain poignancy. </span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Mister Magic</span></u> by Kiersten White. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Thirty years after a tragic accident shut down production of the classic children’s program </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Mister Magic,</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> the five surviving cast members have done their best to move on. But just as generations of cultishly devoted fans still cling to the lessons they learned from the show, the cast, known as the Circle of Friends, have spent their lives searching for the happiness they felt while they were on it. The friendship. The feeling of belonging. And the protection of Mister Magic. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But with no surviving video of the show, no evidence of who directed or produced it, and no records of who—or what—the beloved host actually was, memories are all the former Circle of Friends has. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Then a twist of fate brings the castmates back together at the remote desert filming compound that feels like it’s been waiting for them all this time. Even though they haven’t seen each other for years, they understand one another better than anyone has since.</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpX1hSFhx7qiRxvEY-3FR5xda36ljUFmOx0wtvsETO2QbFDy2LSQLbByMyenq9qJPcR6HRr1OSNWr0Be0Q6abXx4NVWA2EdWXbd5LWxuWdxUdIOhudnbvYDFSCJybfHZsi1ke-3ROw7MN4XQKGqacU_6Sy6pOPWVvavBbenCPBhfvC-G3q194iaSmrenp_/s2560/magic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1684" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpX1hSFhx7qiRxvEY-3FR5xda36ljUFmOx0wtvsETO2QbFDy2LSQLbByMyenq9qJPcR6HRr1OSNWr0Be0Q6abXx4NVWA2EdWXbd5LWxuWdxUdIOhudnbvYDFSCJybfHZsi1ke-3ROw7MN4XQKGqacU_6Sy6pOPWVvavBbenCPBhfvC-G3q194iaSmrenp_/w132-h200/magic.jpg" width="132" /></a></div><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"Jenny lets out a strange braying gasp of a laugh. Then she shakes her head and puts her regular smile back on, like pulling an apron over her clothes to protect them."<br /></i></span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia; font-size: 16px;">This was one of those books that I was reading when I got busy, so it felt a little slow-paced in the first half, which it might have been, but it may have just been that I took much longer to read it than I usually do a book of this length. There was a similar theme to a previous book of hers that I read, which makes sense given the afterword. The theme of the possibly-sinister long-ago children's television show is popular in horror, with good reason - it is rich with possibilities. I thought it was quite well done - it was pretty clear generally what was happening, but it wasn't all obvious, and I enjoyed the journey anyway. Characterization was very good, especially Val and Jenny, and the different ways in which childhood trauma manifests in adults. </span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Bone Harvest</span></u> by James Brogden. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Struggling with the effects of early-onset dementia, Dennie Keeling now leads a quiet life. Her husband is dead, her children are grown, and her best friend, Sarah, was convicted of murdering her abusive husband. After Sarah's tragic death in prison, Dennie has found solace in her allotment, and all she wants is to be left to tend it in peace. Life remains quiet for twelve years, until three strangers take on a nearby plot and Dennie starts to notice unnatural things. Shadowy figures prowl at night; plants flower well before their time. And then Sarah appears, bringing dire warnings and vanishing after daubing symbols on the walls in Dennie's own blood. Dennie soon realises that she is face to face with an ancient evil - but with her dementia steadily growing worse, who is going to believe her?</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC2WG_r_iubRlJcO-Y1dpVZAkCpWLQ27fbu11Ws72ife_z0BM_2d9NSqN-OKHfBKHAND8WDKysep9vdC9fNZufPpqKC1M52qBNdAlA_AyAnvwR132PGui25BI8UX4eVB_Q7QGAeq7qAjpiYD712n2XLEtpim0dGvDwuehu4xJzn93JIsfhSjARSy5gFQoJ/s500/bone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="320" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC2WG_r_iubRlJcO-Y1dpVZAkCpWLQ27fbu11Ws72ife_z0BM_2d9NSqN-OKHfBKHAND8WDKysep9vdC9fNZufPpqKC1M52qBNdAlA_AyAnvwR132PGui25BI8UX4eVB_Q7QGAeq7qAjpiYD712n2XLEtpim0dGvDwuehu4xJzn93JIsfhSjARSy5gFQoJ/w128-h200/bone.jpg" width="128" /></a></span></span></div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was a bit disappointed at first, because it seemed to give away too much of the 'horror' part in the very long backstory at the beginning of the book. Once I settled into it as more of a sort-of-retro thriller with horror elements, I enjoyed it. Dennie is a great character -I'm always up for a good 'tough older woman doesn't let the bastards grind her down', and the explanation of the gradual corruption of the allotment-holders - and the hold-outs - generates a good tension.</span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Salt Grows Heavy</span></u> by Cassandra Khaw. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">You may think you know how the fairytale goes: a mermaid comes to shore and weds the prince. But what the fables forget is that mermaids have teeth. And now, her daughters have devoured the kingdom and burned it to ashes. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">On the run, the mermaid is joined by a mysterious plague doctor with a darkness of their own. Deep in the eerie, snow-crusted forest, the pair stumble upon a village of ageless children who thirst for blood, and the three 'saints' who control them. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">The mermaid and her doctor must embrace the cruellest parts of their true nature if they hope to survive.</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtjY8nulYHInT5_UOL0R3XAU9XpUmeHPMCJLJs8uMh3IcmwlViRvkz9d5OucgiFRjX_pHGvdQqyv3lN6-SO_N9bttuPmTlIXpn7WYslYe1doAgx7HniTsp7HdDQ75qZcEIW7RhAsAeeGuneDtZqEaLDLvNulZ8G4Sgn-5GEXVWbk9FREFyvRuIhSXByj9/s1534/salt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1534" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtjY8nulYHInT5_UOL0R3XAU9XpUmeHPMCJLJs8uMh3IcmwlViRvkz9d5OucgiFRjX_pHGvdQqyv3lN6-SO_N9bttuPmTlIXpn7WYslYe1doAgx7HniTsp7HdDQ75qZcEIW7RhAsAeeGuneDtZqEaLDLvNulZ8G4Sgn-5GEXVWbk9FREFyvRuIhSXByj9/w131-h200/salt.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"It was rumored that she had no heart and thus had to steal the king's own organ, that she was a bone-wight, cruel, a lie accoutred in stolen flesh, that she was hungry, bitter, resentful of her spouse's sweet son. It is always interesting to see how often women are described as ravenous when it is the men who, without exception, take without thought of compensation."<br /></i></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #1e1915;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i>-"'My husband was a foolish man. But he understood one thing well.' I move the new oblations in place, thumb stroking across still-warm ventricles. 'For the falling star and the rising ape to meet, the former must first be debased. No myth can remain terrifying when you've seen it broken and beaten, rendered as toothless as an old crone.'"</i></span></span></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">This was very, very strange. The story, the characters, the vocabulary - I learned the word 'shivelight' (a clear shaft of sunlight piercing or filtering through foliage, probably from Old English, popularized by Gerard Manley Hopkins). It is a bit like a Grimm fairy tale, dark with extra darkness, chunks of black mixed in and tenebrous sprinkles on top. Lots of body horror, a pitiless sensibility, and a weird, ruthless beauty. </span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Ghost Woods </span></u>by C.J. Cooke. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">In the midst of the woods stands a house called Lichen Hall. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">This place is shrouded in folklore—old stories of ghosts, of witches, of a child who was not quite a child. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Now the woods are creeping closer, and something has been unleashed. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Pearl Gorham arrives in 1965, one of a string of young women sent to Lichen Hall to give birth. And she soon suspects the proprietors are hiding something. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Then she meets the mysterious mother and young boy who live in the grounds—and together they begin to unpick the secrets of this place. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">As the truth comes to the surface and the darkness moves in, Pearl must rethink everything she knew—and risk what she holds most dear.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIIoa3CBxj0KkDfI-KmbCrz8FsukKObEfTDxrlta3EQPLNSO48FL22T5AnxxRhm7WtUygJnl_XC3vgh4eof9_mnLhIqzyItDF9u77Ydf5_s6sKj1Zt3eDUPcUYcZA2Uj5DD4tuiUL7kofXD98-Q3oRLjcnyxnpopOkpaB4-LeIX-nHZfPZUx0peO75qsow/s648/ghost.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="403" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIIoa3CBxj0KkDfI-KmbCrz8FsukKObEfTDxrlta3EQPLNSO48FL22T5AnxxRhm7WtUygJnl_XC3vgh4eof9_mnLhIqzyItDF9u77Ydf5_s6sKj1Zt3eDUPcUYcZA2Uj5DD4tuiUL7kofXD98-Q3oRLjcnyxnpopOkpaB4-LeIX-nHZfPZUx0peO75qsow/w124-h200/ghost.jpg" width="124" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white;">Atmospheric and sympathetic. A house where unwed mothers are sent to give birth and then have their babies taken away is uniquely situated for horrific emotions and events. Once again, the chief horror element is very of-the-moment (it's almost like the thing they're all writing about is <b>actually happening</b>, omg), but that is by far not the most important part of the story. </span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Holly</span></u> by Stephen King. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Stephen King’s Holly marks the triumphant return of beloved King character Holly Gibney. Readers have witnessed Holly’s gradual transformation from a shy (but also brave and ethical) recluse in Mr. Mercedes to Bill Hodges’s partner in Finders Keepers to a full-fledged, smart, and occasionally tough private detective in The Outsider. In King’s new novel, Holly is on her own, and up against a pair of unimaginably depraved and brilliantly disguised adversaries. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">When Penny Dahl calls the Finders Keepers detective agency hoping for help locating her missing daughter, Holly is reluctant to accept the case. Her partner, Pete, has Covid. Her (very complicated) mother has just died. And Holly is meant to be on leave. But something in Penny Dahl’s desperate voice makes it impossible for Holly to turn her down. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Mere blocks from where Bonnie Dahl disappeared live Professors Rodney and Emily Harris. They are the picture of bourgeois respectability: married octogenarians, devoted to each other, and semi-retired lifelong academics. But they are harboring an unholy secret in the basement of their well-kept, book-lined home, one that may be related to Bonnie’s disappearance. And it will prove nearly impossible to discover what they are up to: they are savvy, they are patient, and they are ruthless.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvdsU-btY4P-oxZxKRy7wESlB5Xua8K-XxxcKSWZxbeZMRNX-eYAtd7Wey_CN53acMq6LGpa4FH6ZKO5JfbTYYGuAjNmySQg8oYRj4oFZjTRlbkwdjGOnw4S-FXNin4upYvxGU0i5btWtBmWsc1WlwUIi9yk29F-kDsU9e8sNInr0bMxh44RtjZ6vw00Qc/s900/holly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="595" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvdsU-btY4P-oxZxKRy7wESlB5Xua8K-XxxcKSWZxbeZMRNX-eYAtd7Wey_CN53acMq6LGpa4FH6ZKO5JfbTYYGuAjNmySQg8oYRj4oFZjTRlbkwdjGOnw4S-FXNin4upYvxGU0i5btWtBmWsc1WlwUIi9yk29F-kDsU9e8sNInr0bMxh44RtjZ6vw00Qc/w133-h200/holly.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">I pre-ordered this to have while I was alone this fall while my husband traveled for work. The cover is gorgeous and I enjoyed having the actual book to read.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">This is more thriller than horror, but I love Holly Gibney (a recurring character in recent Stephen King works) and was completely content to follow the plot from both sides, and see how Holly's thought process and determinedly methodical investigation led her to her conclusions.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was interesting having the story take place mid-pandemic. When people were discussing this at the beginning, I thought 'of course writers will portray the pandemic happening, why wouldn't they?', but then I found it a little jarring. I found it a little weird that people volunteered what brand of vaccine they got, and also surprising that Holly would accept anyone's word that they were vaccinated, with all her other precautions and mild hypochondria. It will be interesting to see how this kind of thing reads as we draw further away from the height of Covid.</span></span></p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-23207981133988732982024-01-20T15:34:00.000-08:002024-01-20T16:10:01.735-08:00Books Read in 2023: Four-Star Horror Part 1<p><span style="color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So I went to the doctor a couple of days ago on my husband's orders and funny story, turns out I'm really sick. Since I was seven and got pneumonia, when I get a cold my lungs get super dramatic and I get a cough that goes on forever (I had a prof in fourth year that stopped lecturing and said "oh my god Allison, is that the same cough you had in second year?") It hasn't happened nearly as much since I got the CPAP and my airways aren't chronically inflamed, but it still seemed familiar enough that I wasn't overly alarmed. I went in to see if I needed a different inhaler or something and my doctor was like the fuck are you doing, take drugs, go to bed, and sent me out with a req for a chest x-ray, antibiotics and cough syrup that came with a Naloxone kit. I'm starting to feel like I can take an actual breath - it's a little thing, but it's a nice thing. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Eve is also sick, and five hours away, which sucks mightily. My friend Elaine (HI ELAINE) whose daughter also goes to McMaster but who lives much closer (SCREW YOU ELAINE just kidding) delivered some meds that had a decongestant other than pseudoephedrine because it was hurting Eve's stomach and keeping her awake for days. I think she might have the flu but her flu shot actually lessened the severity maybe? (Didn't work for me, the two times I got the flu and felt like I was actually dying I had also gotten the flu shot). Or, as she says, she has quite a delicate internal ecosystem, so fever could be for any reason. It's really hard to tell an overachieving university student that she might have to let a few things slide while she recovers. Last semester I told her she was handling a very demanding courseload and doing the musical, and she'd already gotten great marks for two years, so she could consider that a thing she'd already done and worry less about it. Then she got great marks again, so THIS semester.... well, you get the gist. It didn't go over terribly well. If she was at home we could be snotty and cough-ish in the same bed and watch bad tv together and make Matt bring us soup and ice cream and I am sulking about this not being possible. </span></p><p><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Will split the horror, because I read a lot of horror this year. </span></p><p><u style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Four-Star Horror</span></u></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Jackal</span></u> by Erin E. Adams. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">It’s watching. </i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Liz Rocher is coming home . . . reluctantly. As a Black woman, Liz doesn’t exactly have fond memories of Johnstown, Pennsylvania, a predominantly white town. But her best friend is getting married, so she braces herself for a weekend of awkward and passive-aggressive reunions. Liz has grown, though; she can handle whatever awaits her. But on the day of the wedding, somewhere between dancing and dessert, the bride’s daughter, Caroline, goes missing—and the only thing left behind is a piece of white fabric covered in blood. </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">It’s taking. </i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">As a frantic search begins, with the police combing the trees for Caroline, Liz is the only one who notices a pattern: a summer night. A missing girl. A party in the woods. She’s seen this before. Keisha Woodson, the only other Black girl in school, walked into the woods with a mysterious man and was later found with her chest cavity ripped open and her heart missing. Liz shudders at the thought that it could have been her, and now, with Caroline missing, it can’t be a coincidence. As Liz starts to dig through the town’s history, she uncovers a horrifying secret about the place she once called home. Children have been going missing in these woods for years. All of them Black. All of them girls. </span></span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">It’s your turn.</span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbIwN1SH14g09Inl-ef9-4N-PMblLo7oqRntoKfLh7C3mW3y733dtyapiwZpuM5NOIjtRtxzwnK3g9pIZHkVXChA8eL4vxUI3AEMIQA8y4iOnglr69AVcXewG-wYxxwnCmPkLrSe4yTxI46Axx_Ztm3r3vsfeigHpc6Q80A6rZVlw7Y3Um26wZiZYst4vH/s700/jackal.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="461" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbIwN1SH14g09Inl-ef9-4N-PMblLo7oqRntoKfLh7C3mW3y733dtyapiwZpuM5NOIjtRtxzwnK3g9pIZHkVXChA8eL4vxUI3AEMIQA8y4iOnglr69AVcXewG-wYxxwnCmPkLrSe4yTxI46Axx_Ztm3r3vsfeigHpc6Q80A6rZVlw7Y3Um26wZiZYst4vH/w132-h200/jackal.jpg" width="132" /></a></span></i></div><p><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>-”Sometimes I think of Diana’s mother, Renee. She didn’t cry like the others. Instead, deep bitter blame rooted in her. She hated her daughter. Renee hated her until she died, years later, from a broken heart. Hating her daughter kept her alive. Hate is active. Hate has drive. But love, like grief, is long and ever-changing. Diana’s mother didn’t dare love again.”</i></span></span></p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Three and a half stars, rounded up. So much great stuff here - regular racism, extra-special small-town racism, fraught friendships between white and Black girls, fraught relationships between Black girls and their mothers, the different ways law enforcement responds to missing white girls and missing Black girls, oh, and law enforcement almost invariably being corrupt and/or useless. Liz is a really great character, whose problems fall at the intersection of racism and misogyny (and when your Black mother doesn't have much sympathy for the misogyny part of it, well I have to imagine that that's a special kind of hurtful).</span></span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I don't have a problem with mystery/thrillers being flavoured with the supernatural, I'm just not sure it worked entirely for me here. I will definitely check out anything else this author puts out going forward.</span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Witch in the Well</span></u> by Camilla Bruce. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">When two former friends reunite after decades apart, their grudges, flawed ambitions, and shared obsession swirl into an all-too-real echo of a terrible town legend. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Centuries ago, beautiful young Ilsbeth Clark was accused of witchcraft after several children disappeared. Her acquittal did nothing to stop her fellow townsfolk from drowning her in the well where the missing children were last seen. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">When author and social media influencer Elena returns to the summer paradise of her youth to get her family's manor house ready to sell, the last thing she expected was connecting with―and feeling inspired to write about―Ilsbeth’s infamous spirit. The very historical figure that her ex-childhood friend, Cathy, has been diligently researching and writing about for years.</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-77ad3d25-7fff-8523-9946-1d834ca4695e"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”Whenever I object to her unkind treatment, she gives me a dark look to remind me of a time when our roles were reversed, when it was she who was in my service – though I nary had any help of her. She was always mostly a burden, a chain to bind me to this cursed place.</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPuyGGA7nJRKpOA97Ub-gBsjgU96ibcyqnxJrXK0Ehtr0k3U_s5am-dvFiSdDXiYea_BCb8gKnR-I7x8EGpinllmgOHP5Fw-Bfhv7KcrLhZ4ErQBgON6JfjenEp5gcKeJmc6ouICX70B0lOxKeJHw5KZQn_ItoqbmJpTlwCP7wSYiSXIGU-brzeUYevLbK/s400/witch.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="259" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPuyGGA7nJRKpOA97Ub-gBsjgU96ibcyqnxJrXK0Ehtr0k3U_s5am-dvFiSdDXiYea_BCb8gKnR-I7x8EGpinllmgOHP5Fw-Bfhv7KcrLhZ4ErQBgON6JfjenEp5gcKeJmc6ouICX70B0lOxKeJHw5KZQn_ItoqbmJpTlwCP7wSYiSXIGU-brzeUYevLbK/w129-h200/witch.jpg" width="129" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>My mistress is neither cruel nor kind, but a thing of hunger and a thing of awe. It is no wonder that Owen Phyne found her so irresistible, although I must say that her charms have tarnished in my eyes. A century of scrubbing and boiling bones will do that.”<br /></i></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As with her previous book, this is a masterful</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> exercise in storytelling in which it is equally plausible that the fantastical elements are real or imagined - and the story is sad and scary either way. The resentments of unhappy women mistreated by careless men exert a frightening power.</span></span></p></span><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Lone Women</span></u> by Victor LaValle. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Blue skies, empty land—and enough wide-open space to hide a horrifying secret. A woman with a past, a mysterious trunk, a town on the edge of nowhere, and an “absorbing, powerful” ( BuzzFeed ) new vision of the American West, from the award-winning author of The Changeling. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Adelaide Henry carries an enormous steamer trunk with her wherever she goes. It’s locked at all times. Because when the trunk opens, people around Adelaide start to disappear. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">The year is 1915, and Adelaide is in trouble. Her secret sin killed her parents, forcing her to flee California in a hellfire rush and make her way to Montana as a homesteader. Dragging the trunk with her at every stop, she will become one of the “lone women” taking advantage of the government’s offer of free land for those who can tame it—except that Adelaide isn’t alone. And the secret she’s tried so desperately to lock away might be the only thing that will help her survive the harsh territory.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdYvGNPr_K50KkcPRIXkNrEZJC1Fu2BZmKnk_GDtmhGy9E7nc3azWp6ndZmTBuzSuo9NlhhrVdBFPa_oXliVzj4OC8SmCW4-Ue1to6W3BZF9G6C77k3jAakUq7rSaGhqfUSltXsoaJ23DoS2hFeVx89hrAD-Fofk-3gMa86HTbAv9eVBMEN0x4y1ekpcfS/s400/lone.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdYvGNPr_K50KkcPRIXkNrEZJC1Fu2BZmKnk_GDtmhGy9E7nc3azWp6ndZmTBuzSuo9NlhhrVdBFPa_oXliVzj4OC8SmCW4-Ue1to6W3BZF9G6C77k3jAakUq7rSaGhqfUSltXsoaJ23DoS2hFeVx89hrAD-Fofk-3gMa86HTbAv9eVBMEN0x4y1ekpcfS/w131-h200/lone.jpg" width="131" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">I am a big Victor LaValle fan - like Stephen Graham Jones, he uses horror as a medium to explore racism, and I feel like it doesn't diminish the issue at all, in fact sometimes makes the critique feel even more incisive. This book succeeds on so many levels - as a description of the hardships of homesteading life, particularly as a lone black woman. As an illustration of the power of female friendship. And then there's a the issue of the thing in the trunk, which, whoa. </span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Spite House</span></u> by Johnny Compton. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Eric Ross is on the run from a mysterious past with his two daughters in tow. Having left his wife, his house, his whole life behind in Maryland, he’s desperate for money–it’s not easy to find safe work when you can’t provide references, you can’t stay in one place for long, and you’re paranoid that your past is creeping back up on you. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">When he comes across the strange ad for the Masson House in Degener, Texas, Eric thinks they may have finally caught a lucky break. The Masson property, notorious for being one of the most haunted places in Texas, needs a caretaker of sorts. The owner is looking for proof of paranormal activity. All they need to do is stay in the house and keep a detailed record of everything that happens there. Provided the house’s horrors don’t drive them all mad, like the caretakers before them. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">The job calls to Eric, not just because there’s a huge payout if they can make it through, but because he wants to explore the secrets of the spite house. If it is indeed haunted, maybe it’ll help him understand the uncanny power that clings to his family, driving them from town to town, making them afraid to stop running. A terrifying Gothic thriller about grief and death and the depths of a father’s love, Johnny Compton’s The Spite House is a stunning debut by a horror master in the making.</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLUvheMGYLBrATYw4yQOKYdrtXuUjrtV57Hs4Yk5i-W4gXb_nt8ZBWQUcHTsjv_V-yw4AAIbzRtZ1_qeLUI2lr16akeoc8OVZMWWftUA15aH8dGOruruOH-nairV9w2c4ILsPv5STTz5547ZiYBIMXWsgX4VXO6Gd_U9Bb7Ypjzm1LPOXxUl-JITzjtPT_/s400/spite.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLUvheMGYLBrATYw4yQOKYdrtXuUjrtV57Hs4Yk5i-W4gXb_nt8ZBWQUcHTsjv_V-yw4AAIbzRtZ1_qeLUI2lr16akeoc8OVZMWWftUA15aH8dGOruruOH-nairV9w2c4ILsPv5STTz5547ZiYBIMXWsgX4VXO6Gd_U9Bb7Ypjzm1LPOXxUl-JITzjtPT_/w133-h200/spite.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”Peter should not have been disappointed. He shouldn’t have dared hope for his brother’s understanding, but what Lukas said to him tore something out of him that he had failed to loosen, so it did not come away clean.”</i></span><p></p><p><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A spite house is an actual thing - traditionally, a house built or modified for the purpose of irritating neighbours. This seems to me to be rife with possibilities for comedy and drama, as well as horror, and I'm surprised I haven't come across it as a literary device before now. As the title of this book it works on several levels. It's hard writing about haunted houses in a way that creates fear the same way a movie scene can, but there were passages here that accomplished it for me, and that is in addition to the family elements that added layers of foreboding and melancholy. <br /></span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Dark Between the Trees</span></u> by Fiona Barnett. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">1643: A small group of Parliamentarian soldiers are ambushed in an isolated part of Northern England. Their only hope for survival is to flee into the nearby Moresby Wood... unwise though that may seem. For Moresby Wood is known to be an unnatural place, the realm of witchcraft and shadows, where the devil is said to go walking by moonlight... </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Seventeen men enter the wood. Only two are ever seen again, and the stories they tell of what happened make no sense. Stories of shifting landscapes, of trees that appear and disappear at will... and of something else. Something dark. Something hungry. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">five women are headed into Moresby Wood to discover, once and for all, what happened to that unfortunate group of soldiers. Led by Dr Alice Christopher, an historian who has devoted her entire academic career to uncovering the secrets of Moresby Wood. Armed with metal detectors, GPS units, mobile phones and the most recent map of the area (which is nearly 50 years old), Dr Christopher’s group enters the wood ready for anything.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1l1IqrofV6-2Ob-M_hpG2GJ8RdDLjaCz8ge_c6GLFPszxVQ5zSi2wLw47DOLWOLeFX6W5mKG5274B1CIqBAAgi6iuBbKdxhKsN-x6YVklwHyt984O9xk2dBl3I06XobEFsqtT1Q1yBPyEdQDTujKZ8Kg5M6Mb7niHXzF73mm6UKjqkKOGZs7LGnebAZgU/s2204/dark.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2204" data-original-width="1400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1l1IqrofV6-2Ob-M_hpG2GJ8RdDLjaCz8ge_c6GLFPszxVQ5zSi2wLw47DOLWOLeFX6W5mKG5274B1CIqBAAgi6iuBbKdxhKsN-x6YVklwHyt984O9xk2dBl3I06XobEFsqtT1Q1yBPyEdQDTujKZ8Kg5M6Mb7niHXzF73mm6UKjqkKOGZs7LGnebAZgU/w127-h200/dark.jpg" width="127" /></a></span></span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am waffling between three and four for a few reasons. Is it well written? Definitely. I appreciate the differences between the group of men and the group of women, one group there out of necessity and one out of choice. The difference in dynamics between the members of the groups, the dissension, the atmosphere of the forest, the growing dread and confusion - all well done. Oh, and the jabs at academia, the examining of the thirst for actual knowledge vs. the political angling for academic success - also very on point. Is it a satisfying horror story? Hmm, not entirely? At this point in my life I can be more comfortable with a lack of closure, and I don't require a hit-you-over-the-head six-paragraph explanatory map. But I maybe need something a little more than 'oh well, oldness, mysteries, who can say' - well, you're the author, <b>you</b> could say, some would argue that saying is your actual literal JOB, but okay I GUESS. As 'folk horror' which someone described it as, it is very good. I don't regret reading it.<br /></span></span><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">999: New Stories of Horror and Suspense</span></u> edited by Al Sarrantonio & Neil Gaiman. <span style="font-size: x-small;">Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Award-winning writer and editor Al Sarrantonio gathers together twenty-nine original stories from masters of the macabre. From dark fantasy and pure suspense to classic horror tales of vampires and zombies, </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">999</em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> showcases the extraordinary scope of fantastical fright fiction. The stories in this anthology are a relentless tour de force of fear, which will haunt you, terrify you, and keep the adrenaline rushing all through the night.</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJiMj9I9fDEk_FMaz2NT2Eqtv6cGFvq-rCWGrCVZEX_QzK5gyUKqGucXVbXex1-mGqbtV6MlGDpHm9oT2X7wygi4aCIpeWLonmANkNwjekGp8JlNHau2jEIL1lyJsHw8PxDePBO0p1IM3UqiPgMTPcvGoerfvE9koF1Ki6NSVicSfjAB6Y7mVmD4RkBYv1/s400/999.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="268" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJiMj9I9fDEk_FMaz2NT2Eqtv6cGFvq-rCWGrCVZEX_QzK5gyUKqGucXVbXex1-mGqbtV6MlGDpHm9oT2X7wygi4aCIpeWLonmANkNwjekGp8JlNHau2jEIL1lyJsHw8PxDePBO0p1IM3UqiPgMTPcvGoerfvE9koF1Ki6NSVicSfjAB6Y7mVmD4RkBYv1/w134-h200/999.jpg" width="134" /></a></div><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">While organizing my bookshelves, I took this thick, battered paperback off the shelf up in my bedroom, planning to skim through it one last time and then give it away. Instead I ended up deeply engrossed in most of the stories and couldn't put it down until I read the all again, and then still had to think twice about getting rid of it. This anthology was my first introduction to some horror writers that I've followed ever since. Some stories are extremely dark and twisted - ICU by Edward Lee; some are more traditional - Good Friday by F. Paul Wilson (nuns against vampires, whoo-hoo); some are more mathematical than you'd expect from a horror story (The Book of Irrational Numbers by Michael Marshall Smith) and some are yearningly strange (Rio Grande Gothic by David Morrell). <br /></span></span><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Isolation: The Horror Anthology</span></u> edited by Dan Coxon & Paul Tremblay. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">A chilling horror anthology of 18 stories about the terrifying fears of isolation, from the modern masters of horror. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Featuring Tim Lebbon, Paul Tremblay, Joe R. Lansdale, M.R. Carey, Ken Liu and many more. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Lost in the wilderness, or shunned from society, it remains one of our deepest held fears. This horror anthology calls on leading horror writers to confront the dark moments, the challenges that we must face alone: hikers lost in the woods; astronauts adrift in the silence of deep space; the quiet voice trapped in a crowd; the prisoner, with no hope of escape. Experience the chilling terrors of Isolation.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white;">I tend to rate anthologies even more forgivingly than everything else - if at least one story is up there, I don't know how to average it all accurately. The fears of isolation generated by the pandemic and lockdowns is a great excuse for an anthology, but I'm up for horror short stories anytime anyway. There were some good ones here, a couple were meh, but Across the Bridge by Tim Lebbon was stellar, with an absolutely devastating ending, and Fire Above, Fire Below (think of Cassandra from Greek lit) by Lisa Tuttle was flawless, as Lisa Tuttle generally is in my experience. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTRrsOzmRC9rezaqZ_nVwn3g6aQFnXg7syJktXLuNlGMinedow9tqUWI-c_34Z2SFNJsgX8r6DCwGDQmLtN3xYAQlaOMeSlIUfcMik7eYjS1nHsg5sOpO9abyZ6Otc6QA7q7qmAzQRsHAIdkMdcY8wQhLbH9SE1AR2GTtXJ346vKu_iloJsp-M-bhJUXhl/s400/isolation.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTRrsOzmRC9rezaqZ_nVwn3g6aQFnXg7syJktXLuNlGMinedow9tqUWI-c_34Z2SFNJsgX8r6DCwGDQmLtN3xYAQlaOMeSlIUfcMik7eYjS1nHsg5sOpO9abyZ6Otc6QA7q7qmAzQRsHAIdkMdcY8wQhLbH9SE1AR2GTtXJ346vKu_iloJsp-M-bhJUXhl/w131-h200/isolation.jpg" width="131" /></a></span></span></div><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Best Horror of the Year vol. 14</span></u> edited by Ellen Datlow. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">For more than four decades, Ellen Datlow has been at the center of horror. Bringing you the most frightening and terrifying stories, Datlow always has her finger on the pulse of what horror readers crave. Now, with the fourteenth volume of the series, Datlow is back again to bring you the stories that will keep you up at night. Encompassed in the pages of </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">The Best Horror of the Year</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> have been such illustrious writers as: Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, Stephen Graham Jones, Joyce Carol Oates, Laird Barron, Mira Grant, and many others. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">With each passing year, science, technology, and the march of time shine light into the craggy corners of the universe, making the fears of an earlier generation seem quaint. But this light creates its own shadows. </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">The Best Horror of the Year</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> chronicles these shifting shadows. It is a catalog of terror, fear, and unpleasantness as articulated by today’s most challenging and exciting writers.</span></span></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><i>-"Bloated and lanky, his jaw unslung" </i></span></span></p><p><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">-”I glanced toward the field once more. The figure had climbed the wall while our attention was elsewhere and was moving through the stagnant water and thistles toward us, each step marked by the chit chit of skinless jaws.”</span></i></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIv7w1MGwNHnoHr-853uGFgdLBIbqbfifo9i7sttRdiSkd82sOdL3EBg3mBgLtRapHYsQDaStMJQysK13VZfE_iVnYUUif5T1Tpjh4mDhyphenhyphenxM_4ZwKJQ57jIfw5MRK60JT7zrFEkSh82M-ksNcjEdTBg9av4C34u6dN_07mg9cGinFUPGP24o5Ecw9nlTY9/s2100/horror%2014.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2100" data-original-width="1400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIv7w1MGwNHnoHr-853uGFgdLBIbqbfifo9i7sttRdiSkd82sOdL3EBg3mBgLtRapHYsQDaStMJQysK13VZfE_iVnYUUif5T1Tpjh4mDhyphenhyphenxM_4ZwKJQ57jIfw5MRK60JT7zrFEkSh82M-ksNcjEdTBg9av4C34u6dN_07mg9cGinFUPGP24o5Ecw9nlTY9/w133-h200/horror%2014.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>I don't actually read horror thinking I'm going to be scared - not the kind of scared where you shudder and can't turn the lights off. Good horror is cathartic the way Aristotle said tragedy was - through the engagement of pity and fear. That said, there was imagery in this anthology that did make me literally shudder. Because you are probably tired of me enumerating single stories, I will talk about two things I do not like in anthologies - one is including poems. If I wanted a book of poetry, I would buy a book of poetry. I force myself to read them, or start reading them, but I never feel like they add anything. The other is when there are multiple stories by the same author. Really? Out of all the submissions you got, there wasn't a single story by an un-included author that was as good or better than the second story by someone who already got a slot? It bugs me. Even though, goddammit, the two Steve Toase stories in this one were staggeringly fucking good. The Eoin Murphy and Michael Marshall Smith stories were excellent but so goddamned sad they made me angry. <br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Out There Screaming: An Anthology of New Black Horror </span>edited by Jordan Peele, Erin Jackson. <span style="font-size: x-small;">Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">The visionary writer and director of</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: 600;">Get Out, Us,</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"> </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">and</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: 600;">Nope,</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"> </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">and founder of Monkeypaw Productions, curates this groundbreaking anthology of all-new stories of Black horror, exploring not only the terrors of the supernatural but the chilling reality of injustice that haunts our nation. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A cop begins seeing huge, blinking eyes where the headlights of cars should be that tell him who to pull over. Two freedom riders take a bus ride that leaves them stranded on a lonely road in Alabama where several unsettling somethings await them. A young girl dives into the depths of the Earth in search of the demon that killed her parents. These are just a few of the worlds of </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Out There Screaming,</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> Jordan Peele’s anthology of all-new horror stories by Black writers. Featuring an introduction by Peele and an all-star roster of beloved writers and new voices, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Out There Screaming</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> is a master class in horror, and—like his spine-chilling films—its stories prey on everything we think we know about our world . . . and redefine what it means to be afraid.</span></span></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"<b>Noble</b>. The name fit. It had a ring to it that demanded respect -- which had been the entire reason his parents had chosen it. It forced white folks to say the name of honor, even if they didn't respect the Black man carrying it."</i></span></span></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"Bro, we are an undifferentiated mass of heterosexual, cisgender, Anglo-Saxon, upper-class, male privilege. Who the <b>fuck </b>is gonna wanna explore our inner life by the end of this?"</i></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc5DXUPp2B-3OvOUaQRZXvPQObajfQ11UJiEo7jzNUyCPeB2v11V3FfTnfO-RCyqJuzunYqzaUTUdLEspT-EpWRUqQmQC4gL-5ykb1LXK1i6x4rzG7OrZ-Tk7N-NRCeytksOYzS_JJ6qION8VGXx1Wa4PqSsa4M5nu5wt9DUNLlz5Kip9HiNDp-oUwjuAJ/s2000/screaming.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1360" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc5DXUPp2B-3OvOUaQRZXvPQObajfQ11UJiEo7jzNUyCPeB2v11V3FfTnfO-RCyqJuzunYqzaUTUdLEspT-EpWRUqQmQC4gL-5ykb1LXK1i6x4rzG7OrZ-Tk7N-NRCeytksOYzS_JJ6qION8VGXx1Wa4PqSsa4M5nu5wt9DUNLlz5Kip9HiNDp-oUwjuAJ/w136-h200/screaming.jpg" width="136" /></a></span></span></div><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">I love Jordan Peele. Key & Peele is smart and hilarious, and his horror movies are smart and scary and entertaining. I requested this the second I found out about it. Then I started reading it and had to remind myself that the stories weren't actually written by Jordan Peele, just selected by him. I got a few stories in and was a little bewildered, a little disappointed, wondering if it was just me and if not liking new Black horror makes you racist. Hmm, now I am looking at the story list and this is not even true, what the hell. I didn't like the first story (although it was not by any means un-frightening), but I liked the second very much. Oh, but then I didn't like the next three very much, and not just because they weren't my thing, they just didn't seem that good. Even the one by Cadwell Turnbull - it seemed like a rip-off of Get Out. Invasion of the Baby Snatchers was a promising premise, but the ending was truly baffling - it felt like a screamingly obvious statement of something that was already, well, screamingly obvious. I liked the rest much better - Pressure by Ezra Claytan Daniels was my favourite, illustrating effectively what it's like to be a black person in a family full of white people, while also being a stunningly good horror read.</span></span></p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-85331316601116534272024-01-18T18:48:00.000-08:002024-01-18T18:48:20.065-08:00Books Read in 2023: Four-Star Mysteries<p>Still not despairing, precisely, but I do suddenly hate my hair, my face, and every single thing in my house. I am wise enough (for now) to realize that this is probably not the right time to throw out the contents of my house (not all of them anyway), repaint all the walls, dye my hair blue and get a facelift. For now I have just cleared Christmas decorations off some shelves and not put the stuff that usually lives there back, because I am seized with decision paralysis every time I try to arrange anything. The multiple sides of my decorating personality are at war with each other. I have some things that really need to be sitting in solitary serenity on a white shelf, but that kind of space doesn't exist in this house. And yet I can't quite bring myself to give all the things away, so they sit in uneasy communion with lesser entities or languish undisplayed. It's a conundrum.</p><p>Could not be happier about the comments on the previous post though. For a few years, even though people I knew would clamour in excitement about the book review posts, they would get very few comments. That was fine, I still enjoyed composing them, they're not for everyone, but it would feel ever so slightly discouraging. I started prefacing the book review posts with regular blog stuff and then people would comment about the books and I'd be like "how dare they disregard my hilarious regardings, that shit was funny" (I'm impossible to please, have never claimed anything otherwise). Then lo and behold, the thing that brings us all together is body lotion containers! </p><p>It is, in fact, Aveeno that I use (it used to be Vaseline Intensive Care, and I can't actually remember why I switched). I am going to try the funnel thing, but I still suspect the result is going to be lotion all over the bathroom counter. And 'spaddy daddy?' *immature snicker*. Brilliant invention if it works, name needs workshopping. Ohhh, it's actually 'spatty daddy', like spatula. Still problematic, imo.</p><p>Okay, is American Hippo actually good? It was Magic for Liars that I read, and I didn't like it as much as I hoped I would, and then I heard about the hippo book and it sounded gimmicky, and I didn't love the first book enough to pursue it. But OBVIOUSLY it sounds insanely cool. (Marilyn added her vote to Engie's before I published this. Hippo book incoming.</p><p>I was going to do horror next, but there's a lot of it and I've been pretty niche so far, so starting with mysteries.</p><p><u><span style="font-size: large;">Four-Star Mystery/Thriller</span></u></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">When No One is Watching</span></u> by Alyssa Cole. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Rear Window</em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> meets </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Get Out</em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> in this gripping thriller from a critically acclaimed and </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">New York Times </em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Notable author, in which the gentrification of a Brooklyn neighborhood takes on a sinister new meaning... </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Sydney Green is Brooklyn born and raised, but her beloved neighborhood seems to change every time she blinks. Condos are sprouting like weeds, FOR SALE signs are popping up overnight, and the neighbors she's known all her life are disappearing. To hold onto her community's past and present, Sydney channels her frustration into a walking tour and finds an unlikely and unwanted assistant in one of the new arrivals to the block--her neighbor Theo. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But Sydney and Theo's deep dive into history quickly becomes a dizzying descent into paranoia and fear. Their neighbors may not have moved to the suburbs after all, and the push to </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">revitalize</em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> the community may be more deadly than advertised. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">When does coincidence become conspiracy? Where do people go when gentrification pushes them out? Can Sydney and Theo trust each other--or themselves--long enough to find out before they too disappear?</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9vgjmEMGyFXsnr3ZGgx9dJsWRk6eXSX02FyCW7TKFH0JwuINfJfBg02vwT-qV3jqDqThfirUycQ_1IV2oCc9P2UiogQHXpl1tfEuNM5mPumCd98dJ2gVajhU0RXBHEVsR61MnkZmHIpqwGEHyIyeIK_MyQlI8CtTZ3k1X9O0b6-3_y1Zwf0r1KL_O7jEp/s1024/watching.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="680" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9vgjmEMGyFXsnr3ZGgx9dJsWRk6eXSX02FyCW7TKFH0JwuINfJfBg02vwT-qV3jqDqThfirUycQ_1IV2oCc9P2UiogQHXpl1tfEuNM5mPumCd98dJ2gVajhU0RXBHEVsR61MnkZmHIpqwGEHyIyeIK_MyQlI8CtTZ3k1X9O0b6-3_y1Zwf0r1KL_O7jEp/w133-h200/watching.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-6ecc5bfc-7fff-63f7-2930-a50dd6f46b89"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">-”Slavery. Fucking. </span><b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Theme park</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">.</span></b></i></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>Black America, the theme park, was billed as ‘an opportunity to become familiar with plantation life for those of the North who belong to a generation to which the word slavery has but an indefinite and hazy meaning.’ This was, like, twenty years after slavery ended, mind you. I mean, I too get nostalgic when an eighties jam starts playing on the radio, but these motherfuckers really needed to reminisce about owning humans?”</i></span></p></span><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Three and a half, rounded up. I liked the first half a lot - the concept makes so much sense to me. Like, gentrification is evil in many ways, so let's make it ACTUALLY evil. Sydney is a great character, flawed, messy, strong, and the depiction of the neighbourhood regulars, and then the interlopers, is so realistic it's horrific all on its own. The message board stuff could have been lifted from one of my own Facebook groups. Sydney's rage and helplessness is palpable, and I like that Theo is a sort of stuck-in-the-middle bridge who wants to help but is kind of cringey. The second half lost me a little - different in tone and any hint of subtlety basically goes out the window. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO2O_wjLFZL5ilrLZm-LGmUpw-L75xR7cSURAlIBaVEVSgYcYCkgqkQCWzZ49kEgRRsaiQGTGDF8h5j-l3hKroyErxZCHDIAYimAEDD3Hq58n3BkEO1AoW9H2EIo_ofIEOOaOPlD4ueIdkwm2_uIW8Qe481KBYpBOGznCyGJzLDQApwONKmEbKwNEFOVnf/s769/party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="769" data-original-width="500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO2O_wjLFZL5ilrLZm-LGmUpw-L75xR7cSURAlIBaVEVSgYcYCkgqkQCWzZ49kEgRRsaiQGTGDF8h5j-l3hKroyErxZCHDIAYimAEDD3Hq58n3BkEO1AoW9H2EIo_ofIEOOaOPlD4ueIdkwm2_uIW8Qe481KBYpBOGznCyGJzLDQApwONKmEbKwNEFOVnf/w130-h200/party.jpg" width="130" /></a></div><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Last Party</span></u> (DC Morgan #1) by Clare Mackintosh. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">At midnight, one of them is dead. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">By morning, all of them are suspects. </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: 600;">It's a party to end all parties, but not everyone is here to celebrate. </i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">On New Year’s Eve, Rhys Lloyd has a house full of guests. His vacation homes on Mirror Lake are a success, and he’s generously invited the village to drink champagne with their wealthy new neighbors. </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: 600;">But by midnight, Rhys will be floating dead in the freezing waters of the lake. </i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">On New Year’s Day, Ffion Morgan has a village full of suspects. The tiny community is her home, so the suspects are her neighbors, friends and family—and Ffion has her own secrets to protect. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">With a lie uncovered at every turn, soon the question isn’t who wanted Rhys dead…but who finally killed him.<br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>"It's as thought there's a series of doors inside her head, each one locking away one part of her life and enabling her to function in another."</i></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Better than I was expecting, honestly. The layer of intricate social commentary really added to the depth of the story. The lives of the residents and Ffion's divided loyalty as a police woman and a citizen of the town are as interesting as who actually committed the murder, in the end.</span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Wishing Game</span></u> by Meg Shaffer. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Lucy Hart knows better than anyone what it’s like to grow up without parents who loved her. In a childhood marked by neglect and loneliness, Lucy found her solace in books, namely the Clock Island series by Jack Masterson. Now a twenty-six-year-old teacher’s aide, she is able to share her love of reading with bright, young students, especially seven-year-old Christopher Lamb, who was left orphaned after the tragic death of his parents. Lucy would give anything to adopt Christopher, but even the idea of becoming a family seems like an impossible dream without proper funds and stability. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">But be careful what you wish for. . .</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Just when Lucy is about to give up, Jack Masterson announces he’s finally written a new book. Even better, he’s holding a contest at his home on the real Clock Island, and Lucy is one of the four lucky contestants chosen to compete to win the one and only copy.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpDl8_VNG6tfxVi3ffdgbgC5oUiGQlF6x9cE_dNicnP8_6W2yEr1BtxyV2awMefqXi5Hlo_ApCYacFGWQ0fpr6E_anFB63Z_5-dDAPzzbaMegQaprT3VIAXULxzvToOrI61U0acTYKrBB806g9HZUCQRn1_d41eC76ZXd2E0b4H0mtjxBPwDp4oQ8GV-U/s400/wishing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpDl8_VNG6tfxVi3ffdgbgC5oUiGQlF6x9cE_dNicnP8_6W2yEr1BtxyV2awMefqXi5Hlo_ApCYacFGWQ0fpr6E_anFB63Z_5-dDAPzzbaMegQaprT3VIAXULxzvToOrI61U0acTYKrBB806g9HZUCQRn1_d41eC76ZXd2E0b4H0mtjxBPwDp4oQ8GV-U/w131-h200/wishing.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>-"In Hugo's opinion, it was never too soon for children to learn their ABCs and their female Spanish-Mexican surrealists."</i></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">You know how sometimes a book's edges are softened and burnished by memory? I think the opposite might have happened here. The resonance with The Westing Game obviously sucked me in. Sometimes I really like reading a book and other people's criticisms have no effect. This time they had an effect. I had already thought it was a sweet idea and, although the execution could have used a little more depth and complexity, it was a nice story. After thinking about it more, I think it might be a little too real to justify the unrealistic parts and a little too fairy-tale-ish to justify presenting it as a real-world story. </span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">What Lies in the Woods</span></u> by Kate Alice Marshall. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Naomi Shaw used to believe in magic. Twenty-two years ago, she and her two best friends, Cassidy and Olivia, spent the summer roaming the woods, imagining a world of ceremony and wonder. They called it the Goddess Game. The summer ended suddenly when Naomi was attacked. Miraculously, she survived her seventeen stab wounds and lived to identify the man who had hurt her. The girls’ testimony put away a serial killer, wanted for murdering six women. They were heroes. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">For decades afterward, the friends have kept a secret worth killing for. But now Olivia wants to tell, and Naomi sets out to find out what really happened in the woods―no matter how dangerous the truth turns out to be.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEEkjz6EAjR-EwD8JLko2LtLjCeOp0O4oOHElRZfyd_qe0X0Bb0g7gr25DALwjp2Gjf843aCwfS1HBY0o9MVQP84zC7kFtPhrAJLhO5YGfnUiVc0p8Vg7_YyUFUsWR8ZGv-JtqNaaZGEgXRrJmV3ohNvo9qFGqELYbYXsd0zG_gr0HRfas_Bf4NUkywA8T/s1359/woods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1359" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEEkjz6EAjR-EwD8JLko2LtLjCeOp0O4oOHElRZfyd_qe0X0Bb0g7gr25DALwjp2Gjf843aCwfS1HBY0o9MVQP84zC7kFtPhrAJLhO5YGfnUiVc0p8Vg7_YyUFUsWR8ZGv-JtqNaaZGEgXRrJmV3ohNvo9qFGqELYbYXsd0zG_gr0HRfas_Bf4NUkywA8T/w133-h200/woods.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This was a perfectly good thriller. Better than many I've read. Some good observations about small towns and classism, and a vividly drawn hot mess of a self-destructive protagonist (justifiably so). It all goes a little everything-but-the-kitchen-sink towards the end, but that's okay. The only reason I'm ever so slightly disappointed is that I really, really love this author's youth horror fiction and I was hoping for a touch of that here. In the closing acknowledgements she thanks someone for telling her she should be a thriller writer, and I really hope she doesn't just do that now.</span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Descent</span></u> by Tim Johnston. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">The Rocky Mountains have cast their spell over the Courtlands, a young family from the plains taking a last summer vacation before their daughter begins college. For eighteen-year-old Caitlin, the mountains loom as the ultimate test of her runner’s heart, while her parents hope that so much beauty, so much grandeur, will somehow repair a damaged marriage. But when Caitlin and her younger brother, Sean, go out for an early morning run and only Sean returns, the mountains become as terrifying as they are majestic, as suddenly this family find themselves living the kind of nightmare they’ve only read about in headlines or seen on TV. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">As their world comes undone, the Courtlands are drawn into a vortex of dread and recrimination. </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Why weren’t they more careful? What has happened to their daughter? Is she alive? Will they ever know?</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> Caitlin’s disappearance, all the more devastating for its mystery, is the beginning of the family’s harrowing journey down increasingly divergent and solitary paths until all that continues to bind them together are the questions they can never bring themselves to ask: </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">At what point does a family stop searching? At what point will a girl stop fighting for her life?</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”By its regularity it had become an unspoken fact of the ranch, like the hills themselves – although once, early on, Grant had commented on the bird, and the old man had grown silent and still. Then he told Grant that his wife liked to say that if she must come back to this earth and not to heaven she hoped God would let her come back as such a bird – hawk or eagle or falcon. And if she did come back as one of these, said Emmet, she hoped she would have no memory of ever having lived as a human woman. She wanted to look down from the air and know the things a bird should know and nothing of what men thought or did, but just to watch them as a bird would, from up high, no more curious and no less wary than any other creature</i>.”</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Oi5-6a2Zsb0CR4tYXSZc2TuGyL0V4hMxxgHph1NaaKkxXd-P149PFfVR1G4q4QjgHHmorKbdgwRWHtG2k5QuPmwuKK2NEgF4zj9UkqRhjZC2ZgjF0S2dgPdQdOEpV3xlsmD1fsoE5fl2hm_mQS4av2RjFeV-wh19Z_O5w7NNn7Un17Sn6Eif-qf0jkwV/s475/descent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="317" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Oi5-6a2Zsb0CR4tYXSZc2TuGyL0V4hMxxgHph1NaaKkxXd-P149PFfVR1G4q4QjgHHmorKbdgwRWHtG2k5QuPmwuKK2NEgF4zj9UkqRhjZC2ZgjF0S2dgPdQdOEpV3xlsmD1fsoE5fl2hm_mQS4av2RjFeV-wh19Z_O5w7NNn7Un17Sn6Eif-qf0jkwV/w134-h200/descent.jpg" width="134" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Oh hell, I don't know. I felt a bit like I was sinking further and further into quicksand and the only way out was through. Some really lovely writing, but also a sense that this was determined to be a literary elegaic piece of prose and then at the last minute went NO but wait, I have other sides, you don't know me! A lot of it was kind of disconnected (ooh, maybe that was the point). I'm certain that this kind of thing would warp a family out of any recognizable shape. I'm not certain that all of them would end up in a film noir, but what do I know. I wasn't in the mood to give it a bad rating. The good parts were really, really good.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone</span></u> by Benjamin Stevenson. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Everyone in my family has killed someone. Some of us, the high achievers, have killed more than once. I'm not trying to be dramatic, but it is the truth. Some of us are good, others are bad, and some just unfortunate. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">I'm Ernest Cunningham. Call me Ern or Ernie. I wish </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">I'd </em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">killed whoever decided our family reunion should be at a ski resort, but it's a little more complicated than that. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Have I killed someone? Yes. I have. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Who was it? </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Let's get started.</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-b1dc4f54-7fff-468b-174d-7a85d4ebb4dd"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”If the foyer had the lingering smell of damp expected of a ski lodge, the Drying Room had that of a shipwreck. The room was for people to peel off their sweaty, wet snow gear and dump it overnight to pick up, semi-dried, in the morning, so it was airtight to keep the heat and the smell </i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBko8V_sd3A1ItoQBTmkcYbDvK_OUUVYy_jyDt47J9Wu_GpoldVyZsg4Bgf5vM1UcTmxoFCxczoBaytJXE822jlaXl2VYQL2M4wp20SDtVcOhUlOL3hYUGMnelCRQ3lnVf97eePWoaPvtT12hZDFm_P8G3LuYGfMK7K1ErqUY8caCgoW5nCdDltjN7KRTj/s400/family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="258" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBko8V_sd3A1ItoQBTmkcYbDvK_OUUVYy_jyDt47J9Wu_GpoldVyZsg4Bgf5vM1UcTmxoFCxczoBaytJXE822jlaXl2VYQL2M4wp20SDtVcOhUlOL3hYUGMnelCRQ3lnVf97eePWoaPvtT12hZDFm_P8G3LuYGfMK7K1ErqUY8caCgoW5nCdDltjN7KRTj/w129-h200/family.jpg" width="129" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>from escaping: the rubber-lined door had opened with a <b>phuck</b> as the seal broke. I needed gills to breathe the dank, thick air. I could almost feel the mold spores in my nose. To say it smelled like feet would be a disservice to feet.”<br /></i></span><p></p></span><p><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">When you read a lot of mysteries, anything that sets one apart is welcome.</span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"> That device, plus the breaking of the fourth wall (or whatever it's called in books), plus the som</span><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">etimes cockeyed humour, did make me wonder if this was too light for my traditionally bitter, twisted sensibilities. In the end I was a fan. I see that Stevenson's second book features the same main character and is called Everyone on This Train is a Suspect, and I'm kind of tickled that he's sticking to the gig, although it doesn't have exactly the same effect. </span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Last Word</span></u> by Taylor Adams. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">After posting a negative book review, a woman living in a remote location begins to wonder if the author is a little touchy—or very, very dangerous—in this pulse-pounding novel of psychological suspense and terror from the critically acclaimed author of No Exit and Hairpin Bridge. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Emma Carpenter lives in isolation with her golden retriever Laika, house-sitting an old beachfront home on the rainy Washington coast. Her only human contact is her enigmatic old neighbor, Deek, and (via text) the house’s owner, Jules. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">One day, she reads a poorly written—but gruesome—horror novel by the author H. G. Kane, and posts a one-star review that drags her into an online argument with none other than the author himself. Soon after, disturbing incidents start to occur at night. To Emma, this can’t just be a coincidence. It was strange enough for this author to bicker with her online about a lousy review; could he be stalking her, too?</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Like I said - I have over 700 books on my mystery/thriller shelf - at this point it's quite something to find one that is even a little bit different. This one? Was a little bit different. I don't want to give anything away, so I'll leave it at that.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0UjZYljoOs4TqpQCznDkzw0UXjDDDYkdrKuWhhSiwCuvDYuV22ldolhinR13ZylfY0d1I3P6TnMQXyNVgCzeP-PWEUNQu3KlC6SWl8aV1fLcS41n4L6mLZ45aFhbIa3gEILpsfFmuMVQbKFn6iRSTDXZuEn0V5vE6j9YG4jqBTZMoz6rIZzYo_XEtgBJR/s648/word.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="432" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0UjZYljoOs4TqpQCznDkzw0UXjDDDYkdrKuWhhSiwCuvDYuV22ldolhinR13ZylfY0d1I3P6TnMQXyNVgCzeP-PWEUNQu3KlC6SWl8aV1fLcS41n4L6mLZ45aFhbIa3gEILpsfFmuMVQbKFn6iRSTDXZuEn0V5vE6j9YG4jqBTZMoz6rIZzYo_XEtgBJR/w133-h200/word.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">I Have Some Questions For You </span></u>by Rebecca Makkai. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A successful film professor and podcaster, Bodie Kane is content to forget her past—the family tragedy that marred her adolescence, her four largely miserable years at a New Hampshire boarding school, and the murder of her former roommate, Thalia Keith, in the spring of their senior year. Though the circumstances surrounding Thalia's death and the conviction of the school's athletic trainer, Omar Evans, are hotly debated online, Bodie prefers—needs—to let sleeping dogs lie. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But when the Granby School invites her back to teach a course, Bodie is inexorably drawn to the case and its increasingly apparent flaws. In their rush to convict Omar, did the school and the police overlook other suspects? Is the real killer still out there? As she falls down the very rabbit hole she was so determined to avoid, Bodie begins to wonder if she wasn't as much of an outsider at Granby as she'd thought—if, perhaps, back in 1995, she kn ew something that might have held the key to solving the case.</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-dd131910-7fff-1a64-c64e-5b40adc2bca1"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”Do you remember Peewee Walcott and Dorian Culler and Mike Stiles? Don’t worry about it. They were the foundational souls of my adolescence, but to you they were faces passing through. You’ve had a new crop every year since. Thalia meant enough to you that I’m sure you remember the kids right around her – Robbie Serenho, Rachel, Beth – the ones who orbited her like moons.</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>On-screen, a house fell around Buster Keaton, and he stood there unharmed – bewildered, blessed.”</i></span></p></span><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”The story was on MSNBC, too. The one where the judge said the swimmer was so promising. The one where the rapist reminded the judge of himself as a young rapist.”</i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfLFYWz6yOmD0px2sjq4BF5JP-AWKrdOaPiNrhs-6byJBSGHqyipPg0-uCjdZtdLAbfRZYFk1fm3G4wD-eFABLJpYJBSCQyk_Du-kdzWlay4EmYP6fn5tmADfFZEqIW-jcFKauV-X9DH40AVcMRmsAnW0YlMEVGdGv57tXD8POl62tjnh-aZJlLOkyYDY/s2560/questions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1695" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfLFYWz6yOmD0px2sjq4BF5JP-AWKrdOaPiNrhs-6byJBSGHqyipPg0-uCjdZtdLAbfRZYFk1fm3G4wD-eFABLJpYJBSCQyk_Du-kdzWlay4EmYP6fn5tmADfFZEqIW-jcFKauV-X9DH40AVcMRmsAnW0YlMEVGdGv57tXD8POl62tjnh-aZJlLOkyYDY/s320/questions.jpg" width="212" /></a></i></div><i><br /></i><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">I became aware of this book at the same time as another one that also looked really good. I read the other one and it was disappointing. This one was not. It was both well-written and satisfyingly plotted, although people who need a crystal-clear resolution won't be happy (sometimes I am one of them - this time I'm okay with the end). The boarding-school setting was perfect, among other reasons for an ideal setting for displaying several flavours of casual misogyny and rape culture.</span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">I try really hard not to argue with people on their reviews, because everyone is entitled to their opinion and also because usually it does nothing to change their mind. I admit to being baffled by people saying it seems like too late to write another "me too" book. Really? Like Me Too already happened and now it's all over? Isn't that kind of thinking precisely why we might need more Me Too books?</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">It's a bit of a joke about me that I keep saying I'm going to start listening to podcasts and then I only watch shows or read books about podcasting - but I like them! And I'm a better reader than listener! I really liked the way Bodie was always self-critical and aware of her own possible biases and of affecting the direction of the podcast. Her ambivalence about someone close to her being the subject of certain accusations was also pretty realistic, although it's not surprising that it pissed some readers off.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Basically, sometimes ambivalence in fiction annoys me, but this time it seemed wholly appropriate, and not in any way a cop-out.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /></span><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Angel Maker </span></u>by Alex North. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Growing up in a beautiful house in the English countryside, Katie Shaw lived a charmed life. At the cusp of graduation, she had big dreams, a devoted boyfriend, and a little brother she protected fiercely. Until the day a violent stranger changed the fate of her family forever. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Years later, still unable to live down the guilt surrounding what happened to her brother, Chris, and now with a child of her own to protect, Katie struggles to separate the real threats from the imagined. Then she gets the phone call: Chris has gone missing and needs his big sister once more. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Meanwhile, Detective Laurence Page is facing a particularly gruesome crime. A distinguished professor of fate and free will has been brutally murdered just hours after firing his staff. All the leads point back to two old cases: the gruesome attack on teenager Christopher Shaw, and the despicable crimes of a notorious serial killer who, legend had it, could see the future.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixxf02QEKz7do7hilLMfGt_p3D-IGkp6OaEVKjSI83M411Zaof1OXkAf2JOdgl_BJ6Blf8OYUdu0yhbGgcJEOsCuoGJQPdZ0I8waKLXFm7JakiSupTqlclcS74mVxavnC7O82DizOFHVeYQxLkxlxYbhaow58n04FbkJVR_Y2YFwbLLuVd_n5mkR14zNVi/s2775/angel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2775" data-original-width="1837" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixxf02QEKz7do7hilLMfGt_p3D-IGkp6OaEVKjSI83M411Zaof1OXkAf2JOdgl_BJ6Blf8OYUdu0yhbGgcJEOsCuoGJQPdZ0I8waKLXFm7JakiSupTqlclcS74mVxavnC7O82DizOFHVeYQxLkxlxYbhaow58n04FbkJVR_Y2YFwbLLuVd_n5mkR14zNVi/w133-h200/angel.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I remember thinking that I would try this one and if it wasn't pretty impressive I was done with the author, because the last two or three had been, not bad, but getting pretty similar. Not gonna lie, I don't remember a lot of details about this one, but I remember it was really good. The musing about free will gave it a bittersweet gravitas I didn't find in the other books. </span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Night Will Find You</span></u> by Julia Heaberlin. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A scientist with a special gift riles a wasp's nest of conspiracy theories while investigating a cold case in this riveting novel from the acclaimed and bestselling author of Black-Eyed Susans and We Are All the Same in the Dark. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">When she was ten, Vivvy Bouchet saved a boy’s life by making an impossible prediction. Ever since, she has been in a life-long battle between the urgent voices in her head and the science she loves. Now a brilliant young astrophysicist, she wants nothing more than to be left alone with the stars in the Big Bend country of Texas. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But the boy she saved, now a Fort Worth cop, has always believed she is psychic—even though she won’t say that word out loud. He is begging her to help solve the high-profile cold case of a little girl who disappeared in broad daylight from the kitchen of her old Victorian house. A body was never found, and her mother sits in prison still loudly proclaiming her innocence. Vivvy reluctantly agrees to try. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">When a popular Texas conspiracy theorist podcaster named Bubba Guns finds out about her involvement, he spews conspiracy theories about the case and muddled truths about Vivvy’s murky past. As his listeners spin dangerously out of control, and with her career and the people she loves on the line, Vivvy decides to fight back.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"I don't want either of them traveling through the photos I've snapped of strange objects, scrambled notes dictated by whispers, an internet search history that has Google analytics in a tailspin about whether to target me with ads for the antipsychotic Latuda or Jordan Peele horror movies."</i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"If my mother gave me a grip on any truth, it's that we are limited in our perceptions. Even hard science says the universe itself does not behave as if we are all in one moment of now. Theoretical physics equations can work backward and forward, and how <b>is</b> that?"</i></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFikwwmGvs1GvRJ9zNJqpZ-ir0Fjn4GLY7eCaB31uuZ9OAZOD9tdxw8Y4QwVgLgo8r7J8v1MvueH4EMmTTiZTuQAx9-OqP4tEdyotYhEnTusLpyEiuZZX5xD8BKC_dlv2iX5pnYmzcHU9O3mG2G8WBrBYcKccf_YkGSgjFsJu35MuPXTx3TfFS3NEzcaoq/s400/night.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFikwwmGvs1GvRJ9zNJqpZ-ir0Fjn4GLY7eCaB31uuZ9OAZOD9tdxw8Y4QwVgLgo8r7J8v1MvueH4EMmTTiZTuQAx9-OqP4tEdyotYhEnTusLpyEiuZZX5xD8BKC_dlv2iX5pnYmzcHU9O3mG2G8WBrBYcKccf_YkGSgjFsJu35MuPXTx3TfFS3NEzcaoq/w131-h200/night.jpg" width="131" /></a></i></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i><br /></i></span></span><p></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">I admire a writer who can make a device like precognition un-cheesy - here it is presented matter-of-factly, sometimes with humour. This read to me like an engaging small-town novel with great characters that incidentally has a mystery and some psychic-ness (sorry, what IS the adjective for psychic?). I found Black-Eyed Susans a little disappointing, and didn't remember that it was by the same author until after I read this, or I probably would not have. </span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Last Words</span></u> (Mark Novak #1) by Michael Koryta. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Still mourning the death of his wife, private investigator Mark Novak accepts a case that may be his undoing. On the same day his wife died, the body of a teenage girl was pulled from the extensive and perilous cave system beneath Southern Indiana. Now the man who rescued the girl, who was believed to be her killer, begs Novak to uncover what really happened. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Garrison is much like any place in America, proud and fortified against outsiders. For Mark to delve beneath the town's surface, he must match wits with the man who knows the caverns better than anyone. A man who seemed to have lost his mind. A man who seems to know Mark Novak all too well.</span></span></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i></i></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbV_YrdzR6_uQt6_OxXP59ZzM-DVws9UsyAS-KLexnhfeVjoCiGy95zUoprbyPUnZ4wquJqfe1gQ_9wvcsZ6VopB-R4DYiF-4K9HxBpfvng1ovXIpGKjSNJ7AWaUPggK88qRYsMD7UTB0dHlZhyh7vvBp3GMcHDmUOMVOLiX_kTXXBzJ-2bLJvw54hl2vw/s475/last%20words.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="312" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbV_YrdzR6_uQt6_OxXP59ZzM-DVws9UsyAS-KLexnhfeVjoCiGy95zUoprbyPUnZ4wquJqfe1gQ_9wvcsZ6VopB-R4DYiF-4K9HxBpfvng1ovXIpGKjSNJ7AWaUPggK88qRYsMD7UTB0dHlZhyh7vvBp3GMcHDmUOMVOLiX_kTXXBzJ-2bLJvw54hl2vw/w131-h200/last%20words.jpg" width="131" /></a></i></span></span></div><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"Understand now? Trapdoor seemed so pure once, seemed so magical. Right up until my father proposed to Diane Martin. And do you know what? Diane was lovely. She was a lovely woman, and her daughter was the same, and I <b>knew</b> that. Even when I went out of my way to hurt her, I knew that. I just wanted to be allowed to be angry about it. He was my father, and he'd left my mother, and I was <b>entitled</b> to my anger, and Sarah didn't get it. But my anger wasn't supposed to last. I understood that even then. The fight would pass, and we'd be fine. We were seventeen. You get another chance then, always."<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">For the most part I find Michael Koryta a really solid author. His mysteries are often elevated with superior writing and characterization. The ways in which Novak's grief are described, and then the writing about the near-mystic experiences of cave exploration took this book to the next level for me. </span></div></i></span></span><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Exiles</span></u> (Aaron Falk #3) by Jane Harper. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">At a busy festival site on a warm spring night, a baby lies alone in her pram, her mother vanishing into the crowds. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A year on, Kim Gillespie’s absence casts a long shadow as her friends and loved ones gather deep in the heart of South Australian wine country to welcome a new addition to the family. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Joining the celebrations is federal investigator Aaron Falk. But as he soaks up life in the lush valley, he begins to suspect this tight-knit group may be more fractured than it seems. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Between Falk’s closest friend, a missing mother, and a woman he’s drawn to, dark questions linger as long-ago truths begin to emerge.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">-"Falk turned back to Raco and had opened his mouth when the words simply disappeared. It happened without warning as, in a dormant part of his mind, something stirred. Whatever it was shifted, heavy and stubborn, only to resettle awkwardly. It left behind a mild but distinctly uncomfortable sensation, as though Falk had forgotten something he really needed to remember."</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNiVuK46W22JdeO9wmOaPf1ELhrw34IEtXwSPMGXQen-0uYRrmX4KbYyqEcYkz51PtVJMy7hO5IuVSQz-bi9Is4_xDW_ZZFBv6CdKXIB78EI75HBdsTnnO-nHk0i67Ax-rm6K_2AM6j3dGRJ94vMTByS0bZW6w3yBKtaXG6Gg0kOSAyMd6nmFtpJDGmYgq/s1368/exiles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1368" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNiVuK46W22JdeO9wmOaPf1ELhrw34IEtXwSPMGXQen-0uYRrmX4KbYyqEcYkz51PtVJMy7hO5IuVSQz-bi9Is4_xDW_ZZFBv6CdKXIB78EI75HBdsTnnO-nHk0i67Ax-rm6K_2AM6j3dGRJ94vMTByS0bZW6w3yBKtaXG6Gg0kOSAyMd6nmFtpJDGmYgq/w132-h200/exiles.jpg" width="132" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Jane Harper is so fucking good. The Australian landscape that's a character in its own right. The exquisitely nuanced characters. The multi-layered, heartwrenching mysteries. There are quite a few storylines running through this, and all of them were worthwhile. It may be the last Aaron Falk book which would make me sad, but her other books have been flawless as well. </span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Woman in the Library</span></u> by Sulari Gentill. Synopsis from Goodreads:<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">The ornate reading room at the Boston Public Library is quiet, until the tranquility is shattered by a woman's terrified scream. Security guards take charge immediately, instructing everyone inside to stay put until the threat is identified and contained. While they wait for the all-clear, four strangers, who'd happened to sit at the same table, pass the time in conversation and friendships are struck. Each has his or her own reasons for being in the reading room that morning—it just happens that one is a murderer. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Award-winning author Sulari Gentill delivers a sharply thrilling read with </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">The Woman in the Library</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">, an unexpectedly twisty literary adventure that examines the complicated nature of friendship and shows us that words can be the most treacherous weapons of all.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Obviously I'm always up for a mystery involving a library. Fairly simple, but not in a negative way. The gentle satire surrounding writing awards and the description of Winifred's writing process are a perfect foil for the actual mystery encountered by the newly-formed group of friends. The epistolary sections add yet another dimension. It was great fun - I stayed up way too late reading until the end. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmNms_2X2ETNSyz6QE-fijy33P-Yj1yv6JBODDcLYWsG7SfwOzp96IMHYMJk5vIqe6-t2hkILGHHN8iqJOTtXo_HtMGy05zX0P_JzuEC1nfTPWs1te-_3XoVyFbpv-khX97H_GQ8ABId5lZsLCNOYQ-RobdX6XN66lM4mNiBWVPlaqGx7hYnLY_w5pqK4s/s400/poison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="266" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmNms_2X2ETNSyz6QE-fijy33P-Yj1yv6JBODDcLYWsG7SfwOzp96IMHYMJk5vIqe6-t2hkILGHHN8iqJOTtXo_HtMGy05zX0P_JzuEC1nfTPWs1te-_3XoVyFbpv-khX97H_GQ8ABId5lZsLCNOYQ-RobdX6XN66lM4mNiBWVPlaqGx7hYnLY_w5pqK4s/w133-h200/poison.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">This Poison Will Remain</span></u> (Commissaire Adamsberg #11) by Fred Vargas, Sian Reynolds (trans). Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Commissaire Adamsberg investigates the death of three men linked by their childhood at an orphanage in Nimes, all killed by the venom of the recluse spider, in the new novel by the #1 bestselling French crime writer. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A murder in Paris brings Commissaire Adamsberg out of the Icelandic mists of his previous investigation and unexpectedly into the region of Nîmes, where three old men have died of spider bites. The recluse has a sneaky attack, but is that enough to explain the deaths of these men, all killed by the same venom? </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">At the National Museum of Natural History, Adamsberg meets a pensioner who tells him that two of the three octogenarians have known each other since childhood, when they lived in a local orphanage called The Mercy. There, they had belonged to a small group of violent young boys known as the "band of recluses." Adamsberg faces two obstacles: the third man killed by the same venom was not part of the "band of recluses," and the amount of spider venom necessary to kill doesn't add up.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Let me be very clear. You may hate this book. I myself have often complained about mysteries where the detective seems, not just perceptive, but nearly psychic. I have more and more trouble reading about kindly, intelligent, thoughtful police detectives. And even within this series, this book doesn't just strain the bonds of credulity - it stretches the bonds of credulity from earth to outer space, all the way around the moon and they might actually be one of the rings of Saturn. The whole squad ends up working one case, that is not even a case they're officially supposed to be working. Plus there are some birds in the courtyard that.... no, I've said too much. Start at the beginning of the series and if you like it, by the time you get to this one you will be ready. Oh, in case I wasn't clear, I loved it. Every stupid, implausible word. Somehow it's less hard to believe when it's French. </span></p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-89511305162716400972024-01-15T16:55:00.000-08:002024-01-15T16:55:06.892-08:00Books Read in 2023: Four-Star Fantasy and Sci-Fi<p>I am not feeling on top of the world physically. Still hacking until I throw up a little at least once or twice a day. Made a doctor's appointment for Thursday morning (I would have tried to go Saturday morning but the plow hadn't come by yet and our street was impassable). I also have my January headache and I'm out of migraine meds. This is actually not a complaint, because I still made it to work every day last week and got my dad to his hand surgeon appointment and made dinner, um, a couple times at least, I actually can't remember but I'm pretty sure we ate stuff, so... my point is, it's January and I'm sick and I'm still not in the depths of despair. Yesterday (I mean Saturday) I mostly read in my reading chair, because if I don't move I cough less and I've been longing for a reading day for weeks, and it was perfect and I did not feel restless or guilty by the end of the day. So for now, the dosage increase on my antidepressant is doing its job, which is really freaking cool. </p><p>You know that feeling when you think you're out of something and then you find a brand new of that something? This has happened to me three times in recent memory. The first was a bottle of dry shampoo from Lush, right after I had ordered some Lush stuff for Eve for Christmas and not re-ordered my dry shampoo because we had spent so much in December already. Then a can of my hairspray which is not as easy to find as it used to be, and, just to break the hair theme, a refill container of foaming liquid soap. This is one of the best feelings in the world (if you are a white-ass, middle-class, basic bitch with not a lot of real problems, I guess). </p><p>I did have to buy a new bottle of moisturizer. How do you deal with pump bottles of body lotion when the lotion gets too low for the pump to work anymore? I shake the bottle around until I get a couple more pumps, then take the pump out and try to shake out the lotion, end up with a giant glob that over-moisturizes whatever I start with and under-moisturizes whatever I finish with, and then the top of the bottle gets crusty and gross, I buy a new bottle but still leave the old one sitting there for a couple days, and then throw out the old one while feeling guilty and wasteful. Anyone have a better system?</p><p><u><span style="font-size: large;">Four-Star Fantasy and Sci-Fi</span></u></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Into the Light</span></u><span style="font-size: 14px;"> by Mark Oshiro. Synopsis from Goodreads: </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">When you're like me, you have to lie. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">It’s been one year since Manny was cast out of his family and driven into the wilderness of the American Southwest. Since then, Manny lives by self-taught rules that keep him moving―and keep him alive. Now, he’s taking a chance on a traveling situation with the Varela family, whose attractive but surly son, Carlos, seems to promise a new future. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">I can't let anyone down. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Eli abides by the rules of his family, living in a secluded community that raised him to believe his obedience will be rewarded. But an unsettling question slowly eats away at Eli’s once unwavering faith in Why can’t he remember his past? </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">What am I supposed to do? </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But the reported discovery of an unidentified body found in the hills of Idyllwild, California, will draw both of these young men into facing their biggest fears and confronting their own identity―and who they are allowed to be.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLKeTyMjOhJp0XvvEBOZdjwDcoFTEWN_wHEAo14dBl7aSQY5ef51HFZo2RMhu81zs9-Q3AXAiK4fCf5vgIIMVRHcheUvZfs3e8efhYzBxdRwSSiUiBZ6VzGPXUDTgfloi2h216Gme8TPR3uliY5afeDB7dySq9kvz6rvtY_DmCWernWbu1jm91nft8WZIE/s400/light.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="259" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLKeTyMjOhJp0XvvEBOZdjwDcoFTEWN_wHEAo14dBl7aSQY5ef51HFZo2RMhu81zs9-Q3AXAiK4fCf5vgIIMVRHcheUvZfs3e8efhYzBxdRwSSiUiBZ6VzGPXUDTgfloi2h216Gme8TPR3uliY5afeDB7dySq9kvz6rvtY_DmCWernWbu1jm91nft8WZIE/w129-h200/light.jpg" width="129" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><i>-"I know I can't be too picky when I have almost nothing to my name. So I take the bill, and guilt rages as I stuff it next to the twenties I lifted from the Varelas. Turns out I would have been fine without stealing from them. I'm not a good person. But I can't really afford to be."</i></span></span></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><i>-"'Why would he listen to <b>you</b> about my life but not <b>me</b>?' "The Lord works in mysterious ways,' she says, nodding. 'Well, could he stop being such a fucking mystery to me?'</i></span></span></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Oops, I believe this is probably also YA, but I don't feel like screwing with the finished posts, so here it shall stay. There is a lot going on in this book, and for the most part Oshiro keeps it together, although the pacing goes a tiny bit wonky in the middle. At times it it almost too earnest, but for the most part it's uncomfortably, viscerally vivid about how it must feel to be ostracized by your family and community and have no one to rely on - until you do, and then you're afraid to trust it. Even without the mystical dimension it would have worked as a novel. Gay Latinx unhoused youth representation.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">VenCo</span></u><span style="font-size: 14px;"> by Cherie Dimaline. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Lucky St. James, a Métis millennial living with her cantankerous but loving grandmother Stella, is barely hanging on when she discovers she will be evicted from their tiny Toronto apartment. Then, one night, something strange and irresistible calls out to Lucky. Burrowing through a wall, she finds a silver spoon etched with a crooked-nosed witch and the word SALEM, humming with otherworldly energy. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Hundreds of miles away in Salem, Myrna Good has been looking for Lucky. Myrna works for VenCo, a front company fueled by vast resources of dark money. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Lucky is familiar with the magic of her indigenous ancestors, but she has no idea that the spoon links her to VenCo’s network of witches throughout North America. Generations of witches have been waiting for centuries for the seven spoons to come together, igniting a new era, and restoring women to their rightful power. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But as reckoning approaches, a very powerful adversary is stalking their every move. He’s Jay Christos, a roguish and deadly witch-hunter as old as witchcraft itself. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">To find the last spoon, Lucky and Stella embark on a rollicking and dangerous road trip to the darkly magical city of New Orleans, where the final showdown will determine whether VenCo will usher in a new beginning…or remain underground forever.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik2N0C8L7YOZmBcPOEmkfGew4JKehjtSvk3NcgKyXya7P1XnBY4NV9DPtdDdwt0vDHyqxVy_PZf1BkAYQWAol2RRpE-GBNFkSJIR7KWSunNHjgy91eNK8QkxTn7T1HEcAWYdvEQ52CuCpy-KAjMcHcUQOQp1n-U5hMyDbbXDSHykmaFHu4jtKmYHRlEc0C/s2775/venco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2775" data-original-width="1828" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik2N0C8L7YOZmBcPOEmkfGew4JKehjtSvk3NcgKyXya7P1XnBY4NV9DPtdDdwt0vDHyqxVy_PZf1BkAYQWAol2RRpE-GBNFkSJIR7KWSunNHjgy91eNK8QkxTn7T1HEcAWYdvEQ52CuCpy-KAjMcHcUQOQp1n-U5hMyDbbXDSHykmaFHu4jtKmYHRlEc0C/w132-h200/venco.jpg" width="132" /></a></div><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">I didn't love The Marrow Thieves as much as I felt like I should (from what friends with similar reading tastes had said), so I was a bit hesitant. Then my friend Nat (HI NAT) was reading and loving it, so I took a crack at it (we were Facebook messaging about it, and I tried to type "VenCo" into Google to see what it was about, and instead typed "BenCo" into the message box and Nat was like WTF and I laughed so hard I almost peed). <br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">I liked it very much. Lucky and Stella are an appealing motley crew of two, I love a quest (I used to collect spoons too, from different places, and there were dedicated spoon racks for them, that is so weird, now that I think of it), and the gathering of female power is shivery good. The building of intensity towards the final confrontation is measured and effective, and the payoff is satisfying. Stella is also a great character, although like all characters of this ilk, she annoyed me at first. </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">No Gods, No Monsters </span></u><span style="font-size: 14px;">(Convergence Saga #2) by Cadwell Turnbull. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">One October morning, Laina gets the news that her brother has been shot and killed by Boston cops. But what looks like a case of police brutality soon reveals something much stranger. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Monsters are real. And they want everyone to know it. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">As creatures from myth and legend come out of the shadows, seeking safety through visibility, their emergence sets off a chain of seemingly unrelated events. Members of a local werewolf pack are threatened into silence. A professor follows a missing friend’s trail of bread crumbs to a mysterious secret society. And a young boy with unique abilities seeks refuge in a pro-monster organization with secrets of its own. Meanwhile, more people start disappearing, suicides and hate crimes increase, and protests erupt globally, both for and against the monsters. At the center is a mystery no one thinks to ask: Why now? What has frightened the monsters out of the dark? The world will soon find out.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWhS9EhyUb1_3TRAlH6-SrlDkTGMk0HhcqmoPBuEC2TQJY34gse0TFov4LKJujlC7dM-XKtg2Lnk4YW2PN-Sjfv9-kP4ETMEjKM_QzLx8HQ-Wx8I_XE7ZQ70Zu5GgU-0-b1nzLhHaIzC92f0xhjyyxJ7tD_U4in9A0-mju-8LIG1gd92p-mHs2qB25KcEj/s400/no%20gods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWhS9EhyUb1_3TRAlH6-SrlDkTGMk0HhcqmoPBuEC2TQJY34gse0TFov4LKJujlC7dM-XKtg2Lnk4YW2PN-Sjfv9-kP4ETMEjKM_QzLx8HQ-Wx8I_XE7ZQ70Zu5GgU-0-b1nzLhHaIzC92f0xhjyyxJ7tD_U4in9A0-mju-8LIG1gd92p-mHs2qB25KcEj/s320/no%20gods.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><i>-"Something is not right at all. Her mother smells dirty, as if she hasn't showered in some time. But something else too. A sharp note of something at the heart of her mother. Muddy and sweet. Devotion, heart-deep and rich. Pungent and insane. A dark staircase reaching down forever."</i></span></span></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;"><i>-"He could have said, 'No one is safe, not really.' He could have said there are things in this world that can pull you apart and turn your body to smoke. That the universe sometimes walks on two legs and peers at you through distant clouds of stardust. But that won't do either of them any good."</i></span></span></p><p><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">I got the author's previous novel (his debut) from NetGalley and loved it, so immediately requested this when it came out. I struggled with it quite a bit, and only picked it up again in December because I wanted to get it finished before the end of the year. I skimmed through it again last night, which pretty much cemented what I felt the first time around - there were several different storylines, and each one was impactful in its own way, but I had trouble figuring out how it all fit together and would lose the thread at times. In Turnbull's afterword, he straight-out apologizes for having too many characters, which made me forgive everything. The Lesson takes place in The Virgin Islands, while this one takes place there and in the U.S. This lent a different flavour to the themes of colonialism and racism. The "monsters", naturally, add another dimension to the subject of othering, causing division between friends and parents and children. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white;">There is representation for race, asexuality, transgenderism, and werewolfery etc. The secret society and parallel universe elements were rich and strange, and I hope the second book pulls everything together somewhat, or that my focus is better, because I really love what Turnbull is going for, enough to overlook a few bumps. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgg4hWiMULtnvlYqx-a5l3wc0ttDv4-H6q14cA6sds8_xSHNftUT-rOMBkRccD9tNRsArDcF2UoY3iUcOd_F7DTyZ4kEdwbZBhejHT7OrgPNIz6QJbfJ2eUq-aqGIb935TO3nUZ865OPXQ2J9K-ViH0OymeNj4cRAL0ihgK3GN-JvgHeEPqFGhNCgUv7m/s700/paradox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="460" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDgg4hWiMULtnvlYqx-a5l3wc0ttDv4-H6q14cA6sds8_xSHNftUT-rOMBkRccD9tNRsArDcF2UoY3iUcOd_F7DTyZ4kEdwbZBhejHT7OrgPNIz6QJbfJ2eUq-aqGIb935TO3nUZ865OPXQ2J9K-ViH0OymeNj4cRAL0ihgK3GN-JvgHeEPqFGhNCgUv7m/w131-h200/paradox.jpg" width="131" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Paradox Hotel</span></u> by Rob Hart. <span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">An impossible crime. A detective on the edge of madness. The future of time travel at stake. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">January Cole’s job just got a whole lot harder. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Not that running security at the Paradox was ever really easy. Nothing’s simple at a hotel where the ultra-wealthy tourists arrive costumed for a dozen different time periods, all eagerly waiting to catch their “flights” to the past. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Or where proximity to the timeport makes the clocks run backward on occasion—and, rumor has it, allows ghosts to stroll the halls. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">None of that compares to the corpse in room 526. The one that seems to be both there and not there. The one that somehow only January can see. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">On top of that, some very important new guests have just checked in. Because the U.S. government is about to privatize time-travel technology—and the world’s most powerful people are on hand to stake their claims. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">January is sure the timing isn’t a coincidence. Neither are those “accidents” that start stalking their bidders. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">There’s a reason January can glimpse what others can’t. A reason why she’s the only one who can catch a killer who’s operating invisibly and in plain sight, all at once. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But her ability is also destroying her grip on reality—and as her past, present, and future collide, she finds herself confronting not just the hotel’s dark secrets but her own.</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-aae2f030-7fff-a02e-3333-cb06938d6f2d"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”And for the briefest moment, I think the same thing I think every time I see her: a five-minute tram ride. That’s all it would take. I just have to be willing to break the rules I’ve sworn to uphold and maybe destroy reality in the process.</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>Some days, it seems worth it.”</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-b75f7244-7fff-fafe-7ac2-81b303ca20b0"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”’It’s my responsibility to say that your behavior is making it very clear you’re hiding something from me, and…’</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>‘You are a flying toaster. Save the commentary.’</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>It doesn’t respond. I hope I hurt its feelings. Does it have feelings? Should I program in some feelings so I can hurt them?”</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">It's a hotel where people come to set off on a cruise to a different time, and yet all the action takes place in the hotel</span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">.</i><span style="font-family: georgia;"> You might have thought I would find this excruciating, but I did not. Much. Kidding. This is a beautiful story about guilt and remorse, and the hope for redemption. January Cole is the kind of irascible heroine whose drunken, verbally abusive veneer clearly covers a deep well of pain. The host of wonky events showing that time is out of joint are entertaining except for the fact that you know the big reveal about why January is so angry and tormented is going to be searing. <br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><section class="ReviewText" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin-bottom: 1.6rem; position: relative;"><section class="ReviewText__content" dir="auto" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQIS07Op75C4BImcfrQxGThChLUEM1bg9dPRbi06WHAdcq9CZW27Hx7N6BDfefr14nQ_LaG5amvjmcrT9I5KrrfqxCzPNTKN1eieiHhowQsQjyvost10QwxHDi6mW-d59hiEmsuvMhk2SnBww__M-oQS9AySUDIRPtqhAsfLIam4onSm9ReLRElyjNcow/s499/anomaly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="328" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQIS07Op75C4BImcfrQxGThChLUEM1bg9dPRbi06WHAdcq9CZW27Hx7N6BDfefr14nQ_LaG5amvjmcrT9I5KrrfqxCzPNTKN1eieiHhowQsQjyvost10QwxHDi6mW-d59hiEmsuvMhk2SnBww__M-oQS9AySUDIRPtqhAsfLIam4onSm9ReLRElyjNcow/w131-h200/anomaly.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><u> Anomaly</u></span> by </span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">Hervé le Tellier, Adriana Hunter (translator). </span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">A virtuoso novel where logic confronts magic and that explores the part of ourselves that us. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">In June 2021, a senseless event upends the lives of hundreds of men and women, all passengers on a flight from Paris to New York. Among them: Blake, a respectable family man, though works as a contract killer; Slimboy, a Nigerian pop star tired of living a lie; Joanna, a formidable lawyer whose flaws have caught up with her; and Victor Miesel, a critically acclaimed yet commercially unsuccessful writer who suddenly becomes a cult hit. All of them believed they had double lives. None imagined just how true that was. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">This witty variation on the doppelgänger theme, which takes us on a journey from Lagos and Mumbai to the White House, is Hervé Le Tellier's most ambitious work yet.</span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><i style="background-color: transparent; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></i></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><i style="background-color: transparent; white-space-collapse: preserve;">-”They left nothing out; if the pentagon had asked them to present all the possible outcomes of heads or tails, they would have come up with three: heads, tails and the rare incidence of the coin deciding to balance vertically on its edge. But in April 2002, ten days after the report was submitted, the DoD sent it back with a question written in red felt pen: ‘What if we’re confronted with a case that fits none of the situations covered?’</i></div></div></section></section><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>Tina rolled her eyes: How about the hypothesis where the flipped coin stays suspended in the air?”</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-5f20f787-7fff-6122-5e35-1368d465ad24"></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Any book that deals with time travel or parallel realities, I will snap up first and ask questions later. Some of them are more plot based, trying to describe how the actual science might work and going from there. Some are much more philosophical and literary, investigating the existential implications, (as Cadwell Turnbull writes in <i>No Gods, No Monsters,</i> "If any old universe can exist, then what is the value of this one?") This is the latter type, which sometimes I find tedious, but here it really works. There is a conversation about what makes a person - the qualities they are born with, or the way they are shaped by the events in their life? And then the bureaucracy of a place - how does it deal with something completely inexplicable by logic or science? This plays out through the eyes of several very different characters, and it was fascinating and melancholy and lovely.<br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRaOYY4HkfFZO_6aU79-ttwcUgGyM5rP8e8kV4bfArstYRkAOo_LVsiSGgdGKkXtZlWtpix3W-mA5Bzj7GbIxbtLKbuPoyG5DPzqn14i1KBOSEHMFYjdbdBGI0HD9Knm27O-8QidPCCx-TBt9wuJG33CaiKHq0_HeGoOUH8NnTpXqQZZHpVzRses_XrA1/s385/house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="385" data-original-width="255" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRaOYY4HkfFZO_6aU79-ttwcUgGyM5rP8e8kV4bfArstYRkAOo_LVsiSGgdGKkXtZlWtpix3W-mA5Bzj7GbIxbtLKbuPoyG5DPzqn14i1KBOSEHMFYjdbdBGI0HD9Knm27O-8QidPCCx-TBt9wuJG33CaiKHq0_HeGoOUH8NnTpXqQZZHpVzRses_XrA1/w133-h200/house.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">A House Between Earth and the Moon </span></u>by Rebecca Scherm. <span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Scientist Alex Welch-Peters has believed for twenty years that his super-algae can reverse the effects of climate change. His obsession with his research has jeopardized his marriage, his relationships with his kids, and his own professional future. When Sensus, the colossal tech company, offers him a chance to complete his research, he seizes the opportunity. The catch? His lab will be in outer space on Parallaxis, the first-ever luxury residential space station built for billionaires. Alex and six other scientists leave their loved ones to become Pioneers, the beta tenants of Parallaxis. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But Parallaxis is not the space palace they were sold. Day and night, the embittered crew builds the facility under pressure from Sensus, motivated by the promise that their families will join them. Meanwhile, back on Earth, with much of the country ablaze in wildfires, Alex’s family tries to remain safe in Michigan. His teenage daughter, Mary Agnes, struggles through high school with the help of the ubiquitous Sensus phones implanted in everyone’s ears, archiving each humiliation, and wishing she could go to Parallaxis with her father—but her mother will never allow it. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">The Pioneers are the beta testers of another program, too. As they toil away two hundred miles in the sky, Sensus is designing an algorithm that will predict human behavior. Tess, a young social psychologist Sensus has hired to watch the Pioneers through their phones, begins to develop an intimate, obsessive relationship with her subjects. When she takes it a step further—traveling to Parallaxis to observe them up close—the controlled experiment begins to unravel.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-0e4e4e23-7fff-0635-ac74-828a24085a5c"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”Why had she let herself care about them so much, so completely? She was drilling down into the human experience in a way no one had before, ever, and she’d expected to be full, overflowing with it. Instead she felt hollow, like something rotting from the inside. Getting to be so many people at one time had made her into less than one.”</i></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-89881f4d-7fff-662a-f267-920ac23f6319"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”It took them nearly twenty minutes to get to the ladder. They took turns dragging Mozgov by his feet, very slowly, so that he could stay on his stomach.</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>‘I can get him up,’ Carl said, leaning on the wall and panting. ‘The bottom is the hardest part.’</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>They strapped Mozgov’s wrists together around Carl’s neck, and Carl hauled him up the ladder on his back. For the first two rungs, Alex watched in silent terror of the two men falling, Mozgov landing on his back. </i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>‘Every rung, they get lighter,’ Macy said quietly.”</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-family: georgia; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">So four stars definitely don't translate to "I really liked it" because Jesus, even if it's not an accurate snapshot of our future, it's probably not too far off, and it is terrifying. The human faces rang really true here - there was corruption and self-interest, but also courage and longing, and heroic efforts to make "meager, human-scale abilities" count, even in the face of "screaming catastrophe". If nothing else, it makes it really clear that even if the billionaires are able to escape to space, it's probably not going to be the luxurious dream they're anticipating. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWOtGJrIu4ee3rXA43XQgG5Oz1tstw6BEBDpZbcSjZqrfiVeY9cdfKe8cWdBNeTL44ohJfwJalfrqNTj7QhKsaz6TILX8TVZxTO0yLDCFDSiu1fUuzfCoXHhzROpgWH1oM0KmQmOWb5TirnCiOesD-v-WmmlNAY9o7yHgTA1X-RmsKPpsbd76gLgHdylFy/s2475/even.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2475" data-original-width="1613" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWOtGJrIu4ee3rXA43XQgG5Oz1tstw6BEBDpZbcSjZqrfiVeY9cdfKe8cWdBNeTL44ohJfwJalfrqNTj7QhKsaz6TILX8TVZxTO0yLDCFDSiu1fUuzfCoXHhzROpgWH1oM0KmQmOWb5TirnCiOesD-v-WmmlNAY9o7yHgTA1X-RmsKPpsbd76gLgHdylFy/s320/even.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><br /><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span><p></p></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Even Though I Knew the End</span></u> by C.L. Polk. <span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A magical detective dives into the affairs of Chicago's divine monsters to secure a future with the love of her life. This sapphic period piece will dazzle anyone looking for mystery, intrigue, romance, magic, or all of the above. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">An exiled auspex who sold her soul to save her brother's life is offered one last job before serving an eternity in hell. When she turns it down, her client sweetens the pot by offering up the one payment she can't resist―the chance to have a future where she grows old with the woman she loves. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">To succeed, she is given three days to track down the White City Vampire, Chicago's most notorious serial killer. If she fails, only hell and heartbreak await.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">A poignant and touching novella. Did you watch Supernatural? If you did, you know how Sam or Dean were forever stupidly sacrificing themselves to save each other, and then one of them would die but it never took, and then they'd fix that brother and then the other brother would do the same thing? Well, this is like that but gay and less sibling-ish. I love the title particularly because I am often very bad at reading or watching things where I know the end. Even though I love beautiful writing and I do believe the journey is at least as important as the destination, and <i>how</i> things happen is just as important as <i>what</i> happens, I have to push myself. Of course the meaning is slightly different here - do you throw your whole self into loving someone even if you know the relationship is ultimately doomed? Do you find joy in the present even when the future is certain pain and torment? </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Am I selling it?</span></span></p></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6b70dIgthRvi4KzDAk31QlaaoA1wQ00fploHckfhaUkrdLrfF2yxcqP0AhcDlBfF3b8jk8i8PDbRkWh4IM0ixW0OR-1XTvcP6MoRFNYa1TrSWj2XUvDjPY5YEg5af41fwkDIcVAQqBkT0tIrPTWMv1z7SvYTxCtkh9V7vZSbg6H_LrCBAO9fp8F9YwamH/s2779/home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2779" data-original-width="1839" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6b70dIgthRvi4KzDAk31QlaaoA1wQ00fploHckfhaUkrdLrfF2yxcqP0AhcDlBfF3b8jk8i8PDbRkWh4IM0ixW0OR-1XTvcP6MoRFNYa1TrSWj2XUvDjPY5YEg5af41fwkDIcVAQqBkT0tIrPTWMv1z7SvYTxCtkh9V7vZSbg6H_LrCBAO9fp8F9YwamH/w133-h200/home.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-cdf97749-7fff-172b-babb-51d4467afe6b"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Just Like Home</span></u> by Sarah Gailey. <span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">“</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Come home.” Vera’s mother called and Vera obeyed. In spite of their long estrangement, in spite of the memories -- she's come back to the home of a serial killer. Back to face the love she had for her father and the bodies he buried there. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Coming home is hard enough for Vera, and to make things worse, she and her mother aren’t alone. A parasitic artist has moved into the guest house out back, and is slowly stripping Vera’s childhood for spare parts. He insists that he isn’t the one leaving notes around the house in her father’s handwriting… but who else could it possibly be? </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">There are secrets yet undiscovered in the foundations of the notorious Crowder House. Vera must face them, and find out for herself just how deep the rot goes.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”Each time she presses her hook down into tender flesh – each time a worm turns into a tense thrumming fighting thing in her hand – she feels that same lush thrill. Here is something that she controls. Here is something that responds to her with the kind of frantic immediacy she’s always wanted from the world.”</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><section class="ReviewText" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin-bottom: 1.6rem; position: relative;"><section class="ReviewText__content" dir="auto" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Once again I confused one author for another, so I had in my head that I had read and liked one Sarah Gailey book and then struggled to find another, when in fact I don't tend to mesh with this author. This was very, very slow to pick up, and I came close to DNF-ing multiple times. The big secret about Vera's father is given away from the outset, but then it wasn't quite what I was expecting after all. I read at least one reviewer who said the last third of the book was worth getting through the first two-thirds, and by and large I agree - the payoff feels vital and strange and effective in a way I wasn't expecting. There is atmosphere to burn here, and the characters are memorable and compelling. It was probably not the best choice to read it in January.</span></span></div></div></section></section><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;"><u>The Mimicking of Known Successess </u></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">(Mossa and Pleiti #1) by Malka Ann Older. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: 600;">The Mimicking of Known Successes</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"> </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">presents a cozy Holmesian murder mystery and sapphic romance, set on Jupiter, by Malka Older, author of the critically-acclaimed Centenal Cycle. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">On a remote, gas-wreathed outpost of a human colony on Jupiter, a man goes missing. The enigmatic Investigator Mossa follows his trail to Valdegeld, home to the colony’s erudite university—and Mossa’s former girlfriend, a scholar of Earth’s pre-collapse ecosystems. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Pleiti has dedicated her research and her career to aiding the larger effort towards a possible return to Earth. When Mossa unexpectedly arrives and requests Pleiti’s assistance in her latest investigation, the two of them embark on a twisting path in which the future of life on Earth is at stake—and, perhaps, their futures, together.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik0z7Obk-BKcQ-BCdDa0afRpLQiRjpAFxFgCMIfXq_7pFIed5-CuLYP7gUsEop__uqnjV2cYZ9jUnUYK-9_JmofddZjGSAL0EI2A0MFxMo8kekgxAoy2AkxhYvTD8lsJriYY_G0RiBWH_bjXHqUfKi-yFgV88zit5Ysi2p07ObNA3F_A3ZeX-RbicevavD/s1760/mimic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1760" data-original-width="1100" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik0z7Obk-BKcQ-BCdDa0afRpLQiRjpAFxFgCMIfXq_7pFIed5-CuLYP7gUsEop__uqnjV2cYZ9jUnUYK-9_JmofddZjGSAL0EI2A0MFxMo8kekgxAoy2AkxhYvTD8lsJriYY_G0RiBWH_bjXHqUfKi-yFgV88zit5Ysi2p07ObNA3F_A3ZeX-RbicevavD/w125-h200/mimic.jpg" width="125" /></a></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Something about the world-building here - the cozy, academic, sheltered indoor spaces with the harsh, unforgiving alien weather outside - was really enchanting to me. I immediately wanted to enroll in a college or become a professor on a planet with an inhospitable atmosphere (Nicole - hygge life on Mars, you and me babe, how about it?) I'm not sure if I'm just dense, but I had to go back and read the description of the story as a "Sapphic romance" to be sure that Pleiti was also a woman - the perils of unusual sci-fi character names?</span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #1e1915;">Truthfully, as I'm sitting here a couple of weeks after finishing this short piece, I'm having trouble remembering exactly how the mystery was resolved, but it doesn't really matter to me - the beautifully complicated dynamic between the characters, along with the setting, were enough for me to willingly follow this author wherever she goes next.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span></p></span>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-65992137317263515102024-01-12T19:02:00.000-08:002024-01-12T19:02:46.314-08:00Books Read in 2023: Four-Star YA Fantasy and Horror<p>Thursday school today (yesterday - shit got late, sorry). The first class that came in was off-the-charts lovely. They all wished me happy new year, got their books and sat and read quietly, then said good-bye and thank-you when they were leaving. This gave me an abundant cushion of good will for later on when the challenging class came in. Or rather, when they lined up in the hall outside being very loud, whereupon I waited for them to quiet down. And waited. And waited. But that was okay, because today I just waited calmly until they were quiet. Partly because I don't like yelling and partly because I have very little voice due to persistent hacking cough. </p><p>I went over the expectations for library behaviour and then waited again for them to be quiet enough to hear their names while I handed out their cards. In a beautiful turn of events, the quiet kids started getting mad at the kids who were still talking. The one super-twat kid was still super-twattish and kept making loud and un-funny cracks that he clearly thought were hilarious ("maybe he has a difficult home life" Eve said later, "Probably just a dick, though"). I just ignored him. Most of the class still ignored the teacher when she asked them to line up at the end, so I just walked around quietly rounding them up. Check me, being so proud about not getting into (and losing) power struggles with ten-year-olds. </p><p>At the other end of the spectrum entirely, a little girl on Monday gave me this:</p><p><img alt="" id="id_f358_bb02_6ac9_406e" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQrhGGKVnTs4bYHzXTYnLz1Yiy0r7s7JDV88NLPBgaUc1gQFRV6AchlCtK86w4Ovg3f-6I5-h_IEoFoBTV07o5-iXo2EA" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>So it's going to take more than a grade-four douche-munchkin to harsh my vibe for a while.<span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><u>Four-Star YA Fantasy and Horror</u></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6AyR3smasnqP5_DXWn-b1ccetfKlRYyuRzk0cl5Nd7dqlpJ4-e65Qsk3rS3d5p_DH-Qy7WARJtS6_u1vW5FGr8gwT9rcAOYxNotdvr2YCHJDxisNzKd8nYrUWFit-TwajEUqfFnjKssSwbdXy8WI0cXby-d06KlAqnBptxJTnyu9nV1dIhCt_qSuniAD/s2775/missing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2775" data-original-width="1838" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6AyR3smasnqP5_DXWn-b1ccetfKlRYyuRzk0cl5Nd7dqlpJ4-e65Qsk3rS3d5p_DH-Qy7WARJtS6_u1vW5FGr8gwT9rcAOYxNotdvr2YCHJDxisNzKd8nYrUWFit-TwajEUqfFnjKssSwbdXy8WI0cXby-d06KlAqnBptxJTnyu9nV1dIhCt_qSuniAD/w133-h200/missing.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>Our Missing Hearts</u></span> by Celeste Ng. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">A novel about a mother’s unbreakable love in a world consumed by fear. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Twelve-year-old Bird Gardner lives a quiet existence with his loving but broken father, a former linguist who now shelves books in a university library. Bird knows to not ask too many questions, stand out too much, or stray too far. For a decade, their lives have been governed by laws written to preserve “American culture” in the wake of years of economic instability and violence. To keep the peace and restore prosperity, the authorities are now allowed to relocate children of dissidents, especially those of Asian origin, and libraries have been forced to remove books seen as unpatriotic—including the work of Bird’s mother, Margaret, a Chinese American poet who left the family when he was nine years old. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Bird has grown up disavowing his mother and her poems; he doesn’t know her work or what happened to her, and he knows he shouldn’t wonder. But when he receives a mysterious letter containing only a cryptic drawing, he is pulled into a quest to find her. His journey will take him back to the many folktales she poured into his head as a child, through the ranks of an underground network of librarians, into the lives of the children who have been taken, and finally to New York City, where a new act of defiance may be the beginning of much-needed change.<br /><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”His father loves myths and obscure Latin roots and words so long you had to practice before rattling them off like a rosary. He used to interrupt his own sentences to explain a complicated term, to wander off the path of his thought down a switchback trail, telling Bird the history of the word, where it came from, its whole life story and all its siblings and cousins. Scraping back the layers of its meaning. Once Bird had loved it, too, back when he was younger, back when his father was still a professor and his mother was still here and everything was different. When he’d still thought stories could explain anything.”</i></span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Three-and-a-half stars. Apparently this is YA. Is something YA if it has a main character who is not an adult? Sometimes I find it confusing. I did not think this was quite as good as Everything I Never Told You, although I liked a lot about it. The insidious slide from fear and suspicion regarding The Other to outright racist discrimination codified into law is frighteningly convincing. The way the relationship between Bird and his father breaks down under the absence of his mother is heartrending. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnoVtSqAPi4fTsrqy1pHMtBd9aSste7SySoTx7ZvNU9OLn3eDitb8uGMvS-XcczH4AXF_O2Zc7s9jQXhUW79cNaw2PBrEx8tOaQlQWEuCLCDbz-OBCOUxhhV7SQd-Y-6qAq3pTEAKdToc_cWHT4uZE54vd3JnYK1jiQGr3QjTD2vycpsqKN4QkMAC0LhiL/s2400/stalks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="1589" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnoVtSqAPi4fTsrqy1pHMtBd9aSste7SySoTx7ZvNU9OLn3eDitb8uGMvS-XcczH4AXF_O2Zc7s9jQXhUW79cNaw2PBrEx8tOaQlQWEuCLCDbz-OBCOUxhhV7SQd-Y-6qAq3pTEAKdToc_cWHT4uZE54vd3JnYK1jiQGr3QjTD2vycpsqKN4QkMAC0LhiL/w133-h200/stalks.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></span></div><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">What Stalks Among Us</span></u> by Sarah Hollowell. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">From Sarah Hollowell, author of A Dark and Starless Forest, comes a spine-tingling, deliriously creepy YA speculative thriller about two best friends trapped in a corn maze with corpses that look just like them. Best friends and high school seniors Sadie and Logan make their first mistake when they ditch their end-of-year field trip to the amusement park in favor of exploring some old, forgotten backroads. The last thing they expect to come across is a giant, abandoned corn maze. But with a whole day of playing hooking unspooling before them, they make their second mistake. Or perhaps their third? Maybe even their fourth. Because Sadie and Logan have definitely entered this maze before. And again before that. When they stumble on the corpses in the maze, identical to them in every way (if you can ignore the stab and gunshot wounds)--from their clothes to their hidden scars to their dyed hair, to that one missing tooth--they quickly realize they’ve not only entered this maze before, they’ve died in it too. A lot. And no matter what they try, they can’t figure out what—or who —is hunting them. Deeply unnerving, clever, and atmospheric, this time-bending, mind-bending speculative horror is a poignant meditation on the lasting effects of trauma and the healing powers of connection and forgiveness—all while delivering more surprise twists and turns than a haunted corn maze. </span></span></p><p><i>-"I try to push myself up. My hands sink up to the wrists in mud. How freaking deep <b>is</b> this stuff? I sink farther. I immediately stop moving. Goddammit, I <b>knew </b>quicksand was going to be a problem at some point in my life. 'Uhm,' I said, high-pitched. 'Hey, guys?'"</i></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I followed Sarah Hollowell when I was still on Twitter when Twitter was still Twitter (ten percent boost in mental health since I quit that shit), and had not gotten around to reading her first book yet but was interested to read her writing. The cool stuff here was very cool - haunted corn maze, time loops (sort of), corn-maze strangers who might be trustworthy OR alternatively might be about to stab you with a pitchfork. I also appreciate a boy-girl friendship that is allowed to just (not just, but just) be a friendship.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I feel like a bit of an asshole saying the other part, because it's a part that assholes frequently seize on, but although I love that this is a fat writer writing a fat female character, some of the writing around that, and around Sadie's mental health issues, verges on preachy and is heavy on jargon, and that made it hard not to be taken out of the story. Sadie also refers to herself as bisexual (once, I think), but it has no bearing on anything - I'm all for casual representation, but that's maybe a bit too casual? I absolutely appreciate that it is probably difficult to strike a balance with that kind of thing, it just feels dishonest not to mention it. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjjMLZAqJ8hraQGH9H0nQb2xZFUmcH6IDRCGV87CMPUNzXtlqKkR_fp7y4Qn1wq1QjtmQs60WohcFGCn3YpHjmJkl_TbQtXOLdtxiu7RADBofsLzZ3BtMnQY6w6U8LYApwvWaVnmzLB5UdHOeKYCEvR9aQZe22AHpO7Ab8Llnfn05LIIFn8Pj0g36dVBNB/s2550/dead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2550" data-original-width="1650" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjjMLZAqJ8hraQGH9H0nQb2xZFUmcH6IDRCGV87CMPUNzXtlqKkR_fp7y4Qn1wq1QjtmQs60WohcFGCn3YpHjmJkl_TbQtXOLdtxiu7RADBofsLzZ3BtMnQY6w6U8LYApwvWaVnmzLB5UdHOeKYCEvR9aQZe22AHpO7Ab8Llnfn05LIIFn8Pj0g36dVBNB/s320/dead.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Dead and the Dark</span></u> by Courtney Gould. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">The Dark has been waiting for far too long, and it won't stay hidden any longer. </i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Something is wrong in Snakebite, Oregon. Teenagers are disappearing, some turning up dead, the weather isn’t normal, and all fingers seem to point to TV’s most popular ghost hunters who have just returned to town. Logan Ortiz-Woodley, daughter of TV's </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">ParaSpectors</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">, has never been to Snakebite before, but the moment she and her dads arrive, she starts to get the feeling that there's more secrets buried here than they originally let on. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Ashley Barton’s boyfriend was the first teen to go missing, and she’s felt his presence ever since. But now that the Ortiz-Woodleys are in town, his ghost is following her and the only person Ashley can trust is the mysterious Logan. When Ashley and Logan team up to figure out who—or what—is haunting Snakebite, their investigation reveals truths about the town, their families, and themselves that neither of them are ready for. As the danger intensifies, they realize that their growing feelings for each other could be a light in the darkness.</span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”Logan closed her eyes. There was a distinct smell coming from the cabin, like spiced cider and wood smoke. It was a smell she remembered, though she couldn’t place it. It conjured up memories of laughter she couldn't quite hear. She tasted blackberries on her tongue. The bones of a memory were scattered before her, but she couldn’t bring them to life. It was suffocating, this familiarity.”</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Three and a half stars. Ambitious and dark for a debut. Gay dads, lesbian daughter, ghost-hunting tv show, real ghost (or something). Gets pretty intense for YA. Will be following this author with interest. </span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">You're Not Supposed to Die Tonight</span></u> by Kalynn Bayron. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">This heart-pounding slasher by </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">New York Times</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> bestselling author Kalynn Bayron is perfect for fans of </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Fear Street</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Charity Curtis has the summer job of her dreams, playing the “final girl” at Camp Mirror Lake. Guests pay to be scared in this full-contact terror game, as Charity and her summer crew recreate scenes from a classic slasher film, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">Curse of Camp Mirror Lake</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">. The more realistic the fear, the better for business. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But the last weekend of the season, Charity's co-workers begin disappearing. And when one ends up dead, Charity's role as the final girl suddenly becomes all </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">too </i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">real. If Charity and her girlfriend Bezi hope to survive the night, they'll need figure out what this killer is after. Is there is more to the story of Mirror Lake and its dangerous past than Charity ever suspected?</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_OhHiVT8N7MX3lkT3FKgCUI4OlO3jfU_FvhNoso5bBnzZVsRZWtLzjP9RkGS2P52frlu1B7WKMGbngvGskVRL4vtDac4ikYQqVMFfKDia-1tGhpGtfH9hbjUUnVjN5KCQllRZJiXAXKzrnDlERUrjrwBQLlLoiAOye2kPCio2IfY45Qbk4hbWRKMgD1uc/s1511/youre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1511" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_OhHiVT8N7MX3lkT3FKgCUI4OlO3jfU_FvhNoso5bBnzZVsRZWtLzjP9RkGS2P52frlu1B7WKMGbngvGskVRL4vtDac4ikYQqVMFfKDia-1tGhpGtfH9hbjUUnVjN5KCQllRZJiXAXKzrnDlERUrjrwBQLlLoiAOye2kPCio2IfY45Qbk4hbWRKMgD1uc/w133-h200/youre.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”Now, in this situation, horror films tell us that the final girl might go ahead and enter the community showers, disrobe, and then barely escape a masked killer as she slips around butt naked in the bathroom. However, I only play a final girl at Camp Mirror Lake; I don’t actually want to be one. I turn my Black ass right around and book it back to my cabin, where I close and lock the door.”</i></span></p><p><i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">-”I’ve been a fan of horror movies and scary stories my whole life. I’ve read every Tananarive Due novel, seen every Jordan Peele film. I love horror movies even when everybody else thinks they’re garbage. I will gladly debate anybody who got something to say about the masterpiece that is </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Crimson Peak</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">.”</span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">I really enjoyed this. When I'm looking for books by black women, and one is horror? Hell yes. Great casual representation for race and sexual orientation, a little bit of Scream-like</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> sending up of horror movie </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">tropes without being derivative, and spinning it for Black characters, who are so often ignored. Charity is a great character, determined not to behave like a regular horror movie character (this falters a tiny bit near the end), smart and courageous - also a horror lover, so a girl after my own heart. The story isn't too predictable, which is always a risk with this genre. I will never turn my nose up at a good summer camp horror, particularly one as well done as this.</span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Weight of Blood</span></u> by Tiffany D. Jackson. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">* </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">AN INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER * INDIE BESTSELLER * JUNIOR LIBRARY GUILD SELECTION * KIDS' INDIE NEXT LIST PICK * NPR BEST PICK * KIRKUS BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR * New York Times bestselling author Tiffany D. Jackson ramps up the horror and tackles America’s history and legacy of racism in this suspenseful YA novel following a biracial teenager as her Georgia high school hosts its first integrated prom. When Springville residents—at least the ones still alive—are questioned about what happened on prom night, they all have the same explanation . . . Maddy did it. An outcast at her small-town Georgia high school, Madison Washington has always been a teasing target for bullies. And she's dealt with it because she has more pressing problems to manage. Until the morning a surprise rainstorm reveals her most closely kept secret: Maddy is biracial. She has been passing for white her entire life at the behest of her fanatical white father, Thomas Washington. After a viral bullying video pulls back the curtain on Springville High's racist roots, student leaders come up with a plan to change their host the school's first integrated prom as a show of unity. The popular white class president convinces her Black superstar quarterback boyfriend to ask Maddy to be his date, leaving Maddy wondering if it's possible to have a normal life. But some of her classmates aren't done with her just yet. And what they don't know is that Maddy still has another secret . . . one that will cost them all their lives.</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-6c29808b-7fff-06fb-0e70-8c28cc2589ed"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”’Well, clearly a Black one,’ Jason quipped. Gotta be from the East Side.’</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>‘Gross.’ Kayleigh blinked quick at Kenny. ‘Well, not her being Black, but anyone sleeping with that loon. He smells awful!’</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>Struggling to rein in his annoyance, Kenny took one last sip of air before pasting on the standard generic smile he would maintain for the rest of the day. Just about everyone would want to talk to him about Maddy, but he had to remain unfazed, the same composure he kept whenever anything happened to Black people and they wanted unsaid permission for him to speak about it freely. Because if Kenny was okay with it, then it must be okay.</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>He chuckled. ‘Yeah, he does.’”</i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSbvZuHu092IOdQTHRlc1VGX_CNg1J1LRZOW_hyphenhyphenOPVoiX5gnBv8JymJdlc5ERQeOnk5nMRjfmhJDyJqM_wrlR5RNzgCOXGgCzbjRi0qOuBwY78R0laULdih90dLAuxf4oFV92VmTypjiY1lRdq_sA99mDpBzC06oM8CNZIZ4YJ_JIqxEPcgyvREVCgG8d/s2417/blood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2417" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSbvZuHu092IOdQTHRlc1VGX_CNg1J1LRZOW_hyphenhyphenOPVoiX5gnBv8JymJdlc5ERQeOnk5nMRjfmhJDyJqM_wrlR5RNzgCOXGgCzbjRi0qOuBwY78R0laULdih90dLAuxf4oFV92VmTypjiY1lRdq_sA99mDpBzC06oM8CNZIZ4YJ_JIqxEPcgyvREVCgG8d/w133-h200/blood.jpg" width="133" /></a></i></span></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span><p></p></span><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”’I don’t know how to answer that,’ he admitted. Not because he didn’t love Wendy, but football felt just as important, if not his whole world. If he was honest with himself, Kenny could also admit that deep below the surface, rotting beneath the floorboards, lay resentment over the responsibility of loving them both more than he loved himself.”</i></span></p><p><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Carrie, but with racism. And the prom is the county's first integrated one. Need I say more? Okay, I'll say a little more. The wound-super-tight male protagonist - star football player whose father puts crazy pressure on him, and whose white friends just expect him to be cool with their casual racism - is the most sympathetic to me, probably because his situation is more realistic than Maddy's. Maddy's unhinged father is a worthy callback to Carrie's mother. It's not the Gus Van Sant's shot-for-shot remake of Psycho version of Carrie, but it resonates with the original really well and is a really interesting exercise, as well as a good example of YA horror in its own right. </span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Memory Eater</span></u> by Rebecca Mahoney. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">A teenage girl must save her town from a memory-devouring monster in this piercing exploration of grief, trauma, and memory, from the author of</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: 600;">The Valley and the Flood</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">For generations, a monster called the Memory Eater has lived in the caves of Whistler Beach, Maine, surviving off the unhappy memories of those who want to forget. And for generations, the Harlows have been in charge of keeping her locked up—and keeping her fed. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">After her grandmother dies, seventeen-year-old Alana Harlow inherits the family business. But there’s something Alana doesn’t know: the strange gaps in her memory aren’t from an accident. Her memories have been taken—eaten. And with them, she’s lost the knowledge of how to keep the monster contained. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Now the Memory Eater is loose. Alana’s mistake could cost Whistler Beach everything—unless she can figure out how to retrieve her own memories and recapture the monster. But as Alana delves deeper into her family’s magic and the history of her town, she discovers a shocking secret at the center of the Harlow family business and learns that tampering with memories never comes without a price.</span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”He flashes a warm, sympathetic smile as I pass. I’m of the firm opinion that no one is good enough for Rue, but if she and David ever break out of their Beautiful Shy Heterosexual holding pattern, I will grudgingly approve.”</i></span></p><p><span id="docs-internal-guid-4f7a2714-7fff-74db-da7d-32ba65d40266"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-’’Oh, my little love. I think you’ve helped enough,’ she says. ‘Do you think this is what I wanted? Can you imagine eating the same terrible thing for decades upon decades, and when you finally walk free, you find you can’t eat anything else? I hate the taste of pain, Alana. It tastes like needles and ash.’”</i></span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYMIvveiOzgy2GYwAJ6IbBgMlp4ARLQnAhwr2R9FfXiKQ3W42g1G8zp92Wlhr7oJh-jhHls5tutyCl4l_dH0qcwhsCwJDaYOZEXTpA51ctpdrdht7vMWb9r4IdxaX5s_GXlPosUIjnEsEpoKol3myhIDi7KTrVFqBH9g8vC0H-jlAMFMQX1Tf6x4uTRr3j/s2560/eater.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1694" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYMIvveiOzgy2GYwAJ6IbBgMlp4ARLQnAhwr2R9FfXiKQ3W42g1G8zp92Wlhr7oJh-jhHls5tutyCl4l_dH0qcwhsCwJDaYOZEXTpA51ctpdrdht7vMWb9r4IdxaX5s_GXlPosUIjnEsEpoKol3myhIDi7KTrVFqBH9g8vC0H-jlAMFMQX1Tf6x4uTRr3j/s320/eater.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><span><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This was quite stunningly beautiful and original. A classic, beautiful-coastal-town setting? Check. A terrifying monster who threatens not your life, but the very essence of your being? Check. Gritty-but-vulnerable wise-cracking heroine pining after her ex-girlfriend? YEAH. Some really gorgeous writing about memory and family and generational trauma as well. Highly recommended. <br /></span></span></span><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">These Fleeting Shadows </span></u>by Kate Alice Marshall. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Helen Vaughan doesn't know why she and her mother left their ancestral home at Harrowstone Hall, called Harrow, or why they haven't spoken to their extended family since. So when her grandfather dies, she's shocked to learn that he has left everything—the house, the grounds, and the money—to her. The inheritance comes with one condition: she must stay on the grounds of Harrow for one full year, or she'll be left with nothing. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">There is more at stake than money. For as long as she can remember, Harrow has haunted Helen's dreams—and now those dreams have become a waking nightmare. Helen knows that if she is going to survive the year, she needs to uncover the secrets of Harrow. Why is the house built like a labyrinth? What is digging the holes that appear in the woods each night? And why does the house itself seem to be making her sick? </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">With each twisted revelation, Helen questions what she knows about Harrow, her family, and even herself. She no longer wonders if she wants to leave…but if she can.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white;">Has what Marshall does well - complicated family dynamics, murky folklore connected to a mysterious house, an inheritance that turns out to be much more complicated than initially suspected. And gayness! I still read more YA than is probably healthy, but only if it's gay!</span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Undead Girl Gang</span></u> by Lily Anderson. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Mila Flores and her best friend Riley have always been inseparable. There's not much excitement in their small town of Cross Creek, so Mila and Riley make their own fun, devoting most of their time to Riley's favorite activity: amateur witchcraft. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">So when Riley and two Fairmont Academy mean girls die under suspicious circumstances, Mila refuses to believe everyone's explanation that her BFF was involved in a suicide pact. Instead, armed with a tube of lip gloss and an ancient grimoire, Mila does the unthinkable to uncover the truth: she brings the girls back to life. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Unfortunately, Riley, June, and Dayton have no recollection of their murders, but they do have unfinished business to attend to. Now, with only seven days until the spell wears off and the girls return to their graves, Mila must wrangle the distracted group of undead teens and work fast to discover their murderer...before the killer strikes again.</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio3oxDizK79moq2aJ0FCEHQdxDMey-4VJfianXbB271JIXnj8HG3-Q1Vf68bbA37pNvans61SLNIsRXDddEH4NDcIQy4Yy8ZEdyQpzJ3U2P2YnlDmDmlNHn-0ANRMFaedJjdx7xcxMVB-La0XIiVaeIExe35T1U7dw0kSaDZYz58RXmjjSZbYNme6P9czL/s927/undead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="927" data-original-width="614" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio3oxDizK79moq2aJ0FCEHQdxDMey-4VJfianXbB271JIXnj8HG3-Q1Vf68bbA37pNvans61SLNIsRXDddEH4NDcIQy4Yy8ZEdyQpzJ3U2P2YnlDmDmlNHn-0ANRMFaedJjdx7xcxMVB-La0XIiVaeIExe35T1U7dw0kSaDZYz58RXmjjSZbYNme6P9czL/w133-h200/undead.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"I know he's mostly talking about June and Dayton. They weren't nice when they were alive. They used to make fun of Riley for living above a funeral home. And they made fun of me for being fat and Mexican. They found the things about other people that made them different and highlighted how that made them shitty. It was like they learned how to be popular from TV and didn't understand that being known didn't have to be synonymous with being a dick."</i></span></span><p></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"'How could you say something like that?' June gasps, taking an affronted step back. 'We just found out were were murdered, Riley Greenway. Have some respect.' 'We were all murdered, June. Your death is not that special,' Riley says."<br /></i></span></span></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Now this is a fat Mexican character whose fat Mexicanness IS integral to the plot. And there is magic, and there are zombies - in fact, magic that leads to zombies. And there is snark and humour - much of it related to the logistics of harbouring dead mean girls who are learning to be less mean - but also genuine processing of emotion, loss, and grief. And learning that, even with magic, some things should not be possible. </span></span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Where Darkness Blooms</span></u> by Andrea Hannah. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Andrea Hannah's Where Darkness Blooms is a supernatural thriller about an eerie town where the sunflowers whisper secrets and the land hungers for blood. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">The town of Bishop is known for exactly two recurring windstorms and an endless field of sunflowers that stretches farther than the eye can see. And women―missing women. So when three more women disappear one stormy night, no one in Bishop is surprised. The case is closed and their daughters are left in their dusty shared house with the shattered pieces of their lives. Until the wind kicks up a terrible secret at their mothers’ much-delayed memorial. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">With secrets come the lies each of the girls is forced to confront. After caring for the other girls, Delilah would like to move on with her boyfriend, Bennett, but she can’t bear his touch. Whitney has already lost both her mother and her girlfriend, Eleanor, and now her only solace is an old weathervane that seems to whisper to her. Jude, Whitney's twin sister, would rather ignore it all, but the wind kicks up her secret: the summer fling she had with Delilah's boyfriend. And more than anything, Bo wants answers and she wants them now. Something happened to their mothers and the townsfolk know what it was. She’s sure of it.</span></span></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"'Miss Thompson, are you defying an officer of the law right now?' Indignant rage flared in Jeff Ableman's eyes like liquid smoke. It was the kind of rage that men kept nestled deep beneath their ribs, the kind that rose between the bones whenever someone didn't automatically hang on their words like laundry drying on the line. It was the kind of rage that killed for disobedience, even when you never belonged to that man in the first place."</i></span></span></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">This is a big one for "I really enjoyed it when I was reading it, but afterwards all of the points other people brought up about why it largely made very little sense made...a lot of sense". But whatever, the imagery is effective and as a metaphor for patriarchy (which also frequently makes very little sense) I feel like it works. And of all the YA novels with girls faces surrounded by creepy flowers on the cover, it's one of my favourites. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYQfWbLlhuirGFnHnNVoiVf3Z5sGNezFOX-h5z4mLf6i_ERTtBuwLwu63tuqj4XSEmbxm5DX0caz0MzURAKUPsf6k11fDYmDhBKth5amDwMG6FechQRTAvpv8TIgR2Mb4emlsPjT9a_XRZwsQDlRypNIJ1b4kHtAFlHhhWRm5DyZUeJaVV87p9zpHaZXwj/s475/song.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="315" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYQfWbLlhuirGFnHnNVoiVf3Z5sGNezFOX-h5z4mLf6i_ERTtBuwLwu63tuqj4XSEmbxm5DX0caz0MzURAKUPsf6k11fDYmDhBKth5amDwMG6FechQRTAvpv8TIgR2Mb4emlsPjT9a_XRZwsQDlRypNIJ1b4kHtAFlHhhWRm5DyZUeJaVV87p9zpHaZXwj/s320/song.jpg" width="212" /></a></span></span></div><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Ghost Wood Song</span></u> by Erica Waters. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"><em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Sawkill Girls </em>meets<em style="box-sizing: border-box;"> Beautiful Creatures</em> in this lush and eerie debut, where the boundary between reality and nightmares is as thin as the veil between the living and the dead.</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"> </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">If I could have a fiddle made of Daddy’s bones, I’d play it. I’d learn all the secrets he kept. </em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Shady Grove inherited her father’s ability to call ghosts from the grave with his fiddle, but she also knows the fiddle’s tunes bring nothing but trouble and darkness. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But when her brother is accused of murder, she can’t let the dead keep their secrets. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">In order to clear his name, she’s going to have to make those ghosts sing. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Family secrets, a gorgeously resonant LGBTQ love triangle, and just the right amount of creepiness make this young adult debut a haunting and hopeful story about facing everything that haunts us in the dark.</span></span></p><p><span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"This instrument runs on grief and regret and rage; it only works if its player gives herself over to grief, lets it fill her like the music, every nook, every cranny of her soul. The same reason the ghosts are chained to this world, unable to pass on, is why Daddy's fiddle can raise them. Grief is what binds the living and the dead. He couldn't have taught me to play this fiddle even if he'd wanted to. Only his death could teach me."</i></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">At some point I noticed that the ebooks from my library often have Publishers Weekly reviews attached to the synopsis. At some further point I realized I was subtly veering away from reading anything that didn't have a starred review. Then I realized this is a little silly - I am interested in reviews, but I don't automatically agree with all of them. I'm glad I realized this in time to read this book, because it would have been unfortunate to pass it up.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">It is really difficult to write about music convincingly ("like dancing about architecture", as they say), and this book manages it strikingly well. The family dynamic was really well done - everyone wasn't perfect, but no one was entirely evil, and everyone was very three-dimensional. Generally I loathe and despise love triangles, but, ladies and gentleman, the pinnacle of my super-gay YA reading is *trumpet sounds* a bisexual girl in a love triangle with a girl AND a guy. That's got to have a couple of years before it gets completely stale, right? (Seriously, it works really well, all love triangles should henceforth be bi-sosceles).</span></span></p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-62508483635726320642024-01-09T11:58:00.000-08:002024-01-12T19:11:32.370-08:00Books Read in 2023: Four-Star YA Fantasy and Horror, and Some Regards<p> Regarding An Elderly Woman is Up to No Good, recommended by Engie: it is presently on hold at the library.</p><p>Regarding Nicole's unstamped letter: ha ha omg yes. The first thing this makes me think of is when Angus was about four and my parents had recently moved from five hours away to five minutes away, I helped him write a little letter to them and he was so proud to address it and put it in the mailbox. But I forgot to put a stamp on. We had a really lovely mailman back then who hand-delivered it to my mom instead. The last thing it makes me think of is early December when I wrote my first Christmas card and carefully addressed and stamped it. And then looked at it for a few minutes, and then carefully peeled off the stamp from the upper left corner and put it in the upper right corner instead. Sigh.</p><p>Regarding Marilyn's comment about not liking Mexican Gothic but liking being able to exchange knowing glances with other people who've read it - yes, definitely. This is why I read...not many books, but some for sure - to be up on their place in the cultural vernacular.</p><p>Regarding Common Household Mom's story about the ad that went through half a dozen proofreaders and still got printed with the wrong date - what the heck can you do, sometimes your brain just sees what it expects and that's all it can do. The story of my friend Collette (HI COLLETTE) getting a birthday cake for her oldest son's first birthday and nearly the whole party being over before anyone noticed that the cake said HAPPY BIRTHDAY JACBO lives in infamy. </p><p>Regarding Steph's comment about <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Strain_(TV_series)" target="_blank">The Strain</a> - ha ha, yes, I have watched it, and read it. I only watched it a couple of years ago, even though it came out in 2014. I quite liked it - I loved Fet and Dutch, hated the second actor who played Eph's kid, and thought the ending was pretty good. </p><p>Regarding Regarding Henry - this is a 1991 movie starring Harrison Ford about a lawyer who's kind of a dick until he gets shot in the head and wakes up with amnesia and then turns nice. This is a frequent trope in writing and tv, but it doesn't really happen, does it? Why wouldn't someone nice get amnesia and turn into a dick just as often? Movie and book amnesia is fun, but dumb. </p><p><u><span style="font-size: large;">Four-Star Children's</span></u></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGsDFHDJxqqL1ql2EhLbUXUyrZ2oSNHcEgjlXUOosBolsiIPbjkifoqX-IPAGinZGFvAnp5YYfounsNDSED9Jf88SpD1HuWTGuVTdzrATr8Sqf6pcluMy_YFPSc6axU60_66dv-hcdERIC2eMtdMXOtMr1PpxzxmJKri4gBDcvSmEy3eDcjowif8rmCTfk/s1511/goldfish.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1511" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGsDFHDJxqqL1ql2EhLbUXUyrZ2oSNHcEgjlXUOosBolsiIPbjkifoqX-IPAGinZGFvAnp5YYfounsNDSED9Jf88SpD1HuWTGuVTdzrATr8Sqf6pcluMy_YFPSc6axU60_66dv-hcdERIC2eMtdMXOtMr1PpxzxmJKri4gBDcvSmEy3eDcjowif8rmCTfk/w133-h200/goldfish.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Goldfish Boy</span></u> by Lisa Thompson. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Matthew Corbin suffers from severe obsessive-compulsive disorder. He hasn't been to school in weeks. His hands are cracked and bleeding from cleaning. He refuses to leave his bedroom. To pass the time, he observes his neighbors from his bedroom window, making mundane notes about their habits as they bustle about the cul-de-sac. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">When a toddler staying next door goes missing, it becomes apparent that Matthew was the last person to see him alive. Suddenly, Matthew finds himself at the center of a high-stakes mystery, and every one of his neighbors is a suspect. Matthew is the key to figuring out what happened and potentially saving a child's life... but is he able to do so if it means exposing his own secrets, and stepping out from the safety of his home?<br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Lunchtime read. Great story - a boy suffering from obsessive-compulsive tendencies from a traumatic happening, his struggle to connect with his peers and his parents' efforts to help him (with a few failures that are sad and enraging to read about). And a neighbourhood myste</span>ry. </p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Because of Mr. Terupt</span> </u>by Rob Buyea. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">It’s the start of fifth grade for seven kids at Snow Hill School. There’s . . . </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Jessica,</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> the new girl, smart and perceptive, who’s having a hard time fitting in; </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Alexia,</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> a bully, your friend one second, your enemy the next; </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Peter,</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> class prankster and troublemaker; </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Luke,</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> the brain; </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Danielle,</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> who never stands up for herself; shy </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Anna,</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> whose home situation makes her an outcast; and </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">Jeffrey,</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> who hates school. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Only Mr. Terupt, their new and energetic teacher, seems to know how to deal with them all. He makes the classroom a fun place, even if he doesn’t let them get away with much . . . until the snowy winter day when an accident changes everything—and everyone.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Lunchtime read. I picked it up because it is quite popular among sixth-graders. A solid entry in the remarkable-teacher-makes-a-difference canon</span>.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjlBtTMCIEIYnMGcAz7OuQ1cLY5vF7U4TFh1fz0yc9i76VocCXncASnSZvkOq7RoJ2s-ECHkAJ0Yutb_Saf4qPHX7m4lcgKUxfK5QRsqcMQKr_4GLoYZeC0507swlgLoSYRfqQDfq9tQ3wTSd3gGpXSujZF6wTNEuV_II4DHRxbgJ6exjFOgNOhhwyg_jL/s2475/thirteen.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2475" data-original-width="1650" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjlBtTMCIEIYnMGcAz7OuQ1cLY5vF7U4TFh1fz0yc9i76VocCXncASnSZvkOq7RoJ2s-ECHkAJ0Yutb_Saf4qPHX7m4lcgKUxfK5QRsqcMQKr_4GLoYZeC0507swlgLoSYRfqQDfq9tQ3wTSd3gGpXSujZF6wTNEuV_II4DHRxbgJ6exjFOgNOhhwyg_jL/w133-h200/thirteen.jpg" width="133" /></a></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>Thirteens</u> </span>(Thirteens #1) by Kate Alice Marshall. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A sleepy town with a dark secret--and the three kids brave enough to uncover it. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Twelve-year-old Eleanor has just moved to Eden Eld to live with her aunt and uncle after her mother was killed in a fire. Her birthday, which falls on Halloween, is just around the corner, and she hopes that this year will be a fresh start at a new life. But then one morning, an ancient grandfather clock counting down thirteen hours appears outside of her bedroom. And then she spots a large black dog with glowing red eyes prowling the grounds of her school. A book of fairytales she's never heard of almost willingly drops in front of her, as if asking to be read. Something is wrong in the town of Eden Eld. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Eleanor and her new classmates, Pip and Otto, are the only ones who see these "wrong things," and they also all happen to share a Halloween birthday. Bonded by these odd similarities, the trio uncovers a centuries-old pact the town has with a mysterious figure known as Mr. January: every thirteen years, three thirteen-year-olds disappear, sacrificed in exchange for the town's unending good fortune. This Halloween, Mr. January is back to collect his payment and Eleanor, Pip, and Otto are to be his next offering...unless they can break the curse before the clock strikes thirteen.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">This is one of my favourite YA authors. This year she published her first adult novel, which I read, and I read these middle-grade novels also. I probably liked her YA stuff slightly more than the adult work, but this series was freaking fantastic. Three thirteen-year-olds, all with palindromic names, meet in an odd little town (Eden Eld - I ask you, is that not an exemplary Odd Little Town Name?) where two of them grew up and the third has come to live with relatives after her mother's death. They begin a beautifully-described friendship, and then, naturally, there are eldritch happenings, and uncanny clues, and a talking animal or two, and a clock whose</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">hands run backwards. It's a delectable set-up, with a satisfying conclusion to round one of the mystery.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTAGUaM-1MQKpylc8TBO_rjeJl-H7RYQAQzFG3j7m08XFpoKJXidkYD7Ard7K6cxY0CjFxNF8pX0Sv_th6q90p1RuCRePKZmF9Qml5SzOehGmkfn6YLNHzdQoAafxWEcNiLZmxZweSXXJGwKuni8Ye0NvCRRCKI_Km8njHhSFIOegBA_tduGsgjoi0ZFst/s400/bracken.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTAGUaM-1MQKpylc8TBO_rjeJl-H7RYQAQzFG3j7m08XFpoKJXidkYD7Ard7K6cxY0CjFxNF8pX0Sv_th6q90p1RuCRePKZmF9Qml5SzOehGmkfn6YLNHzdQoAafxWEcNiLZmxZweSXXJGwKuni8Ye0NvCRRCKI_Km8njHhSFIOegBA_tduGsgjoi0ZFst/s320/bracken.jpg" width="212" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>Brackenbeast</u> </span>(Thirteens #2) by Kate Alice Marshall. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Last Halloween, Eleanor, Pip, and Otto narrowly escaped the clutches of the evil January Society and their leader. But life in the too-quiet Eden Eld isn't safe just yet: according to the bargain they made with Mr. January, it's now his sister's turn to hunt the three of them. And her methods are a bit more...treacherous. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">When their friends and neighbors begin disappearing, abducted by strange, mud-drenched monsters, Eleanor and her two best friends must race to uncover their enemy's secrets. If they fail, their families will be next. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Stalked by the relentless mud beasts, they have to find a way to escape using their trusty book of twisted fairytales, their wits, and their friendship. But they quickly learn that the power of the stories they've turned to for help has a stronger hold on them--and their futures--than they realized. Even if Eleanor and her friends survive, they won't end this journey the same people.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Even more emotional intelligence exhibited in the friendship between the three protagonists. Attention paid to the trauma of having to be heroic. It's a little bit like Stranger Things, but not in a derivative way, just in the way that the kids are smart and funny and fun, and the events are magnificently strange. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_z89rIOTumkW33fPyrBrMdZNOE3S9sqnVtcqTOn7qw1tCRyw_T5B8bqF4D7TW9wR_hmT3sJu45h2XWLilSbQ1r_Pvfenzrr1SFQDCWdZMgbGVK0RzA0Qtm-0jAbhyphenhyphenP3c0mb5BCIVbIV4xxp8rawGGiAl3rWvZ4hX25SiDS4hRewWaJFVacsSjsKMbzmf/s400/glassheart.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_z89rIOTumkW33fPyrBrMdZNOE3S9sqnVtcqTOn7qw1tCRyw_T5B8bqF4D7TW9wR_hmT3sJu45h2XWLilSbQ1r_Pvfenzrr1SFQDCWdZMgbGVK0RzA0Qtm-0jAbhyphenhyphenP3c0mb5BCIVbIV4xxp8rawGGiAl3rWvZ4hX25SiDS4hRewWaJFVacsSjsKMbzmf/w133-h200/glassheart.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>Glassheart</u> </span>(Thirteens #3) by Kate Alice Marshall. Synopsis from Goodreads:</p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Adds a couple of characters that ratchet up the tension and the melancholy. There's a really cool library. There's a really cool giant talking cat, and also a smaller one. It's all just really cool. I gave these to my daughter (my favourite palindrome), and she read two in the summer and took the third to read in October for Halloween. I read it just before New Year's so they would all be in the year-end review, because I would sure it would be a brilliant conclusion, and it was. This trilogy is up there with The Colours</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> of Madeleine for books I'm a little surprised are not more popular. Clearly not everyone shares my exquisite taste. </span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Last Halloween Book 1: Children </span></u>by Abby Howard. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Last Halloween, Book 1 is the story of Mona and her unusual friends, who must work together to defend humanity from countless horrific monstrosities! Perhaps they will succeed, and humanity will prevail as it always has. Or perhaps this will be... The Last Halloween.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu0-bwLK1TxDL1qbtNHamD7-cH7TFquoJBlQpGL6PAZa02lc-vi6Stau7PcI7tECEXrJkM1j7mnT1Z_Q28nWAamPsrfZnw6BE_cW5rTuH_CLHL-gNCk1zB1rnhXHJHWkC1puegp7j6Xk5jpLfrW8YzlxwZ6_rcLvhD5R-v1HYjBL4Qj-6evmGZZHtXGl7h/s1104/halloween.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1104" data-original-width="744" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu0-bwLK1TxDL1qbtNHamD7-cH7TFquoJBlQpGL6PAZa02lc-vi6Stau7PcI7tECEXrJkM1j7mnT1Z_Q28nWAamPsrfZnw6BE_cW5rTuH_CLHL-gNCk1zB1rnhXHJHWkC1puegp7j6Xk5jpLfrW8YzlxwZ6_rcLvhD5R-v1HYjBL4Qj-6evmGZZHtXGl7h/s320/halloween.jpg" width="216" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Borrowed this from my Thursday school, and hoo boy, it was a trip. I am not one to shield children from reading material, but it's probably a good thing this was on the teen shelf (not that grade sevens and eights are teenagers, properly speaking). It is quite graphic as well as being, you know, graphic. There are demons and monstrosities and many deaths and dismemberments. One of the principal parents is nonbinary and their child simply calls them Parent. Some of the monsters are friendly and are helping in the battle against the monsters who are less so. The words "ragtag band" have perhaps never been quite so appropriate. Even though this was published in 2016 it seems a sequel is still promised, and sign me the fuck up -- the mind from whence this sprung is twisted in a really beautiful and entertaining manner.</span></p><p><u><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></u></p><p><u><span style="font-size: large;">Four-Star YA Mystery</span></u></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Nothing More to Tell</span></u> by Karen M. McManus. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Four years ago, Brynn left Saint Ambrose School following the shocking murder of her favorite teacher—a story that made headlines after the teacher’s body was found by three Saint Ambrose students in the woods behind their school. The case was never solved. Now that Brynn is moving home and starting her dream internship at a true-crime show, she’s determined to find out what really happened. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">The kids who found Mr. Larkin are her way in, and her ex–best friend, Tripp Talbot, was one of them. Without his account of events, the other two kids might have gone down for Mr. Larkin’s murder—but instead, thanks to Tripp, they're now at the top of the Saint Ambrose social pyramid. Tripp’s friends have never forgotten what Tripp did for them that day, and neither has he. Just like he hasn’t forgotten that everything he told the police was a lie.</span></span></p><p><span id="docs-internal-guid-bc09b7c7-7fff-91fa-e2c2-a5c97cd69e0b"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”I check my phone and see a text from Mason that reads GORFF IS HERE I LURV HEM, so I can only assume that (1) Mason, a notorious lightweight, has been hitting the punch hard, and (2) he’s found his crush, Geoff. I catch sight of Nadia’s pink sweater in a knot of girls and decide that my friends are doing fine on their own for now.”</i></span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2C34lMxq8iRdGmBAXqrnF_-JQGb80IP57ddunqQZM2phuQpQ7M7YxJIab8U1BwvPjzIgFER1AZKsctQPsVkH6DJbCkE0ZjXH_PoZHigurypcv99-jdfrw9dsEWeUTf0DYeJ2LwfAR3md0IgY-etxSvnYSCk5InA9GIl9AB4QEWPcytF6HXvawr361h-EN/s400/nothing.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2C34lMxq8iRdGmBAXqrnF_-JQGb80IP57ddunqQZM2phuQpQ7M7YxJIab8U1BwvPjzIgFER1AZKsctQPsVkH6DJbCkE0ZjXH_PoZHigurypcv99-jdfrw9dsEWeUTf0DYeJ2LwfAR3md0IgY-etxSvnYSCk5InA9GIl9AB4QEWPcytF6HXvawr361h-EN/w133-h200/nothing.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Not my favourite Karen McManus, but still enjoyable. One early thing I thought was screamingly obvious was not quite what I thought it was (so shows what I know). For a bit it felt like there wasn't enough going on, then for a bit there was almost too much going on. One key character I felt sort of acted OUT of character, and it wasn't adequately explained why. But I still like how she traces character's motivations, how she illuminates the sometimes-ridiculous yet deadly-earnest lives of teenagers, and makes me willing to believe for a few pages that a seventeen-year-old girl can solve a murder and still pass English.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">A Long Stretch of Bad Days</span></u> by Mindy McGinnis. Synopsis from Goodreads:<span style="font-size: x-small;"> <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Lydia Chass doesn’t mind living in a small town; she just doesn’t want to die in one. A lifetime of hard work has put her on track to attend a prestigious journalism program and leave Henley behind—until a school error leaves her a credit short of graduating. Undeterred, Lydia has a plan to earn that credit: transform her listener-friendly local history podcast into a truth-telling exposé. She’ll investigate the Long Stretch of Bad Days: a week when Henley was hit by a tornado and a flash flood as well as its first—and only—murder, which remains unsolved. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But Lydia needs help to bring grit to the show. Bristal Jamison has a bad reputation and a foul mouth, but she also needs a credit to graduate. The unexpected partnership brings together the Chass family—a pillar of the community—and the rough-and-tumble Jamisons, with Bristal hoping to be the first in her family to graduate. Together, they dig into the town’s worst week, determined to solve the murder.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhneOSMFAoPLoR5IboelemetgdowhmvnfehoOEKjhIkNpgNFOirB2UCB9oX_71_qXlAUIqL2u1dEPKsg2aFAsZvVxzDXkxv4HCwlSXWuTw6rUa_QIoV1aw4-iNWWfhbu5eX9UPJoFqmNc07DOi0nAUVGxKurLaeZLVC7wwUkesz5h1hdTVnM6xwT83nTM8n/s1000/long%20stretch.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="662" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhneOSMFAoPLoR5IboelemetgdowhmvnfehoOEKjhIkNpgNFOirB2UCB9oX_71_qXlAUIqL2u1dEPKsg2aFAsZvVxzDXkxv4HCwlSXWuTw6rUa_QIoV1aw4-iNWWfhbu5eX9UPJoFqmNc07DOi0nAUVGxKurLaeZLVC7wwUkesz5h1hdTVnM6xwT83nTM8n/w133-h200/long%20stretch.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-c94efdd8-7fff-cde4-e6eb-bae75dc4959f"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”’And nobody looked for her?’ I ask, pushing. ‘Nobody cared about this lost teenaged girl!’</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">‘She didn’t care to be cared </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">about</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">,’ David says, his voice taking on an edge. ‘Paul and Erin tried – they did. But everything was upside down for a while after the long stretch. I mean, you should’ve seen the telephone poles in town. They were covered with missing posters for dogs and cats, people looking for their wallets or the wedding ring they’d taken off to mow the yard before the storm rolled in. We didn’t have–’</span></i></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>‘The internet. Phones. Compassion,’ Bristal supplies, twirling her finger in the air.”</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”Women are easily lost in the record of time. Our names change, our faces aren’t captured. If you look at the old stones in Fairlawn, you’ll see that half our founding population are commemorated through initials: J.F., wife of John; or A.S., mother of Hiram. If I cannot hear the voices of our founding fathers in their pencil sketches, how much more has been lost that we don’t even know the names of the women?”</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Let's just be very frank right off the bat, nothing is ever going to surpass The Female of the Species, but this is miles better, in my opinion, than the bloody (and barfy) mess that was The Last Laugh. Lydia and Bristal are two very entertaining personalities to put together, and you know me and books about podcasts (well no, you might not, the joke is that I constantly say I'm going to start listening to podcasts and then continue to only read books about podcasts - oh, I also watch the occasional tv show about a podcast). This was the first time I actually bothered to think about what's meant by 'flyover country', and the setting plays a big part in the story. </span></p></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>Rules for Vanishing</u></span> by Kate Alice Marshall. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;">I<i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif;">n the faux-documentary style of The Blair Witch Project comes the campfire story of a missing girl, a vengeful ghost, and the girl who is determined to find her sister—at all costs. </i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Once a year, the path appears in the forest and Lucy Gallows beckons. Who is brave enough to find her—and who won't make it out of the woods? </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">It's been exactly one year since Sara's sister, Becca, disappeared, and high school life has far from settled back to normal. With her sister gone, Sara doesn't know whether her former friends no longer like her... or are scared of her, and the days of eating alone at lunch have started to blend together. When a mysterious text message invites Sara and her estranged friends to "play the game" and find local ghost legend Lucy Gallows, Sara is sure this is the only way to find Becca—before she's lost forever. And even though she's hardly spoken with them for a year, Sara finds herself deep in the darkness of the forest, her friends—and their cameras—following her down the path. Together, they will have to draw on all of their strengths to survive. The road is rarely forgiving, and no one will be the same on the other side.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp4mAG1ByJHPXN9-661k9lALHY5y7ifvAoyOFj7miBA5LH4PTlniiNKVLMqxRunh2b_T8S-nmsrGdNL3wM48jwvDWG0k1OQc1ohxheWLwtbIa5qm3Ol9X1qCUXhjcszRvpdEomCRKNa5IyELtVKeea3rXe-Z12J-T2YQ2n2x5qOrwx6hwSCVrGXR3nEUrx/s1200/vanishing.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp4mAG1ByJHPXN9-661k9lALHY5y7ifvAoyOFj7miBA5LH4PTlniiNKVLMqxRunh2b_T8S-nmsrGdNL3wM48jwvDWG0k1OQc1ohxheWLwtbIa5qm3Ol9X1qCUXhjcszRvpdEomCRKNa5IyELtVKeea3rXe-Z12J-T2YQ2n2x5qOrwx6hwSCVrGXR3nEUrx/w133-h200/vanishing.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-92441a0c-7fff-9f18-ec4e-5aa53251921c"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”The road is here, and Becca is waiting.</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>‘No way,’ Jeremy says, shifting his weight back from the road. ‘Have you guys ever watched, like, a single movie? We get on that road and about thirty seconds from now some hook-handed motherfucker is wearing our guts like a scarf.’”</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-018453d9-7fff-decc-c32c-ccd5be16232e"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">-”<i>GRACE: Two of us are leaving here. And it will be easier if we make the decision now.</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>ZACH: You think you should be one of them.</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">GRACE: An organism strives first for self-preservation. Understanding that is the key to understanding everything else, don’t you see? There isn’t room for morality in survival. The road wants to survive. That’s why </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;">it calls us here. And we want to survive."</span></i></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">A reread of my first KAM book, before I read her adult book. Probably my favourite of hers so far - a lost sister, a mysterious road that only appears once a year, a city out of folklore, strange and horrible wonders encountered on the road, great casual representation. Curiously, I totally misremembered the ending. The documentary style interleaved with Sara's perspective is effective in itself and for breaking up the long trip on the road. The setting is unsettlingly effective, as well as the group dynamic. She probably has just enough characters before edging over into where it would be too hard to keep them all straight. I really like her writing - rich worldbuilding and striking descriptions of characters and emotions, vivid and affecting without going over into melodrama.</span></p></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Xm7epuuPkXUwK5n9_0LWiuf9BtfDS8PRm0X0hxKsR5W0HoLA3DYwvsRKdkGTzjkiFH5xYnyXmufD-tlQRMHE7fHqKWu4wJnJwDXRwAAHgbNR8dRvbg_pZXnznbzxKi5PVFFq08gGhY1NGp6dfeQhzXy6Fx7GiJ7Zn_8MjV6ye6U_22ly7sgpmnwN67TZ/s2552/tell%20me.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2552" data-original-width="1689" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Xm7epuuPkXUwK5n9_0LWiuf9BtfDS8PRm0X0hxKsR5W0HoLA3DYwvsRKdkGTzjkiFH5xYnyXmufD-tlQRMHE7fHqKWu4wJnJwDXRwAAHgbNR8dRvbg_pZXnznbzxKi5PVFFq08gGhY1NGp6dfeQhzXy6Fx7GiJ7Zn_8MjV6ye6U_22ly7sgpmnwN67TZ/w133-h200/tell%20me.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>Tell Me What Really Happened</u></span> by Chelsea Sedoti. Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;">There are stories about the woods around Salvation Creek, about the people who have gone missing. Now their friend is one of them. A riveting, fast-paced YA mystery told entirely through first person police interviews of four teens over the course of a few hours. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">It was all her idea. They would get away from their parents and spend the weekend camping. Down by Salvation Creek, the five of them would make smores, steal kisses, share secrets. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">But sometime around midnight, she vanished. </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Now the four friends who came back are under suspicion―and they each have a very different story to tell about what happened in the woods.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><i><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-”Stop being coy and saying someone brought the gun. You know exactly who brought it. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">God. It’s like you’re<b> </b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b>trying</b></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> to waste my time.” </span></i></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></i></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-ddb5ef41-7fff-16b8-2cb6-4dc02d584bca"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">-”My thinking is humans built civilization to </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">escape</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> the wilderness, right? So why would I want to go back into it?” </span></i></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">As usual, I got this months after requesting it, so I didn't remember anything about it, including that it was YA. I would have preferred something a little denser and darker, but not gonna lie - I took it out one day, read it the next and returned it on the third. For what it is - sort of a thriller/character study, told exclusively in first-person voice from the police interviews - it is excellent. The different voices come through very distinctly right from the start. The plot resolution is telegraphed fairly early on, but it's very readable and propulsive, and the journey was enjoyable.</span></p></span><p><br /></p></div>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-13957168966691017202024-01-06T14:28:00.000-08:002024-01-07T06:23:01.123-08:00Books Read in 2023: Remaining Three-Star Books<p>Some of these reviews are a little thin, so I will begin <strike>by gifting you NO I HATE THE WORD 'GIFTING'</strike>, by bestowing on you a hilariously humiliating anecdote about myself. </p><p>Matt's maternal grandparents were quite young when he was born and a big part of his life. I first met them when we were dating in university, and they were subsequently also a big part of my life, and my kids' childhood. They lived about an hour away and we saw them often. When they died it was considerably more wrenching to me than when I lost my own grandparents, who lived far away and who I had seen rarely since my own childhood. </p><p>At Matt's Nana's funeral, I met her younger sister Myrna, who looked much like her and who I was surprised to learn seemed to know a lot about me and my family. I resolved to keep in touch with her, and that Christmas sent a long letter with a card and pictures. I got a response from her the next November, apologizing for being eleven months late, which made me feel like she was even more a kindred spirit than I suspected.</p><p>Last year I left her card for later, thinking I would write a longer update than in some others, and then never got to it. I left the supplies out for months, but slipped into my winter depression and never got to it. This year I started a long letter to her at the beginning of doing my Christmas cards, composed a five-page missive over several days, and mailed it in early December. I got a response back quite quickly and was very happy.</p><p>Yesterday Eve and I took Lucy for a walk and got the mail. In the mail was my amply-stuffed card and letter, returned for 'no such post office'. </p><p>I stared at it for many minutes, feeling the world destabilize around me. We walked home and Eve was trying to talk to me about other stuff and I was like quiet, I'm having an existential breakdown. I messaged Matt's aunt who had given me their address for the first card and told her what happened. She said "did the letter refer to your letter?" and I said "YES, she said she was reading it and it was like having a visit and she should have poured a glass of wine!" and then I texted Matt and said you read it, right? I didn't imagine it? And he confirmed. And I clutched my head and moaned a little more.</p><p>Then I searched the main floor until I found the letter.</p><p>It said she reread my PREVIOUS letter and looked at the pictures. In the very first goddamned line. </p><p>You guys, it's not that outlandish to say I practically read for a living. When something happens as a result of me not reading carefully enough, I tend to find it either hysterically funny or deeply mortifying, depending on my mood. I am rather ping-ponging between the two at the moment. I'm mostly grateful that the letter came back so at least I figured it out and could resend it. </p><p><u><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Three-Star YA Sci-Fi/Horror and Mystery</span></u></p><div><u><span style="font-size: medium;">This Delicious Death</span></u> by Kayla Cottingham: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915;">Jennifer’s Body</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> fans will clamor for this new sapphic horror standalone from </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915;">New York Times</i><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> bestselling author Kayla Cottingham.</span></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Three years ago, the melting of arctic permafrost released a pathogen of unknown origin into the atmosphere, causing a small percentage of people to undergo a transformation that became known as the Hollowing. Those impacted slowly became intolerant to normal food and were only able to gain sustenance by consuming the flesh of other human beings. Those who went without flesh quickly became feral, turning on their friends and family. However, scientists were able to create a synthetic version of human meat that would satisfy the hunger of those impacted by the Hollowing. As a result, humanity slowly began to return to normal, albeit with lasting fear and distrust for the people they'd pejoratively dubbed ghouls.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Zoey, Celeste, Valeria, and Jasmine are all ghouls living in Southern California. As a last hurrah before their graduation they decided to attend a musical festival in the desert. They have a cooler filled with hard seltzers and SynFlesh and are ready to party.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzPGTywvt7JgVLTHDQkjPTYnZQU6-j8y3ONy_HNx16D6vfz5Aw0KP1OpH0ogSwCbyEJFa_14qFVZDclcNga6rufBCX8VcfYvFtekAlIOnHC19b5TrKowqn_FVLYLj9icbeKIKXDAs-tTA0ZOAk7pdTOiz_XlOX0MPO98eWVJfAr1fG9Q_MYhyphenhyphenppz1Hd9Mw/s2475/delicious.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2475" data-original-width="1650" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzPGTywvt7JgVLTHDQkjPTYnZQU6-j8y3ONy_HNx16D6vfz5Aw0KP1OpH0ogSwCbyEJFa_14qFVZDclcNga6rufBCX8VcfYvFtekAlIOnHC19b5TrKowqn_FVLYLj9icbeKIKXDAs-tTA0ZOAk7pdTOiz_XlOX0MPO98eWVJfAr1fG9Q_MYhyphenhyphenppz1Hd9Mw/w133-h200/delicious.jpg" width="133" id="id_4a77_b175_d078_ede6" style="width: 133px; height: auto;"></a></div>But on the first night of the festival Val goes feral, and ends up killing and eating a boy. As other festival guests start disappearing around them the girls soon discover someone is drugging ghouls and making them feral. And if they can't figure out how to stop it, and soon, no one at the festival is safe.</span></span><div><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: arial;"><br><i><br></i></span></div><div><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: arial;"><i>-"'As fun as sharing a bed with every softball butch in Aspen Flats sounds, I've sworn off activities that require sweating.' Val rolled onto her stomach to look at me and Celeste."</i></span></div><div><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: arial;"><i><br></i></span></div><div><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: arial;"><i>-"My shitty gay heart did a backflip in my chest."</i><br></span><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br></span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;">I love zombies! I maybe don't love recovered zombies quite as much. This was fine but everything was telegraphed well in advance. Good gay representation, and the scenes with the friends just hanging out were very enjoyable.<br></span><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br></span><div><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Five Survive</span></u> by Holly Jackson: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">The brand new unmissable crime thriller from Holly Jackson, best-selling, award-winning author of the Good Girl’s Guide to Murder trilogy.</span></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Eight hours.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Six friends.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">One sniper . . .</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Eighteen year old Red and her friends are on a road trip in an RV, heading to the beach for Spring Break. It’s a long drive but spirits are high. Until the RV breaks down in the middle of nowhere. There’s no mobile phone reception and nobody around to help. And as the wheels are shot out, one by one, the friends realise that this is no accident. There’s a sniper out there in the dark watching them and he knows exactly who they are. One of the group has a secret that the sniper is willing to kill for.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white;">The only quote I copied was "<i>Her skin was beginning to look pale and pallid</i>". Oof. </span></span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br></span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRX3uflc-OntvEPaTxlLCA0hY_N36jnPTre7xUzFiaiIoc2HCoutQoq2vzvBts9KaUgc_YJk0JTlXd5A0OdlCSf4glpgRN2_-5OdosG6YJrIrOVR27STRYaeH5ZYs26nHS4KHsXw_10PEnUJTaSnQGAgh58ds2m72b8hOOBx5mw4UfxPTNPY4zQIl53izn/s2402/five.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2402" data-original-width="1500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRX3uflc-OntvEPaTxlLCA0hY_N36jnPTre7xUzFiaiIoc2HCoutQoq2vzvBts9KaUgc_YJk0JTlXd5A0OdlCSf4glpgRN2_-5OdosG6YJrIrOVR27STRYaeH5ZYs26nHS4KHsXw_10PEnUJTaSnQGAgh58ds2m72b8hOOBx5mw4UfxPTNPY4zQIl53izn/w125-h200/five.jpg" width="125" id="id_6aa3_c71_a515_627c" style="width: 125px; height: auto;"></a></div>Maybe Holly Jackson was exhausted from putting out the tri-fold awesomeness that was The Good Girl's Guide to Murder trilogy. Maybe she was rushing to meet a deadline. Maybe she just really hates RVs. For whatever reason, all the smart, resourceful, personable teenagers from her previous books have departed and been replaced by petty, insanely immature dimwits who could not be worse under pressure. I definitely added a star because of how much I liked the author's previous work. This was pretty bad. </div><br><div><br></div><div><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Girl Forgotten</span></u> by April Henry: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Piper Gray starts a true-crime podcast investigating a seventeen-year-old cold case in this thrilling YA murder mystery by New York Times bestselling author April Henry. </span></span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Seventeen years ago, Layla Trello was murdered and her killer was never found. Enter true-crime fan Piper Gray, who is determined to reopen Layla’s case and get some answers. With the help of Jonas—who has a secret of his own—Piper starts a podcast investigating Layla’s murder. But as she digs deeper into the mysteries of the past, Piper begins receiving anonymous threats telling her to back off the investigation, or else. The killer is still out there, and Piper must uncover their identity before they silence her forever.</span></span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br></span><div>This was pretty good. The podcaster, unlike with most books I've read, is just starting out rather than already established, and her learning process was interesting. The story is not materially different from similar ones, but it's well done, even though 17 years old is really freaking old in cold case terms. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><u><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Three-Star Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Horror/Supernatural</span></u></div><div><br></div><div><u><span style="font-size: medium;">A Children's Bible</span></u> by Lydia Millet: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915;">A Children’s Bible</em><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> follows a group of twelve eerily mature children on a forced vacation with their families at a sprawling lakeside mansion. Contemptuous of their parents, the children decide to run away when a destructive storm descends on the summer estate, embarking on a dangerous foray into the apocalyptic chaos outside. Lydia Millet’s prophetic and heartbreaking story of generational divide offers a haunting vision of what awaits us on the far side of Revelation.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br></span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVyRJAzYh2mY5Xame61JL7ejsJKNuMV18zAORkdpOJq8KIvHCw8hqnio6lIkPKXegbeUakogy0-oPCLZHOYwQjqxNC-meHPy4dHxFAyHAnAb5Idl93-oDj2PTJtkw_ZfreIXNuNAs6qyfpwmeMQckoFrfuUKfDejcp25DRJgR0opcPIus6EKs3cdM8KIoA/s1200/bible.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVyRJAzYh2mY5Xame61JL7ejsJKNuMV18zAORkdpOJq8KIvHCw8hqnio6lIkPKXegbeUakogy0-oPCLZHOYwQjqxNC-meHPy4dHxFAyHAnAb5Idl93-oDj2PTJtkw_ZfreIXNuNAs6qyfpwmeMQckoFrfuUKfDejcp25DRJgR0opcPIus6EKs3cdM8KIoA/w213-h320/bible.jpg" width="213" id="id_7cb3_8154_bbc0_e782" style="width: 213px; height: auto;"></a></div></div><div><span id="docs-internal-guid-caca46c6-7fff-6f03-3f06-b0996fc9b0bf"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”Yes, it was known that we couldn’t stay young. But it was hard to believe, somehow. Say what you like about us, our legs and arms were strong and streamlined. I realize that now. Our stomachs were taut and unwrinkled, our foreheads similar. When we ran, if we chose to, we ran like flashes of silk. We had the vigor of those freshly born.</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>Relatively speaking.</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>And no, we wouldn’t be like this forever. We knew it, on a rational level. But the idea that those garbage-like figures that tottered around the great house were a vision of what lay in store – hell no.</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>Had they had goals once? A simple sense of self-respect?</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>They shamed us. They were a cautionary tale.”</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br></p></span></div><div>Read for book club. Unsure why I gave it three stars and not four - maybe because the symbolism was so heavy-handed. But I enjoyed reading it. It was bleak and vivid and laugh-out-loud blackly funny. The children's game of trying not to let any other kids know which parents belonged to them was so demented and so hilarious. The perpetually drunken and clueless parents were somewhat less amusing, although point taken, I guess. I am really tempted to go back and amend the rating to four stars, but I will trust my initial impression.</div><div><br></div><div><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Afterland</span></u> by Lauren Beukes: Synopsis from Goodreads: <i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Most of the men are dead. Three years after the pandemic known as The Manfall, governments still hold and life continues -- but a world run by women isn't always a better place.</span></i></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Twelve-year-old Miles is one of the last boys alive, and his mother, Cole, will protect him at all costs. On the run after a horrific act of violence-and pursued by Cole's own ruthless sister, Billie -- all Cole wants is to raise her kid somewhere he won't be preyed on as a reproductive resource or a sex object or a stand-in son. Someplace like home.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">To get there, Cole and Miles must journey across a changed America in disguise as mother and daughter. From a military base in Seattle to a luxury bunker, from an anarchist commune in Salt Lake City to a roaming cult that's all too ready to see Miles as the answer to their prayers, the two race to stay ahead at every step . . . even as Billie and her sinister crew draw closer.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A sharply feminist, high-stakes thriller from award-winning author Lauren Beukes, </span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915;">Afterland</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> brilliantly blends psychological suspense, American noir, and science fiction into an adventure all its own -- and perfect for our times.</span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY2XAs8easMpCuudBRe4YBmRtIuX6dMsqUxqEFjkm2TPBioZCsWVCtr7RXtiUugidunlo0q1tgOQ6MQ07vJZ92_3J5cH514jAyHcFMQfLxHY7UPXGo9xof83i84nwMRAMm-9ME01Rf81LvuLOMGf3iwoSi21sYp9ND4gTcbcwkqlOQIJpq7wb4o2hW_Qd3/s750/afterland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="484" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY2XAs8easMpCuudBRe4YBmRtIuX6dMsqUxqEFjkm2TPBioZCsWVCtr7RXtiUugidunlo0q1tgOQ6MQ07vJZ92_3J5cH514jAyHcFMQfLxHY7UPXGo9xof83i84nwMRAMm-9ME01Rf81LvuLOMGf3iwoSi21sYp9ND4gTcbcwkqlOQIJpq7wb4o2hW_Qd3/w129-h200/afterland.jpg" width="129" id="id_2416_4151_dff5_635" style="width: 129px; height: auto;"></a></div><br><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br></span><div><span id="docs-internal-guid-c7bb32d6-7fff-e06e-2449-794da95e2234"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”The tank is down to a quarter full and they need to refuel. And the bitch about the new world order: it requires money, same as the old one. She feels betrayed by all the apocalypses of pop culture that promised abandoned cities ripe for the looting.”</i></span></span></div><div><span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am cursed to keep thinking that Lauren Beukes books sound right up my alley and then finding out that, for the most part, they are actually up the alley just a couple of alleys over from mine.<span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"> I liked Zoo City quite a bit. Subsequent books sounded great and then were just missing something key for me. I loved the tv series for The Shining Girls, so I reread the book, which didn't move the needle that much.</span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">This felt like a great set-up with a substandard, under-edited pay-off. I was all in for the first third, and then I was mostly just heartily sick of Billie's frothing-at-the-mouth selfish violent raving (yeah, we get it, she uses the c-word a lot, she's not a sympathetic character, she has a massive head wound, move on), frustrated at Miles's sudden change in demeanour with no explanation, and uncertain about why anything was happening the way it was (attempting to blend psychological suspense, American noir AND science fiction might have been a genre too far?) And the ending, after many, many, many extraneous pages? Not quite good enough to be worth the wait. </span></span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br></span><div><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Mexican Gothic</span></u> by Silvia Moreno-Garcia: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">After receiving a frantic letter from her newly-wed cousin begging for someone to save her from a mysterious doom, Noemí Taboada heads to High Place, a distant house in the Mexican countryside. She’s not sure what she will find—her cousin’s husband, a handsome Englishman, is a stranger, and Noemí knows little about the region.</span></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Noemí is also an unlikely rescuer: She’s a glamorous debutante, and her chic gowns and perfect red lipstick are more suited for cocktail parties than amateur sleuthing. But she’s also tough and smart, with an indomitable will, and she is not afraid: Not of her cousin’s new husband, who is both menacing and alluring; not of his father, the ancient patriarch who seems to be fascinated by Noemí; and not even of the house itself, which begins to invade Noemí’s dreams with visions of blood and doom.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Her only ally in this inhospitable abode is the family’s youngest son. Shy and gentle, he seems to want to help Noemí, but might also be hiding dark knowledge of his family’s past. For there are many secrets behind the walls of High Place. The family’s once colossal wealth and faded mining empire kept them from prying eyes, but as Noemí digs deeper she unearths stories of violence and madness.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br></span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigb2Im7w1sXV2qWEnZtZ8HoSLs68ZM8zQnLGQBNktR0qEVw3Rbu_xpsWRKBNPYDoYLl2XDw50JTEX0dOZOkVfnGLr6trvA9y67aTbNfXSh3ZF8_q4TKWEymvKNnDQddnKligiJ875hWvvft29pjlADo3RHqWGlFOuw9iD8Y8CnxZ9HoV8m_yMJxb3nmlnF/s2824/mexican.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2824" data-original-width="1863" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigb2Im7w1sXV2qWEnZtZ8HoSLs68ZM8zQnLGQBNktR0qEVw3Rbu_xpsWRKBNPYDoYLl2XDw50JTEX0dOZOkVfnGLr6trvA9y67aTbNfXSh3ZF8_q4TKWEymvKNnDQddnKligiJ875hWvvft29pjlADo3RHqWGlFOuw9iD8Y8CnxZ9HoV8m_yMJxb3nmlnF/w132-h200/mexican.jpg" width="132" id="id_4926_c8f5_d293_290c" style="width: 132px; height: auto;"></a></div><div>I was determined to read the five Canada Reads books and the five books on the Giller Prize shortlist last year - okay, looking these up it appears I read the Giller Prize shortlist books for 2022 in 2023, curious. For the most part I enjoyed them, except for Stray Dogs by Rawi Hage which was in my one-and-two-star post. I am not a huge fan of the Gothic genre, so take my review of this book advisedly; most of the things I didn't like about it were indeed directly related to its Gothic-ness (Gothicity?). Violence, madness, nightmares, visions of blood and doom - I like horror, but I like my horror a little more... streamlined? Modern? Noemi was a good protagonist and I was rooting for her (ha ha, if you know you know), and I appreciated the way the reveal played into the zeitgeist (sorry, trying not to be spoiler-y), but this wasn't quite for me. </div><div><br></div><div><div><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Hollow Ones</span></u> by Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan: Synopsis from Goodreads: <i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">A horrific crime that defies ordinary explanation. A rookie FBI agent in dangerous, uncharted territory. An extraordinary hero for the ages.</span></i></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Odessa Hardwicke's life is derailed when she's forced to turn her gun on her partner, Walt Leppo, a decorated FBI agent who turns suddenly, inexplicably violent while apprehending a rampaging murderer. The shooting, justified by self-defense, shakes the young FBI agent to her core. Devastated, Odessa is placed on desk leave pending a full investigation. But what most troubles Odessa isn't the tragedy itself-it's the shadowy presence she thought she saw fleeing the deceased agent's body after his death. Questioning her future with the FBI and her sanity, Hardwicke accepts a low-level assignment to clear out the belongings of a retired agent in the New York office. What she finds there will put her on the trail of a mysterious figure named John Silence, a man of enormous means who claims to have been alive for centuries, and who is either an unhinged lunatic, or humanity's best and only defense against unspeakable evil.</span></span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br></span></div><div><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Mildly diverting. Guillermo del Toro is a really good filmmaker and as a horror novelist he's a really good filmmaker. This reads as if it was published decades ago, and would make a better screenplay. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvCaH5yS1JHX3uSCShJemih0d_AbNWCBpXmK1cDaNDDzZkssb2ZCbcfQSM9afJJ2EwNc3_43jBB97ZbDSOw2d-_TXD25tOnfzc5wMEQWRBUVnsQxamvuGNtYTyf6H4hsizRe_7V0OunbFCfFrGuAPJtRFtm_71rFncy0liOOzYipQMo_ISnWvSy1kb3Lwe/s1179/self%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1179" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvCaH5yS1JHX3uSCShJemih0d_AbNWCBpXmK1cDaNDDzZkssb2ZCbcfQSM9afJJ2EwNc3_43jBB97ZbDSOw2d-_TXD25tOnfzc5wMEQWRBUVnsQxamvuGNtYTyf6H4hsizRe_7V0OunbFCfFrGuAPJtRFtm_71rFncy0liOOzYipQMo_ISnWvSy1kb3Lwe/s320/self%20.jpg" width="208" id="id_317c_5a07_ffa4_435a" style="width: 208px; height: auto;"></a></div><br><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>Self-Portrait With Nothing</u></span> by Aimee Pokwatka: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">If a picture paints a thousand worlds...</span></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Abandoned as an infant on the local veterinarian’s front porch, Pepper Rafferty was raised by two loving mothers, and now at thirty-six is married to the stable, supportive Ike. She’s never told anyone that at fifteen she discovered the identity of her biological mother.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">That’s because her birth mother is Ula Frost, a reclusive painter famous for the outrageous claims that her portraits summon their subjects’ doppelgangers from parallel universes.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Researching the rumors, Pepper couldn’t help but wonder:</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Was there a parallel universe in which she was more confident, more accomplished, better able to accept love?</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A universe in which Ula decided she was worth keeping?</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A universe in which Ula’s rejection didn’t still hurt too much to share?</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br></span></span></div><div><span id="docs-internal-guid-26d98fc1-7fff-fd34-dc29-723315a48e5c"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”There was a painting on an easel he’d started but hadn’t finished, of a man who looked like him, except he only had half a face. Gordon couldn't see the rest clearly yet, but he wanted desperately for the man to look somehow different, to look happier, or richer, or less alone. He wanted him to be the kind of man who was into horses, who had a stable and a mare whose coat was a warm chestnut color, whom he brushed methodically every evening, listening to some old jazz record, savoring a nice port, while she swished her shiny tail. He wanted the man to be the kind of person who was cool enough to stay put when he heard, as he did now, the arrival of an unfamiliar vehicle in his driveway.”</i></span></span></div><div><br></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Again, I loved the concept so much, but the execution missed me just slightly. I kept waiting for it to click in more firmly, and it just never did. There was still a lot to like. </span></div><div><span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></u></span></span></div><div><div><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Prophet</span></u> by Sin <span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Blaché,</span></span> Helen Macdonald: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Your happiest memory is their deadliest weapon.</span></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">THIS IS PROPHET.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">It knows when you were happiest. It gives life to your fondest memories and uses them to destroy you. But who has created it? And what do they want?</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">An all-American diner appears overnight in a remote British field. It's brightly lit, warm and inviting but it has no power, no water, no connection to the real world. It's like a memory made flesh - a nostalgic flight of fancy. More and more objects materialise: toys, fairground rides, pets and other treasured mementos of the past.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">And the deaths quickly follow.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Something is bringing these memories to life, then stifling innocent people with their own joy. This is a weapon like no other. But nobody knows who created it, or why.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Sunil Rao seems a surprising choice of investigator. Chaotic and unpredictable, the former agent is the antithesis of his partner Colonel Adam Rubenstein, the model of a military man. But Sunil has the unique ability to distinguish truth from lies: in objects, words and people, in the past and in real time. And Adam is the only one who truly knows him, after a troubled past together. Now, as they battle this strange new reality, they are drawn closer than ever to defend what they both hold most dear.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br></span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipiwks-kAAx481_HvLPIqFlUtGlx-0XPzVmqRrWGRvc6_i7bJLBUJ2usWn_XJGUZu1Aj659sHwBCk2plcfcW7S8oSalU-F_vHX6JoSjFnA2U7JCLuI-Ngko8SLpcp5Pwh6Y5_iM8cHQf7MSarYyFZpglURO1lYuLGHrJAUYlXklOOTgiVP1ayLN8dHegoq/s780/prophet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="520" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipiwks-kAAx481_HvLPIqFlUtGlx-0XPzVmqRrWGRvc6_i7bJLBUJ2usWn_XJGUZu1Aj659sHwBCk2plcfcW7S8oSalU-F_vHX6JoSjFnA2U7JCLuI-Ngko8SLpcp5Pwh6Y5_iM8cHQf7MSarYyFZpglURO1lYuLGHrJAUYlXklOOTgiVP1ayLN8dHegoq/w133-h200/prophet.jpg" width="133" id="id_3d70_c5cc_b18_226d" style="width: 133px; height: auto;"></a></div></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The beginning was fascinating. Characterization was well established. Weaponized nostalgia? Fantastic, tell me more, oh shit, I didn't mean that much more! It just went on and on and on and on and on, in desperate need of an editor, or possibly a flamethrower. Tighten it up, for the love of god, leave some stuff on the cutting room floor. The good stuff was drowned and suffocated by the other stuff, the so much rambling look-at-me-I'm-so-clever stuff. I wasn't quite ready to abandon it and yet I started to dread picking it up again. The relationship between Adam and Sunil was nearly worth it, but unfortunately by the end I was nearly skimming. </span></span></div><div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><br></span></div><div><div><div><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Little Eve</span></u> by Catriona Ward: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">A heart-pounding tale of faith and family, with a devastating twist.</span></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915;">“A great day is upon us. He is coming. The world will be washed away.”</i><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">On the wind-battered isle of Altnaharra, off the wildest coast of Scotland, a clan prepares to bring about the end of the world and its imminent rebirth.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">The Adder is coming and one of their number will inherit its powers. They all want the honor, but young Eve is willing to do anything for the distinction.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A reckoning beyond Eve’s imagination begins when Chief Inspector Black arrives to investigate a brutal murder and their sacred ceremony goes terribly wrong.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">And soon all the secrets of Altnaharra will be uncovered.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><br></span></span></div><div><span id="docs-internal-guid-28195fc0-7fff-17c3-5ae7-586d3625bef2"><i><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">-”My tongue slips in and out of my mouth, black. I see through it. I taste the world. Each tiny current of air is a brushstroke. It paints a great ringing canvas. The sea a cauldron of minerals and rot. Bruised grass rising green, each flint buried in the chalky earth a dark exclamation. The splintered scent of a grasshopper, the fizzing of midges in the air.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The drumming goes on. It is the cold beat of my heart, buried between my ears, behind my brain.</span></p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I have a name in the old tongue from when the world was young and my fathers ruled the earth, taking aurochs whole into their bellies, leaving acres of forest crushed by their passage. My name is not rendered in sound, but in tiny movements of my head, a delicate, precise secretion of chemicals. It means something like </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">dark-soil-and-mouse-blood</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">, my name.”</span></i></span></div><div><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzjIxL-K713_WUmUxL50E9ki99-swl8CxBk0TUnSeeEmPU2dPyxClsXCx4kAxZ7zBvNDbU7JEO3Eb5UxwlsLtCijkAzV305dkKmIijfsDAucvFbU-YO9ldxmzeEd1KFKd8u5N4IgyFmIYkkul_N7MKHspeoW_XcgCDw0i7vetAYBlbQwsEoZKdtxLDXSz/s985/eve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="985" data-original-width="648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzjIxL-K713_WUmUxL50E9ki99-swl8CxBk0TUnSeeEmPU2dPyxClsXCx4kAxZ7zBvNDbU7JEO3Eb5UxwlsLtCijkAzV305dkKmIijfsDAucvFbU-YO9ldxmzeEd1KFKd8u5N4IgyFmIYkkul_N7MKHspeoW_XcgCDw0i7vetAYBlbQwsEoZKdtxLDXSz/w132-h200/eve.jpg" width="132" id="id_fc95_a142_505b_3730" style="width: 132px; height: auto;"></a></div><br><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I can't claim that I didn't know this was an older work of Ward's being republished - I kind of did. I took a crack at it anyway. It's not bad, it's just not what I wanted and doesn't really measure up to the other two books of hers that I've loved. There's some extremely arresting imagery that still sticks in my mind. This is a personal preference, but I'm just not a huge fan of reading about cultish behaviour and the manipulative techniques of cult leaders. I fully understand and sympathize with why cult followers would end up participating in their own mistreatment and subjugation, but it's still enraging to read. This all culminates in something not remotely surprising being presented as a surprise, I think? This will not deter me from continuing to read anything else produced by Catriona Ward.</span></span></div><div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></u></span></div><div><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Drift</span></u> by C.J. Tudor: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Hannah awakens to carnage, all mangled metal and shattered glass. During a hasty escape from a secluded boarding school, her coach careened over a hillside road during one of the year's heaviest snowstorms, trapping her inside with a handful of survivors, a brewing virus, and no way to call for help. If she and the remaining few want to make it out alive, with their sanity--and secrets--intact, they'll need to work together or they'll be buried alive with the rest of the dead.</span></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">A former detective, Meg awakens to a gentle rocking. She is in a cable car suspended far above a snowstorm and surrounded by strangers in the same uniform as her, with no memory of how they got there. They are heading to a mysterious place known to them only as "The Retreat," but when they discover a dead man among their ranks and Meg spies a familiar face, she realizes that there is something far more insidious going on.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Carter is gazing out the window of the abandoned ski chalet that he and his ragtag compatriots call home. Together, they manage a precarious survival, manufacturing vaccines against a deadly virus in exchange for life's essentials. But as their generator begins to waver, the threat of something lurking in the chalet's depths looms larger, and their fragile bonds will be tested when the power finally fails--for good.</span></span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtNmSWHIt-YSQYdy8ursWVcJATCcmbCOBe3GJTdy0ur1CLsZZQ8UuK0bWHs8cr4AxmOfM2INbKrhqmG5pVXF1T4TB2FmVRTHD0c5ms3WA4cs6EBlH3JtQXtjkhl899ZVuSGfKdzIWgonjKudZc6XW4x_9I8FjnRVnLRIZf0Rvt1C17iBUKiDE7NQnROP1c/s400/drift.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtNmSWHIt-YSQYdy8ursWVcJATCcmbCOBe3GJTdy0ur1CLsZZQ8UuK0bWHs8cr4AxmOfM2INbKrhqmG5pVXF1T4TB2FmVRTHD0c5ms3WA4cs6EBlH3JtQXtjkhl899ZVuSGfKdzIWgonjKudZc6XW4x_9I8FjnRVnLRIZf0Rvt1C17iBUKiDE7NQnROP1c/s320/drift.jpg" width="210" id="id_e038_cbe4_7fc7_97d2" style="width: 210px; height: auto;"></a></div>I really like this author usually, and I try not to fault an author for wanting to try something new. In this case it didn't work as well for me as her other books, and that's fine. What I usually like is the understated feeling of menace and dread and the characters, whereas here the characters weren't as fully realized and the menace was hit-you-in-the-face. The story wasn't uninteresting, and the reveals were effective, it just would have needed a little more dimension for me, whereas the short, punchy chapters and sections would probably work just fine for others. It's a little different reading about pandemics now that we've actually lived through one, but I don't think that was really my issue.</span></span></div><div><br><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><br></span></div><div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVFl34NRlLFa4iWeeEsUQLFsyADsYwMa57mTYngJuLzVloBCzHLS2IzB976GHlfEzRsbKFWZA9p4U_L1PwA48snOPVRXo9ijT-JupwUTfdj4EQI5UH7wvkwILruu3y0ugOTqUyhc4ozTVh_fQzPZ1M6WyAuJvjRWWkP4egIEvKwyPeWBpWQj_FAROM6_O/s400/hidden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWVFl34NRlLFa4iWeeEsUQLFsyADsYwMa57mTYngJuLzVloBCzHLS2IzB976GHlfEzRsbKFWZA9p4U_L1PwA48snOPVRXo9ijT-JupwUTfdj4EQI5UH7wvkwILruu3y0ugOTqUyhc4ozTVh_fQzPZ1M6WyAuJvjRWWkP4egIEvKwyPeWBpWQj_FAROM6_O/w133-h200/hidden.jpg" width="133" id="id_1630_4ffd_5fbb_6b68" style="width: 133px; height: auto;"></a></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Hidden Pictures</span></u> by Jason Rekulak: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">A</span></span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> wildly inventive spin on the supernatural thriller, about a woman working as a nanny for a</span></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small; font-weight: 600;"> boy with strange and disturbing secrets.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Mallory Quinn is fresh out of rehab when she takes a job as a babysitter for Ted and Caroline Maxwell. She is to look after their five-year-old son, Teddy.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Mallory immediately loves it. She has her own living space, goes out for nightly runs, and has the stability she craves. And she sincerely bonds with Teddy, a sweet, shy boy who is never without his sketchbook and pencil. His drawings are the usual fare: trees, rabbits, balloons. But one day, he draws something different: a man in a forest, dragging a woman’s lifeless body.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Then, Teddy’s artwork becomes increasingly sinister, and his stick figures quickly evolve into lifelike sketches well beyond the ability of any five-year-old. Mallory begins to wonder if these are glimpses of a long-unsolved murder, perhaps relayed by a supernatural force.</span></span></div></div></div></div><br><div><br></div><div>"Widly inventive" is wildly overstating things. </div></div>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-86443417054237841582024-01-04T16:50:00.000-08:002024-01-06T12:38:43.376-08:00Books Read in 2023: Three-Star Mystery<div>I want to thank everyone for their kind comments on the last post while also acknowledging that I was feeling insecure and probably sounded a little bit compliment-fishy.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is a funny stretch of days right now. The days between Christmas and New Year's are always a little bit marshy and strange. Angus and I worked on our puzzle a little bit every day which was a nice way to punctuate all the reading and get me out of my room. My sister's family came for New Year's instead of Christmas because my niece is doing a master's in the UK right now and they didn't want to make her get in the car for a six-hour drive the second she got home. So it was also a nice way to rouse ourselves for a little more family time. Angus left on the 2nd because he had been invited by his undergrad college to go to the coaching conference he went to last year with his friend who also coaches the team. </div><div><br /></div><div>Eve and I went over and had lunch with my mom and dad and sister's family yesterday and then went to the mall to replace her beige t-shirt bra that desperately needed replacing, and go to Sephora to replace her eyebrow gel ("I'm a girl with a lot of brow") and spend a little Christmas money. We also bought popcorn at Kernels so we could come home and have popcorn while watching the silly movie we'd been meaning to watch all break (Family Switch - so dumb, so funny). Eve and my niece Charlotte are so fun to watch together and have such a great time. Charlotte is hysterically funny, and made up a poem about everybody in the family's birthdays that I wish we had recorded because we were all on the floor by the end (the only line I remember is "my Poppa's birthday is September 23rd/ *whistle* *whistle* *whistle* - that's a bird". She is also a very out-and-proud lesbian, and I take great delight in shopping for presents for her. After I gave her a throw pillow with a rainbow 'homosexu-whale' on it (which she loved), I said that I would on some occasion buy her something that was not directly related to her sexual orientation.</div><div>This was not that occasion:</div><div><br /></div><div><img alt="" id="id_1fdd_b4c6_d304_76d9" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSKw0vJ7kbQJyHwErk6povGQWWzLBELfTMGAqXCTxiIjW_p_iVZRvBm-aGvFWsXd9p78MpxXvT8aqCgzybYg-S5aJAJ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></div><div><br /></div><div>Today it is finally sunny and a little bit of snow fell, and Eve went out to run errands and brought me a chai latte, and is now reading Bluebeard's Egg on the couch while I type on the kitchen table. The book is for the lit course she has this term, taught by my old professor, and the book is mine, AND she just found a McMaster University Bookstore on the back, so this is all kinds of feel-good full-circle shit.</div><div><br /></div><div><img alt="" id="id_db68_dbf9_2d49_ea85" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYT6plYLms8t1lRWhSiMBiy7eoq2-ilXxqt_ujIQftFWjLBIBdEafoHY35guaCahHFfGx3eWd3msx_K_mYH0gVmu-A9KQw" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></div><div><br /></div><div><u><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Three-Star Mystery</span></b></u></div><div><u><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></u></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I really try to be more selective then previously when reading mysteries, because a really great mystery is still a really great mystery, and I think the best mystery novels resonate with the way we all search for meaning and answers in so many ways. But when you've read a lot of mysteries, there are some tropes that start to lose their freshness, and you can be surprised, but it takes a little more. So all of these books have the potential to be great reads to someone who hasn't squeezed the mystery genre like an orange.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv7mlylEtMYt-LvS4JGuoUbGsFH5iLwch-gD7SgiCoGyyVc_0earx1YazE5fPLHa_a6LhVFhPfROvtNkkIkunE3gFfU4iQLHxTuAsuGi1qw_2KYiTLfNu6xV9sFf3FvKZJbUCahs93GXrk366Oj_y_Sr9YyOaDgefTtRa4Q6a6rtDjnDp8g530u1GAsNvb/s1500/killers.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv7mlylEtMYt-LvS4JGuoUbGsFH5iLwch-gD7SgiCoGyyVc_0earx1YazE5fPLHa_a6LhVFhPfROvtNkkIkunE3gFfU4iQLHxTuAsuGi1qw_2KYiTLfNu6xV9sFf3FvKZJbUCahs93GXrk366Oj_y_Sr9YyOaDgefTtRa4Q6a6rtDjnDp8g530u1GAsNvb/w133-h200/killers.jpg" width="133" /></a></div></div><div><u>Killers of a Certain Age</u> by Dianna Raybourn: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Older women often feel invisible, but sometimes that's their secret weapon.</span></div><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">They've spent their lives as the deadliest assassins in a clandestine international organization, but now that they're sixty years old, four women friends can't just retire - it's kill or be killed in this action-packed thriller.</i><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Billie, Mary Alice, Helen, and Natalie have worked for the Museum, an elite network of assassins, for forty years. Now their talents are considered old-school and no one appreciates what they have to offer in an age that relies more on technology than people skills.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">When the foursome is sent on an all-expenses paid vacation to mark their retirement, they are targeted by one of their own. Only the Board, the top-level members of the Museum, can order the termination of field agents, and the women realize they've been marked for death.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Now to get out alive they have to turn against their own organization, relying on experience and each other to get the job done, knowing that working together is the secret to their survival. They're about to teach the Board what it really means to be a woman--and a killer--of a certain age.</span><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></div><div><span id="docs-internal-guid-ff9f88b4-7fff-2f5f-4fb3-5c38ae3c1cfc"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”They both shrug. ‘Pretty, yes,’ Gilchrist admits. ‘Beautiful even. But she’s what we Canadians call a Winnipeg winter.’</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>‘A Winnipeg winter?’</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>‘Great natural beauty but capable of freezing your dick off if you’re stupid enough to get naked,’ Sweeney explains. He surveys Billie with a practiced eye. ‘Of course, you would just –’</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>Billie holds up a hand. ‘Never mind. I don’t want to know. Coffee is brewing.’”</i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><section class="ReviewText" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 1.6rem; position: relative;"><section class="ReviewText__content" dir="auto" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTTf7Ug42imSPTrv7t7oVD1BfSfzLWSLxGXK8K-JDPmR0K1ddJg_VfkepeXLCIZJwQFayY78IaLM1AAECQ7ZxUsaR2lIv6L25qfNkwRmIkqLxk8hUcXaD7hpbkjSRPChVL8N_hNDz4yBpVE-tnywGl1Db08nPknNBZwNnhs3e1mD7OndCKhCEjATxN0ZOX/s380/saw%20me.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="262" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTTf7Ug42imSPTrv7t7oVD1BfSfzLWSLxGXK8K-JDPmR0K1ddJg_VfkepeXLCIZJwQFayY78IaLM1AAECQ7ZxUsaR2lIv6L25qfNkwRmIkqLxk8hUcXaD7hpbkjSRPChVL8N_hNDz4yBpVE-tnywGl1Db08nPknNBZwNnhs3e1mD7OndCKhCEjATxN0ZOX/w138-h200/saw%20me.jpg" width="138" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was a little disappointed by this, after thinking this was a killer concept. I just wanted something a little more gritty, and I felt like instead of Helen Mirren I got - okay, never mind, I don't want to insult some lesser actress than Helen Mirren. Instead of a big-budget blockbuster this was more like a movie-of-the-week. No delving into the questionable ethics of only assassinating people some shadowy entity deems 'evil'. No chewy internal monologues. The motivations are shallow, the dialogue is phoned-in, the one love story is laughably cheesy and instant. I slightly regretted spending my first reading hours of 2023 on this one, although I'm sure it would be a fun time-passer in another context.</span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><u>Never Saw Me Coming</u> by Vera Kurian: Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif">Meet Chloe Sevre. She’s a freshman honor student, a leggings-wearing hot girl next door, who also happens to be a psychopath. Her hobbies include yogalates, frat parties, and plotting to kill Will Bachman, a childhood friend who grievously wronged her.</span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif">Chloe is one of seven students at her DC-based college who are part of an unusual clinical study for psychopaths—students like herself who lack empathy and can’t comprehend emotions like fear or guilt. The study, led by a renowned psychologist, requires them to wear smart watches that track their moods and movements.</span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif">When one of the students in the study is found murdered in the psychology building, a dangerous game of cat and mouse begins, and Chloe goes from hunter to prey. As she races to identify the killer and put her own plan into action, she’ll be forced to decide if she can trust any of her fellow psychopaths—and everybody knows you should never trust a psychopath.</span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span id="docs-internal-guid-8b2df145-7fff-bd29-35b2-69e11ae02427"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”Is it slutty to be messaging one boy when you are on the way to meet another? Maybe not if you’re planning on killing one of them.”</i></span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span id="docs-internal-guid-294d0e2f-7fff-0e18-5b91-df246f5c4c74"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”What a dumb name – Daisy. That sounds exactly like someone who would kill themselves instead of carefully plotting a way to destroy their enemies.”</i></span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A little messy and possibly doesn't adhere closely enough to true psychopathic personalities in the characters, but interesting with some good twists and black humour. I felt like one of the characters' secrets was underused and the story overall could have used some tightening.</span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><u><br /></u></span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><u>Rise the Dark </u>(Mark Novak #2) by Michael Koryta: Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif">Rise the dark. These were the last words written in Lauren Novak's notebook before she was murdered in a strange Florida village. They've never meant anything to the police or to her husband, investigator Markus Novak. Now the man he believes killed her is out of prison, and draws Markus to the place he's avoided for so long: the lonely road where his wife was shot to death beneath the cypress trees and Spanish moss in a town called Cassadaga.</span></div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">In Red Lodge, Montana, a senseless act of vandalism shuts the lights off in the town where Sabrina Baldwin is still trying to adjust to a new home and mourning the loss of her brother, who was a high voltage linesman just like her husband, Jay. As the spring's final snowstorm calls Jay deeper into the mountains, chasing the destruction on the electrical grid, Sabrina is abducted by Garland Webb, the man Markus Novak believes killed his wife. Drawing them all together is a messianic villain who understands that you can never outpace your past. You can only rise against the future.</span></div><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNzDOsiz7WG8hWRi1x8oenPm4ULgAZFYrzyTClDu7G7RvCLoLVzxcv3ic7xxiLyZOuwhzEfaBDTbG6UfeAx2PBofsqACBQ1zry86NRGW2AAzIpi2SUN8qbT1biraAi9TRomkaXCQiyekwCuHbG9AS-gF2cEGWj2tYGGUpJ7CgEJhylzw_Yp5JtS-GNqdE/s1200/rise.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="774" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNzDOsiz7WG8hWRi1x8oenPm4ULgAZFYrzyTClDu7G7RvCLoLVzxcv3ic7xxiLyZOuwhzEfaBDTbG6UfeAx2PBofsqACBQ1zry86NRGW2AAzIpi2SUN8qbT1biraAi9TRomkaXCQiyekwCuHbG9AS-gF2cEGWj2tYGGUpJ7CgEJhylzw_Yp5JtS-GNqdE/w129-h200/rise.jpg" width="129" /></a></div><span style="color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Well-plotted and paced mystery/thriller. Possibly suffered by comparison to the previous book which was really good. I was and remain baffled about how the protagonist has no idea who killed his wife in the previous book (not a spoiler, right in the jacket copy) and now suddenly does, with no explanation why. Unless I missed something, this seems like a really weird choice. There are some good female characters and the writing is good, even if the villains often read like something out of central casting.</span></span></div></section></section></span></div><div><div><u>A Sorrow Called Sarah</u> by Charlotte Roddy: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">The oldest secrets are the deadliest.</span></div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Sarah Hopewell had it all—popular student, loving sister, her parents’ favorite child. Until, weeks before her high school graduation, Sarah vanished from her San Francisco home. An infamous serial killer was convicted of her murder. Justice was served. Or was it?</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Fifteen years later, Sarah’s younger sister embarks on a dangerous mission to finally confront her beloved sister’s killer. But as she begins uncovering secrets that threaten to tear her world apart, the bodies of young women start turning up in Golden Gate Park. All of them have dark hair and blue eyes.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">All of them look just like Sarah…</span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></div><div><span id="docs-internal-guid-c5864e7e-7fff-2430-ebb9-ed98009910cf"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">-”’</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Welcome to my house. This is my opioid addicted mother. I don’t think you’ll get a chance to meet my workaholic dad. He never really comes home anymore. Then there’s my brother, Robert. But you don’t have to worry about meeting him. He’s been committed to a mental institution for years after decapitating the neighbor’s dog. So, do you want me to heat up some mac and cheese</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">?’”</span></span></div><div><span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">Free Kindle read, which I picked up even though the melodramatic title gave me pause. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Not terrible, not great. The first bit with the younger sister and the serial killer had me rolling my eyes and about to DNF - completely formulaic, the charming, snarky psychopath and the victim's relative obliging with tears and fury and asking questions that predictably don't get answered.</span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">After this it shifts gears a little and becomes more readable, although never lifts itself above usual thriller fare. There are some twists that are pretty well done. </span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4u34A0VJJt0qmiH7dIVBU9bNcQIbhsZatYnS8t3Kih3oQgYXCgAuRwp0B0wpg-l8ug3gIfSxcrPqGocCZaC_iMGf26rEy9oS7vu1Zm_78-d6EirruOND16UtHdfAwBxAXqUST-dspfc35w3VWQWsAbZwdsQDIIvNxEFyBh0fXPl69kLTDg2W77YdZjBO2/s500/sorrow.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="313" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4u34A0VJJt0qmiH7dIVBU9bNcQIbhsZatYnS8t3Kih3oQgYXCgAuRwp0B0wpg-l8ug3gIfSxcrPqGocCZaC_iMGf26rEy9oS7vu1Zm_78-d6EirruOND16UtHdfAwBxAXqUST-dspfc35w3VWQWsAbZwdsQDIIvNxEFyBh0fXPl69kLTDg2W77YdZjBO2/w125-h200/sorrow.jpg" width="125" /></a></div>The writing is pedestrian - the main character 'screams', 'almost screams', 'tries to keep from screaming' her words much too often. A character who claims to have been in love with Sarah says "she came onto ME", "she was everything in the world to me", and a solitary tear rolls down his cheek. The sections about the mysterious killer dwelling on his connection with the victims are repellent but, again, not groundbreaking. In all fairness, much better than several free reads I read early on in my Kindle experience.</span></span><div><br /><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span><div><div><u>The Kind Worth Killing</u> (Henry Kimble/Lily Kintner #1) by Peter Swanson: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">A devious tale of psychological suspense involving sex, deception, and an accidental encounter that leads to murder. Fans of Paula Hawkins’ </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">The Girl on the Train</em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> will love this modern reimagining of Patricia Highsmith’s classic </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Strangers on a Train</em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> from the author of the acclaimed </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">The Girl with a Clock for a Heart</em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">—which the </span><em style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Washington Post</em><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> said “should be a contender for crime fiction’s best first novel of 2014.”</span></div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">On a night flight from London to Boston, Ted Severson meets the stunning and mysterious Lily Kintner. Sharing one too many martinis, the strangers begin to play a game of truth, revealing very intimate details about themselves. Ted talks about his marriage that’s going stale and his wife Miranda, who he’s sure is cheating on him. Ted and his wife were a mismatch from the start—he the rich businessman, she the artistic free spirit—a contrast that once inflamed their passion, but has now become a cliché.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">But their game turns a little darker when Ted jokes that he could kill Miranda for what she’s done. Lily, without missing a beat, says calmly, “I’d like to help.” After all, some people are the kind worth killing, like a lying, stinking, cheating spouse. . </span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span id="docs-internal-guid-c1889e70-7fff-0589-288f-c739ac24847a"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>-”He wasn’t the only houseguest that summer. In fact, there was never only one guest at Monk’s House, especially in summertime, when my parents’ teaching duties died down and they could focus on what they truly loved – drinking and adultery. I don’t say that in order to make some sort of tragedy of my childhood. I say it because it’s the truth.”</i></span></span></div><div><span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ9jLSyBzwJB_aHa8nwy11tbo0naEN_7uDF2o66ZaUIBVYvC-Rh9bOhoEBuus1rGuJTbC1l3TS85ct8WAQRHFDybuQ8eM-EK7kJFCwAuvJHqaCMO-CZZrJwWF-XYo-1hN-VUXY6Dazv5tLgZE5Sf5-dXjvTQKQ0dUF27deZtbPkFq08jgc8xVvycnv6XnI/s400/worth%20killing.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ9jLSyBzwJB_aHa8nwy11tbo0naEN_7uDF2o66ZaUIBVYvC-Rh9bOhoEBuus1rGuJTbC1l3TS85ct8WAQRHFDybuQ8eM-EK7kJFCwAuvJHqaCMO-CZZrJwWF-XYo-1hN-VUXY6Dazv5tLgZE5Sf5-dXjvTQKQ0dUF27deZtbPkFq08jgc8xVvycnv6XnI/w131-h200/worth%20killing.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">There's something about Swanson's writing that I don't love, so my review should be taken with a grain of salt. This was well-plotted and did something I didn't foresee halfway through. Swanson may not be for me, but I can see why he's popular.</span></span></div><div><div><br /></div><div><u>All Good People Here</u> by Ashley Flowers: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Everyone from Wakarusa, Indiana, remembers the case of January Jacobs, who was found dead in a ditch hours after her family awoke to find her gone. Margot Davies was six at the time, the same age as January—and they were next-door neighbors. In the twenty years since, Margot has grown up, moved away, and become a big-city journalist, but she’s always been haunted by the fear that it could’ve been her. And the worst part is, January’s killer has never been brought to justice.</span></div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">When Margot returns home to help care for her sick uncle, it feels like walking into a time capsule. Wakarusa is exactly how she remembered: genial, stifled, secretive. Then news breaks about five-year-old Natalie Clark from the next town over, who’s gone missing under eerily similar circumstances. With all the old feelings rushing back, Margot vows to find Natalie and solve January’s murder once and for all.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">But the police, the family, the townspeople—they all seem to be hiding something. And the deeper Margot digs into Natalie’s disappearance, the more resistance she encounters, and the colder January’s case feels. Could the killer still be out there? Could it be the same person who kidnapped Natalie? And what will it cost to finally discover what truly happened that night?</span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;">Not bad. An insular small-town setting can really add depth to a mystery. The details about the protagonist's relationship with her uncle who is descending into dementia, and the mother who was finding her marriage stifling even before the tragedy, would have made a fine book on their own. They've stuck in my mind more than the details of the actual mystery. The abruptness of the ending was a really curious choice, in my opinion.</span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwNZpt6YkMh4bKbCUqTh7xrLmNnPdGFR-dhtK_lDSjtWdUehbkP-YTkIPs324FiT4PppDjf6cnS0IQ-v2nHJidpgRRDAlEFPkCtZVfrYKReft8qvcIDcVWuciFCZ6ddcQcE641pUHk8Xr3rN7DHOyjmvLbPM0dKINhbUQazGrkRDMuQ_VmVawUS840Gk4/s400/all%20good.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="263" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwNZpt6YkMh4bKbCUqTh7xrLmNnPdGFR-dhtK_lDSjtWdUehbkP-YTkIPs324FiT4PppDjf6cnS0IQ-v2nHJidpgRRDAlEFPkCtZVfrYKReft8qvcIDcVWuciFCZ6ddcQcE641pUHk8Xr3rN7DHOyjmvLbPM0dKINhbUQazGrkRDMuQ_VmVawUS840Gk4/w131-h200/all%20good.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><u>Before She Finds Me</u> by Heather Chavez: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Julia Bennett has worked hard to create a stable life for her daughter, Cora, in Southern California. So when Cora leaves for college, the worst thing Julia expects on move-in day is an argument with her ex-husband and his new wife. But a sudden attack leaves the campus stunned—and only Julia’s quick actions save Cora’s life. Shaken in the aftermath, and haunted by a dark secret, Julia starts to wonder: What if the attack wasn’t as random as everyone believes?</span></div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Newly pregnant Ren Petrovic has an unusual career—she’s a trained assassin, operating under a strict moral code. Ren wasn’t on campus that day, but she knows who was: her husband, Nolan. What she doesn’t know is why Nolan has broken their rules by not telling her about the job in advance. The more Ren looks into the attack, the more she begins to question: Who really hired Nolan? And why did one woman in the crowd respond so differently from all the rest?</span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #1e1915; font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiluNAJkU-bHbJrIiBTwNP9C4LbcPQcPrE0qTJGxF3qwjMhc9BiKfZcLlLk7HWlJ9NGxgq67BWXhhLRUvxav3e9cjTfnsiCWl8bkI4I4fYal_c8WhW0leRMQ9Hy-GK7Yt0uJItuAT5u857rkznVTGOoaxnzxB6gqMdVZaLKZyZZFS7gC3IzOdhbcFrqZaT6/s400/before.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="258" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiluNAJkU-bHbJrIiBTwNP9C4LbcPQcPrE0qTJGxF3qwjMhc9BiKfZcLlLk7HWlJ9NGxgq67BWXhhLRUvxav3e9cjTfnsiCWl8bkI4I4fYal_c8WhW0leRMQ9Hy-GK7Yt0uJItuAT5u857rkznVTGOoaxnzxB6gqMdVZaLKZyZZFS7gC3IzOdhbcFrqZaT6/w129-h200/before.jpg" width="129" /></a></div>I really have no well-defined reason for why this was a three and not a four. It was an interesting concept, had two strong female leads, and the writing was fine - good, even. I've been up for a story about a pregnant assassin with a moral code ever since Kill Bill. I found the pacing lagged a bit in the second half, but many people loved it, so I am an outlier.</span></div><div><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span><div><div><u>The Bones of the Story</u> by Carol Goodman: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">It’s been twenty-five years since the shocking disappearance of a female student and the distinguished Creative Writing professor who died while searching for her. The Briarwood College community has never forgotten the terrible storm that caused the double tragedy. Now, the college President—who has his own reasons for drawing attention to the notorious incident—is bringing together faculty, donors, and alumni to honor the victims from all those years ago.</span></div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">On a cold December weekend after the fall semester has ended, guests gather on the vacant campus for the commemoratory event. But as a winter storm descends, people begin to depart, leaving a group of alumni who were the last ones taught by the esteemed professor. Recriminations and old rivalries flare as they recall the writing projects they shared as classmates, including chilling horror stories they each wrote about their greatest fears.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">When an alumna dies in a shockingly similar way to the story she wrote, and then another succumbs to a similar fate, they realize someone has decided at long last to avenge the crimes of the past. Will the secret of what they did twenty-five years ago be revealed? Will any of them be alive at the end of the weekend to find out?</span></div><div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHcd9Tl0x903ULGlYOJaVwUcfcOiRnlzSl4Yy9ZQucpe-GvJE92rN6ngw4khYJTCnALa71Qf5MpjCOph4z6N-4MnlwktAWnSfMQy6VU98L1js9RaiqKIU5JsLVuGKbULIWDt3WG8AFbgDB4YLqwM_7oAzXgsBMOS-2LmyaFajJEXsXFwwu5fW5uRFAUGj/s2400/bones.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="1594" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVHcd9Tl0x903ULGlYOJaVwUcfcOiRnlzSl4Yy9ZQucpe-GvJE92rN6ngw4khYJTCnALa71Qf5MpjCOph4z6N-4MnlwktAWnSfMQy6VU98L1js9RaiqKIU5JsLVuGKbULIWDt3WG8AFbgDB4YLqwM_7oAzXgsBMOS-2LmyaFajJEXsXFwwu5fW5uRFAUGj/w133-h200/bones.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Oh, I was hoping to love this. Dark academia! Stranded by a snowstorm (one trope of which I never tire)! Descriptions of beautiful old college buildings! Technically probably three-and-a-half stars, because I think it was good, just not as good as I was hoping for. The setting was flawless. The</span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"> rendering of cut-throat academia and the heady and turbulent experience of being a young, idealistic student with lofty aspirations were really good. The descriptions of how Nell felt about the income and social class disparities between her and the other students were good, if a bit formulaic. It tended a bit to the overly dramatic for my taste and strained the bonds of credulity even more than the average murder mystery (and I am not a stickler for verisimilitude or realism - my belief fairly BEGS to be willingly suspended). </span></div><div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><u><br /></u></span></div><div><div><u>Dark Corners </u>(Rachel Krall #2) by Megan Goldin: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">Terence Bailey is about to be released from prison for breaking and entering, though investigators have long suspected him in the murders of six women. As his freedom approaches, Bailey gets a surprise visit from Maddison Logan, a hot, young influencer with a huge social media following. Hours later, Maddison disappears, and police suspect she’s been kidnapped—or worse. Is Maddison’s disappearance connected to her visit to Bailey? Why was she visiting him in the first place?</span></div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">When they hit a wall in the investigation, the FBI reluctantly asks for Rachel’s help in finding the missing influencer. Maddison seems only to exist on social media; she has no family, no friends, and other than in her posts, most people have never seen her. Who is she, really? Using a fake Instagram account, Rachel Krall goes undercover to BuzzCon, a popular influencer conference, where she discovers a world of fierce rivalry that may have turned lethal.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">When police find the body of a woman with a tattoo of a snake eating its tail, the FBI must consider a chilling possibility: Bailey has an accomplice on the outside and a dangerous obsession with influencers, including Rachel Krell herself. Suddenly a target of a monster hiding in plain sight, Rachel is forced to confront the very real dangers that lurk in the dark corners of the internet.</span></div><div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Here it is, I thought, a follow-up to The Night Swim, surely THIS will be the Megan Goldin I've been longing for. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;">Well, sort of. I think in The Night Swim, if I'm remembering it correctly (entirely possible I'm not and have just thrown some golden filter over it for whatever reason), there was more attention paid to the victim of the crime and less to Rachel Krall herself. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2u23nyOfrDh1yyra327kzCtwj5uc_7OLjhyeNHb-HUarW3nctpkWMSEHNUKP1M_5qg6bNe-JwNLayRvS0Mdj0us7cIGgdhlXHGu1Z_1HwB8wS-aNjbKXse5Ur1XLANvIkOEEp88guVC0NilWeeu6nzMj6Pj1sPF_M7A9hs8BxllKWirBeBNN4UuMc6ATT/s2560/dark.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1675" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2u23nyOfrDh1yyra327kzCtwj5uc_7OLjhyeNHb-HUarW3nctpkWMSEHNUKP1M_5qg6bNe-JwNLayRvS0Mdj0us7cIGgdhlXHGu1Z_1HwB8wS-aNjbKXse5Ur1XLANvIkOEEp88guVC0NilWeeu6nzMj6Pj1sPF_M7A9hs8BxllKWirBeBNN4UuMc6ATT/w131-h200/dark.jpg" width="131" /></a></div>Is anyone else kind of tired of hearing about the female protagonist's 'delicate beauty'? If I go the rest of my life without reading about some chick's burnished gold hair or sky-blue eyes, I'll be happy. Oh, and since she's a podcaster, naturally her voice is dead sexy - because getting turned on while listening to descriptions of serial killers is totally normal and not at all off-putting. Shouldn't the emphasis be on the podcaster's research skills and professionalism? The most interesting characters, in my experience, don't tend to be conventionally attractive, and the more her looks were described the less engaging she became.</span></span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The plot was perfectly serviceable, and I didn't figure out how it would all turn out, and in fact I think there WAS a thread of the socioeconomic commentary that I loved in The Night Swim. I wonder if Goldin was pressured to up the sexy factor of the main character for more mainstream appeal or something. </span></span></div><div><br /><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #1e1915;"><br /></span><div><div><u>The Whispers</u> by Ashley Audrain: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">From the author of THE PUSH, a pageturner about four suburban families whose lives are changed when the unthinkable happens--and what is lost when good people make unconscionable choices.</span></div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">The Loverlys sit by the hospital bed of their young son who is in a coma after falling from his bedroom window in the middle of the night; his mother, Whitney, will not speak to anyone. Back home, their friends and neighbors are left in shock, each confronting their own role in the events that led up to what happened that terrible night: the warm, altruistic Parks who are the Loverlys' best friends; the young, ambitious Goldsmiths who are struggling to start a family of their own; and the quiet, elderly Portuguese couple who care for their adult son with a developmental disability, and who pass the long days on the front porch, watching their neighbors go about their busy lives.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;">The story spins out over the course of one week, in the alternating voices of the women in each family as they are forced to face the secrets within the walls of their own homes, and the uncomfortable truths that connect them all to one another. Set against the heartwrenching drama of what will happen to Xavier, who hangs between death and life, or a life changed forever, THE WHISPERS is a novel about what happens when we put our needs ahead of our children's. Exploring the quiet sacrifices of motherhood, the intuitions that we silence, the complexities of our closest friendships, and the danger of envy, this is a novel about the reverberations of life's most difficult decisions. </span></div><div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"The kitchen window is open and the echo of the city floats in. Albert is gone, and she's the only witness to the end, and it all feels impossibly unremarkable."</i></span></div><div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915;"><i>-"The way Blair has about her. How Chloe is so effortless to enjoy, their love synergistic. Sometimes Xavier feels to her like a gift given by someone who should know her better; something meant for her that feels nothing like her. Her heart hurts in the same way sometimes, of being misunderstood."</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>I did read Yellowface this year, and although I am not, and no longer aspire to be, a published author, I am intensely aware that some of my critique of this book and the hype around the author could definitely be ascribed to envy.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><section class="ReviewText" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin-bottom: 1.6rem; position: relative;"><section class="ReviewText__content" dir="auto" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I might have been less underwhelmed by this if it had come before The Push rather than after. I read The Push almost against my better judgment, the plot-line sounded so off-putting. It absolutely was, but it was also pretty much the electrifying and expertly-written psychological roller-coaster ride it was touted as ("five stars but also one star because it was masterfully written but I hated it" was my review). This was much more a run-of-the-mill novel with some insights about motherhood and social dynamics that aren't bad but are much less incisive and merciless than in The Push. The writing is still very good.</span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> I just feel like the hype hasn't done Audrain any favours - apparently an international publisher referred to her as 'one of the biggest talents to have emerged this century' and that just raises the bar way too high. The way her path to being published is described sounds ever-so-slightly massaged - she had a child who was medically fragile, which meant she couldn't go back to work because of all the caregiving but somehow she did have time to get away and write (yes, I know, it's very possible she did find refuge in the writing. It's quite probably true, it just sounds a little contrived). She is beautiful and blond and her photo shows her dressed effortlessly in jeans and a blazer and a tucked-in white shirt (no shade here, just envy, she is beautiful, and also probably a publisher's dream (yes, that does sound like shade, but I think it's probably true)). So absolutely it makes sense that she put all that ambivalence about motherhood into a novel, with some generational trauma thrown in to boot. And that was always going to be a hard act to follow.</span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I did appreciate her writing about how complicated and conflicting the experience of of motherhood is for many women, and how people living in a neighbourhood can have no idea what goes on behind everyone else's doors. But I didn't at all have to read the final twist twice to believe it. The Push was a really great psychological thriller. This was just a good one, in my (not remotely objective) opinion.</span></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><br /><u><br /></u></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><u>Arsenic and Adobo</u> (Tita Rosie's Kitchen Mystery #1) by Mia P. Manansala: Synopsis from Goodreads: </span><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">The first book in a new culinary cozy series full of sharp humor and delectable dishes—one that might just be killer....</span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSKwCUSVZkR2N2VUkGLNhFJC6oLWV_Yi7dTyRyoVTVhUJy985zxI5okbAiIVFxLXIXnMxpLotSlaF-dRab-HDPA0-xufx1a77GnN4KADJyAweejLd4Hd6g7po2e9_ZXB2xxeGfZpYVl4AI3qFOgFpv9CBBbgC-g2xXCzAem1Wrqs7akKNkId_WepDLoR19/s346/arsenic.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="230" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSKwCUSVZkR2N2VUkGLNhFJC6oLWV_Yi7dTyRyoVTVhUJy985zxI5okbAiIVFxLXIXnMxpLotSlaF-dRab-HDPA0-xufx1a77GnN4KADJyAweejLd4Hd6g7po2e9_ZXB2xxeGfZpYVl4AI3qFOgFpv9CBBbgC-g2xXCzAem1Wrqs7akKNkId_WepDLoR19/w133-h200/arsenic.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 16px;">When Lila Macapagal moves back home to recover from a horrible breakup, her life seems to be following all the typical rom-com tropes. She's tasked with saving her Tita Rosie's failing restaurant, and she has to deal with a group of matchmaking aunties who shower her with love and judgment. But when a notoriously nasty food critic (who happens to be her ex-boyfriend) drops dead moments after a confrontation with Lila, her life quickly swerves from a Nora Ephron romp to an Agatha Christie case.</span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span face=""Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 16px;">With the cops treating her like she's the one and only suspect, and the shady landlord looking to finally kick the Macapagal family out and resell the storefront, Lila's left with no choice but to conduct her own investigation. Armed with the nosy auntie network, her barista best bud, and her trusted Dachshund, Longanisa, Lila takes on this tasty, twisted case and soon finds her own neck on the chopping block…</span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span face="Proxima Nova, Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif"><i>-"All five wheeled around as one. I don't know if you've ever been stared down by an elderly Asian woman, but It. Is. Terrifying. Don't be fooled by the cute florals and jaunty visors -- these women will end you, wielding nothing but their sharp tongues, bony elbows and collapsible shopping carts."</i></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Take this one with several grains of artisanal smoked salt, because I was probably never going to be the target audience for a culinary cozy. But I'm trying to read more women, and more POC authors, and I loved the title and the cover.</span></div></div></section></section></div></div><div><div><section class="ReviewText" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; margin-bottom: 1.6rem; position: relative;"><section class="ReviewText__content" dir="auto" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><div class="TruncatedContent" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;" tabindex="-1"><div class="TruncatedContent__text TruncatedContent__text--large TruncatedContent__text--expanded" data-testid="contentContainer" style="box-sizing: border-box; max-height: none; overflow: hidden visible; word-break: break-word;" tabindex="-1"><span class="Formatted" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Even for a cozy, I found some of the reactions to people being killed and attacked odd. At one point the main character goes to meet someone for lunch, then finds out the person didn't show up because they were beaten into a coma. Then she goes to her friend's coffee shop and spends a few hours baking and just... forgets to tell anyone about the person in the coma? I mean, I'm as flighty as the next person, but that's weird, right?<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />I try really hard to be respectful of cultural differences, but the older members of the family being what sounded like flat-out abusive towards Lila got grating after a while, along with the cop being incredibly unprofessional, even for a small town.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />The love interest(s) weren't really described in any kind of detail that made it clear why they were attractive to Lila other than being physically appealing and her having a "crush" on one.<br style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;" />Unlike some people, I had no issue with all the food descriptions - those were my favourite part. I'm not sure I'll continue with the series, but I will absolutely be taking a crack at making chicken adobo.</span></span></div></div></section></section></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div> </div></div></div>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-57043521628772041962024-01-01T18:07:00.000-08:002024-01-01T18:07:03.533-08:00Books Read in 2023: One and Two-Star Reads<p>Happy new year! I am not hung over, but I am tired. We were up until two new years eve-ing, then came home and got ready for bed, then Eve came home at three and we talked for a bit and then I read a little, so it was four before I turned off the light, and then I had twitchy legs like mad, so lord knows what time I actually fell asleep. </p><p>139 books this year. More than last year, fewer than the year before. If I was Eve I'd be annoyed I didn't round it out at 140, but being me I kind of like the spiky screw-you-ness of 139. Speaking of Eve, she was convinced she wasn't going to make her goal this year of 20 books (demanding course load, musical rehearsals, etc.). Then she came home and reread the Hunger Games trilogy and then reread Fantastic Mr. Fox to make 20 and is calling it, with accustomed restraint, The Comeback of the Century. </p><p>Only 32 books are three stars or fewer. I might be getting better at book selection, or I might be getting more generous with my star ratings. I'm fine with either. I don't tend to agonize over ratings as much as I used to. If I really liked reading a book, I really liked reading it. If I read reviews later that bring up good points about why the book might be open to criticism, that's fine, but the fact is I still enjoyed reading it. I also acknowledge that books that I don't like may very well be enjoyed by other people. I don't subscribe to "if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all" in book reviews, although I'm fine being argued with - god knows I can be downright combative if I don't watch myself. </p><p>As usual, I've considered just not including the one or two star reads, and then included them anyway. I'm a creature of habit. Or compulsion. Or something. I've also considered not doing these posts anymore since I now know many blog friends who read as much or more, and lay out their year's reading in succinct little posts with statistical breakdowns and pie charts, or review more throughout the year so it's less of a monolithic wall of review. But I've worked hard to get to a place <strike>where I don't compare myself to others</strike> where I don't compare myself to others as much, and I have IRL friends who enjoy the posts. And some books I want the space to ramble about. And the structure of putting the posts together helps a little with my January depression, or at least postpones it for a while (I just typed Kanuary instead of January more times than I'm comfortable admitting).</p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>One-Star Reads </b></span></u></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Stray Dogs: Stories</span></u> by Rawi Hage: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">SHORTLISTED FOR THE 2022 SCOTIABANK GILLER PRIZEFrom the internationally acclaimed author of the novels De Niro’s Game , Cockroach , Carnival and Beirut Hellfire Society , here is a captivating and cosmopolitan collection of stories.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIIExev9GscGhZBz-vNX5jmYm790YQYMjiHMHgfhNDcnUuHjNPk56j4O4bSYE7D2N3DNvTUjYrTuG2bdeRajmoPFAc6invwZEn60LGORMKt5PeLkQcVch8fz3Dh8hhwljUtw5PgE0dmt_E5a7FbuMadmwjT7izgvUMJX0hFYY32iY1BDpMDz-Dzz1eY4j4/s2392/stray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2392" data-original-width="1604" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIIExev9GscGhZBz-vNX5jmYm790YQYMjiHMHgfhNDcnUuHjNPk56j4O4bSYE7D2N3DNvTUjYrTuG2bdeRajmoPFAc6invwZEn60LGORMKt5PeLkQcVch8fz3Dh8hhwljUtw5PgE0dmt_E5a7FbuMadmwjT7izgvUMJX0hFYY32iY1BDpMDz-Dzz1eY4j4/s320/stray.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;">-”</span><i style="font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;">He was paid relatively well but led a frugal, melancholic existence, weathering constant regret that he had appeared in the world only after all the great thinkers and prophets had long gone. In his youth, his contempt for modern life had led him to his current state: dwelling in the permanence of the obscure</i><span style="font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;">.”</span></p><p>I read this because I was trying to read all the books on the Giller Prize Shortlist from last year. I wish I had started with another of Hage's books. My review means that I didn't like reading the book, not that it was necessarily a bad book. There may very well be some thread that connects these stories, but I couldn't see it. They seemed like a fairly random collection of scenes, some Kafkaesque, some icky in a very male-sexual-gaze way (I understand some people like that kind of thing), some clever, but then I'd move on to the next story and be back to square one. If it was all some brilliant metaphor, it was lost on me. At the end of it all I remained uncaptivated and kind of wanted a cosmopolitan.</p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Last Laugh</span></u> (The Initial Insult #2) by Mindy McGinnis: Synopsis from Goodreads: I<span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">n the dark and stunning sequel to The Initial Insult, award-winning author Mindy McGinnis concludes this suspenseful YA duology as long-held family secrets finally come to light . . . changing Amontillado forevermore.</span><i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Tress Montor murdered Felicity Turnado—but she might not have to live with the guilt for long. With an infected arm held together by duct tape, the panther who clawed her open on the loose, and the whole town on the hunt for the lost homecoming queen, the odds are stacked against Tress. As her mind slides deeper into delirium, Tress is haunted by the growing sound of Felicity’s heartbeat pulsing from the “best friend” charm around her fevered neck.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPBktooEZsiHLrzvQLxfgUbsPPlqZYmpqW6EBK8BnS1fH-Pc_lp_mozndE_eKYip-QZy88stEbqCFM9UyuAGkJyND0tQxCfYxksjPtRsGpCIkXlfQXAya-TN6j6kMUeDgkX9tGPMdD4McQ85-rjxCbd9IhPs6NtZecYil2NyTZCGIsk-iTk3ih2FP_PLF/s2417/last%20laugh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2417" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPBktooEZsiHLrzvQLxfgUbsPPlqZYmpqW6EBK8BnS1fH-Pc_lp_mozndE_eKYip-QZy88stEbqCFM9UyuAGkJyND0tQxCfYxksjPtRsGpCIkXlfQXAya-TN6j6kMUeDgkX9tGPMdD4McQ85-rjxCbd9IhPs6NtZecYil2NyTZCGIsk-iTk3ih2FP_PLF/s320/last%20laugh.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>SO SAD about this. The Female of the Species is one of my favourite YA reads of all time - I can still remember whole scenes and passages from it. Eve included a review of it in her application for the Arts and Science program and we suspect it played a big part in her getting in. Nothing I've read by McGinnis since has been as good, in my opinion, but I still liked the first book in this series. Merciless teenage girls, deep family secrets, body horror. The conclusion just seemed like a bloody (burny, barfy) mess. I am by far the minority in this opinion, so who the hell knows, it might have been the wrong time in my life/perimenopause.<br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>The Maidens</u></span> by Alex Michaelides: Synopsis from Goodreads: I read one other thriller by this author and it was completely passable and diverting. This was, um, not so much. The twist was surprising only because it was so ridiculous.</p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Camp</span></u> by Nancy Bush: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Perfect for readers of Riley Sager and Grady Hendrix, a chilling new read from the</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">New York Times</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">bestselling author where a diabolical modern twist on</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Friday the 13th</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">meets</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Yellowjackets</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">at a summer sleepaway camp isolated in the woods of Oregon. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">There are always stories told around the fire at summer camp—tall tales about gruesome murders and unhinged killers, concocted to scare new arrivals and lend an extra jolt of excitement to those hormone-charged nights. At Camp Luft-Shawk, nicknamed Camp Love Shack, there are stories about a creeping fog that brings death with it. But here, they’re not just campfire tales. Here, the stories are real.</span></p><p>Not my only summer camp thriller this summer, thank goodness. I have read Riley Sager and Grady Hendrix, and seen Yellowjackets and Friday the 13th, and this deserves NONE of those comparisons, hmph. Badly written, badly plotted, skimmed most of the second half. I'm getting a little better at checking whether I've read an author before (a little) so hopefully I won't try any more by this one. </p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Two-Star Reads</b></span></u></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><u>T</u></span><u style="font-size: large;">hings Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke</u> by Eric LaRocca: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Sadomasochism. Obsession. Death. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">A whirlpool of darkness churns at the heart of a macabre ballet between two lonely young women in an internet chat room in the early 2000s—a darkness that threatens to forever transform them once they finally succumb to their most horrific desires.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoUES3TYablB4CG0HzslGl7igbtiX2ZtuqObn2n7AJetFNsoe6xULOYZa4_9Cg4eHU0y8rIDvo3flD905JjBSozK_fk1bBFWFqfAlkbwxTQ9hCnkzqsBatzzTTSrHiWRbiQaDXH7WLzebDHOnJCZ1xBX2tiTVEbPTf_2NqTaLHZXb_5Bv8UpWAcaFq_e4J/s475/worse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="297" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoUES3TYablB4CG0HzslGl7igbtiX2ZtuqObn2n7AJetFNsoe6xULOYZa4_9Cg4eHU0y8rIDvo3flD905JjBSozK_fk1bBFWFqfAlkbwxTQ9hCnkzqsBatzzTTSrHiWRbiQaDXH7WLzebDHOnJCZ1xBX2tiTVEbPTf_2NqTaLHZXb_5Bv8UpWAcaFq_e4J/s320/worse.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">What have you done today to deserve your eyes?</span></p><p>Given that description, one would be within their rights to say what the hell did you expect? I did not read this on the strength of that synopsis, it was actually recommended to me. I am not one to shy away from dark writing. Black humour, twisted murdery stuff, bring it all on. Not sure if this was worse than usual or if I'm getting more delicate in my old age. Other reviews cover a range between "shocking and depraved in a good way" and "stop writing trauma porn about lesbians", so....? I will be steering clear of this author in the future, but if you're looking for something super gross and maximally disturbing, fill your boots. </p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Seasonal Fears</span></u> (Alchemical Journeys #2) by Seanan McGuire: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Melanie has a destiny, though it isn’t the one everyone assumes it to be. She’s delicate; she’s fragile; she’s dying. Now, truly, is the winter of her soul. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Harry doesn’t want to believe in destiny, because that means accepting the loss of the one person who gives his life meaning, who brings summer to his world. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">So, when a new road is laid out in front of them—a road that will lead through untold dangers toward a possible lifetime together—walking down it seems to be the only option. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">But others are following behind, with violence in their hearts. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">It looks like Destiny has a plan for them, after all….</span></p><p>Never in a million years would have guessed that I would one-star a Seanan McGuire unless it was to signal that I was being held hostage, and yet here we are. I didn't love Middlegame (the first book in the series) either, although I was inordinately amused that I was reading it at the same time as Middlemarch and The City in the Middle of the Night. McGuire is an astoundingly prolific writer whose quality always impresses me given the quantity. She has so many series I love - Wayward Children? Adore: Ghost Roads? Smitten: October Daye: So fun: Newsflesh (as Mira Grant) - Devoured. Also a couple of standalone ghost stories that were bittersweet and haunting (ha), and Into the Drowning Deep, which if it doesn't get a sequel I may cast myself into the ocean.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheVcMyvYkPXMEVuSruTtmp_HmfvranORFUGwVhRnmskUOSgapsIvkmbDTb5XPR0JZaCDwFZjQvyvxMwJHzbW8awV9EqIp6-gTXYC1NHGI_h-BIVIPMG2xB6CGHUmMKYdRISAcMAwKAxfAGM6QrNNYRKL0Rr03OG45Yrko-GWLXbYkNFCVl82f_dk6R1OWy/s1120/season.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1120" data-original-width="740" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheVcMyvYkPXMEVuSruTtmp_HmfvranORFUGwVhRnmskUOSgapsIvkmbDTb5XPR0JZaCDwFZjQvyvxMwJHzbW8awV9EqIp6-gTXYC1NHGI_h-BIVIPMG2xB6CGHUmMKYdRISAcMAwKAxfAGM6QrNNYRKL0Rr03OG45Yrko-GWLXbYkNFCVl82f_dk6R1OWy/s320/season.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>Ahem, I have meandered. McGuire wrote that even one of her close friends and fans isn't a fan of the series, so maybe it's just not my thing. It just seemed like so much more telling than showing, and not a whole lot happened, it was just pages and pages of setting the stage and then the action was brief and abrupt. I only borrowed the second book because I saw it on the library ebook collection and it was available. I should skip the next one - it remains to be seen whether I will. <br /><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Escape Room</span></u> by Megan Goldin: Synopsis from Goodreads: <i style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Welcome to the escape room. Your goal is simple. Get out alive. </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">In the lucrative world of finance, Vincent, Jules, Sylvie, and Sam are at the top of their game. They’ve mastered the art of the deal and celebrate their success in style―but a life of extreme luxury always comes at a cost. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Invited to participate in an escape room challenge as a team-building exercise, the ferociously competitive co-workers crowd into the elevator of a high-rise building, eager to prove themselves. But when the lights go off and the doors stay shut, it quickly becomes clear that this is no ordinary competition: they’re caught in a dangerous game of survival.</span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;">-”’Lisa wants a church wedding – I think her parents are behind it. I told her, ‘No fucking way. I don’t believe in God.’</span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><i>‘The only thing that you worship is your investment portfolio,’ the other said, laughing. ‘You’d think she’d know that by now.’</i></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-755606c5-7fff-86f1-8985-6f42c3e59038"><i><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">‘Exactly. I pointed to the fucking rock on her finger and told her that investment bankers don’t need religion. We don’t need to wait for the next life to enjoy paradise, not with the money we </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">make.’</span></p></i></span><p>The Night Swim by this author was an amazing book - a thriller about a woman who does a podcast, but also a biting social commentary thread about how girls from a lower socioeconomic rung are treated in life and death. I've been chasing that high with Goldin ever since, fruitlessly, FRUITLESSLY I say! This was super dumb. The parts about working as an investment banker in a top firm are interested for about four pages and then very much not. The part where four people are stuck in an elevator for a day and a half, and no one has to pee, and some people actually experience sexual arousal and consider having sex IN AN ELEVATOR WITH TWO OTHER PEOPLE IN IT, and these supposedly highly intelligent people can't figure out the most basic of codes, and still worry about their bonuses while they're facing death? Like I said, super dumb. I am find reading a book with no likable characters. Just make them do interesting stuff. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjdA9muDiXGMZu0q8QZpzqYGE6jIOGK6F4RRDJiwVcix42-CtHZCmibYqyW4e6dhxB3uNZmx4oSjam2D7axPXe1_OCZQvakkTHLXxs5OuqHdgCIAg6YLt9_ic_Vm6aIZbPmXR4aY4r_3APWETb0X_HC0uLLaRdKWBvtDGH-ZRUgeKXxC8I1cLI6YG8QHxV/s400/pledge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="259" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjdA9muDiXGMZu0q8QZpzqYGE6jIOGK6F4RRDJiwVcix42-CtHZCmibYqyW4e6dhxB3uNZmx4oSjam2D7axPXe1_OCZQvakkTHLXxs5OuqHdgCIAg6YLt9_ic_Vm6aIZbPmXR4aY4r_3APWETb0X_HC0uLLaRdKWBvtDGH-ZRUgeKXxC8I1cLI6YG8QHxV/s320/pledge.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">The Pledge</span></u> by Cale Dietrich: Synopsis from Goodreads: <i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Scream</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">meets</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;"> </span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">Clown in a Cornfield </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600;">in this young adult horror novel by bestselling Cale Dietrich featuring a masked killer who targets frat boys. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Freshman Sam believes that joining a fraternity is the best way to form a friend group as he begins his college journey – and his best chance of moving on from his past. He is the survivor of a horrific, and world-famous, murder spree, where a masked killer hunted down Sam and his friends.</span></p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Sam had to do the unthinkable to survive that night, and it completely derailed his life. He sees college, and his new identity as a frat boy, as his best shot at living a life not defined by the killings. He starts to flirt with one of the brothers, who Sam finds is surprisingly accepting of Sam’s past, and begins to think a fresh start truly is possible.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">And then... one of his new frat brothers is found dead. A new masked murderer, one clearly inspired by the original, emerges, and starts stalking, and slaying, the frat boys of Munroe University. Now Sam will have to race against the clock to figure out who the new killer is - and why they are killing - before Sam loses his second chance – or the lives of any more of his friends.</span><p>I like horror, and I'm always up for a YA book with representation. Gay romance in a frat, where it's kind of no big deal? May stretch the bonds of credulity a bit, but yes, I'm absolutely on board. Masked killer enters stage left? Tell me more. But the writing was mediocre, the dialogue clunky and the characterization didn't really make anyone's death as poignant or affecting as it should have been. It's fair to say that representation matters even in shitty forgettable books - god knows the straights have enough of those, and no shade to this guy for getting published. I hoped for more. </p><p><u><span style="font-size: medium;">Clown in a Cornfield</span></u> (Clown in a Cornfield #1) by Adam Cesare: Synopsis from Goodreads: <span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Quinn Maybrook just wants to make it until graduation. She might not make it to morning. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Quinn and her father moved to tiny, boring Kettle Springs to find a fresh start. But ever since the Baypen Corn Syrup Factory shut down, Kettle Springs has cracked in half. On one side are the adults, who are desperate to make Kettle Springs great again, and on the other are the kids, who want to have fun, make prank videos, and get out of Kettle Springs as quick as they can.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-family: "Proxima Nova", Montserrat, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Kettle Springs is caught in a battle between old and new, tradition and progress. It’s a fight that looks like it will destroy the town. Until Frendo, the Baypen mascot, a creepy clown in a pork-pie hat, goes homicidal and decides that the only way for Kettle Springs to grow back is to cull the rotten crop of kids who live there now.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gExphdfC6r7bihbX6HWtM9307f-UQxDI6KGbJfxEpHr06wG_ulRYRdSG_JJWxVLV6XmvWBdMgcSlfje_x6F4blVQxo11Ie_XiDBePqMSvmduM9MTajOJMFYOTxt_Dg56teTGC5XvQhEPpz0nhli659nsa8vdkW49C_ZxYcCYTiVevKydogPrFWUeiBu7/s2550/clown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2550" data-original-width="1688" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gExphdfC6r7bihbX6HWtM9307f-UQxDI6KGbJfxEpHr06wG_ulRYRdSG_JJWxVLV6XmvWBdMgcSlfje_x6F4blVQxo11Ie_XiDBePqMSvmduM9MTajOJMFYOTxt_Dg56teTGC5XvQhEPpz0nhli659nsa8vdkW49C_ZxYcCYTiVevKydogPrFWUeiBu7/s320/clown.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1915; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Obviously I couldn't resist this title (some would say I need to put more effort into resisting titles. And tropes.) There was a good story in here somewhere, but it needed a few more passes. The main character (I can never remember characters' names even if I like them) and her father are pretty well drawn, but no one else is given enough nuance or time to develop to the point that we care about whether they die or are revealed to be a villain. I did enjoy one twist quite a bit, to be fair. Apparently this is the first in a series, but I don't think I'll be following any further unless I hear that there's been a significant improvement.</span></span></p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-53596359117101877682023-12-29T12:25:00.000-08:002023-12-29T12:25:27.842-08:00Slay-Bells Ring<p> I don't even know when I meant to post that, and now it's the 27th and I should PROBABLY change the title to something cheesy like That's a Wrap. I'm always amazed at the people that keep blogging through Christmas, but then I am barely standing by the end of Christmas Eve. </p><p>Our Christmas routine for the past several years has been that my parents (and my sister's family if they're here) come over here on Christmas Eve and I do the food, mostly in appetizer form. Christmas morning we get up and open presents with the kids, then go to my parents' house for breakfast (where my sister's family sleeps if they're here) and exchange more gifts, and then separate for the afternoon, and dinner is here - Matt cooks the turkey, I make biscuits and my mom does sides. This means that most of my work is done by the end of Christmas Eve when I fill the stockings and put the presents out. </p><p>We used to go to my parents' place for dinner but as they've gotten older it makes more sense to pick them up and bring them over here for both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day and then bring them home and leave all the mess here. Usually my sister and her husband and my niece and nephew are here for Christmas proper or not at all. Last year they had to cancel because of Snowpocalypse 2022, after missing two years because of Covid, and it really really sucked. This year my niece is doing a Masters degree in the UK so they're coming for New Year's for a couple of days so they didn't have to drive as soon as she got home (they live about six hours away). As much as I enjoy a Whirlwind of Family Togetherness followed by some hardcore slothfulness, it will be nice to have a few days of rest followed by a little more celebratory family stuff. Angus got invited to go to a coaching conference in Nashville that he also went to last year, but he'll be here for the first day my sister's fam is, which is nice because they haven't seen him in a while (he was gone back to Ithaca before they came in the summer and they missed him when they missed last Christmas).</p><p>On the 23rd Eve and I went to Indigo to get gifts for her friends and .... something else I think, I already forget. Usually I can't bear to go shopping this close to Christmas, but my increased antidepressant dosage and my daughter being home both seemed to give me a boost, and we actually had a really nice time. When we were ready, the line was insanely long, and a manager was walking around warning us that the computers and card systems were very slow because of the increased load. We settled in for a long wait, but the line moved quite quickly, so either the systems recovered quickly or they did a really good job managing expectations. Also, I think the manager walking around talking to people was someone who interviewed at the same time as me when I tried to get hired at Indigo before I got on with the school board AND THEY REJECTED ME. Honestly, Keisha was straight fire at the job and they were right that I wasn't in it for the long haul, so good sense on their part. </p><p>I woke up with a mild head cold Christmas Eve which is a bit of a drag BUT it's not Covid, and also I was mostly done everything I needed to do and got to do all the fun Christmas stuff before getting sick. I felt awful for all the people whose Christmas plans were torpedoed by Covid yet again. </p><p>Christmas Eve was pretty much perfect. I'm always happy to have my parents over, and they love to see the kids, but sometimes the conversational flow is just particularly good. We had a couple of trivia games - one Millenials vs. Boomers and one After Dinner Trivia thing. The first one mostly resulted in a bunch of book questions that only I knew the answer to, and my dad accused the kids of just trying to make me look good. But there was a question about dynamite that prompted my dad to talk about some of his early days mining up north, which resulted in other entertaining stories about my mom's early nursing days, and every time there was a lag one of the kids would throw in another question. It worked really well.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_57f1_fc32_7055_70f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYRdUMvySNeez99sY_3xVtIkoZ3-fqGPdiQzylNjApk2o8PXdZU6KwdcjJiWdKZi5vrzE9XLTwL8FbBpP6qOaFr7AHB4" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><br /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_5912_a77f_2793_1228" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYTwWYpUNC6WIr3mGD1FmDWq97tBL17Wh-IFUCWUqCLmY4nbqaR7RSe-1U-nHqFM4FX4XsYv-lx0EIzTxdN-mkcqX2vpMw" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_1b32_9ca9_dda3_5187" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYRNzeZgXkhvjKLm6ef4m8cmm4MDdjfmCYAcqX6QAXtfuCSwWOfldSInfrr0dkNOCpkx3XnQzI32JcdMXFWGoocjBgXOog" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>My parents went home pretty early. I usually putter around and wait for the kids to go to bed before I pull out all the presents, but I was lagging. This was the first year I just started stuffing the stockings and putting out presents while everyone was still up (I mean, they're 20 and 23, this was out of habit more than anything). Both kids were still wrapping gifts in various corners of the house, and people would yell "may I approach?" before intruding. </p><p>My mother made giant stockings for the kids when they were babies, so a lot of stuff fits in. When the kids were little, the rules was Eve would get up and go to Angus's room and they would open the stockings together before waking us up. Now no one gets up super early, and I like watching them open the stocking stuff, so we do it all around the tree. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" id="id_7006_3fcb_2048_cec8" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYRvqaXrvG4bOJg-rCoHLasuuh0IDQ-37UDAzR8QDh3QHzVJI_WD_EG1rjwfytmdoCGF5wosglxojDe4tFWkYx6znUEq" style="height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He's been coaching his old undergrad team so I got him a Coach of the Year ornament<br /><br /><img alt="" id="id_9bc9_e9d0_f20d_57b6" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYTWdn1r8gPyNeZv7XPAhGvPvcUh50myVJAiZ3XXojK0OzINySdevDOU7ECtn2hRzs17n4v5hYG2f-woDUtsX-JAixkh" style="height: auto; text-align: left; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_a6d5_8ccd_e5ed_d721" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYRcRc7TAsEAa-LxszB0a8lQpvzWJwqThiZGCJK_qJciC_TCHLs00tHknsc4BzdVoWvHsRM4pY9goDqAjV5saAUwzX77" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_a84e_b000_6e28_9386" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQsJZAp3Kiqvphkoa9dzEzvaNDQvFWnjkzvC_Vzq5Hnjtfzsiofz2fh94u7QR5CsHf3wadzXwQ2DmK9De0aNiUwKgrx9w" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" id="id_ba8f_5417_9df5_fbf7" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYT_ybTTHQbNxAihZFliru1fVFrnEEmLFFikG2hJCl4qGVhvc6wB2v0c5ATmBWroFfTnVRTfWO9DbULeHo59eE6NbKkJlg" style="height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Angus puts on all the clothing he gets as he opens it. This is him putting pants on his arms.</span> </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" id="id_6ae8_621c_700a_3853" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQjyVklmC2Qw6je8MvzPRxJvo7s6Si1ZVvklhjgnZUhFSY1uFDmE2d0ZPfvjbxpkFnrBeLp7GFyUy-MtAYfh-bRf4cTbA" style="height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I gave Eve an ornament with tiny books that she's read. "A tiny Overstory with a tiny Pulitzer Prize label on it!" she squealed. She's not sure she can leave them in the ornament.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><img alt="" id="id_2161_c341_1267_a4d0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYRtxPdDC0XGxfWPWXjho2LhN93J69VcL7WFKNvUz5nCs7uI49p3078XFVI4ZstAQ3p7vVFL4Ufzme3bCSE1KqudYQn6" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" id="id_3470_c2f2_c0ea_733d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQdJvtOeFu3kRkctGcl_Yvlw-9Q9IaK4USi0LlWvJISxMunvFygHhcPAJTQ3n1r_Mqiqm0OuL8rioZ2Z4tSo_U7eYa_oQ" style="height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Angus was an Eagle with purple team colours in high school AND undergrad, so my friend Sasha (HI SASHA) crocheted him an amazing purple eagle ornament. He was very impressed.<br /></span><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I told Matt I hadn't found anything good for him and he said that was fine, we wouldn't do gifts for each other, and then the sonofabitch bought me a new food processor (the one I have now we got for a wedding present and the buttons don't work, I just have to plug it in to make it go and unplug it to make it stop) and an ice maker, which I almost bought myself during lockdown but didn't because it seemed too self-indulgent (ever since I had the kids I only like water icy cold, and our fridge ice maker stopped working and is too expensive to fix). So I had to say thank-you AND fuck off. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_7882_f864_6f_502c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYTMvY9zI8G8i3AVJchTWSyTrydZaoIMXdo7DAX0_FmWObb9HSX5Xrx2yUrP98aS7JjZua5g2sUauccl9gw5aIuzwnyQoA" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>We usually get up by 8:30 Christmas morning, but I woke up feeling weirdly well-rested and it was TEN and no one was up yet. We made tea and settled in our accustomed places and it was perfect, and then we went to my parents' place for breakfast and then I didn't even need a nap before dinner. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_9f64_93df_1d98_f6f2" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSJTvLfXpV2qZVeE5LKPbEAZG2ACTVzZblyudS7Nx47Dl70m7uThl9BK0_jJG35Ok3OJpSsE7wJI4-K25QU8o88xfnkgQ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_75df_6bdf_92c2_a585" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYRKH-qBdDNnqJ5EKn6N_m0WZeGf7x5XURJxshKVMapP1svjw9kYibRtL1uO1_dAQncf9gjLT70baCtMn3rEhzgL0xlT" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>This is all reading very dully in a "all happy families are happy in the same way". It would be more entertaining if someone had a fight over politics or threw their present across the room. Oh well, I know you all read quickly. I've always been aware of how precarious our joyful family gatherings have been, and since we lost Matt's grandparents and mom and my parents are in their 80s, it all takes on a bittersweet glow. My deep sympathy to people struggling with loss and sadness at this time of year.</p><p>Angus got me a 1000-piece puzzle and for the first time wanted to do it with me. It's very funny to watch someone who's never done a puzzle - the rapid alterations between bafflement, rage, and exuberance. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_1f7_e547_44f1_45f2" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQviWP3ljT0SQytK6Zxxe7W7f7CoL97M6LVlLfK4udGAEtUkPSut01vLuf0t_0KZ_3_c-sa-PDHd7A4CQKDDydc9ZLzPQ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>I am trying very hard not to descend into after-Christmas depression. The snot production and dreary weather are not helping, but the family-movie-watching and reading and puzzling is. </p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-77461760480915237722023-12-22T13:09:00.000-08:002023-12-22T13:09:04.173-08:00Vision of Salted Toffee Pretzel Bark Dancing in Your Head<p>There was at least one request for this in the comments and a couple from Facebook. You're welcome in advance, everyone. I would like to take credit for making this recipe up, but all I did was think "man, chocolate bark would be great with pretzels in it - I'll bet someone is already on that" and google "chocolate pretzel bark".</p><p>*trumpet fanfare*...... <a href="https://www.melskitchencafe.com/salted-chocolate-toffee-pretzel-bark/" target="_blank">The Recipe</a>.</p><p>Oh, while I'm here, I totally did say fuck it and blow off all my remaining Christmas responsibilities to go to the <a href="https://www.ottawachristmasmarket.com/" target="_blank">Christmas market</a> with Eve's BFF and her mom who is now my BFF. Mother-daughter double date (plus Piper in her Santa wrap) for the extreme win. It was cold and clear and magical and we sampled Vodkow and drank hot cider and bought a few Christmas presents and marveled at the beauty of a thousand tiny lights in the winter darkness. Davis wasn't there to sing the opening of All I Want for Christmas for the radio people this year, but she joined us afterwards at Marianna's house (you might think they're jumping for joy to see each other after months apart, but it's actually delirious excitement at Eve and Marianna having seen Francesca from Too Hot to Handle at the market- I know. I mean, I don't know.)</p><p><img alt="" id="id_58a6_d763_92ca_41aa" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSoupwuMI04fZmxYT74DbdKQWdupYV65N8pznDa554YxgTr0Tj1Vw96a0aeMrq__k85OBex7jfxheUbn32Q5740Mkgn-w" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_9a7e_cbea_52d_3866" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYTeKAcRqRQyeb380DEF9Df_uLueih-tWSFqmXWSDr6Def_KqZv80Sd3aQhNJYuFuxL7sPzhqYBTQp39wUxP0Bc06Kzu" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_6bd6_59f0_de43_4cd9" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSWGV4x3tTvKkYFA7JejXLZbtbZ2K_8ts7Ryjq5EYZtpgz5FEr_1GY7gQnoSexzxZ6pqRhucgKY5RozEJOArYTn5IXPiQ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_4210_a1d4_e942_20c7" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSbfzzga9X-WlAie6r3dIcgzcagM7dTpVRrDv9HQGRnd83BjCa9ZzYFdLpD8Lz3VobjwFrG4cP7YZ5qut8inW_8wAKy" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_7cc6_2894_4907_adb4" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYToV8AIPf4C1YM7fsEMRpBSmvjd-HwDeLLpF68KOVbK6-JmOwNCIE9Fs9PAMJ3CQL9MKMOlqbM2VF9L6cS_5Gbaxj31ig" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_4b6c_2dd8_461f_c623" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYRM-dJcNIjwJ1wXa8jPMHUPaEI2u-6O9FpcrWOZp9QjtltG-zjmvzRZo9NLheFOV1TSfHRb7DIzrywgXHEM6U5xS9t7sg" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_9eae_55f8_77f5_30b4" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYTVK4GlD37HXGcUzSbCwHQjWAXKxlwzyF7pOOq_3gCz87X5c3fYsUdzE_Zwzi-U8aGx738wBvpxtShbGHTAs0G9vZ-T" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_f400_61b8_c73f_a0dc" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYRe7ToGtcqome9UQJEVp3H8iDVHFM9ebvuiU8mq4NJWmxYJL3PVCPRnSpfi6E2Nma_t6o_VNrvYeIga2KK5vzxpkbH-sQ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_20b6_84b9_bee9_ae25" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYTEUusN76sAzHOkGhsDcnWeetCfxR0hkc8AtVRbmy824k9nf0k21xZZSrACNRD4hK1cVvIYNerQUEO5J7n2NVhgLhDeng" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_22a2_a36d_8414_df73" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYTY0Q-pn-vE9Q9BF_yCwQPDDQgq55CG59rTHT0q_WkMA-AuiKcp1BfwInTRsw_SaUxvh_Srw3J36wS8Y1G4bxxvf9dJZg" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_1ee5_143b_f2d7_12ae" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQMhNGETk9-2nxYTxWgnXIoDNSJp27SkvfckcoBWGQ8LjyG33f7w3dN0TpEdV1ZY9uzCAsZL69v4UNi_iVCcFG_F7m09g" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_eb2d_b267_f19e_e856" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYT8NdAyTD_t0bpM_LtLZc6FxPn7FJeqDKnqxs0Gbg-yoY7U4QTs2-b8-QHjWgaApGutJifJiNeYMBoZtaBfvNIGn4fbOw" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_998e_c28c_4a3b_d871" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYTFQPgfoJYOCTFuvDyAN_XRHTIgJSSwf_6vFsUSdjSdAXTB5KF5Z7NYy6vMvlawzAu8Wu-mGnsY2OuBYIt0OGg_BcJLuw" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_8cc1_840b_cad8_c452" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSkDvKY8fnxiMAqjYirrqdcoCWpY_mv-uYwSAOyU7tFUXOusKJKYImHghfbDD7hEv_J1LBqMv1goJSKq7-bpT8hl6Ny" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_a1b0_1d7d_6b72_e17d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYR4nKP679-gf9055AQVEUvbm9rlmjcOSHk2aefAZKr5tw0iLm-3YPg8G16GfaNQB-QSJ2YM4mio7xJomP6WsK5vklDO" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_f19e_58f8_6c1b_85da" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSPJGshZ91Rk-3mvcXEoeDzF6qi25VVQkin2esDu-7bLzweICguigqidGtLSK2zMIVYyeALUeh8lCkjJ7nybRWztd-U" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_160_2bb9_de7b_34a2" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSC9Uc17uNVJC5in_EBNydz1MQzTP_59JrE2Gbm5P_UWWKlrsOjnD5btqomOFP_D2GlgGdWmju4MnEplAVlvemxm9SJ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_2cda_e151_8f1c_e531" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSwhIXU6PkDZ5n6k1_fRVhDj_xI5XhBt2OK4pGbECTGn9dofK4CBHQg7H5IELZqSFX-MrJyfFsLXRKEMFd1ZyLWwq6sYw" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_8ea_f0d7_e178_8161" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYRta_03RHkXrM5pYlP_SEYDiOGmwfwQbVokhBCO9PQ093lkY0W67tf9LRVqvSKlxegMtcY2riXw3G-dUlfb7ofJQqTFnQ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><br /></p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-61427069676691445182023-12-21T14:06:00.000-08:002023-12-21T14:06:50.468-08:00Pre-Christmas Round-Up <p> I didn't feel like I had time to clean my bedroom this morning. I don't feel like I have time to blog right now. But both of those things make me feel happy and slightly accomplished, so here we are. </p><p>I have written and sent 43 Christmas cards and have four more to deliver locally, and I believe it is time to call it done and clean the Christmas-card-carnage off the kitchen table. I did do a card and a five-page letter for Matt's aunt who I didn't get to last Christmas, and all year I told myself "just do it now" and somehow couldn't. She is Matt's Nana's younger sister and when I met her at Nana's funeral she knew everything about me being a librarian and the kids and she is smart and funny and I do really want to keep in touch with her, especially with my mother-in-law gone now (fuck cancer). I already got a reply from her, so that was lovely. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_e34d_d485_8a00_e89b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQquP6FTFSrwYO8_MzWtR3QQJ4ljpDrJMuxQVfk3u2tUZfwIuLL8CygCquVo9nEYXjF7LHDk_gb5wcG_erTEnEpU3Mirw" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_2625_cc76_664c_bdc0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQ8tc2ygRgGH2rqoyYaQjxhRlR2OaLZs7VuRm0del9DutjIVcciFxlZ0X3l4ar4D3MErwjQ0lSDmnZj8oH6QDJA3M_U" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><a href="https://www.harrytimes.com/2023/12/holiday-home-stretch.html" target="_blank">Sarah</a>'s card is so perfect and wonderful it makes me feel like an absolute chump for only having two kids and not living in Wisconsin (I want us to meet IRL too Sarah BUT HOW I AM CANADIAN). <a href="https://girlinaboyhouse.com/" target="_blank">Nicole'</a>s card was early and lovely as usual. I need to exchange more blog cards next year. My card stocking seemed to take a bit longer to fill but is nicely rounded out at this point. I keep a list of everyone I've sent cards to but I forget pretty quickly who the earliest ones went out to, so Matt had dinner with his old thesis adviser in Hamilton last night and said they said thanks for the Christmas card and I was like "I sent them one? Huh, go me." </p><p><img alt="" id="id_df5f_a441_aca5_6669" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYRiI2sHQjXHn8O29O6Rib_IgQ5hyTyTITkZN6WwwSSVVReD9FSxd4N0XsEvSrksREyIY6z8d62d_O9Nd2bRwyN312TYsw" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_be6e_27aa_eb3d_1a43" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYRD9pUEgtE8JvxEbRkvvWrZ7gDbyq6CZU-hQlPQL_KobCt6m2cj0ydgcBQ7pavKXcP5pt8EkHCvHP5JaZkfe8KMDJK01A" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>I haven't baked as much because of stupid work - toffee shortbread, Chai shortbread (Eve's favourites), a couple of pans of <a href="https://www.melskitchencafe.com/salted-chocolate-toffee-pretzel-bark/" target="_blank">bark</a> that I sent to work with Matt and brought to the Christmas party and fed to book club which I hosted on Monday, <a href="https://staciebillis.com/chewy-gingerbread-cookie-recipe-lemon-glaze-holiday-cookies-for-santa/" target="_blank">gingerbread cookies</a> with lemon glaze and <a href="https://inspiredbycharm.com/cream-wafer-tree-cookies/" target="_blank">cream wafers</a> (and yes, I made the same mistake I always do with the first batch and didn't roll the dough thin enough, so once the cookies are sandwiched with filling they are delicious but horrifyingly tall and hard to fit in your mouth). That's probably enough, to be honest, but somehow it feels inadequate not to bake to excess. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_6edb_7c5_8dab_6af5" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYRPCyR9ruJ8NiiPs2MvOgdE9Hq8j3gmQ7EagGRBizwBYJ0OyDP7VY3B4NUzhnWpLzooHqYR56AQ9EZv1GLkZVLCQ9hc_A" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_8dc3_d576_f54a_6e8d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYTogLqXlPq4iJPN-YD3WLDu1h-51aUWlQ29KgasnmuoczJ3mjVWu2KCCkZtdwWxCmzwC0DMskg7LHf0jKug6Bs9h3q_kA" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>The oven was briefly inoperational - flashing an error code and locked with no buttons functioning - on December 18th. Somewhat uncharacteristically, I didn't freak out, and managed to get a service visit booked the next day. Then Matt came home mid-book-club and fixed it by doing THE EXACT SAME THING I HAD. There was a fairly good joke about weighing the pleasure in the oven being fixed against the rage of a man fixing it solely by repeating my actions, but at this time of year? The good far outweighed the bad. Today I'm going to make another pan of bark and dough for lemon shortbread and maybe brown sugar cookies. </p><p>Eve wrote her last exam this morning (Solstice Exam!) and is on her way home with Matt. She said her friends want to go to the Christmas market which we did a few years ago and it was magical, so I might just say fuck it and abandon everything I was going to do tonight and go with them. (Photo dump for Christmas market in 2019 before all the children left us for stupid growth and independence and personal fulfillment reasons)</p><p><img alt="" id="id_54d3_6888_585a_39c9" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYR0bF2aVL2ObtnICVOigQkPuO-E4BT8-_TMtydJQQhmPiFY97KHdCysVFDBkYbhBLw3d0JJtyIeCJFqBKqHuiRN6iH7" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_61fe_6152_224a_619b" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSgNuYgIqdeookfTiDhfo5NOA5zmpNml_KS79TVGlF8xS9iV_ouuB_AeXdnGOnaKRX-LlZgAXV1cakGm4Qr9HclNJ-2Pw" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_f53e_159e_b38c_dc91" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSJ9TCa9Q9D35imeSxeeSp6lniHI8Ork3jh5to119WMJq-gFGKARIN3s5VGmBIpbSKjATgLY9toHx8F-hvNDOOjPHA8" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_3aae_c047_91be_be17" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQ8MHsc5ZRVhbdasbReu58erhHCLpsXmZoMGb8gW4gwlwI5xAXOuN1K8T96Mc4RK3eO0JQpupKg9XSZPgtP2yiyCaqm" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_e409_cec1_b534_d2f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSaR295Qza6NiQ-P5nX3MRsi--F44XpdWWXla_adl8v0BP3voniCRewiXqfNE97EhCQyVUnuLO98Wj1k1mcAGFmt7OvNw" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>The Christmas party was amazing as usual, but sort of unusually I was in the mood for a party even beforehand, and didn't hate everything about how I looked and was excited to go. If Cosmic Irony was being an especial dick that night, this would have meant that the party itself was a dud, but it was not. There were old people and young people and it feels kind of special to have the young people still be happy to hang out with the old people. There were enough people that the house felt full and loud and happy and fun but not so many that it felt claustrophobic (I have a memory of Collette and I standing on the back deck having a heartwarming conversation and looking in at our kids and marveling at how life is so strange and magical, but I don't know why we were outside. I mean, I assume I was too hot, but she wouldn't have been. I asked her and she doesn't remember either). </p><p>The Epic Annual Steal-a-Gift Game was, as is traditional, Epic. We used to have the kids do a gift exchange and then send them downstairs or upstairs to watch tv or whatever while we did the steal-a-gift game, but at this point they're all old enough to participate in the ungovernable hilarious debauchery, spite and vindictiveness. Generally the booze and weed is the most hotly fought-over (no sex toys this year - yes, we are terrible), but this year it was, perplexingly (or maybe not), a hooded fuzzy blanket - it didn't quite reach the fever pitch of '22 when everyone was conspiring to deny Collette the spatula she wanted, but it was close. When it was my turn someone told me to steal the blanket and I said I didn't want it and they said no, it's strategy, everyone else wants it and it positions you to get something better. I did it, but I didn't even like touching it - so hot. The game took from 7:07 until 9:11 (I took screenshots of the time when someone said at the beginning "this is going to take three hours". It was hugely entertaining and we were all friends again afterwards. (Photo dump for Christmas party and steal-a-gift game - I take all the pictures and forget to be in any, so I took a picture of my sparkly gold dress in which the sparkle doesn't really come across but trust me - sparkly).</p><p><img alt="" id="id_74e4_7a79_8f2_4dc6" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYS4U4Nr-PzswvQ-iBHPLuF-AwLTceQ6onHCovq4LM8a9nauzlxp97jydT2SRXsMMWfx-bbGLel_mLr8vtpDM9f18wV3xg" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_6add_be19_f3c9_449a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYRCs5EGSq9xR1jZMhP1b66Uwao9H9RSBO3x2pEboPD3_mnNpvNqFS2OukNFf0CSS2h8PwXR7C4QWZ6xrulS8T6uKhwx" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_2961_d8b1_6e87_f617" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSIy1l8PJL7kqM9J_eZF2lz0QUYBuMaNDV5Bxq73lU_Q43uHlxfPCwFbZ3xyInOhK9wTs0rzIvVQg429MDVUL_rmhcW2A" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_9ae7_8443_7de6_9998" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQA44Y2mKqnRta09sQpMiyffWd7B9YhdaI9nQeCC8evm5AoBR_Aglr28UysZK3IhCEk_UXHR4beMu5r0YQmpYhX8Ujo" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_a274_456c_c024_744d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYR5DH36iGoacBvVn1CzJlyqLapsOrrQLKAJ6gflTt5oJK3SWwaoVZAeVEARaMLXA3_nalXAGkE8qqBpe8wdc0LgcOKM1Q" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_5572_5b99_cbd5_c302" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYTRRxAprDImLWKPBL0GOI4KKvXtvlhDyZo6WA50vcJoWCAeJwBqyg2k_HoQsy2WZPxfgxJE3te_6x8xt-qjb2O93OTrQQ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_d750_6eee_2736_e7a9" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYTloOWekZh38arIKCQByA4jdMFy8ktywie85phrHk-321f6zkm9fM0bWgo_xjnfQUuiSQoWLvKCwaJDK8ObqyNoYMfOsA" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_4995_99ed_22dd_9ef6" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQSDI6NyiKDPh9VtdlIom4JjoY_rP5xwST6onIeIAOJzcO-ZY_7GLPfQnW41gUI8tfw_2ZU8lrXJs4jtg9dwgdrguKrtg" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" id="id_8d06_c551_a3df_ac48" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQxuSZlHcG3_GJts8wHiMuCQs-zG0Za2wKWtd5lQmL4uxf5YEkwfzeD7qH6n-TgwrGNsYFpMM62VdILEEhw-7x94RkFHw" style="height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"<span style="font-size: x-small;">Everybody throw things at Michael!</span>"</td></tr></tbody></table><p><img alt="" id="id_725e_69b3_8112_7265" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQ-o-6k4wjqWDLHAhGXxet5D0VjS7vNjRkoRZR_0FHtrMTuTKg6sJY5cyA_mWOzHfYhZcAadeV7JwxP7ckUJceFjdOJLg" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_1adf_6940_c3fe_f48f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSB6BJRx1USVmaHrBEF0bzvi-lHGj0B-GbSuncHieSEf-vLrjdR_V5C3PGaia43ejj-sbn9LnhEIJ4vFqSqcqXUNjBNxg" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>And look who got home and showed up at the party just in time!</p><p><img alt="" id="id_2404_89cd_f026_6804" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQ0lDDHtAwcTdLbCvrRwdBC7ehD8mT8UQs_myTbczvC3kYBWsWLeADPf8tH6zmGamXuxFKMjyuiJSzFmTU-8XhVn7NU6g" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>I keep thinking it's the 22nd and we only have one day to decorate the tree, do the Christmas photo shoot, wrap presents and get ready for Christmas Eve which we host here - I just do appetizers and it's only my parents because my sister's family is coming for New Year's this year instead, if the good lord is willing and the creek etc. etc. But it's the 21st so I....still probably don't have enough time, but I always tell other people "Do what you can and let the rest go" and even thought I am VERY BAD AT FOLLOWING MY OWN ADVICE I'm going to try. </p><p>Well, this took a lot of the day between baking and cleaning up and wrapping (a little. A very little). </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" id="id_97ca_be71_364f_2540" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYTgdWKGpFBEOWRTzIeyV3f71CAy_TUdnJqxPkMy6yhrGhh-7ev9FXwQi-8aAGyFoXocOvvlEwaW2MA8L9EHYe68nvxvIA" style="height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Bark!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I wish everyone all the family wonderfulness and terrible blanket-stealing friends and flour-dusted paper-strewn mess and lights in the darkness and anything else you wish for. </p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-28486968599558868672023-12-17T17:10:00.000-08:002023-12-17T17:10:05.778-08:00Non-Surly Thursday (with a tiny pocket of Surly in the middle)<p> If I DO get Covid I guess it will be slightly ironic, because I felt really good this week after my week-end away. </p><p>It was sunny and cold this morning. I was wearing a knit dress with a vest, my Docs and socks instead of tights because I am always so hot and uncomfortable in this library. I put a light cardigan over top mostly so people wouldn't comment on my wearing no kind of jacket at all.</p><p>I walked down the hall and was about to enter the library when a teacher leading a group of students said "are those postage stamps on your back?", which confused the hell out of me because as far as I know there was nothing on my back but black cardigan. I said "no?" and she said, "oh, it looks like it from a distance". I went into the library, plunked down all my stuff and took off my cardigan to look at the back. Since my Docs have started carving up my heels I wear blister patches a lot of the time, and they have an annoying habit of falling off and ending up everywhere, so I was worried there were blister patches stuck to my sweater. But there was nothing.</p><p>Then my eyes fell on my bags and I suddenly realized she was saying "on your BAG", not "on your BACK". At the beginning of the year I didn't have a tote bag big enough to carry my lumbar support cushion and a fan and my water bottle and lunch bag. I was trying to figure out where to look for one, and then I remembered <a href="https://www.redbubble.com/explore/for-you/" target="_blank">Redbubble.</a> So then Matt came home and I was on the computer and I told him that unfortunately I was about to buy four hundred dollars worth of tote bags because when you put almost anything you can think of on a tote bag it can be hard to narrow down the options.</p><p>For obvious reasons, I usually default to putting stuff about books or authors on my bags and t-shirts and phone cases and journals and socks and everything else. Then sometimes I feel like I want to branch out a little. I loved my old phone case, but it didn't fit my new phone. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_245b_589a_a106_7d0a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYT7mWHdk_wZPFhSYokBaqStQkzKWRgxhxDA4YdYiqDH8CoyJKrDZu3aJZMX-1PozvctC0PDrzAe4UX3nBAISeEblMO_gQ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>My new phone case is <i>called </i>Vintage Books, but is mainly a cute little robot. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_4363_97d3_b324_74fb" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYSk6GrFNU27DB7-hellGl2TyPMt0349Fcuvm2cxuSijFIQuJqwR1XbVXq975Sk_A0ackvGnIl_fq7S5vAfJ-WesDGrrEA" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>So after pages and pages of possible tote bag designs, I ended up with Virginia Woolf book covers</p><p><img alt="" id="id_b577_1ed9_91ed_aad2" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQrlRiJ5vYQKol-FOw41JCPHjzXomF_rKgZ1Zb_L4H44mDD8s6ImXCBKawS5mgoEOKqQH9O89p0Rm4hGPzRIxg2c7LvgQ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_74d7_fd92_9c1f_ef67" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYQBx4d2XqwJ2VZG6vFkCLpZORRALHtigLL3Y7I5KTHozfwLvb6xcRzbA1vfvB0Cf4wOjFwmXwuZrYsSuea7xsoRetkhHQ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>But also something called The Cuckoo and The Donkey. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_d362_19f7_475c_e04a" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AEYmBYTZFIM3R4eAD5qdZvjzJ3M6pZRiIfW6Os7OnDwpFkLdsayz-pyI-e1ZJ4trzNwyzJGBsbjW55mjMWuPdI-Gd6Rrzy01Rw" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>I dunno, shut up, it spoke to me.</p><p>So anyway I had to go out in the hallway and find the teacher and explain the misunderstanding because I felt like I must have appeared brainless. She was gracious.</p><p>My first two classes were really nice as always, which lulled me into a false sense of serenity for the third class to come in and be absolutely heinous. They frequently are, but today was especially bad - maybe because of the approaching holidays, maybe Mercury was in retrograde, but as my friend Hannah (HI HANNAH) said, there is just a particularly toxic mix of personalities and it makes for a really unpleasant half hour. I tried being reasonable. I tried being angry. I tried being very angry (actually by this point I just was, in fact, very angry). Then we had a secure schools notification so they had to stay even longer. Just when I thought we might have to resort to some of fight-club method of deciding who got to stay in the school and who had to hit the road, they were allowed to leave. I was in fight-or-flight for a good twenty minutes afterwards. The other librarian said we'll discuss it next week and if they don't improve she'll switch them to one of her days, but I don't want to inflict them on someone else. I just want to get better at dealing with them. When I used to waitress, I was terrible at not internalizing every negative interaction. Every now and then I think that if I tried that job now I'd be better at not taking everything so personally. Days like this show that I am most emphatically incorrect about that. </p><p>My last class wasn't able to come because of the lockdown which was a little sad because I love them and there's no circulation next week but I did some shelving to calm down. Sometimes I sort the books into their categories to avoid a bunch of extra steps and get shelving done faster. Sometimes I just take an armful and sort of amble around from section to section according to what the next book is, and I feel very calm and librarian-ish doing it.</p><p>In the evening I went to Costco and Indigo with Jody (HI JODY) and did an epic singalong to All I Want for Christmas in the car and that was fabulous. </p><p>Oh, and to round out the whole good things/bad things part of the day, on the way TO school there was a parked car making one street difficult to traverse. I pulled over to let one car go by, and then another car came around the corner quite quickly, so I expected her to go too, but she pulled right over to the curb so I could go next, in a lovely "aren't we all so courteous and civilized" moment. Then on the way home one car swerved suddenly and bashed into a car in the next lane two cars in front of me, resulting in a dramatic strewing of wheels and car parts all over the road, but miraculously no one was hurt and the collision was confined to those two cars. </p><p>I started this post on Thursday and then got really tired, so it is now Sunday but I didn't get Covid! Even though Zarah and I totally sucked on the same weed pen Saturday night! I got to go to the Christmas party! </p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-76684416759032495892023-12-12T16:59:00.000-08:002023-12-12T16:59:18.847-08:00Better Living Through Plastic Explosives<p> This is the title of a really good book I was sent to review soon after I started my blog (I think it was soon after, who the hell knows, time's lost all meaning), and also how I was feeling this morning while trying to do a "The Future Is Now!" zoom medical call with my dad and his nephrologist (he has idiopathic kidney disease which has been stable for quite a while but needs regular monitoring). I've taken him to the hospital for appointments a few times, and then last time was our first Zoom appointment, made possible presumably because of Covid. Last time went okay, which was a pleasant surprise. This time did not, which was less pleasant, still not that much of a surprise.</p><p>My dad came over (their wifi is crap on the main floor so we do it here in the kitchen). They told him to log on a half hour early, for no damned reason I could see, although the nurse did come on at around the correct appointment time. She asked some questions then said the doctor should come on soon. We waited. And waited. And waited. And then we got a message saying 'this meeting has been ended and a new meeting started on this account.' We rejoined, and nothing happened. I tried to call the hospital and the doctor's clinic, and of course there was only the option to leave a message. No one called us. </p><p>Looking back, I was disproportionately angry. My dad's bloodwork was about the same, so it was unlikely the news was going to be bad or surprising. We still hadn't had to drive to the hospital. I was cutting out pictures for my Christmas cards and my dad was looking at them, and that was nice. But it was medical, so I had anxiety, AND it was technology, so I had anxiety, and I felt like I should have been able to fix it, so I was upset with myself (and a little bit with my husband for being in freaking Baltimore, unreasonably). </p><p>My dad finally left. I tried the doctor's clinic one more time and someone answered. I was angrier than I have ever been with a front-facing person, which is to say still not very, but definitely not my usual sweet and self-effacing....self. At first she thought I was mad because of the wait time and said "well sometimes the previous appointment takes longer than expected..." and I was like no Queen, we would have waited all day, but shit didn't work and when it was obvious shit wouldn't work why wouldn't someone call us? And she agreed that was weird, and said she'd try to get the doctor to call my dad. </p><p>So I called my dad and told him that and then went to take a shower to try to shake the yuck. I got in the shower and the phone rang and I got out of the shower and got water all over my bedroom to answer the phone. My dad said the doctor called and everything was fine, and it was the doctor's fault the zoom didn't work and he apologized. So I downgraded from enraged to faintly annoyed.</p><p>So I finished showering and then called the clinic back and left a message apologizing for being bitchy. And the receptionist called back a while later while I was baking Chai shortbread (without the sugar, as it turned out, oops) and said oh lord, that was nothing, you have no idea. And after that even the annoyance was gone, and I didn't even swear when I realized my cookies were suitable for diabetics (can't decide if I should offer them on Facebook to someone with a low-sugar diet or just be aggressive with icing).</p><p>For the rest of the day I alternated baking batches of shortbread with writing my last Christmas cards (the first of my last Christmas cards, if I'm being scrupulously honest, but these are mostly for people who live closer). </p><p>I did a whirlwind trip to southern Ontario to deliver an exam care package to Eve, who has two weeks of stupid exams before she can come home, and then visit my friend Zarah for Christmas shopping and hanging out and puzzling while slightly high. The drive down started in winter wonderland and ended in extremely sloppy not-great-visibility conditions. When I got out of the Rav and Eve came out and saw it we both burst out laughing, and did again every time we came out of a place and saw it again - after a pause, because it was basically unrecognizable.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_6af_21d3_fb6a_4735" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AK7aPaDWb5WE163iiXztAk0djcMn652pp33dlJmBkgl9BVs_KH2hxpdnvItvLxpglAjvto-zPHMVcGBDTTkkBbl_fBa4Jvthuw" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>I got a couple of pictures of Eve, one of the Rav, a couple of Zarah and about two dozen of the cat.</p><p><img alt="" id="id_54fb_7612_a236_9fb4" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AK7aPaC1mVAWyy6JpMqgoWkiXrwrl8J_pixcacGsMVljoOORlwm587nBPgZsksUaUkzHmp68-q9JfRuvKtElJsAbE28KUQ8IFw" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_20d1_fb82_6ce3_b8f8" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AK7aPaBoybCd4QVyzneL8TsrTHgpexJMX2-zc48U3qhZEZ-7qshGNEeLHgAj6DLIILx5gZnUhIg_TmgIzz4F69tFMCCKkqLBVQ" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_89a9_7012_168e_7446" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AK7aPaAaxTjdh1ik2qF073ikS2axtp49zD--tlB8yKLit6Zp3IWdpuo7zG3H-3yNWnx_FtszStYoCubQDGf39RkhlNf2xfdxCg" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_ed6f_989c_f959_d676" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AK7aPaBEgS6TELzovdIIr_4aIRtVcGhTIKje2argC_MirgGL5oVyu87KM6Cu4bhrD2mLn-AHFXrNnehOn0exuxzlV6nqbzo1Fg" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>Yesterday Zarah tested positive for Covid so it will suck if I go down but it was worth it, and I had a great work day and felt really good yesterday. The best interaction was probably with one grade two student who said she couldn't remember my name, and when I told it to her she sighed and said "okay. But you look more like a Valerie."</p><p><br /></p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102491209284064200.post-35120879590621253922023-12-06T18:23:00.000-08:002023-12-06T18:25:57.674-08:00That's How it Blows<p> For some reason the "Find My" Apple feature has been turned on for my iPad, so every time I leave home I get notifications on my phone that my increasingly forlorn iPad is getting further and further away. I turn <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bluey_(2018_TV_series)" target="_blank">Bluey</a> on for Lucy when I leave her alone - do I have to start setting my iPad up to watch it too? (That or Criminal Minds, don't judge me).</p><p>There was a winter storm warning Sunday night into Monday that didn't end up being that bad, but it was heavy, wet snow, and it stuck to the trees with a vengeance and it is still there and the trees all look flocked. They look like display trees in a Christmas window. It is a Winter Freakin' Wonderland. I cannot overstate how fake and beautiful it looks. I was driving to the dealership to get my winter tires on, in a white snowscape listening to Loreena McKennitt sing The Wexford Carol and I felt like there should be a silent gun battle going on in the field, it was so cinematic. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_e454_d440_54c9_7c2d" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AK7aPaAboAh5_wD47g5p7WyWm5jJNVVWsfzcz2_1bs69bpIpViXmKAFWT5hxTdmcRQARYPZlPn8LFj-M9mImTVVP-tdtwMMV6g" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p><img alt="" id="id_92eb_ecb9_18b5_59f7" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AK7aPaC_dD2-Zo1foDKMsEkIdrJyFnUJRGJgfMWr7TMuTFXGPLLEni0woA2SQTpH_Pe-IY89-I3ugvmTU95dojpx645Fh1IToA" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>Speaking of Lucy</p><p><img alt="" id="id_b980_faf3_aed6_9e0f" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AK7aPaA48ZI7AWRsjrZfLxHaD3wS0p8OoukFL0Hdy6Il-pWbo6A1-3VsjSE2wy_LUXU_CtAH8u4xTSd7BlqU3UJeKMW0M8js" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>She is and always has been a bit of a jerk to the lovely lady who cleans our house twice a month. I don't know why for sure, but I think it's because she comes in and then does stuff in our house without us being with her, so Lucy assumes we are naive idiots who need to be protected. We've tried a number of things - locking her in the bedroom with one of us, speaking firmly when she barks, ignoring her when she barks, giving J. a treat to give her. Nothing works, or not for long. I've been mulling having a trainer to come in and give me some things to try, but we don't really have the budget for that right now. </p><p>Finally, Sonia started taking her to one of her other homes on cleaning day, and the fact that I could just sit and read or iron or whatever was blissful. Then we had to move cleaning day to Tuesday this week.</p><p>I had to bring the car to the dealership for winter tires in the morning, then walked Lucy and then the cleaner showed up and I thought (hoped) 'it'll be fine'.</p><p>Reader, it was not fine.</p><p>I think it was kind of a "I thought we had decided not to DO this incredibly dangerous thing anymore!" deal. It was horrible. The cleaner never seems too bothered about it, and once I forgot she was coming and she let herself in and Lucy just hung out with her while she cleaned. But this was next-level - so. loud. I kept her in the bedroom with me, but then I got the call that the car was ready and I really wanted to pick it up before dark, but I didn't want to leave Lucy with the cleaner.</p><p>I texted my neighbour, who was at work, but said her daughter was home and just to let Lucy out to go through the door in the fence and Victoria would call her in. So I did. But of course she wouldn't go -- even though usually she dashes over there immediately and demands to be let in -- just stood there scream-barking at the back door because clearly I was going to be murdered. So I took her out the front and brought her in that way, and she was happy to see Victoria and Paul and the other dogs, but then when I went to leave she darted between my legs and didn't want to come back in. We were all wheezing with laughter at my asshole dog at this point. We finally coaxed her back in and I made my escape. My neighbour's husband also came over with his snow-blower to take care of my plow row on Monday, so I now owe my neighbours some baked goods or a kidney.</p><p>Here is the furry little monster, smushed up against me, exhausted by her ordeal. </p><p><img alt="" id="id_b2ad_f602_30c3_6184" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/drive-viewer/AK7aPaBHkEZozsVtb2KVKUpPx4znz0dHB0bkXpIIz33zC8iF33zyTRafrKGH1fE2m-5UzRvho7xhQy2uiIXBmDBXl1IP7Hbp_Q" style="height: auto; width: 353px;" title="" tooltip="" /></p><p>It wasn't quite as trying as <a href="https://bibliomama2.blogspot.com/2022/11/some-days-post-writes-itself-this-is.html" target="_blank">this day</a>, but it was close. </p><p><br /></p>Bibliomamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11825424183978181238noreply@blogger.com11