hc.newton

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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A Bit of Personal History (feel free to skip)

Back in ’91 or ’92, I saw a copy of The Pilgrim’s Regress on a bookstore shelf. I was in a “read everything by Lewis you can get your hands on phase,” so I instantly picked it up. But the back of the book talked about it as the modern equivalent of Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress in a way that I figured I should read Bunyan before it.

It took me a little while to track down the Bunyan (the toilsome times before online bookshops), and by the time I worked my way through it, the bookstore didn’t have that copy any more and I was distracted by other things.

I’ve often thought about trying this book since then—but it wasn’t until I started thinking about this project that I finally combined ambition with general curiosity.

What’s The Pilgrim’s Regress About?

This modern-retelling of The Pilgrim’s Progressis an allegory about a man named John on his journey from childhood exposure to religion in Puritania to an Island of pleasure. Along the way, he has to deal with several physical, spiritiual and itellectual challenges to take him away from his journey (pretty much like Bunyan’s Christian).

This was the first thing that Lewis wrote after his conversion, and it’s considered to be an intellectual biography of that journey.

Basically, think Bunyan for the early 20th Century and you’ve got it.

A Couple of Things That Helped Me

Early on, John encounters a “brown girl” who distracts him from his interest in—or at least pursuing that interest. They begin a sexual relationship, which goes awry and causes some serious problems for John (actually, that entire relationship from her introduction on is a serious problem.) I was pretty sure that Lewis wasn’t making any kind of ethnic characterization or anything, but it’s hard to shake the feeling. Thankfully, reading this blog post by a Lewis expert made me feel so much better (and shows I was on the right path in general with it). I’d explain it, but Dr. Hurd does it better.

The other thing that helped was the afterword that Lewis wrote for the Third Edition, ten years after the original publication. He points to some flaws, or at least things he could’ve done better. I agreed with most of his self-diagnosis, and at least one point, his explanation made me understand an aspect of the book (and, yes, he was right to critique himself).

So, while I’m glad for the additional things that helped me appreciate the book, I trust that with very little effort, I could find more. I shouldn’t have to look to these kinds of things to appreciate a book. To gain a better understanding, sure. But to move me from “meh” to “okay, that wasn’t that bad/objectional” should come from the text itself—not from others.

So, what did I think about The Pilgrim’s Regress?

It’s been almost a century since this was first published, and I cannot decide if it’s a good thing or not that so many of the characters and ideas John encounters are still relevant and identifiable (although some details may have altered a bit). The reader can see that these intellectual movements are nothing new—sadly, many of them haven’t been forgotten. One of the best things about reading theological works written generations before me is wondering exactly what the author is targeting (or why they’re bothering)—but the ideas that Lewis wants to confront are still in his readers’ lives. Probably even more than they were for him.

The beginning of the book seemed promising with an uncaring and cold clergy, parents who were off the mark, and so on—I thought John’s journey would lead us to a correction of or confrontation with these things. But no, we get the brown girl and then things go far from where I thought we were going. Naturally, I don’t mind that—but I would’ve appreciated something more definitive. That’s personal taste, though.

Like many allegories, particularly Bunyan’s, there is nothing subtle about The Pilgrim’s Regress. That doesn’t mean it’s not good, or that it’s so clear always that there’s no thinking involved, but, wow—it does tend to feel like it’s hitting you with a brick when John encounters a new person/idea.

Am I glad that I read this? Yes. So I can see Lewis’ development as a writer, to satisfy a certain curiosity in general, and to cross off a decades-old item from my “To Read List.” For people who don’t have at least two of those motivations to pick this up, I can’t really recommend it. I’m not sure I really can for those who do have those motivations—but it satisfies those particular itches.

Is this bad? By no means. It’s not good either. I did particularly enjoy certain lines, scenes, or encounters. I thought some of the ways that Lewis framed the better alternatives to be refreshing and helpful. But overall this really did nothing for me.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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How Does The Publisher Describe The Boys of Riverside?

In November 2021, an obscure email from the California Department of Education landed in New York Times reporter, Thomas Fuller’s, inbox. The football team at the California School for the Deaf in Riverside, a state-run school with only 168 high school students, was having an undefeated season. After years of covering war, wildfires, pandemic, and mass shootings, Fuller was captivated by the story of this group of high school boys. It was uplifting. During the gloom of the pandemic, it was a happy story. It was a sports story but not an ordinary one, built on the chemistry between a group of underestimated boys and their superhero advocate coach, Keith Adams, a deaf former athlete himself. The team, and Adams, tackled the many stereotypes and seemed to be succeeding. Fuller packed his bags and drove seven hours to the Riverside campus.

The Boys of Riverside looks back at the historic 2021 and 2022 seasons in which the California School for the Deaf chased history. It follows the personal journeys of their dynamic deaf head coach, and a student who spent the majority of the season sleeping in his father’s car in the Target parking lot. It tells the story of a fiercely committed player who literally played through a broken leg in order not to miss a crucial game, as well as myriad other heart-wrenching and uplifting narratives of players who found common purpose. Through their eyes, Fuller reveals a portrait of high school athletics, inspiring camaraderie, and deafness in America.

Yeah, But You Don’t Like Football…

True. And it’s okay to not be really into the sport and to listen to this. You dislike the sport, do not understand it, etc.—and still get a lot out of the book. Sure, it’ll help if you understand 8-man vs. 11-man football, what some of the positions do, and so on—but really, that’s just the dressing.

This book is primarily focused on human drama—if you can understand what it means to work hard for a goal—and to achieve or falter—you can understand this book’s story. With the challenges these young men face, it makes their work different, it makes the triumphs sweeter, and the slips more devastating.

Really, at the end of the day, your feelings about the game they play are pretty much negligible.

How was the Narration?

Frequently—probably most of the time—it sounded like Fuller was trying to narrate some sort of thriller like Jack Reacher, Jack Ryan, or Jason Bourne (basically anything Scott Brick would narrate). But once I got past that, it was fine. I’m not sure this story needed that feel—but it didn’t hurt anything.

So, what did I think about The Boys of Riverside?

So you don’t come away from this book with just a good sports story. Fuller discusses various aspects of Deaf Culture, schools for the deaf (particularly in California), the connections between football and Deaf teams that have spread throughout all levels of the game, and more.

Then there’s the players and coaches—also weaved into the narrative are some good profiles of different individuals associated with the team. Like any good sports story—from fiction to the Olympics—its the individuals that draw in a reader/viewer. And Fuller tells that part of the story well.

Of course, the main focus is the team and their pursuit of a championship. And Fuller paces that story really well—so much so that even if you know how it ends before you start the book, you’ll be hooked and invested.

This is an engaging and entertaining read—one that’s occasionally educational, too. What’s not to like?

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Buried Secrets About?

Jesse is called to make a welfare check on an elderly Paradise resident (no one he knows) and finds the worst outcome—they are weeks too late for this check. Also, the man was a hoarder, and it’s near impossible to navigate through his home to his body without disturbing some of his stacks of…whatever it was that he’d accumulated.

When one box of photos is dislodged, Jesse finds several photos of murder victims. Crime Scene techs soon find $2 million in cash stashed in the house. Either one of these finds would send Jesse’s “coply intuition” to sound alarm bills—the two together? He knows that they stumbled onto something bad—and worse is on the way to Paradise if they can’t wrap up this case soon.

The A Story and Jesse

(not that most of the cast of characters aren’t involved in this storyline)

Something about this case sets Jesse off. Something is eating him in ways that he’s unprepared for, and he gets a little on edge and grumpy (at least to those on the outside). The bottle is calling to him in a way it hasn’t for a while. The voice is loud and tempting. There’s at least once that he goes looking for a bottle that thankfully isn’t there anymore.

The way this—and the related issues it brings up—work themselves out through this novel shows just how far Jesse has come since he first came to Paradise—or even since he stopped drinking in earnest. But that battle isn’t over.

The rest of the PPD is involved in this storyline, but this is Jesse’s focus throughout the novel—it’s also where everything that Jesse goes through emotionally/psychologically is rooted. As such, I’ve found that I can’t keep talking about this without telling you too much. So let’s move on to:

The B Story and Everyone Else

The day that this body is found is also the first day for a new officer for the PPD. He’d spent some time on patrol in a major city, and then a smaller city before this relocating. He tells Jesse that he wanted to be in a town like Paradise, where he could do some good.

There’s an incident or two—you could see them as first-day on-the-job eagerness, a training issue, or something worse. Before you know it, people in Paradise (and in the PPD) are divided over this one officer. Jesse is too caught up in this case, the city politics, and other things to really dig into things. Some others in the department aren’t so sure about him. Others are willing to give him a chance or three. Essentially, Jesse is willing to let things shake out on their own—at least until he’s able to close the murder.

He might not get that chance. Making this call is arguably Jesse’s biggest mistake in the novel.

In addition to the story of this officer, Farnsworth is able to bring in some discussion of what it means to be a police officer in the 21st Century USA. What does it look like, what kind of people should wear the badge? What kind of equipment should police departments have? How can people who have a problem with the police in their area safely do? There’s a related scene that touches on public protest and social media/legacy media fanning the flames.

In many—most—ways, this story is not the main focus of the book—but it’s so close that it might as well be. And as much as I enjoyed The A Story, this is the one that hooked me the deepest. Farnsworth did the franchise proud with it, too.

Farnsworth at the Helm

Poor Jesse Stone, this is his fourth author since Parker’s death. Just for that reason alone, I hope Farnsworth sticks around for a while. He and his readers need some continuity. Once you figure in what a bang-up job that Farnsworth did, I can underscore that hope a couple of times.

Unlike just about every other (I think every other, but let’s throw some wiggle room into this), Farnsworth didn’t give us a lot of trivia from Parker’s books to establish his bona fides. There were some references, but they were the same kind that Parker himself made. Farnsworth showed us his credentials in the way he wrote these characters, this community, and the story.

I was a little apprehensive about him—I read at least the first two of his Nathaniel Cade books—maybe all three, but nothing since. There was something about whichever Cade book was my last that didn’t leave me eager to try him again. Don’t ask me what it was—it’s been over a decade. I’m glad my loyalty to the series won out over my vague sense of apprehension (it wasn’t a close competition). He nailed it.

The one item that I’m most happy about is that with one line of dialogue, Farnsworth expanded on—added depth to—Dix. Did we need this for Dix? But I love that we got it. Also…it was a great way to give that gift to us.

BTS Question

I know there have been conversations between some of the Parker-verse authors about moves they were going to make with certain characters and whatnot—I can’t remember the details, but I heard in one or two interviews that Atkins or Coleman had to make an adjustment to one book because of something the other did (I’m being very vague because I don’t remember too much and I’m too lazy to do the homework). So I’m sure that Farnsworth and Lupica had a conversation about this book and the events of Hot Property.

What I want to know is how did Hot Property impact this novel? Did Farnsworth have Rita’s scenes in this book completed and added a couple of lines to reflect it? Did he have something else in mind for those scenes and revised them to take advantage of Lupica’s latest? Just what kind of collaboration happened?

Does this impact my appreciation for either book? Nah. But I’m certainly curious.

So, what did I think about Buried Secrets?

At each step along the way, I kept thinking of other things I wanted to say about this one—and at book 22 of a series (no matter how many authors have contributed), that’s saying something. I’ve done my best to limit myself to the bigger matters, but I think I could add at least another 5 paragraphs without breaking a sweat (and they’d likely lead to others).

When Coleman got Jesse into AA, I saw one fan complain about him turning Jesse into “another whining Twelve Step wuss” (that’s very close to it). This seemed like an odd take, as most of Parker’s work (since 1974’s God Save the Child) has celebrated people getting help via therapy or some other means to improve—even save—their lives. I’m afraid that some of what this book does is going to elicit similar reactions from that fan and many others. I hope that the publisher, the Parker Estate, and Farnsworth ignore all that. I don’t see anything here that doesn’t fit in Parker’s worldview (or at least the worldview of all of his fiction).

The Paradise Police Department—particularly the officers we’ve spent time with since Night Passage—got to shine as they ought to. Sure, it’s Jesse’s series, but Molly, Suit, Peter, Gabe, and the others are more than just cardboard cutouts in the background (obviously we don’t know as much about Peter and Gabe as we do some others). The more the various personnel get to contribute, the more the books feel like it’s about a Police Chief—not some rogue lawman. I’m glad Farnsworth did that.

Buried Secrets was satisfying on every level that I can think of. It’s the best Jesse Stone novel in years (with all due respect to Mr. Lupica), specifically since The Hangman’s Sonnet or Colorblind (now that I’ve mentioned those two books in particular, I could probably have written a post just about the ways that Buried Secrets parallels major elements of those, something I hadn’t thought of until now). It contains a good mystery, some strong social commentary, some great character moments, a bunch of characters on the other side of the law that you just have to meet, some solid action, and most of all, time with characters that fans have been spending time with for decades.

I strongly recommend this.

Disclaimer: I received this eARC from PENGUIN GROUP Putnam via NetGalley in exchange for this post which contains my honest opinion—thanks to both for this.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Broken Bonds About?

This is a work of historical fiction focusing on April 1524-January 1525, at what will prove to be a significant period in the German Reformation. The narrative focuses on three men: Desiderius Erasmus, probably the greatest scholar of the era, and a would-be reformer of the Church; Martin Luther, the Reformer (who went further than Erasmus would’ve), and Philipp Melanchthon, a promising young scholar with ties to them both.

The book follows their connections and interactions with each other—as theoretical as some of them might be—as leaders put pressure on all three to sway them one way or the other, to pick up their pen (or lay it down) for an end, to cease their efforts to reform the Church, to increase their efforts to reform the Church (in ways they cannot agree with), and so on.

Martin Luther

Luther is the most well-known of the trio today, for good reason. In this novel we see Luther trying to reason with his former friend Karlstadt as the latter continues to cause trouble for Luther and everyone in their area. Luther is also trying to get more compensation for and more opportunities to teach and write for Melanchthon—for the sake of the young man’s family and the University of Wittenberg, who could use him.

He’s also dealing with some personal issues—how far does he go himself? Does he give up the monastic robe for that of an academic? It’s so much of his identity, he still holds the vows he swore before him, it cost Luther so much personally to follow this path—and despite the upheaval in his life, is he prepared to lay it all aside? This was so excellently done.

We get some glimpses of some of Luther’s multiple medical issues, a little bit of his humor, and a delightful relationship with and interaction with his goddaughter, too. Mantravadi is careful to present us with a human Luther, not some superhero.

Looming over all that Luther does here is an impending intellectual showdown with the one man he’s not sure he wants to debate with, but is steeling himself to lock horns with:

Desiderius Erasmus

Before Luther burst on the stage, it was easy to think of Erasmus as the greatest Christian thinker, writer, and scholar of his time. Erasmus did try to push for some institutional reforms and had many of the same aims as Luther, but he went about things in a less inflammatory way.

He’s been dodging requests and pleas to interact with Luther for quite some time now—but the pressure is mounting and he’s not certain he can do so much longer. Reluctantly, he picks up his pen to compose On Free Will to directly counter some of Luther’s teachings.

We get a very sympathetic view of Erasmus and his interactions with friends and Protestants he interacts with daily. His health struggles are different than Luther’s but painted just as vividly here. One bout of kidney stones, in particular, almost triggered flashbacks to my last one. I found myself really liking Erasmus and pulling for him.

One of Erasmus’ greatest goals—to chill the Lutheran movement, to further promote diverse ideas in the Academy/Church, and to hand off his work to a brilliant scholar—is to get Melanchthon to come to work with him, and essentially assume his mantle when he’s gone.

Philipp Melanchthon

Melanchthon is a struggling academic, just trying to make enough money to provide for his wife and daughter. He loves to be in the classroom (and it shows), but he’s equally open to teaching in other places, too. He sides with Luther, just not as vociferously as some may want—but Luther appears to trust him.

Melanchthon is tempted to take Erasmus’ offer—it’s a dream situation for him, it’s exactly what he wants. But he’s afraid that he’d have to water down or abandon his Protestant convictions and he’s not ready to do that.

His depiction is easily the most relatable, the most appealing—between the way other characters (particularly Erasmus and Luther) talk about him and the way that Mantravadi shows him, you could make the argument that the others are supporting characters in a novel where the young man is the protagonist.

He does frequently seem too much like a 21st-century man rather than one from the 16th. Particularly when it comes to talking about his wife and daughter. But maybe that’s just me. I really liked it, so I don’t care. Hopefully, it’s close to the truth.

The last thing I want to say about Melanchthon is that there’s a scene with a bunch of students for a sort of study club (best way I can summarize it). It is one of my favorite fictional depictions of a teacher and a group of students since John Keating and that ill-fated group at Welton Academy. I don’t want to give you details, but more than I want his family life to be the way that Mantravadi depicts it, I want this to be true.

The S-Word

So, a lot of the subjects of this book—particularly when it comes to health, but even beyond it—are what some would call “earthy.” It wasn’t a pleasant time to live in many ways, particularly digestive. Anyone who’s read much of Luther’s daily life, humor, or personal history well knows that he can be somewhat scatological. The working of his bowels is a frequent topic for him.

Erasmus isn’t much different. Melanchthon, thankfully, is—but not the people he spends time with.

It’s likely not enough to put anyone off—if anything, it might recruit some younger readers 🙂 But Mantravadi has her characters use vocabulary that Christians in the 16th Century would for these processes and products, even if most 20th/21st Christians would hesitate to use it. Just a word of warning for those who might be put off.

So, what did I think about Broken Bonds?

I went into this with some hesitation—the last two fictional works I read about this time period put me off in a serious way. (one was pre-blog, so I can’t point you at anything I wrote, and I don’t feel like picking on the other again). But I know that Mantravadi has a good reputation among some Church Historians—and even heard her interviewed by one a few years ago, so I felt safe.

I’m so glad that I did—these characters came alive to me in a way that two of them haven’t before (even if I think she handled Luther with kid gloves). She used their positions, arguments—sometimes even words—well in the progress of the novel. There are plenty of footnotes for those who want to dive more into their works. Which is always a bonus in this kind of work (also, footnotes—not endnotes).

The historical detail is there, but not so much of it that you get bogged down in it—the pacing keeps moving at a good clip throughout. Are some of these events overly-dramatized? Quite possibly. Are some of these under-dramatized? Equally possible. It is, in the end, a work of fiction and that needs to be remembered.

It’s a fast-paced read for something in this genre, it’s sympathetic to all its protagonists (even when they’re at odds), there’s good tension—even when it comes to talking about academic pursuits (not the easiest thing to dramatize), and there’s a heart and warmth to it all.

I think this would work for middle school-aged readers, and for most adults, too. You might even learn a little about history and theology while you’re at it. It’s definitely worth the investment of time. I’m more than ready for the second in this duology.

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

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What’s Pigeon-Blood Red About?

Stop me if you’ve heard this before, but a grizzled enforcer and his partner make a mistake that leads to a panicky guy stealing from their boss. This guy, Robert, is already in some serious debt to their boss, Litvak, and this just makes it worse—especially when Robert leaves town suddenly and tries to use the theft to leverage Litvak into writing off the debt. Litvak doesn’t like this idea, and sends the enforcer, Rico, to track down Robert, deal out some punishment, and come back with at least the stolen item—and maybe more.

Yeah, this feels incredibly familiar—which is not a deal-breaker at all, it just makes it easy for the reader/listener to get into the story. As always, it’s what the author does with a familiar set-up that makes it worth the ride. And Duncan doesn’t disappoint there.

That largely has to do with other people that Rico and Robert encounter along the way—some of whom get swept up in Rober’s foolhardy and desperate moves and find themselves in Rico’s cross-hairs when they’re just trying to live their lives. But you should learn about them for yourselves.

Some of These People are the Worst

Seriously, you can hear Jean-Ralphio singing it as you think of some of these people. I’m not even talking about the hitman here—but some of his targets. Okay, his boss isn’t that great, either. But he’s supposed to be a morally bankrupt scoundrel. The more we get to know—and the more we see from—Robert and some others and you can’t help but wonder if the world will be a better place without them.

I will say that it took me a little longer to warm up to Rico than is usual in this type of book. Our introduction to the character—the first real thing we see from him—really made it hard for me to want anything more than to see Litvak put him in a hole somewhere, but that changed.

How Was the Narration?

My initial reaction to the thought was “absolutely fine,” and I was prepared to move on. However brief that answer was.

But Keyser deserves a little more than that, I think. He really was a great match for this material—I wish I could find other audiobook credits for him to see how he does with other genres (and am a little discouraged to see that he’s not attached to the rest of this trilogy). He could handle the lighter moments–the sweet moments–as well as the not-even-close-to-sweet moments when bullets are flying equally well (and we’ve all heard narrators that can’t quite pull that off in the same book).

I really enjoyed his work and think he made a series of really smart choices and executed them well.

So, what did I think about Pigeon-Blood Red?

After various and sundry delays, it was hard for me to remember some details that I wanted to, so I listened to a few bits again—and I really had a hard time forcing myself not to just listen to the whole book again (if I had one more day on a Libby book, I probably would’ve indulged myself). I think that says plenty about this book.

Duncan assembled this particular book very well, there were a lot of moving pieces—and plenty of backstories to bring in—and he managed to keep the reader engaged with all the characters while maintaining the pace and building the tension. I really admired that–in a longer book that might have been easier, actually, but this is a quick listen and to cram as much in as he does is no mean feat (and it never feels crowded, crammed, or rushed).

There’s a scene that I’ve spent some time thinking about again and again since I listened to this–it’s a pivotal scene toward the end. It could be a scene from a farce—it’s full of mistaken identities, close calls, crazy chains of events, and so on. You add a jaunty, bouncy soundtrack and an exaggerated facial expression or two, and it could be seen as comical. If you ignore the blood, terror, and death, that is. I could see it all very clearly in my mind, and I think Duncan faked me out a little bit (see: mistaken identities). Duncan and Keyser both were spot-on during this scene/sequence and earned a lot of trust from me there.

I found something to like in all the primary characters, (other than Robert and unnamed persons from the above section), and got invested in the outcomes surrounding them. By the end of the book, I wasn’t actually sure what character(s) the trilogy would follow and could see myself signing on to whatever ones Duncan stuck with. I was pretty sure it’d be Rico—and the title of the third book, Rico Stays gives it away. But that I’d have been open to some others, I think tells you a lot.

Was this a book that ever really blew me away? I don’t think so—but I was engaged and entertained through it all. It was entirely satisfying (if you ignore the bump with Rico in the beginning, but I got over it). And now that I’ve finished this post, I can get to listen to the rest of the trilogy in short order. Be prepared to sign on to a trilogy if you start this (a quick-moving trilogy, I should stress).

Disclaimer: I received a copy of this audiobook from the author and Kelsey Butts at Book Publicity Services. Other than giving me something to opine about, this did not influence my opinion which is honestly reflected above.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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Over half a century of poking around the woods and mountains, I have rescued several dozen wild creatures from life-threatening situations. Almost none ever expressed an iota of gratitude. Instead, they have attempted to bite me, peck me, claw me, scratch me, gore me, even as | rendered them the service. The only one to repay the favor of my rescuing it was a skunk, when I was eight years old, and it spent all of its resources to purchase my freedom from school for a whole week. In my experience, however, that skunk was unique among wild creatures for its kindness and generosity.

What’s The Good Samaritan Strikes Again About?

This is a collection of 24 of McManus’s essays, pulled from a variety of sources talking about…well, mostly the things he always talks about—his life, hunting, fishing, and things he finds interesting.

There’s not a recurring theme or anything, I’m guessing this is just a collection of pieces written in the early 1990s (the previous collection was published in ’91, the following in ’94).

McManus’s Humor

I think the best way to describe this humor is gentle. He’s not one for clever wordplay (although he will occasionally indulge), this isn’t biting satire, he’s not as outlandish and goofy as Barry. It felt like Lewis Grizzard at half-volume—I think it’s similar to Garrison Keillor (although I really can’t say) or Tom Bodett.

I can’t imagine you’ll guffaw—or laugh out loud. But you’ll be amused. You’ll smile—maybe even chuckle.

So, what did I think about The Good Samaritan Strikes Again?

I haven’t read McManus since the mid-80s—there were a couple of years where some of his early collections were in heavy rotation amongst my extended family and I sampled a few. Mostly I didn’t get his humor at the time—even then I didn’t relate too much to the hunting and fishing jokes. I understood more of them now, at least—but I don’t know that I found them more amusing now.

I feel like I need to turn in my Idaho Citizen card for saying that kind of thing—McManus and I were born in the same city, we were inculcated with many of the same values, and had the same kind of environment growing up. But our senses of humor didn’t develop along the same lines.

The pieces that had the least to do with outdoors-y topics worked best for me. He touches on aging and worry, there’s a little bit of satire relating to PR, there’s some stuff on coping with stress, recounting his first kiss…the title essay involves trying to help a motorist following an accident. Then there are a lot of things involving camping, hiking, fishing, hunting and the like…most of those had something I found amusing—a paragraph, a clever sentence—many of them were largely entertaining. But that’s for me—and humor is more subjective than most things I talk about here (although everything is pretty subjective here)—so who knows how you’ll react.

When Ford Prefect’s editors were done with his revisions to the entry for Earth in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the entry summing up our planet read “Mostly harmless.” Similarly, I think The Good Samaritan Strikes Again could be summed up as: Mildly amusing.

Your results may vary, obviously, but it’s a pleasant way to spend some time—not much more. But honestly, who wouldn’t mind a pleasant couple of hours?

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Chasing Empty Caskets About?

So, sure, Cyn (and Winnie) has opened a P.I. business, but is there that much for a Private Eye to do in Sweat Pea, OH? As the book opens (and for some time before that) Cyn is taking on cases involving missing pets, potentially haunted homes, and the like.

But then a makeup artist at a local mortuary approaches her with a case. The paperwork at her mortuary indicates that there are more bodies there than she can find. This has been going on for a while and she wants Cyn to look into what’s happening to the missing bodies. Rhetta doesn’t want to bring it up to her boss herself and risk losing her job, but something isn’t right.

Some of this investigation will end up right where the reader assumes—but there’s also plenty going on that you don’t expect until it’s in your face like a proverbial thrown cream pie.

Meanwhile, Cyn tries to have a love life. She goes on one of the worst dates you’ve read about and stumbles across another crime or two that she needs to look into. But there are some better developments in that area afterward (after you read about the date, you’ll realize what a low bar that is)

We meet a potential new recurring-character and spend time with plenty of those we met before.

Take This With Whatever-Sized Portion of Salt You Wish To

Even if the rest of the book was a dud*, the first chapter was so funny that I’d have been more than happy that I paid for the book. Particularly the first 8 pages, the 243 that follow were just gravy.

* It was not

Obviously tastes, especially when it comes to humor, differ, so I can’t promise that everyone will have this reaction. And there might be a bit of hyperbole expressed above. But, I started this book the evening after that surgery I had a couple of months ago, and laughing at those pages hurt me. They also made me chuckle as I re-read them before I wrote this section.

So, what did I think about Chasing Empty Caskets?

The important thing to remember is that this is a comedy with a mystery thrown in. Suburban Dicks and the Fox and O’Hare books, for example, are Comedic Mysteries/Thrillers. This is a Crimey-Comedy (there’s probably a better name for that somewhere).

So, yeah, the mystery parts may not be the clearest at times. Cyn may overlook some pretty obvious clues, and an action scene or two may come across as convoluted. But that’s because they’re there to serve the comedy. This isn’t to say that this isn’t effective as a mystery novel, the “may”s in the opening sentence should be emphasized, but it does come into play.

The running jokes in this novel are—mercifully—different than the ones in the first Cyn/Winnie novel. Crane isn’t setting us up for a running gag like Stephanie Plum’s car problems (seriously, at this point why does anyone let her drive anything other than that ’53 Buick? Why does she try to?). I enjoyed the cast-gag in Barking for Business more, but these were good enough, and I applaud Crane for going somewhere new.

There are many other things I’d like to compliment, but I don’t know how to do that without ruining plot points or jokes, so I’m not going to try. Basically, if you want silly, madcap, fun with plenty of canine-involved slapstick, look no further than Chasing Empty Caskets and the Sharp Investigations series.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Secret & Hunting Virgins About?

These are two short stories, sort of linked by protagonists purporting to possess some unique spiritual role/status. They’re thrillers best described as a mix of realism and SF/Fantasy. That’s really all I can think of to link them.

The Secret

This story follows a man who cannot keep a secret as he takes a road trip to visit his father one last time before he dies. At his father’s deathbed, he learns a secret that will change the world. Somehow surviving a hail of bullets that don’t prevent him from learning this secret, he’s instead imprisoned on trumped-up charges and put into solitary confinement (while never explaining why the government doesn’t use one more bullet once there’s a clear shot). Will he be able to outwit the guards and other prison officials to broadcast this secret?

Hunting Virgins

This is both an experiment into how often—and in how many ways—the word “virgin” can be used in a 33-page story as well as the story of a team of hard-partying hazardous-tree removal experts. At some point, their leader has a religious conversion and leaves this profession to start a church on the other side of the U.S.

A decade later, he returns with an offer too good to be true (literally). He recruits his old team—plus his beautiful and virtuous daughter who shouldn’t be anywhere near these louts—to go with him to a portion of Siberia to clear part of a forest heretofore untouched by logging in exchange for a small fortune. Why Russian loggers are incapable of doing this for far less, we’re not told. Nor why any company thinks that logging in an area so difficult to get to makes any sense at all, especially when the expenses incurred to do that are so large.

But maybe their dangerous profession and the well-known hardships of the Siberian climate aren’t the most deadly things that lay in wait for them…

So, what did I think about The Secret & Hunting Virgins?

I honestly can’t tell you which story made me angrier—the plots were disappointing, unoriginal, and somehow nonsensically inexplicable at the same time. The characters were utterly unlikeable at best and contemptible (in an uninteresting way) most of the time. The writing was dry and uncompelling—and the ineptness of the prose was only challenged by its lack of clarity for the least appealing part of it.

The ways that Christian—or pseudo-Christian and near gnostic—ideas are scattered throughout these two stories are just as off-putting as the rest of the elements of this writing. I can’t tell if Hawk is really trying to tell stories with Christian themes* or if he’s just using the trappings of those themes the way that Pierce Brown uses the trappings of the Roman Empire to tell his stories. Either way, he fails.

* I’m using Christian in the broadest and most watered-down possible sense here.

“The Secret” features a couple of people with delusions of grandeur comparing themselves to Apostles to bring the world one of the tiredest ideas this side of Whitley Strieber. I wondered a few times if I’d have liked it more if Hawk hadn’t tried to compress the events into such a short space, but had developed them fully and let them breathe. But I just don’t see any evidence that he’s capable of doing that. He spent more time on this than he should’ve.

“Hunting Virgins” is even worse—these tree-removal experts have the maturity of the main characters of the 80s Porky’s films* and should be trusted with power tools to the same extent. There’s nothing about them that says megacorporations should shower them with money to do anything—and when things start to go wrong for them, there’s nothing about the situation to make the reader care.

* I can’t believe that I remembered these things existed, either. Or that anyone ever used the word “film” to describe them with a straight face.

Why did I finish? I was curious—and the book is crazy short. Also, I spent enough money on this volume that I couldn’t let myself just walk away. I regret the whole thing and hope I’ve convinced you to avoid this experience.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s First Frost About?

This is a dual-timeline novel—which isn’t altogether new for the Longmire books. In the present time, the shootings that ended The Longmire Defense* are being looked at, and Walt’s possibly facing criminal charges.

* I don’t think it’s much of a spoiler to say that. Most Longmire books end with one.

In the other timeline—which gets most of the ink—we watch Walt and Henry try to drive cross-country after graduating college in California so they can report for Basic Training on the East Coast. A road mishap and a bit of bad navigation on Walt’s part result in them getting stuck in a small Arizona town for a few days, where they find some trouble.

Now

On the one hand, I get the antagonism that Walt and Vic show toward the proceedings because it’s instinctual to get defensive when someone’s questioning your actions (and, well, Vic’s antagonistic about a lot). But it seems excessive—Walt’s enough of a believer in doing things The Right Way (in contrast to his grandfather or Lucian, for example), that he should be in favor of this exercise.

That said…it’s clearly motivated by politics and big-money-fueled corruption. So maybe it’s justifiable for them to push back against this. I’m not entirely convinced that the way this stage of the investigation ends is really less corrupt than the way it starts.

Then

It’s 1964 and the first thing we see is Walt and Henry surfing one last time before taking off on their drive to Oklahoma for Henry to see some family and then to their respective bases. Everything that happens in California is vintage Johnson and if he’d maintained that quality, I’d have been very happy.

But once Walt breaks something in their truck when he breaks to avoid a dog in the road (coyote, Henry insists), I think the whole thing goes to pot. Walt thinks something’s hinky in the tiny and sparsely populated town they find themselves in. Rather than just waiting for the truck to get fixed so they can hit the road, he starts asking questions and annoying all the wrong people.

Meanwhile, Henry plays tourist, checking out the abandoned Japanese Internment Camp nearby (which, of course, ends up playing a role in what Walt’s stirring up) and flirting with a local young woman.

It’s not long before people are starting to end up dead and Walt’s life becomes endangered.

So, what did I think about First Frost?

If I think about this as Johnson’s tribute to Route 66 (and, boy howdy, was it one) and a way for him to talk about Japanese Internment Camps, I like this more. If I think about this as a Longmire novel, my regard diminishes. I do frequently enjoy Johnson multitasking—talking about Van Gogh’s murder, the Sturgis rally, Native American Women going missing, and so on, while telling a Longmire story—so that’s not it. I just don’t think the stories were executed as well as Johnson usually does.

Both stories wrapped up too easily—a little too _____ ex machina (I can’t tell you what non-deus entities were involved). At the same time, the 1964 story took a little too long to come to its resolution. I’m not sure how that’s not contradictory, but it’s not (at least in my mind).

I believe the major function of the present storyline was to set-up a future novel or two (see also: the first time Walt and Henry watched Lolo Long’s niece, Jayla, play basketball)—so I could come around to appreciate what Johnson was doing here. But what we saw in First Frost left me wanting.

The 1964 story ultimately suffered from what a lot of prequels do—it’s hard to believe that the Walt and Henry who just finished college act so much like Walt and Henry with their respective military trainings and decades of experience do. I had no problem when we looked at Walt as an MP (in whatever book that was), I think Johnson got it right there, ditto for rookie Walt in The Western Star.

I’m actually not entirely wild about the portrayal of the Cheyenne Nation in the 1964 Story, actually. Almost all of it seemed off—but I think it’s a good thing, it shows that life, experience, and maturation changed Henry.

Obviously, time and re-reads/listens might change what I think about it, but on the whole, this one gets a “not bad” from me. I am curious about the stories I think were set up and think we could be in for some fun there (and a potentially good way to get Walt out of Absaroka County to keep the body count from rising).

Long-time fans will find enough to satisfy them, people curious about the series should start elsewhere.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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She closed her eyes again and was still, and I was afraid she’d gone back to sleep. Three tough guys in here with her, as tough as she had ever known, but she had always considered herself to be as tough as we were, even making her way in a mostly man’s world. But now she had found out what all of us found out eventually, that tough was always the one with the gun.

What’s Hot Property About?

Rita Fiore is shot while walking to the gym. It’s serious—no one knows if she’ll make it. Spenser, Hawk, Frank Belson, and Martin Quirk assemble at the hospital to wait for word and begin plotting how they’ll find those responsible.

Quirk and Belson will oversee the official investigation, and Spenser will take on the one that they all anticipate will get results. Hawk will be waiting in the wings for when he’s needed.

There are plenty of people who’d be interested in hurting Rita, sadly—a few dissatisfied clients, and many people that she faced off against in court and who came away hurting. Spenser starts there and then starts looking into her personal life, too.

Both of these angles end up revealing more than Spenser expected. Then someone dies—and Rita’s health remains uncertain. While she and the doctors do what they can to keep her going, Spenser, Hawk, and others will have to make sure she’ll be safe outside the hospital.

Honest Question

Do we know that Quirk and Belson are friends with Rita? I don’t remember them interacting in the books before—but we’re on 52 now, it’d be easy to forget. When she was a Norfolk County D.A., she probably didn’t interact with them much (if at all). And I don’t see how a litigator—particularly a defense lawyer—for the kind of firm she works for has a tendency to befriend Homicide detectives (or vice versa).

Lupica clearly knows his Parker lore, so I should assume that he’s right to portray things this way. But I just don’t remember it, and I can’t see why they would befriend her.

I do like the way this all played out, so I’m not complaining, either. It’s just pointing to a lacuna in my memory and it bugs me.

Susan

Susan always said that the problem with a good idea was that once it got inside your head, it was almost impossible to get it out.

I thought I might have one now.

One in a row.

I thought this was a decent usage of Susan throughout this book—she does a little more than just serve as an excuse for a plot recap and some banter (which even Atkins slipped into, although never as much as Parker did toward the end).

I was disappointed in her early reaction to Rita’s situation—but I should’ve trusted that Lupica wouldn’t leave her as petty (but not insensitive).

Lupica’s Style

“You’re a pretty funny guy,’ he said.

“Yeah,” I said, “but I’m trying to quit.”

Some of the humor lines felt a bit forced, but they still worked. It frequently felt like Spenser was trying to hone his crowd-work before his next stand-up gig, rather than just an inveterate smart-ass.

But that does bring up Lupica’s style as a whole. I’ve seen some people online (and in the comment section here) talk about how he doesn’t match Parker’s (or Atkins’) style. I think this is a good thing—I think he seemed to shoot for Parker’s voice with his Sunny and Stone novels, but here he’s not trying (or he’s doing a really bad job of it, probably the former). I don’t remember the voice in his Spenser debut, Broken Trust.

Instead of trying to mimic, he’s taking the path that Reed Farrel Coleman chose for his Jesse Stone books—he used his own while staying true (more or less) to the characters. Spenser and Hawk banter, Susan and Rita exchange suggestive dialogue with Spenser, Tony Marcus is obnoxious and code switches his diction on a whim, and so on.

Obviously, some people are going to prefer one take over another—I can actually argue both ways (and I think if you look back at what I’ve said about all the post-Parker writers you’ll see me doing that). But for now, I like what Lupica’s doing.

This is where I invite Robert Germaux to demur in the comment section (or in a Guest Post if he has a lot to get off of his chest). 🙂

So, what did I think about Hot Property?

“The dogs bark,” I said, “and the caravan moves on.”

Walsh raised an eyebrow. When I tried to do that, Susan said it looked as if ‘d developed a twitch.

“First Tennyson with you, and now Arab proverbs,” he said. “Are you absolutely certain you’re a private detective?”

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve asked myself that exact same question lately,” I said.

While I’m not completely sold on all aspects of this book, I do think it was an improvement over Lupica’s first Spenser novel (and I considered that his strongest Parker-verse work!).

It was an interesting choice to go diving into Rita’s personal life—as well as seeing some of her legal work that didn’t require a certain P.I. to help. It was a look into Rita that we’d never really got before. I don’t know that her creator would’ve made all the same choices with her but the current torch-carrier did right by the character (and Christopher Farnsworth followed up on this well, but that’s for another day).

Lupica had all the requisite twists and turns to keep the reader guessing, the pacing just right, and there were some real sweet moments (and some not so sweet) between characters in ways we don’t typically get to see.

It’s gotta be hard to find new ways to satisfy readers in the 52nd book in a series, without just pumping out replicas of earlier books—but Lupica has done that here, and I’m looking forward to seeing what he brings us later this year.

For readers used to this series or those who are looking for a new one to try, this Hot Property is worth your time and attention—you’ll be glad you gave it a shot.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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We’d give until nightfall or the first howls before we gave them up for lost. Lost to never be spoken of again. Those ghosts trapped in meat who would become monsters to haunt us, to hunt us.

What’s Howl About?

That’s the end of the first chapter—and it tells you all you need to know about how warm and fuzzy this world isn’t.

This novella takes place in some sort of postapocalyptic future, and the world is in a very confusing place. It could be filled with the sufficiently advanced technology indistinguishable from magic or, it could be filled with sufficiently ordered magic indistinguishable from technology. Or maybe in the overlap of the Venn Diagram of the two. Eh…it doesn’t matter—one or both, it’s a cool world (for the reader, anyway, not so great for the residents).

In this harsh world, a young man and woman are kicked out of their tribe, their names taken from them—they’re left to try to survive as long as they can in the wilderness (yes, I’m glossing over important things). Following an encounter with some beasts that no one wants to come across, they meet a woman powerful enough to help them. She’s a monster hunter who has recently lost her team. This pair are a team in need of shelter, food, identity, and purpose. She takes them in, starts to teach them about the world outside all they’ve known and gives them those things they need.

And then…well, as you expect from monster hunters—they run into something nasty.

So, what did I think about Howl?

The writing was solid throughout—with moments that surpassed that and approached “good.” This isn’t necessarily a book that requires good writing—it’s got an inventive setting, strong characters, a propulsive storyline, and strange magic/science. Solid, capable writing is enough to keep you engaged and turning the pages—it’s enough to bring you back for more in the series. But good writing? The parts where you really can tell that craft has gone into a sentence or more? That’s icing on the cake—and rathke brushes up against that on a few occasions. Enough to make you realize he’s capable of it–and that maybe he’ll deliver more of that soon.

That said, there were a few moments where I wondered if he was trying too hard to make some of the emotional beats hit hard. If he’s backed off a bit and let them impact the reader with their own gravity, rather than giving an extra “oomph,” I think it might have been more effective. One of those moments was tied to a big reveal for a couple of the characters—or at least they acted like it was a big reveal. All I could think at the moment was, “Were you not paying attention a few pages back? I was.” Having paid that kind of attention, the (second) revelation didn’t make much of an impact on me, so the characters’ reactions seemed a bit off.

But let’s ignore those points (or at least rush past them), they’re not all that important.

What is important is the action, the worldbuilding, the characters—and the promise that we’ll learn a lot more about everything we see in this novella.

Once it gets moving (and it takes just a little while to get there), things happen quickly and intensely. The action scenes are great, the dashes of humor are fun—and I want more of all of this.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Mercy Chair About?

The book opens with Washington Poe in one of the least likely places we’ve seen him—therapy. Sure, he’s not there because he really wants to be—but he’s still there. Dr. Clara Lang is a trauma therapist, and she’s trying to help Poe recover from a case that drove him to the point that an “incident” occurred (SPOILER: it’s nothing as bad as what he did prior to The Puppet Show, but this one had witnesses).

He’s not in a good space—nightmares are plaguing him, and the circumstances around this case are likely what pushed him over the edge. The founder of a group called The Children of Job—an independent religious group associated with “extreme” views on sex, sexuality, government, and several other “culture war”-type issues—has been murdered. Stoned to death, to be precise. Poe and Tilly’s old friend, the Bishop of Carlisle, wants them to look into this—the Children of Job have been trying to be recognized for years, and while he’s disinclined to do that, he’d like to get this murder cleared up and to explore the group some. Enter our heroes.

It’s a brutal, brutal murder—but as the investigation goes on, they learn more and more about this Church, its practices and beliefs—practices that aren’t just questionably acceptable or orthodox—but some that are downright criminal. And every secret, every layer of mystery, that Poe uncovers shows another layer of dirt and darkness. You won’t feel that bad for the murder victim for too long.

Also, their agency is being audited by the government—one auditor, Linus, is assigned to Poe and Tilly while they conduct this investigation. Poe dubs him an intern and treats him like one—hoping to dissuade him from continuing this “audit” or at least not to let things get bogged down by Linus. Poe can see through the story he and his DI have been fed about this auditor, but he’s still stuck with him for the duration, as complicating as his presence/observation is (if only because Poe has to worry about his real purpose).

The Religion of The Children of Job (and others)

I have several questions regarding the beliefs of this group, The Children of Job. For example, what’s with that name? It’s an odd one to pick. The leader/founder of the group is covered in religious tattoos, but they seem like a fundamentalist group (and are compared to Westboro Baptist Church)—and I really don’t see those two going together. But I could be wrong there. But other things that don’t work with that group are things like the dichotomy of mortal and venial sins (something we’re told the CoJ do hold to).

I get it—the main thing we’re supposed to focus on with this group is their controversial (at best) beliefs and practices. They’re supposed to be the intolerant, unthinking group that Poe can rail and push against. But the lack of a coherent religious worldview and practice really doesn’t work. Yes, they should seem aberrant to Poe and Tilly’s secular point of view and to the Bishop of Carlisle’s very un-secular perspective, that’s beside the point. It should sill seem internally consistent—and the Children of Job don’t. They really feel like a hodgepodge of hot-button Evangelical/Evangelical-ish beliefs and practices forced into some religious chimera.

If, like most readers (I suspect), you don’t notice or care about this sort of thing, you’ll do fine. On the other hand, if you take this stuff seriously and expect sectarian groups that border on being a cult would take it seriously, too…it will bother you. It should bother the COJ. Does this impact the experience of the reader? Not really. Does it impact the hunt for the killer, his/her/their motivation? Nope. Does it impact Poe, Tilly, or anyone else we care about in the book? Nope. Did it/does it occupy too much real estate in my mind? Yup.

Along these lines—sort of, we’re told that Poe’s “intern” Linus read theology at university, and he’s treated as the investigation’s religion expert after that. Which is fine, it’s not like they can call the Bishop of Carlisle every time something comes up. But in Chapter 17 he pokes at one of my pet peeves, calling the last book in the New Testament “Revelations.” Now, the name of the book is singular—coming from the opening line, “The Revelation of Jesus Christ…” Back in Chapter 11, he got the name right. So, is he just sloppy? Maybe (but the more we get to know him, the less likely that seems). And for all her lack of interest in religion, how does Tilly not catch something like that and harp on it? Is this a case of sloppy copy editing? That’s possible. But I don’t know, and it irks me. It’s not a big deal, but it’s one of those errors that’s like nails on a chalkboard to me.

Poe’s Life Battles

One of the problems with juice and smoothie bars was that however much they dressed it up, they really only served fruit and vegetables. It didn’t matter that the ingredients had been blended, put in a cup and served with a soggy cardboard straw, it was still a gunky mess of unpalatable leafy greens and unbearably sour or sickeningly sweet fruits. Ingredients supermarkets wouldn’t put on the same aisles were forced together then given misleading names such as Liquid Sunshine and Endless Summer.

But the main problem was that for a supposedly fast and convenient food, smoothie and juice bars were slow and inconvenient. Poe reckoned he and Linus had been waiting for fifteen minutes. And, to make matters worse, the place Bradshaw had sent them no longer did milkshakes. The teenager behind the counter had offered Poe frozen yoghurt instead, to which Poe had replied, ‘T’d rather piss in my shoes.’

While they waited Linus said, “You seem to have a lot of these little “life battles”, Poe.’

‘What battles?’

‘Well, this one for a start. All you had to do was say no thanks to the frozen yoghurt. Instead, it became a whole big thing. I’d be surprised if they don’t spit in our smoothies.’

‘And I’d be surprised if you noticed,’ Poe said.

It will come as no surprise to anyone who’s read this series—or any of Craven’s work because it’s true of all his protagonists—that Washington Poe’s greatest enemy is himself. As seen, even Linus (who hasn’t known Poe that long—and is kept at arm’s length) can see it.*

* Also, I rather enjoyed that pericope.

Each book in the series explores—in one way or another—Poe’s propensity to engage in these life battles, and what they cost him—whether it be his home, his job, his credibility, the purchase price for a roasted goat, or spit in Tilly’s smoothie (spit in Linus’ smoothie would be a gift to Poe).

To some extent those close to Poe, or those who’ve worked with him and have seen what his methods/personality result in, can tolerate this, or make allowances for it. But

Now, any armchair therapist would tie this into his mother abandoning him and him telling himself (or Linus in a couple of pages after this) that he just doesn’t care about what other people think. But that’s garbage, and as much as Poe will tell that story to himself—he may even believe it—this comes from a dark place (no surprise) and potentially wreaks havoc on his personal life. It’s done that to his career—and it may do it to individual cases.

When we first met him, there was D.I. Stephanie Flynn—a friend of sorts—and, that’s about all we know about in Poe’s life outside of work (and since they worked together…). But now he has a home, he has Edgar. He has grown over this series—see his relationship with Tilly, with Estelle—and even his working relationship with the police in Cumbria. There are people and things besides his stubborn self-reliance in his life. He might even be fighting fewer life battles. Hopefully not too many—he might be a slightly less entertaining character if he gives up on them completely. But seeing gradual change—growth, thankfully—in a mature character is a great feature in a series.

And all of that is due to Tilly Bradshaw. But following up on that is for another time…

Physical Descriptions

In the past, I’ve talked about Craven’s ability to make you see a physical location—and kind of feel, smell, and hear it, too. There are a couple of locations like that in this book (the most striking I’m not going to talk about, you get to find it and be haunted by it yourself).

But I haven’t done a great job in talking about his gift for physical description. There are some dazzling examples in this book. Like:

[Name] was as thin as garlic skin and twice as pale. He had hair like an unshorn sheep, and the physique of someone who drank his meals. His back was banana-curved. Given his background, Poe had been expecting an older version of Joshua Meade. Prim and prissy with a distasteful look, as if he had something smelly on his upper lip. But, in his ratty dressing gown and even rattier sandals, [Name] looked like a featherweight Merlin. His toenails were jagged and yellow and dirtier than a dustbin lid.

Virginia Rose was thinner than a lolly stick and meaner than skimmed milk. Her words were precise, her vowels trimmed. She spoke as if it was a necessary but unpleasant chore. Poe reckoned that five hundred years earlier she would have been a witchfinder’s assistant, gleefully passing them the heretic’s fork. Some people just gave off that vibe.

You don’t get descriptions like that everywhere, you know? Seriously, I could read pages and pages of those kinds of snapshots. I’m not even sure that Poe needs to do much but wander around a city and people-watch to make me want to read the thing.

Yes, I read this and other series for the stories and the characters—but when an author like Craven gives you this kind of detail, delivered in this kind of way (what one author recently described to me as “sparkle”)? That’s when he gets a lifelong reader, even if he doesn’t seem to know how many times to use the letter s in “Revelation.”

Story-Telling

The novel as a whole is about Washington Poe telling a story. And throughout it, a few people have stories to tell him (sometimes announced as such, sometimes not).

There’s an extent to which every mystery/detective/police procedural is about storytelling—the story the evidence presents (or seems to present, for Mickey Haller, Eddie Flynn, Andy Carpenter, and the like), the stories the witnesses tell, the stories that the detective/whoever assembles over the case, the stories the criminal tells, and so on—in addition to the story the novelist is telling.

But few are as upfront and in-your-face about it as The Mercy Chair is. Craven forces the reader—well, okay, that’s overstating it. Craven invites the reader to think about the layers of story in the book you’re holding/listening to—it’s similar to Churchill’s line about “a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.” I can’t delve into it to the depth it deserves in a post like this—nor am I sure I have the ability to explore it as it should be in general—but, like the section above, not every author delivers this kind of layer, meta-commentary, or element (whatever you choose to think of it) to a police procedural. So many—many that I enjoy, I hasten to add—are satisfied delivering a plot, a dose of character development, a clever mystery, and calling it a day. It’s the special authors that give you space and textual reasons to chew on things beyond the basics.

So, what did I think about The Mercy Chair?

Don’t ask me why—I don’t often find myself suffering from (and/or enjoying) the phenomenon called “Book Hangovers”—I think part of it is that I have so many books on my TBR that I don’t have time. For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, one blogger defines them as “all those thoughts and feelings you get after reading a good book that prevents you from moving forward in your real life and/or your reading life.” Well, I got one from The Mercy Chair—not only could I not move on nearly as quickly as I typically do, I couldn’t even write anything that night. I was just in a mental daze that left me in a state to watch some mindless TV until I went to sleep. It just got under my skin, worked its way into the folds of my cerebral cortex, and into my bone marrow.

Basically, it haunted me for a few days.

And I loved it for it. Make no mistake, all of this is a good thing. A very good thing.

And then…when it came time to write this post, I kept coming up with more and more to say—and have exerted more self-control than I like (and a lot of trimming) to keep this from being a pamphlet.

I’ve said little about Tilly, which is a little odd. I could be wrong (I likely am), but I think the percentage of the novel that features her is smaller than usual. But it works (this time), due to the nature of the stories that Poe and Craven are telling. But when she’s around, she’s as fantastic as always (I have to bite my tongue on a couple of scenes that I really want to get into). Also, before the events of the novel begin—Tilly gets to shine in a very non-crime-fighting way. It’s good to have the reminder that not only does Poe think she’s brilliant—she actually is.

The book as a whole is the darkest yet in this series—possibly the darkest thing that Craven has written (I still have one pre-Poe book to read, so I can’t weigh in on that). But it doesn’t stop being entertaining—thankfully. There’s at least one “awwww”-inducing moment as well as some lightness, some hope, some Poe and Tilly nonsense just around the corner up until the end game. And by that point, you’re so hooked by the tension and wowed by the revelations that you don’t care. I’m including the revelations that you may have guessed at, or close to—because the bits of them that you haven’t guessed at will make you feel like your hunches were useless anyway. It’s a good thing no one in my family dared to interrupt me during the last 80-100 pages, I’d probably have fewer people talking to me today.

It didn’t end quite as neatly as many of these books do—but it’s so close that no one’s going to care (and who doesn’t like a little ambivalence anyway?)—and there’s a problem discussed in the closing pages that is going to make things difficult for the partnership in at least the next book. I don’t expect that it’ll last too long—and at the very least it’ll be something that Poe and Tilly overcome. I’m not saying it’ll be a “super easy, barely an inconvenience” type of thing, but I don’t see Craven as having written himself into a corner. Still, it’s the closest thing we’ve gotten to a cliffhanger in the series.

The Mercy Chair is going to go down as one of my highlights of the year, and will likely be one of the high points of this series. It’ll be hard to distinguish it from the rest of the high points—the Washington Poe/Tilly Bradshaw books are filled with them, but I do think The Mercy Chair will poke up a little higher than the rest of this Himilayan-esque series.

Read this. Read everything Craven has published—and probably will publish. Heck, go through his trash to see if you can find a to-do list/shopping list—they’re probably worth reading.* Once you shake the heebie-jeebies that this novel will induce, you’ll be glad you did.

* Please don’t do that, I was just joking. That’d be creepy. Also…probably not safe, we know what kind of twisted things his mind is capable of, don’t make him angry.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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WARNING

If you haven’t read Headphones and Heartaches by Wesley Parker yet, don’t read this post. If you’re not sure if you’d want to—this is not the post to read, either. Go read my take on it and then go read Headphones and Heartaches. Or skip my post (just don’t tell me you did that, my ego is fragile) and read the book. That’s up to you. But the first sentence of the next section contains a major spoiler for it.

Something about senior year has caused a shift in my relationships with those closest to me. People have been weirder, going on soliloquies about the past and how much I’ve grown up. It feels like I’m at the beginning of a long goodbye.

What’s Detours and Do-Overs About?

When we left Percy, he was mourning his mother, being helped through her death by overdose by his adoptive mother, girlfriend, and best friend. When we pick up with him here…well, he’s still doing the same. But he’s getting better all the time. It’s the beginning of his senior year, with all the drama, tensions, and excitement that brings.

Percy’s thinking about colleges—something he’d never believed possible until now. He’s even thinking about out-of-state colleges, and the teacher who took him under his wing in the last book has helped him connect with someone from the University of Maine and thinks he can get him a great scholarship. It’s hard to say what it is exactly about that school that captures Percy’s attention—maybe just the novelty of him leaving New Jersey by choice. This isn’t going to go well with his girlfriend, who has her sights set on a local college, but he doesn’t have to tell her right away, right?

Yeah, he’s still pretty stupid when it comes to relationships.

While he’s trying to figure that out, his new mom, Grace is making plans for her future. If Percy isn’t going to be around, maybe it’s time for her new chapter, too. (Percy’s glad for her to be able to think this way, but that puts some pressure on him to leave, too)

But that’s all about the future—about next year. For now, he has to focus on completing his Senior Year. One thing he has to do is a community service project—one more involved than any I’ve seen a High Schooler have to accomplish. He volunteers at a homeless shelter/food bank. It’s a great match for him—he has a real passion for the work, he can relate to everyone there, and soon is even helping them plan the future for the shelter.

While Percy connects with everyone there in one way or another—there’s a little boy, Dante, whom he meets before his interview. The two of them have an instant rapport—Percy sees himself in Dante. He was Dante just a few years ago—living in and around places like this with a single mother trying to provide for the two of them while battling her demons. Dante sees someone a little older than him who genuinely cares about him and opens up to him in ways he doesn’t with anyone else at the shelter.

Those are the pieces—the novel follows Percy and the people above over the course of the school year—through lows (very low lows), highs, and everything in between. Until we get to the end and see where Percy and his decisions seem to indicate the direction of his life.

The Heart of this Book

That heading is probably overstating it a bit, but oh, well. The part of this book that makes you like Percy the most, the part that makes you root for him (even when he’s being a jackwagon) is Dante.

Yes, you have to wonder about the staff at the shelter letting Percy ignore any and all boundaries when it comes to this little boy. But Dante’s mother trusts Percy, Dante trusts him even more than she does, and the two become great friends. The affection both ways is real and will make you melt.

There are some shortcomings to this book—but absolutely none of them matter when Dante’s around.

Percy’s Immaturity and Insecurity

Percy had to grow up, in many ways, before he was ready to. His mother’s addiction and frequent homelessness made him deal with things that no child should. Even after moving in with Grace, some of the decisions he had to make called for a level of maturity beyond his years.

But that doesn’t mean he’s got everything figured out emotionally—he still needs to grow up. Add in adolescent hormones and the, ahem, urges that young men in deep-like/love with an attractive young woman wrestle with…and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. Maybe even worse. In a year where he has major choices to make, he needs to think clearly—which is a lot to ask of any young person, but for Percy, it’s even more.

Grace has been a great stabilizing presence in his life—and he’s picked up several others, too. But that doesn’t eliminate all the insecurities he’s built up over the years. In some way, Percy is sure that he will be left alone, that everyone he cares about will vanish, abandon him, or leave him in some other way. These insecurities added to the pressures I mentioned above threaten to overwhelm him.

Arguably they do more than once.

It’s so easy to look at Percy as a young man with it all together. He’s bright, he’s highly motivated, he’s eager, he’s committed, he throws all his heart and energy into his goals. But he’s just a kid, and that shows up in rather inopportune times. I know I lost my patience with him a couple of times as a reader—everyone who isn’t Dante in his life has to think the same things a few times.

Grace

Grace is one of the best mothers in fiction. I didn’t talk about her much when I posted about the other book, and I’m still not going to. She deserves a lot of space dedicated to her, but I think I’d just repeat that opening sentence in various ways.

She’s patient. She’s understanding. She’s supportive. She knows her boy—even if he hasn’t been with her that long, she pays attention to him (better than he does himself). She’s also good about letting him make his own mistakes so he can learn from them. But she’s quick to step in when he needs her to, too.

She’s also just a lot of fun to spend time with. I wish we readers got to see some more of the fun times that Percy and Grace share, it’s just encouraging and heart-warming. But the book has enough other things to cover that we can’t get too much of them.

So, what did I think about Detours and Do-Overs?

I don’t think that this is anywhere as good as the other book featuring Percy. That could be my mood when I read the two. But I don’t think that’s it. I really think my issues stem from the behaviors and attitudes of the teens in this book—they were pretty realistic, I have to say. But they all just really annoyed me.

Not that all the adults were perfect either—some of them displayed many flaws—but the way they all responded to seeing their flaws was encouraging to watch. Emphasizing that they’re adults who are largely well-adjusted. (Dante’s mother, sadly, doesn’t really fit this).

People familiar with Parker’s oeuvre will get a kick out of some of the new characters in Percy’s life, and will be happy to see where their lives have taken them. The resolutions to the various storylines are all satisfying and convincingly told.

One could be tempted to quibble with some of the tidiness of the lives of the characters at the end of the novel—and were this a non-fiction work, you’d be right to do that. This is a work of fiction with inspiring and heartfelt characters, so shut up and let them have nice endings.

Once again, Wesley Parker brings some laughs, a lot of joy, and some warm feelings. I hope he continues to do so. Go read this.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s A Serial Killer’s Guide to Marriage About?

I had a long and drawn-out version of this planned, but I scrapped it when I realized it would be longer than everything else in the post—and you’d be in better hands if you read Mackay’s version.

So I’m going to try to be brief.

Every parent knows that having a child changes your life. There are two distinct phases—pre-child and post-child. If you’re in a marriage/long-term relationship, that changes, too. Significantly. Generally, it’s worth it—but we all know the “remember when we did X when we wanted to?” feeling. We all have to find new ways to relate to our partners, ways to keep things exciting.

But what if that X was killing people? People who abused women, in particular. What if the thing that brought them together, their joint purpose was this particular vigilantism—along with the travel necessary? What would they do after they had to put it aside for the safety and well-being of a daughter?

What would that do to their relationship? What would it do to them as individuals? What kinds of strain would be caused?

These, and many other questions, are answered in A Serial Killer’s Guide to Marriage

Hazel

You are going to almost instantly appreciate Hazel’s voice and perspective (assuming you can put up with the whole serial killing thing. But if you can’t, you’re probably not reading a book with this title)—part of that is because we start with her POV, partially because she’s a great character that anyone wants to identify with and empathize with.

She wants the best for her daughter and her husband. She’s a devoted mother and dotes on the girl. But she misses who she was. She misses who she and Fox were. She feels shackled by his decision to hang up their knives and live a “straight” life while raising their daughter (children?). She mostly agrees with the choice, but it chafes.

Hazel has never been good at making friends, but she’s trying to fit into her new, suburban life—going to mommy and baby groups, trying to forge relationships. And she is beginning to forge a friendship with a fellow mother when she discovers she’s made a bad choice. This new friend is a police officer.

Whoops.

Gripe #1: Fox’s Perspective

Fox does not make a good first impression—or at least Hazel doesn’t leave us with a good first impression. Thankfully, it didn’t take too long to see something from his perspective and it became possible to empathize with him some. In fact, once we get to see his self-deprecating wit, it’s hard for a reader not to like the guy a little—and to realize that Hazel was being (understandably) uncharitable.

It’s a thing that happens in marriage from time to time—especially the kind that could probably use a guide to marriage.

Fox is incredibly careful and thoughtful (about their criminal activities, anyway, not so much about his wife’s feelings). He does do much for Hazel—for their family’s sake—that he doesn’t tell her about, or explain fully.

There were two angles to things with Fox’s perspective that I think hurt the book as a whole while being things that Mackay clearly intended and I probably just don’t appreciate enough. The first is that we don’t know everything he’s up to and/or knows—this is done so we can learn about it at the same time as Hazel, which works for dramatic effect. But it feels like Mackay is cheating a little bit to get us there.

The other part comes as a result of Fox’s place in the novel—as a character, he’s second banana to Hazel. What she’s doing and thinking is far more important (and I get that), but in addition to having a lot hidden from us, parts of his story are rushed. There’s…a situation back in the States with his family’s company. We get a glimpse or two at it, and then it’s largely resolved—off-screen. It felt like a missed opportunity.

Gripe #2: Communication

One decent conversation with the person each thinks of as a soulmate. One decent conversation between people we see do so much for each other. One decent conversation between people who would die—or kill—for the other.

That’s all it’d take to make this a short story instead of a novel.

Or better yet, put them on a better footing so they could do other things together.

Yes, this is what happens between marriages all the time. Even ones where neither is a criminal of any kind. So it makes sense for Mackay to show this. But it could’ve been resolved quicker so we could see them as a couple (more or less on the same page, but not at loggerheads) when dealing with Fox’s family, Haze’s complicated taste in friends, parenting, etc., etc.

Sure, that’s not the story Mackay wanted to write—so I really shouldn’t gripe about it. But watching how she did everything else (very well, I want to stress), I’d have enjoyed seeing this version more.

So, what did I think about A Serial Killer’s Guide to Marriage?

I really enjoyed it. I wanted more from it though, as my second gripe (which looks worse on the page than it is in my mind) indicates—I think Mackay could easily have brought us something better. More like the Mr. and Mrs. Smith TV show than the movie (not that this is a great comparison in several ways, but it captures the gist).

So I’m going to move on from it there.

This is really aspirational in so many ways—their lifestyle? (obviously minus the murdering bits) Either in the carefree pre-parenthood days, or even the suburban version—is something that few of us will see. The travel, the house, the standard of living—it’s fun to imagine yourself there.

And honestly, we all sort of like the idea of being a lone vigilante (or a pair), doing the things the authorities don’t or can’t. Fox sees the comparison to a comic book figure—and embraces it with a grin. Readers will do the same.

At the end of the day, this is silly, trashy, fun—and I mean that as a compliment. I’m pretty sure that’s what Mackay was going for, and she achieved it. (if that wasn’t her aim, she still hit the mark). I think most readers are going to like it more than I did—I have a short list of people I’m gifting it to, and I am confident they will. Anyone who finds the pitch appealing is going to have fun with this Dexter-ish* comedy, and I recommend it to you.

* Heavy on the “ish.”

Disclaimer: I received this eARC from Random House Publishing Group via NetGalley in exchange for this post—thanks to both for this.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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“Sorry.”

“For what?” Her honey brown eyes are equal parts amused and curious when she looks up into mine.

I don’t have an answer. Sorry is just a word you say when you have nothing substantive to offer. I’m sorry you missed your bus. I’m sorry your boss was in such a foul mood. I’m sorry everyone is such assholes these days. I didn’t cause any of these problems, and I can’t make any of them better, but I can offer you some useless empathy. I’m sorry your life didn’t turn out to be more fulfilling. Rest assured, however, in a parallel universe in which we didn’t break up, you’re happier. Maybe. And I’m sorry if you’re not. Or at least the parallel me is. He’s the one that let you down there.

What’s This Is Who We Are Now About?

Henry drags his wife and sons to his parents’ house for a few days. One son doesn’t want to leave his girlfriend behind, his wife is trying to finish organizing a charity activity that takes place while they’re away, and Henry really doesn’t want to be there because his family will be celebrating Henry’s 50th birthday.

When they arrive, his parents are having a yard sale, selling a lot of memorabilia from Henry’s childhood and he’s upset by that. A rivalry with his brother reheats, and he keeps running into his incredibly serious high school/college girlfriend.

Things go bad with his wife, his brother, his parents, and his kids. Henry repeatedly tries—and sometimes succeeds—to keep their connection alive. But the challenges (many self-created) continue. Can Henry make it through the visit with his family intact? Is it too late to come-of-age when you’ve hit 50?

So, what did I think about This Is Who We Are Now?

I can defend everything I’ve done since we arrived. Even the worst of Denise’s complaints, in isolation, would be waved away by most objective observers. Collectively, however, maybe it’s not a body of work to stake a flag in. Maybe the picture when all the dots are connected isn’t a flattering one.

I have struggled with this post—especially because I’ve had to write it in bits and pieces over a couple of weeks, which I do often enough that’s not the issue. But I keep changing my mind about the book every time I write—which leads to a lot of editing, re-editing, re-re-editing, and I just give up and walk away.

Even when Henry was making it really easy not to like him (which was often), there’s something very charming, very effortless, and pretty entertaining about this book. His moments with his sons would largely make you wonder why his family is in such a precarious state—then you remember he doesn’t have/make/take the time when they’re at home to be this kind of dad. Then there’s everything he says to, reacts to, or treats Denise…it’s just painful.

I thoroughly enjoyed everything about Henry’s sister, Margo, on the other hand. Her strengths, her bad decisions, and how she reacts to them are easily the saving grace of the novel.

I enjoyed this novel while reading it. But I haven’t been able to decide what I think about almost any part of it that doesn’t involve Margo or Henry’s kids. I think that says something about how realistic Henry, Denise, and their problems and family are. But I don’t know how real I want a book like this to be.

I like Bailey’s writing, I think he’s amusing enough when he wants to be, he gets you invested in his characters, and I wanted to like this a lot. But at the end of this day, I like it just enough to recommend it (most days, other days I could like it a lot more or a lot less).

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s 42: The Wildly Improbable Ideas of Douglas Adams, Anyway?

from The Publisher:

When Douglas Adams died in 2001, he left behind 60 boxes full of notebooks, letters, scripts, jokes, speeches and even poems. In 42, compiled by Douglas’s long-time collaborator Kevin Jon Davies, hundreds of these personal artefacts appear in print for the very first time.

Douglas was as much a thinker as he was a writer, and his artefacts reveal how his deep fascination with technology led to ideas which were far ahead of their time: a convention speech envisioning the modern smartphone, with all the information in the world living at our fingertips; sheets of notes predicting the advent of electronic books; journal entries from his forays into home computing – it is a matter of legend that Douglas bought the very first Mac in the UK; musings on how the internet would disrupt the CD-Rom industry, among others.

42 also features archival material charting Douglas’s school days through Cambridge, Footlights, collaborations with Graham Chapman, and early scribbles from the development of Doctor Who, Hitchhiker’s and Dirk Gently. Alongside details of his most celebrated works are projects that never came to fruition, including the pilot for radio programme They’ll Never Play That on the Radio and a space-inspired theme park ride.

Douglas’s personal papers prove that the greatest ideas come from the fleeting thoughts that collide in our own imagination, and offer a captivating insight into the mind of one of the twentieth century’s greatest thinkers and most enduring storytellers.

A Few Short-Comings (only one of which is of any substance)

Not every piece of handwriting is transcribed—and no, I’m not referring to the more than a dozen examples of his signature (an interesting evolution to be sure). The majority of bits of handwriting are printed under, next-to, or following to make them legible. But not all—and there are a few things that I can’t quite suss out. And if you’d ever seen my handwriting, you’d know that I can figure out what a lot of messy writing says.

The other drawbacks are that the chapters covering Dirk Gently (in the various books) and The Last Chance to See (radio program and book) are too short. I could’ve used twice the material on both of those.

I Didn’t Expect to Get Misty-Eyed

Throughout the book are letters written by people who knew Adams to him, describing their relationship, what he meant to them, and how his death affected them. The first one, by Stephen Fry, is used as the foreword and threw me—I didn’t realize I was going to have an emotional experience while reading the book.

These were wonderful and heartfelt and make the reader feel close to someone they’ve only admired from afar. Sure, it’s a parasocial relationship at best (for almost everyone who reads the book), but especially reading those letters, it feels far less “para.”

An Overly Specific Suggestion

Do not read this book while recovering from abdominal surgery.

It is large (8.5″ X 11.9″ X 1.2″). For a book, it is heavy (roughly 4 pounds). There is no comfortable way to hold this book while reclining if you cannot rest it on your stomach.

That said, the large size, the high-quality paper, and the full-color pages are a wonderful way to present this material, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So, what did I think about 42: The Wildly Improbable Ideas of Douglas Adams?

So, really, at this point, should I be allowed to rate books related to Douglas Adams? Probably not. But, this is my blog, so I get to set the rules.

There were some things that I’m not sure why Davies included, a couple of things I didn’t appreciate as much as I should’ve (some older British pop culture references/names that I’m too American to get/recognize). But by and large, I was captivated and entertained. I bet Davies had a blast compiling this and it couldn’t have been easy cutting some material (although I bet there was a bunch that he wondered why anyone hung onto in the first place).

While I (semi-) joked about the Dirk Gently and Last Chance to See chapters being too short, they really were the most interesting to me. I’ve read many, many things about THHGTTG over the years, and have seen a good amount about his career and education before then. but I’ve come across very little about these others—so I learned more, got more insight, and whatnot. I really could’ve read chapters that were three times as long on both counts.

Truth be told, the book could’ve been three times as long and I’d have been happy, too. Sure, you’d need a weightlifting belt to carry it around that way, so maybe it’s best that Davies stopped when he did.

You need to read Adams thoughts on the future of books—specifically ebooks. Other than the amount of money going to authors…he nailed it. You get great insight into how his mind worked by seeing early drafts (and the way he’d write to himself to keep going when it got difficult).

I found this to be mind-bogglingly delightful. Which is pretty much what I expected, true. But there’s expecting to appreciate a book and then getting to experience it and discover that you were right. It’s is kind of a doubling of pleasure.

If you’re a fan of Adams, you’re going to find at least one thing here that will interest you more than you anticipated. If you’re a big fan of Adams, you’re in for a treat. He was the hoopiest of hoopy froods, and this book gives you a glimpse into just how hoopy that is.

Disclaimer: I contributed to the crowd-funding to get this book published (my name’s right there on p. 314), so who knows if that makes me biased. But then again…when am I not?

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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I hate dying. It usually hurts something awful and ruins my whole day. I avoid it whenever possible.

What’s Bizarre Frontier About?

This is a collection of the first three novellas in Poulsen’s Bizarre Frontier series. This series focuses on the adventures of the former Deputy Marshall, Willard Beckett. He didn’t always wear a “white hat,” back in his black hat days, he was cursed by a dying Romani woman. He can’t stay dead. He can die, he can go through all the pain and suffering before death—but he shakes it off after a little while.

As curses go, it’s not the worst, actually.

On Moths

In the first novella, we meet Beckett and learn about his, um, condition.

As any “retired” protagonist in a Western starts, Beckett is living alone, away from everyone else, self-medicating and merely existing. His wife divorced him, he lost the taste for the work (or so I assume, I don’t remember it being spelled out), and really doesn’t have much purpose in life. Until, of course, his old boss comes for help. It seems some brothers that he ran with are causing problems in a local mining town and they can’t be stopped.

The funny thing about that situation, those brothers were killed by the aforementioned Romani woman.

Hanged Man’s Boots

After finding out how those brothers got in the position where they could terrorize the town, Beckett and his ex-wife, Sue, learn that the man behind it all is cutting a swath of destruction behind him as he tries to escape justice. Can the pair stop him?

Husk

The big hook to this one comes from Willard not doing something I’d assumed he took care of in between novellas. And the fact that he didn’t made me roll my eyes pretty hard. Yes, he justified his lack of action to someone later in the novella—and it’s plausible, but I still don’t buy it. Still, without his being careless, we wouldn’t have gotten this story.

It begins with Willard going off to take care of the repercussions of his carelessness and Sue having to go rescue some of her sister’s sheep following a storm and her brother-in-law coming into close contact with a monster (or so he claims and not enough people believe).

Craziness and action ensue. And while the last novella brought the pair into contact with evil made stronger by the supernatural, this one brings them into some supernatural mayhem. It’s hard to argue which is worse

The Strangest Bit

For me, the thing that was stranger than Willard’s curse—or anything else he ran into—was the way he (and everyone else) called the woman who cursed him (and her family) Romani instead of that term that I grew up hearing. I’m not complaining about it—if I’m buying a Deputy Marshall who can’t stay dead for long, I can buy a degree of cultural sensitivity that is just as out of place.

It just took me a second to accept it. But honestly, I like the fact Poulsen made that choice, he didn’t need to.

So, what did I think about Bizarre Frontier?

These stories are light on the Western and heavier on the Urban Fantasy—which is fine with me, if you forgive the anachronistic nature of that. They’re Western enough to qualify, but by a hair—they remind me of the Bodacious Creed Zombie-Steampunk-Westerns in this way. (and actually fans of one of these series, should check the other out)

I wouldn’t mind a little more depth to each of these, but I don’t think they need much more. They work really well for what they are—quick, episodic, adventures with just enough of a tie between them to keep readers coming back (if you get them individually) or to carry you through the omnibus (if you go that way).

There’s a lightness to the prose that keeps it engaging and fun even in the midst of monsters, death, and mayhem. The action is smooth, the recurring characters are fun and I can see hanging out with Willard and Sue for quite a while to come. I’d like to see them deal with something that has no contact with anything they’ve encoutered yet—but if Poulsen keeps going down this path, I’m not going to complain.

I will be back for more as soon as I get a chance. It’d be nice if there was a second omnibus (I mention in case Poulsen reads this), but it looks like I’ll be picking up the novellas at my earliest convenience. I’d recommend you trying these yourself.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Heart of Fire About?

I can’t quite talk about the story of the book without saying something I shouldn’t, so, I’ll let Nightingale describe it:

Camilla has always been told that humans are inferior. They cannot use magic. If they bond to dragons, they will doom the creatures to extinction. She has never believed a word of it. She has always known that she can use magic, and she suspects it is the elves who harm the dragons by keeping them to themselves. Now, she is presented with the opportunity of a lifetime: a dragon’s clutch is hatching and while she will earn the wrath of her captors if she is caught, she has the chance to see a dragon hatch and perhaps even to Recognize.

Kario’s people have feared dragons since time immemorial. When an unrealistically huge black dragon flies in while she is hunting, she is certain she will die. Instead, her life is changed when Nelexi, Obsidian Guardian of Areaer, chooses her as her final rider. Kario takes the name Flameheart, but she is soon homesick and afraid that she is insufficient to be the partner of a god.

The Good

First off, the dragons are cool. You give me cool dragons and I’m going to let you get away with a lot.

I think this world is fantastic. I love the relationships between dragons and riders—the bonds between them, and how they communicate with one another. I like a lot of the suggested ways that dragons and riders change and evolve over time.

I think the geo-political and racial relationships are intriguing—and how people on different continents relate to dragons (and many other creatures, likely). The elven-human dynamic is something I really want to see developed.

I think Kario is a fasctinating character and I relished the bits of time we got with her and Nelexi—I wanted more.

The Bad

I don’t think that Nightingale brought everything in her mind onto the page. She clearly has a lot of this world worked out in details that there’s no way to communicate. Every author has those—that’s not what I’m talking about. But in the Preface, she talks about having two of the characters in her mind since childhood—she knows them well, she understands their story in a way that many authors would likely envy. But—this is just a guess—I think she knows the story so well that I don’t think she realized she didn’t give her readers all the details we needed to follow.

I stopped writing things like “so, I missed something?” or “how did we get here?” after a bit. I just couldn’t follow good chunks of both storylines—but Camillla’s more than Kario’s.

Although—and this gets us on to the other “Bad” topic—I’m okay with not following Camilla’s because I just couldn’t like her. She was petulant, self-centered, egotistical, and short-sighted. All these are things that can be grown out of, and I’m not suggesting protagonists have to be likable. But I didn’t want to spend time in her head—it’s just a nasty place. Her dragon, Radiance, was fine. Her brother seemed okay—as did the other dragon rider with them (I’m going to leave names out because it feels like something you need to learn as you read)—although there’s room for some personal growth there, although I think that character has made the right kind of strides on that front so you can root for them.

But Camilla? I really hope in the next book in the series, she’s grown up a lot.

So, what did I think about Heart of Fire?

Nightingale swung for the fences with this one, you can practically see the effort on the page as you read. But I think she missed too many of the pitches she took, and foul-tipped pretty frequently when she made contact. But she got on-base enough to stay in the game, and even to chalk up a win. That’s the end of the baseball metaphors, I promise.

There’s so much promise in this book—and enough delivery on them to come back for the second volume. But not enough to be enthusiastic about it. I do want to know what happens, and I think most who read this will share in that.

Also, cool dragons. Can’t overlook that.

The parts of the book that worked—worked pretty well, and made me want to keep going. Still, I can only give this the most lukewarm of recommendations—I know I’m in the minority when it comes to this book—go read what others had to say about it.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Bang-Bang Sisters About?

I’m not even going to try to pretend to be able to summarize this, so I’m going to copy and paste the official description:

Meet the Bang-Bang Sisters: Brea, Jessie, and Flo. Together, they’re a kick-ass rock band with an unbreakable bond.

But that’s only half the story. Offstage, they’re highly skilled vigilantes, traveling the country in their beaten-up tour van to exact justice on criminals who have slipped through the system. Part rock stars, part assassins, they’re a force to be reckoned with.

Drawn by a tantalizing lead, the sisters head to Reedsville, Alabama—a city crawling with destitution and corruption—where they close in on a notorious serial killer known as “the wren.” But they soon discover that they have walked straight into a trap set by Chance Kotter, a ruthless mobster with a personal vendetta.

Bruised and beaten, the sisters find themselves at the mercy of Chance and a sadistic game of survival that will pit them against each other: Forty-eight hours. One city. Three sisters. Only one of them can survive.

Full of gripping action and shocking twists that come at a breakneck pace, The Bang-Bang Sisters is a relentless, edge-of-your-seat thrill ride that will leave you breathless.

What did I think about The Bang-Bang Sisters?

I’m afraid if I spend my usual amount of time talking about this (or trying to come up with something coherent to say), I’m going to put it off for too long, and maybe overexplain. So let’s just go with this:

It captures the spirit of music and live performance (and inter-band dynamics) as…well, any rock novel I can think of.

You have a serial killer equal to Francis Dolarhyde.

You’ve got a violent, kill-or-be-killed, “game” as nasty as The Hunger Games, without the love triangle.*

You’ve got a violent, kill-or-be-killed, “game” as nasty and detailed as Chain-Gang All-Stars without the redeeming social commentary.

You’ve got a rich Southern guy as fat as Boss Hogg, as corrupt as Johnny Stagg, as weasely as Gríma Wormtongue.

You’ve got three great women characters with all the style, skill, and general badassery as The Deadly Viper squad.

Throw it all into a book with the violence level equal to—if not greater than—Kill Bill, Vol. 1.

It’s got the pacing of a classic rock song—with occasional bursts of speed metal.

It’s fast, it’s furious, it’s bloody, it’s raw emotion, it’s dangerous. It is so much fun. It is Rock and Roll.

If you can handle that combination, you’re in for a great ride. If one part of the above doesn’t appeal to you? Skip this.

I thought this was great, I hated to walk away from it every time I had to. Kristen Sieh’s narration was precisely what this book needed.

By the time the book ended, I felt like you do after a great concert—elated, a little worn out, and riding a high you don’t want to come down from.

* There is a love triangle, but it’s a good kind—it’s a supportive, sororal triangle.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Poetry Comics About?

Rather than try to really describe this book (and I wouldn’t do a great job of it), here’s a shody photo of the back cover (forgive the partial library barcode)

Photo of the Back Cover to Poetry Comics by Grand Snider

A Word About the Art

If you’re a fan of Snider’s characteristic simple drawings, you’ll enjoy the art here. I am one of those, so I did.

The panels pair up really nicely with the poems—sometimes augmenting the shape and construction of the poem, sometimes simply illustrating them. Either way, it’s just what you want in this kind of book. They never detract from the poems (they probably make some of the simpler ones better—they definitely disguise their brevity*).

* I don’t mean to suggest that simple/brief poems are bad, they’re simply short.

So, what did I think about Poetry Comics?

This book is a shining example of adequasivity. It was perfectly fine, but on the whole, it really didn’t do much for me.

There were a few poems about writing a poem—they were nice (not particularly practical). Most seemed to be trying really hard to be uplifting—and many of those fell flat to me, primarily because they were clearly trying really hard, but I did enjoy a couple of those. I’m going to guess that I really enjoyed about 10% of them—but there were none that I’d consider “bad,” on the whole, the book was adequate.

So adequate that I knew halfway through that I’d have to look up that Newsradio video linked above.

Do I think readers in the target age range would appreciate this more than I did? Sure, if they like poetry (and possibly those who are ambivalent to it).

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Blood Reunion About?

There’s a nasty, Buffy-Summers-would-be-paralyzed-with-fear level vampire loose on Wistful. Rohan and his friends, some new allies, and a couple of people he’d really not rather work with have to stop it before it kills everyone aboard and countless others when it can escape—or before the Empire obliterates Wistful to achieve the latter end.

’nuff said.

Back to Wistful

I guess some readers complained that the second book in the series took place on Earth, not on Wistful, the sentient space station that Rohan calls home. I didn’t share the sentiment, but I guess I could understand that—it wasn’t just Wistful that we didn’t get that much from, it was most of the other characters that were introduced in the first turn.

Being back on Wistful, however, has me thinking that maybe those people were on to something. Having our hero back on his adoptive home turf—with the advantages and challenges that it brings really adds something to the story. Wistful is an interesting character and a great setting (and we get to see a lot more of both aspects of Wistful here). Having characters like Wei Li and the Ursans on hand is a major plus, too.

I won’t complain about Rohan going to visit Earth—but I’m sure glad to see him home.

Daddy Issues

We met Rohan’s fantastic mother in Return of The Griffin, and now it’s time to meet Dad. Boy, I missed Mom—and this isn’t a knock on Berne’s work introducing us to Dhruv, I think we’re supposed to find hi a problematic character.

He’s got quite the charm about him, do doubt. He’s determined, he’s focused, he’s powerful, he’s wily—things that he clearly passed on to his son. He’s also deceitful, egotistical, stubborn, and unwilling to consider opposing points of view (other things you can see in Rohan, but he’s fighting them).

He and Rohan have a complicated relationship, let’s say.

The addition of Rohan’s mother to the series was fun and mostly sweet. This is fun and…something else. I’m not sure what that something is quite yet. I think we need to see a little more from Dhruv, and I expect we will.

Rohan’s Dilemma

This right here is what draws me to Rohan (well, in addition to the banter, the action, and everything else)—Berne isn’t satisfied to just give us a super powerful, quippy, superhero. Rohan is trying to get away from his past and to live differently.

But…like the man said, “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!” Rohan can’t get away from his reputation, his status, his errors/crimes, and even his inclinations to act as the Griffin. Not only can he not escape all that—he has to rely on it here. I don’t want to get into details here, but Rohan has to play the Rohan card to keep the il’Drach Empire from coming in making a bad situation worse.

He also has to wrestle with himself—he knows (on some level) and is being told repeatedly by just about everyone—that to save the people on the station (and maybe even beyond it), he has to kill the vampire. But he’s trying not to do that anymore. Also, he thinks there are ways to defeat the vampire without killing him…Rohan just has to figure out what those are. But he’s torn—if he does “the right thing” for him and his morals, what’s the risk/damage to the innocents on Wistful? Should he be willing to even consider that?

Beyond that…Rohan has to let some people jeopardize themselves—and even outright sacrifice themselves so he has a chance to stop the vampire.

I really love that Berne is making Rohan deal with this (it’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last, I trust).

So, what did I think about Blood Reunion?

It’s a JCM Berne book. This means I liked it and I think you should read it. I have two unread JCM Berne books on my TBR shelf—I can tell you now, with 98.732% confidence, that’s what I’m going to say about those. The question here is…what do I say specifically?

The vampires (both kinds we see here) are just cool. Nothing incredibly revolutionary about them—it’s nigh unto impossible to do something new with a vampire, it’s just about how can you make one of the most utilized creature-types feel fresh. Berne pulls it off. They’re even different than the vamps in Return of the Griffin, so that’s a neat trick. I want to say more about this, but that’d violate my spoiler policy.

Dhruv was just great—I mistyped that a second ago as “grate,” but maybe that was a slip of the Freudian-type. Because he can be a little grating, too. By design, I should stress. But I look forward to his return as much as Rohan is apprehensive about it.

The exploration of Wistful was interesting and the promise of finding more layers to her is fantastic. I would’ve liked a bit more of it now though, it’s the one point where I think Berne could’ve improved here. Maybe in the aftermath of this, Wistful and Rohan (or Rohan and Wei Li) can debrief some on this and I’ll feel better about it.

Speaking of Wei Li—if anyone is going to supplant Rohan in my book, it’s going to be Wei Li. Can we get a spinoff novella or seven?

I have to mention the dialogue, not just the bantering (but especially the bantering). Berne has reached Jim Butcher-levels here. I don’t care what the story is, I just want to read his characters talking.

I don’t have anything else to say, really—action, dialogue, great aliens, some good moral dilemmas, and some quality time with characters that are becoming old friends. Blood Reunion is another winner from Berne. Go grab Wistful Ascending and dive in!!

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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Why this Book Today?

Last Spring, I read Lashaan Balasingam talk about this book at Roars and Echoes and put it on a wish list instantly. I was given a copy of it last year, but aside from glancing through it then, I hadn’t taken the time to really sit down with it. But with Hobbit Day yesterday, I made time Saturday to do just that—so I could post about it today (and maybe add this and some other things to a recurring thing like I do with Towel Day).

You should really see what Lashaan had to say about it, not only does he do a (typically) better job of it than I’m about to, but he liked it a lot more than I did.

What’s Pictures by J.R.R. Tolkien About?

Well, it’s pictures drawn by Tolkein in his spare time—when he wasn’t teaching, creating new languages, writing epic fantasies, or smoking his pipe (well, he probably did both of those at the same time).

The Publisher describes it this way:

With Christopher Tolkien as your guide, take a tour through this colorful gallery of enchanting art by J.R.R. Tolkien, as published originally in the first groundbreaking Tolkien Calendars of the 1970s.

This collection of pictures, with a text by Christopher Tolkien, now reissued after almost thirty years, confirms J.R.R. Tolkien’s considerable talent as an artist. It provides fascinating insight into his visual conception of many of the places and events familiar to readers of The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and The Silmarillion.

Examples of his art range from delicate watercolors depicting Rivendell, the Forest of Lothlorien, Smaug, and Old Man Willow, to drawings and sketches of Moria Gate and Minas Tirith. Together they form a comprehensive collection of Tolkien’s own illustrations for his most popular books.

Also included are many of his beautiful designs showing patterns of flowers and trees, friezes, tapestries, and heraldic devices associated with the world of Middle-earth. In their variety and scope, they provide abundant visual evidence of the richness of his imagination.

This enchanting gallery was personally selected by Christopher Tolkien who, through detailed notes on the sources for each picture, provides unique insight into the artistic vision of his father, J.R.R. Tolkien.

How’s the Writing?

Well, it’s pretty bland. It’s just straightforward descriptions of the pictures, where it came from, where it was originally published—who added color (sometimes), and so on.

It’s not bad, it’s not good—it’s just there. And that’s good enough, this isn’t supposed to be about Christopher Tolkien’s wordsmithery—this is about the pictures.

How’s the Art?

Well, I think it’s clear why we think of Tolkien as a writer, scholar, and storyteller and not a visual artist. Don’t get me wrong—I can’t hold a candle to his drawing. But it’s nothing stellar.

But it does deliver the flavor of Middle Earth and its denizens in a way the books can’t quite manage (or does manage, in a different way). You get a real sense of the scope and scale of the world. It’s clear that Jackson and his team spent some time with Tolkien’s art and drew a lot from it—and you can see why they’d want to (beyond just trying for authenticity). I did like it—and could easily spend time studying the details.

Lashaan’s post has a couple of samples if you’re curious. But honestly, if you’re basing getting your hands on this book on the quality of the art, you might be missing the point. (still, check out the samples to get a feel for it)

If you want great fantasy art, may I suggest starting with Larry Elmore, Chris McGrath, or Isabeau Backhaus? But there’s something about seeing it from the hand of the creator, you know?

So, what did I think about Pictures by J.R.R. Tolkien?

As a book, it’s…fine. As a collection of pictures, it’s…nice enough. As a way to get to know a different side of Tolkien and how his brain, his creativity, and his personality worked? It’s pretty cool. I’d love to see sketches, drawings, and even paintings by other authors to get inside their heads (okay, no one wants inside Thomas Harris’ mind, but you know what I’m saying. Keep the visuals for Hannibal and the rest locked away.)

Am I glad that I own this? Yes. Am I glad that I finally got around to taking it out of its slipcase and really worked through it? You bet. Am I just a little underwhelmed by the whole thing? Yup.

But I will return to flip through it and pour over the contents repeatedly.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Ghost Stations About?

New York City is a bit much for Corbin—he’s more than out of his element (a status he’s getting used to after running from the cult he’d pretty much been raised in, finding himself in a strange world of magicians and magician factions). But this is where the task that Mister is set to tackle. There’s a new drug variant floating around in parts of the US that affects magicians in a dangerous way. The Circle can turn a blind eye to the standard version of the drug, but this new form is a step too far.

Kirin, meanwhile, is back home. A place she hadn’t expected to see for some time yet. Her family is here—with all the interfamily and intrafamily dynamics and politics that brings. As are her friends—that found family established in her teen years that seems tighter than blood. Corbin gets shunted off with them to stay out of the way while Mister and Isaac get into it.

It doesn’t take long for Kirin’s group to decide that they’re supposed to be sticking their noses into it anyway—and what else to they have to do? So, they seek out a source for this drug—they know someone who can do the right kind of analysis on it to see how it was made. The figure if they can get that information, they can trace it to the source.

While dealing with this, Corbin has to learn to navigate the powerful families that make up the Circle, the strange subcultures of magic in NYC, and the strangest challenge of them all—interpersonal relationships. Colin was never equipped to handle life outside the cult—to be thrown into the intense world of twenty-somethings with too much money, drugs, alcohol, and hormones flying around. (sure the drugs and the magic and the danger are the more pressing things—but Colin and handle that)

The Little More of the World

In Rites of Passage, we were told about the Circle—the group that runs the world of magic in the States—at least in the major population centers, while other areas have more of a local group controlling them. I’m not going to say that after this, the reader will understand the Circle and how it operates fully. But we get an idea—a good look at it.

And honestly, it’s not that pretty.

I think that The Inner Circle, like Jacka’s Stephen Oakwood, is doing a good thing in Urban Fantasy—a new thing, too. Where most Urban Fantasy deals with magic/groups in terms of detectives/police vs. criminal acts and structures (either organized crime or werewolf packs that act like motorcycle gangs). Presley and Jacka are presenting us with “legitimate” sources of power—economic elites.

In these worlds, it’s the 1% of the magic world (which is already an elite caste of sorts) that holds the power. Not only does this allow Presley, Jacka, and (I assume) others I am not thinking of/haven’t been exposed to comment on a rising oligarchy and the power of these elites. But it gives the reader a handy way to think about these things without getting too tied up in contemporary political labels or societal movements.

As Mister, Isaac, and Corbin keep traveling the country, I look forward to seeing other ways that this is shown and dissected.

So, what did I think about Ghost Stations?

All that aside—this is just a rollicking story. Most of the things I really want to talk about are spoilers (the way the drug works, the people that Corbin meets and makes deals with, and so on).

The change of setting—and the promise of more settings to come—helped this seem very fresh compared to the first, and should do the same for the following books (it’s the second, the series is obviously still fresh, it’s more of the promise here). And Corbin not understanding much of how this world he’s in now works, allows Presley to inform the reader while maintaining the story’s momentum. His cluelessness allows us to be. New case, new setting, Corbin and the reader both get to learn a lot. Thankfully, we readers are safe from whatever magic whammy is threatening our dowser.

As before, his magic helps. But it’s Corbin’s instincts, his watchfulness—even his outsiderness—that help him to get where he needs to go. While watching someone sling magic is always fun, it’s the guys like Dresden, Alex Verus, Mercy Thompson, and Corbin that really make a series like this work.

I liked most of the world we got to see—I wouldn’t want to live in this NYC (or any other, to be honest), but it was interesting. Her brother seemed cool and her friend TJ was someone I hope we see soon. The other member of her group was generally a tool who’d be a great antagonist in an 80s teen movie. Still, he was a good example of the type. Everyone else we met? Fascinating. Presley seems incapable of creating a dull character (even if we only see them for a chapter).

Ghost Stations is a solid follow-up with a great hook, a better world to explore, and enough turns and twists to keep you engaged from the creepy start to the satisfying conclusion and all points between.

I’m eager to see where the next novel takes us, but for now, I just want to encourage you to pick this one up.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Big Empty About?

I’m tempted to skip this part and rush to the bit where I insist you go pick this up, throw up the five stars, and call it a day. But I won’t—I’d feel guilty about it. But honestly, feel free to skip this. It’s just filler until I get to the .jpg with the stars.

The Baker Next Door is an Internet sensation, she’s moving on to TV and brick-and-mortar stores. But her success isn’t enough for her, something’s been chewing at her for a long time, so Traci Beller comes to Elvis with a cold case. The ten-year anniversary of her father’s disappearance is coming up, and she wants some answers. She’d prefer Elvis find him hale and hearty, but she doesn’t expect it. But she wants to know what happened before. Five years ago good investigators that Elvis knows couldn’t find him, and the state declared him deceased. But Traci wants to try again.

Something about her and her determination gets to Elvis, and he agrees to look at the LAPD’s file—as well as the records from the other PIs. Also, Traci gave him muffins. It probably doesn’t hurt that Ben Chenier is fan, either.

Still, it’s a cold case. It’s not going to be easy to find something new—and it’s only something new that will move the case forward. Otherwise, he’s just going to be doing what his predecessors did, just probably less fruitfully. Thankfully (otherwise this would be a short story, not a novel), Elvis asks the right question and gets the answer he needs.

On the other hand, he might have preferred the less eventful version.

Elvis and Joe

At this point, Joe Pike is practically a super-human, or maybe a human so fantastic as to be unbelievable—like Batman or Jack Reacher. And I don’t care (I don’t think anyone does)—because he’s not infallible and we all love to see him come in to save the day.

Meanwhile, Elvis has always seemed pretty mortal. Something happens in The Big Empty that emphasizes this mortality. It is not like what happened to Spenser in Small Vices, but it reminded me of it. But Crais handles it better and more believably—Elvis is not infallible, he’s not invincible, and it’s good for the reader—and for him—to get a reminder of it.

Still, it appears that Crais has taken the “stop the characters aging” route—we don’t get references to Vietnam anymore to keep them from seeming as old as they are (see also: Spenser dropping references to Korea). I don’t care how much Tai Chi or whatever Elvis does—he’s too old to do half of what he does. I’m absolutely okay with that, I don’t need to see inconveniently-timed sciatica messing up Pike’s silent approach to a building or Elvis needing a cane or a hearing aid to get through the day.

Basically, I wouldn’t change a thing about what Crais has done with these characters, nor what he’s doing with them now—and The Big Empty is one of the best books to showcase the strengths of his approach to the characters since The Last Detective.

On the Other Hand, We Have John Chen

Really, truly, John Chen is a lousy excuse for a human being—he’s a decent criminalist (it seems) and he’s really easy for Elvis to manipulate into getting what he needs. But the guy is about as self-aware as a piece of toast. His self-delusions are at the level of Pike’s omnicompetence—this doesn’t make him any less entertaining (or cringe-inducing) to read, but wow…some growth in his character would restore some of my faith in humanity.

I was so happy when he showed up in these pages, and I loved every moment with him. (so, yeah, I really don’t want him to grow or develop as a character)

But what I really want—and I don’t know how this could happen—is a short story/novella where John Chen and Roddy Ho have to team up. It would be the ultimate in HR nightmares, and the two would hate each other (I assume). But boy howdy, would it be fun to watch.

So, what did I think about The Big Empty?

Yes, it’s almost a foregone conclusion that I’m going to love a new Elvis Cole novel. But that shouldn’t take away from just how ____ing good this was. If this was my first time reading Crais, it would not have been my last—and I’d have a stack of library books next to me now (which would be replaced by a stack of paperbacks fresh from the bookstore after I read one or two more).

There’s just something about Crais’ prose that makes you race through it. Because of the pace at which he puts books out lately, I wanted to take my time and savor it. Relish each paragraph. But you just can’t do it—the prose is so smooth, so well put together, that every time you try to slow down, Crais comes along behind you and gives you a nudge and you remember that you’re on a bobsled hurtling down the track. That almost sounds like you’re out of control—but you’re not. Maybe a better metaphor would be that you’re in a Lamborghini Murciélago, trying to drive slowly down a deserted highway to take in the scenery. But that car isn’t built for 35 MPH, and before you notice, you’re doing at least 80.

Also, that wasn’t me complaining (too much) about the pace Crais is publishing lately—if he was faster, that prose wouldn’t be as honed. He can take as long as he wants.

We got a larger-than-usual cast of supporting characters for a Cole or Pike novel (or so it seemed, I didn’t do a headcount, nor am I going to go back and do one for the last few books). I thought they were all great—from the antagonists, to the villains, the witnesses, and the innocent parties that got sucked up into something they shouldn’t have been. I believed them all and would like to see almost all of them again (if only it were possible). I can’t tell you the best characters because it would ruin too much, and I want to stay on Putnam’s good side. But when you get to the last chapter, the character there that I haven’t mentioned in this post? That’s the best character (by a nose) in this one.

The first chapter was great—maybe it didn’t do much in terms of story, but it gets you right back into Elvis and Lucy. Then we meet Traci and her manager (that you want Elvis to punch almost as much as he wants to), and you’re with Elvis in wanting to help her—and the book keeps building from strength to strength there—right up to the perfect closing paragraph.

The sole quibble I have with this was the way that the relationship between Elvis and the Sherriff Department’s detective. It just seemed off the way it developed from the natural antagonism to the endpoint where it seemed more (not completely) collegial easier than it should’ve.

So, yeah, I think I’ve made it clear that I really enjoyed The Big Empty, I don’t think it’s the best thing that Crais has written—but it’s gotta be in the top 5 (it could be recency bias talking, but I don’t think so). I’d have to think long and hard to come up with many (other than The Promise, because of Maggie). Regardless of how it stacks up with the rest of Crais’ oeuvre, it’s a dynamite novel, one of the highlights of 2024 for me—and I predict many people will say it’s a highlight of 2025 for them when it’s published next week.

Get your pre-orders or library holds in now, friends, you want to get your hands on this.

Disclaimer: I received this eARC from Putnam Books via NetGalley in exchange for this post—thanks to both for this.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Adrift in Currents Clean and Clear About?

One of the advantages (and, to be fair, aggravating parts) of this series is that each book can be from anywhere on the series timeline. Here in the tenth installment, we get the origin story of someone that we got to know in the third book (Beneath the Sugar Sky). Reality itself is wibbly-wobbly in this series, why not timey wimey?

We meet Nadya at birth—where a young Russian woman who is not ready to be a mother is rushing to give her up—even before she’s freaked out that Nadya is missing an arm. As we watch Nadya growing up, she doesn’t really seem to care about the arm she never had. But when a couple of Americans come to adopt a disadvantaged Russian child, it starts to become a factor in her life.

She’s not comfortable with her new life in the States (yet?), but when a prosthetic arm is imposed on her (in the name of help—see below), she’s made to feel incomplete as well as Other. Her only solace is the pond a short walk from her adoptive parents’ home where she can watch turtles—an animal that has long fascinated her.

Before she knows it, she falls through a Door and ends up in a world she doesn’t understand or recognize (but really isn’t that much stranger than the change from a Russian orphanage to a Colorado suburb).

The Lost and the Lonely

I probably shouldn’t have—but I laughed when she got the “Be Sure” message. It’s in a seemingly-cruel place, but it was original and it meant the story was progressing. I also found her Door rather intriguing.

But better than that was the way her arrival in Belyrreka, the Land Beneath the Lake, was explained to her. Sometimes people come to Belyrreka* because a hero is needed to do something. But sometimes, it’s just that someone isn’t at home in their world and they need a place to fit in. Nadya is the latter, so it seems. Given that most of the children we’ve seen go through a Door to do something heroic, it’s nice to see this option.

This doesn’t mean she’s incapable of heroism, or of doing something important. It just means that she probably ended up in Belyrreka because she belonged there more than on Earth.

This is really a slice-of-life story. We just get to see how Nadya lives and matures in a place where she feels that she belongs, with family, friends, and a purpose. Yes, in the back of our minds, we know that something is going to happen and she’s going to end up at Eleanor West’s Home for Wayward Children. But until then… This novella is like the years between Aslan coronating the Pevensies and the fateful hunt for the White Stag—nothing heroic, nothing particularly notable. Just…life. Regular, ordinary, day-to-day life.

Well, “ordinary” in a world that’s described as Beneath a Lake, where everyone is underwater to one degree or another (breathing without gills), full of talking animals, and where a river can magically endow people with gifts/obligations. So it’s a loose use of the word “ordinary.”

* And by implication, other worlds

I’m Not Entirely Sure This One is Fair

Many of the children we’ve met—particularly if we’ve met their parents, too—aren’t all that fond of their parents. They’re critical of them (even before their Doors appear, definitely afterward). By and large, I’ve been with the children in their critiques and evaluations of the parents—even when it’s clear that the parents are doing their best (which doesn’t happen as often as it should).

I’m not convinced that Nadya is entirely fair when thinking about the adults in her life. Her appraisal of the orphanage staff (at least after they arranged for her to get adopted) is harsh when they really just did what they could to help her get out of the orphanage (which she sees, but attributes it to less-than-altruistic ends). Her parents really don’t understand her (beyond the language) and are clumsy at best in their attempts to help her fit into Colorado. It’s hard to tell how much of the assessment of their motivations and attempts comes from the omniscient narrator and how much is Nadya’s. But really, I think whoever is doing the assessing could be more charitable (without giving blanket approval).

Particularly her adoptive father—I really get the sense that his affection is real and that in time, he’d have become what she needs. I’m not so sure about his wife, however… On some level, they are trying to make life better. But her ideas of better and what needs improved differ.

Now, Nadya is a prepubescent child yanked out of the only home she ever knew, brought to another country and culture without warning (or consent), and forced into a mold and environment that she’s unprepared for. So, sure, she’s going to be less than charitable—it’s justified and understandable. I just wish the narration did a slightly better job of showing that.

So, what did I think about Adrift in Currents Clean and Clear?

That aside…I loved Nadya. Getting to know her like this was great.

This is a book about home. About acceptance. About finding your place in the world, with people who “get” you, who care about you, and who want the best for you—even if that best doesn’t necessarily make a lot of sense to them.

It’s nice, it’s comforting, and it’s reassuring to see Nadya find this for herself and getting to enjoy it for as long as she does. Yes, it’s hard to see her end up back in the “real world” knowing that means some misery before Eleanor comes to her (at least partial) rescue.

There’s a little less whimsy to this novella than many of the other installments in the series—outside of the construction of the world. But if I had to tag this with any description, I’d probably use “cozy.” If I didn’t know this series, I’d assume it would belong with Travis Baldtree or S.L. Rowland. Maybe Heather Fawcett. But I do know better—this series continues to transcend easy categorization. Wayward Children is its own subgenre.

McGuire brings the emotional depth that Nadya and her story need. Belyrreka is a great world that operates on its own (self-aware) logic—it’s a place I’d love to visit (assuming I wouldn’t panic at the whole living underwater thing, which I can’t promise), but wouldn’t want to live. But McGuire brings it to life and fills it with people I wish I could get to know more.

This is definitely one of the stronger books in this series that is on a great roll lately, I commend it to your attention. As with just about every book in the series, it can be read as a stand-alone or as an entry point (but I strongly encourage reading at least Every Heart a Doorway before any of the others). I was sad when it ended—not because of the way it ended, I just wasn’t ready to move on. I predict I won’t be alone in that.

Now, excuse me…I need to go figure out a way to cram in a re-read of Beneath a Sugar Sky to my schedule.