hc.newton

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Sizar About?

A Cambridge student is found hanged, presumably by his own hand. But Master Vaughan calls on Hardiman to look into the circumstances of the suicide—what was it that drove this promising scholar to do this? It’s not long before another student is found dead—and this time it’s clear that someone killed him. This forces everyone to take another look at the hanging—was it self-harm?

Hardiman finds himself out of his depth again—but his determination and level thinking helps him to get at things that others miss or disregard. Soon, he’s looking into a gambling ring, the darker parts of student culture, and what may be a group of conspirators.

The Mystery

It didn’t take too much time to get a real handle on a motive for this. And not much more (or less) to suss out a really strong suspect. With that out of the way pretty quickly, you can focus on Hardiman and his world. How does he try to piece things together, what kind of evidence gets him moving the right way (and what detours does he take).

You also get to soak in the rest of the novel—the other plotlines, arcs, and characters. Grossey gives us a lot to focus on beyond the mystery in this book—and watching Haridman work through it all—false trails as well as the right moves—is better than trying to guess the solution.

Hardiman’s Personal Life

We get some more of the Book Club and library—and that bookstore owner really proves his worth as a friend. Who needs the Internet, apparently, as long as you have a friend who runs a Cambridge bookstore?

Actually, where the first book was largely focused on Hardiman’s day job as an Ostler as well as his investigation, this book focuses on his friends and other associates (while touching on his work a little, too).

It was great to see him like this—with friends, watching relationships develop, talking to the family of the officer he served with in the war—and so on. This aspect of the novel worked really well, it helped him become more than just a wounded vet with a need to expand his vocabulary. This humanized him and helped round him out. It was a good move, and made me like him more.

So, what did I think about Sizar?

The pacing of this is slow and methodical—a lot of that has to do with the era, they don’t have the need to rush that people at the end of the 20th Century/beginning of the 21st have. Also, communication works slowly across a city, or even further. Also, part of that is the slower pace that most (not all) British mystery novels take to investigations.

I understand it, but it bugged me a little. But that’s a personal failing, nothing wrong with the novel.

Even with the historical helps at the end, a lot of university/law enforcement structure makes me stumble (and I hate to take a break from the narrative to go look up facts), but it doesn’t take me out of the story, it’s just momentary “huh?” I’m getting better at is, thanks to the supplemental material Grossey gives. The evolution that these systems re going through at this point aren’t making things easier for me (or are they? I’m not sure).

The whodunit was a bit disappointing, and the why was pretty obvious—but how Hardiman solved things and resolved things, more than made up for that part. Really the procedural aspects are the bigger draws for most readers anyhow when it comes to procedurals. And none of what I said here addresses Grossey’s use of red herrings and twists, and both of those more than make up for what I might say is obvious or disappointing (and can make you doubt yourself a little bit)

Hardiman is a heckuva protagonist in a very interesting world—this is a unique series and one I heartily suggest you check out.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Tooth and Claw About?

After his time with the Marines is over, Walt needs to get away from people, society, anything that makes him think of Vietnam and what he witnessed there. He also wants to get away from what he knows–and what fits that description better than Alaska? He takes a job working security on an oil field, replacing someone who’d killed himself.

He also finds himself drinking. A lot. There’s not much to do when he’s not on the job—and you get the impression he can do a lot of it with a little bit of a buzz on.

We encounter Walt in this state as Henry comes up to visit–he’s concerned about what Walt’s doing to himself (as is Walt’s former fiance, Martha). Henry shows up at the end of December, when there are very few hours of daylight each day up by the Arctic Circle.

Henry’s a little bored, truth be told, so when Walt finds the opportunity to take him along on a quick research trip to help keep a scientist safe they go.

The day trip doesn’t go the way they expect (naturally). Instead, the friends find danger, a blizzard, a large polar bear (even by polar bear standards), a ghost ship, and some garden-variety human evil.

So, what did I think about Tooth and Claw?

This quick novella was fine. Walt and Henry against nature—weather and animal—isn’t exactly new territory, but Alaska isn’t what we’re used to seeing from them. It makes Wyoming look crowded. It’s a bit more extreme than we’re used to for them.

Add in a bunch of people we don’t know and a ship out of legend, and you’ve got something even better. There’s a potential supernatural element here–and the story works either way you approach that element.

It’s not a perfect read. The criminal activity seemed a bit perfunctory—and really didn’t add much to the novella, I might have appreciated the novella more without it. I don’t know that Johnson sold Walt’s drinking as being as much of a problem as Henry and a couple of others made it out to be.

But for what it is—a quick thrill-ride and a look at young-Walt, it’s good. There are some entertaining moments, it’s good to see these two in another environment. There’s at least one character I’d like to run into again.

It’s not a must-read for Longmire fans or the best introduction to the characters—but it’ll please longtime fans and should whet the appetites of new readers for the full novels. That’s good enough, right?

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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“You want me to issue a shoot-to-kill order.”

“Well there’s no point shooting to wound. People would only get hurt.”

WHAT'S THE BACK COVER OF SPOOK STREET SAY?

What happens when an old spook loses his mind? Does the Service have a retirement home for those who know too many secrets but don't remember they're secret? Or does someone take care of the senile spy for good? These are the paranoid concerns of David Cartwright, a Cold War-era operative and one-time head of MI5 who is sliding into dementia, and questions his grandson, River, must figure out answers to now that the spy who raised him has started to forget to wear pants.

But River, himself an agent at Slough House, MI5's outpost for disgraced spies, has other things to worry about. A bomb has detonated in the middle of a busy shopping center and killed forty innocent civilians. The "slow horses" of Slough House must figure out who is behind this act of terror before the situation escalates.

THINGS I'M NOT GOING TO DEVELOP INTO PARAGRAPHS

(I just don't have the time or energy)

* Louisa makes a friend! A non-Slough House friend, it should be stressed. Which is great—and will hopefully help her deal with the events of Dead Lions. Sure, I pretty much like everything about Louisa, but this worked really well.

* This: "What happens when an old spook loses his mind? Does the Service have a retirement home for those who know too many secrets but don't remember they're secret?" Yeah, it could be phrased a bit more skillfully, but really—what is done in these situations (I have to assume more and more of these happen all the time)

* This book is really all about the power behind the throne. Sure, all the attention is on the leader (of whatever), but being the guy behind them—almost all of the power, but with almost none of the accountability or scrutiny, you can get a lot done. And you can direct the person at the top with just the right kind of pressure or incentive.

* Yes, the "Slow Horses" are, by design (of both Herron and MI-5) disposable, and impermanent. But some are pretty much irreplaceable, as the poor woman who is brought in to fill Catherine Standish's shoes learns.

* Everything we learned about David Cartwright and his activities seems realistic. It's chilling and troubling in so many ways. He deserves to be called OB. Or just B.

* Back to the impermanent idea. Herron shows us that he's in the same league as authors like George R.R. Martin when it comes to the mortality of characters. I both admire that and am angered by it.

* Roderick Ho...what can I say about him? At the beginning of the book, I couldn't believe what I was reading about him—it was far more hard to believe than any of the outlandish things we've seen Jackson Lamb's team encounter. By the end, it all made sense. And I might have felt pity for the guy (although he makes it hard)

* Herron's prose is so delicious. It's mirthful without actually being funny (and only occasionally jokey). It's so well crafted, it's...I can't put it into words. I just love reading him.

They were south of the river, half a mile from the Thames, near one of those busy junctions which rely on the self-preservation instincts of the drivers using it; ether a shining example of new-age civic theory, or an old-fashioned failure of town planning. On one of its corners sat a church; on another, earth-moving monsters re-enacted the Battle of the Bulge behind hoardings which shivered with each impact. A tube station squatted on a third, its familiar brick-and-tile facade more than usually grubby in the drizzle. There was a lot of construction work nearby, buildings wrapped in plastic sheeting, some of it gaudily muralled with visions of a bright new future: the gleaming glass, the pristine paving, the straight white lines of premises yet-to-be. Meanwhile, the surviving shops were the usual array of bookmakers, convenience stores and coffee bars, many of them crouching behind scaffolding, and some of them book-ending alleyways which would be either dead-ends where wheelie-bins congregated, or short-cuts to the labyrinth of darker streets beyond. Once upon a time Charles Dickens wandered this area, doubtless taking notes. Nowadays the local citizenry’s stories were recorded by closed-circuit TV, which had less time for sentimental endings.

SO, WHAT DID I THINK ABOUT SPOOK STREET?

Once again, I couldn't stop asking myself why I am so behind in reading these? Why do I take breaks of months and months between them? Everything about this series is great.

I'm just happy the whole time I'm reading one of these books—despite the fact that the events are harrowing, the characters are generally despicable, and what the books suggest about humanity and Western security services (UK's in particular, but I can only imagine they function pretty similarly to the rest) doesn't fill one with optimism or confidence.

Spook Street is a solid winner from the horrible incident the book started with to the closing comforting paragraphs and all points in between. Herron planted more seeds than is typical for future installments—and I can't decide which I want to see first (on second thought, I want to see the Roddy Ho stuff come back to haunt him/Slough House as soon as is humanly possible).

If you're not reading these books—at my snail-like pace or at a rational pace—you are missing out.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Enough Rope?

It’s Dorothy Parker’s debut collection of poems, I think ninety of them–but I ran out of fingers and toes and had to make a guess.

Some are flat out funny, some are sweet (okay, not really that many), some are acidic, some are witty, some are ascerbic, some are lightly self-mocking–some are self-hating. It’s quite the range. Some are just somber and sober, without any species of humor (I think)–but those are few and far between. All show a degree of wit that too many poems I read don’t show (which is why I don’t read many.)

I should just go onto the next section because I guess I’ve slipped into answering:

So, what did I think about Enough Rope?

I enjoyed it. Some of these were just delightful. Some made me think a little. I know that Parker can tend toward dark thinking, but there were one or two that could give Plath a run for her money.

Some of the poems by her that I knew already, like “Résumé” or “One Perfect Rose” were part of this collection and were just as good as it was when I discovered it in High School. “Verse for a Certain Dog” is going to be a favorite of mine for quite a while.

One that I don’t think I’ve read before is called “Finis.” It struck me as something akin to Auden’s “Funeral Blues,” in lamenting a lost love–until the final couplet which turns the whole thing into a jab at the man.

Overall, you get the sense of someone who is a jaded romantic. She understands love–she’s wary of it, knowing the pain it can bring–but she also knows the highs that come with it, and longs for it. And through the highs, lows, bliss, and agony–has kept her sense of humor and a perspective that all things will pass. After all, you might as well live.

It occurs to me (seconds before I hit “publish”), that this is possibly best exemplified in the last poem in the collection:

The Burned Child

Love has had his way with me.

This my heart is torn and maimed

Since he took his play with me.

Cruel well the bow-boy aimed,

Shot, and saw the feathered shaft

Dripping bright and bitter red.

He that shrugged his wings and laughed—

Better had he left me dead.

Sweet, why do you plead me, then,

Who have bled so sore of that?

Could I bear it once again? …

Drop a hat, dear, drop a hat!

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Running and Jumping About?

For a brief time, Adam Lowe was going to get the bronze in the Long Jump at his first Olympic Games—the 2008 Games in Beijing. But an American, Chris Madison, ends up beating him by 1 centimeter. Leaving Adam with the worst place to be—the guy just off the podium.

This sets Adam and his coach off on a mission—a detailed training schedule to get to the next two Olympic games—starting with the London games. For Adam, representing his country in the capitol is more than a dream come true. It’s his destiny. Or at least that’s what he’s going to make his destiny.

Sacrifice

We frequently think of the sacrifices an elite athlete has to make to get to that level—and sometimes we’ll even think of what their parents give up.

But what about their siblings? Can you imagine what it must be like having a brother who overshadows everything you do in life (as proud as you may be of them)? Well, we get a little idea here.

And the friends—girlfriends, wives, etc.—forget it. How would you feel to have a best man who won’t drink, who goes to sleep early, and who needs to go out of the country to compete the weekend of your stag night? And that’s when he’s even paying attention to you instead of training.

Then there’s Adam’s sacrifices—being that kind of brother, having to prioritize his career over friends, family, love—because if he takes just a little bit too long off, takes that one drink, loses focus for a moment—it can put an entire year’s work at risk, and the domino effect of that could jeopardize your next Olympics.

Obsession

And that gives you an idea of the way that Adam has to obsess over things—over everything it seems.

Now, I read a lot of Crime Fiction—which is filled with detectives (police, or private), or people who act like them, who are driven to find a certain killer—or all killers they come across. And on the other side of the law, you get those who are driven to fulfill some strange goal/mission, checklist of people who’ve wronged them, or something. Basically, Crime Fiction is filled with driven, ambitious, obsessed (or nearly so) characters. Very few of these can hold a candle to Adam Lowe (and some other athletes we meet, and we seemingly are supposed to generalize to every Olympian).

The focus he demands of himself—and the lengths he goes to in order to maintain it—might be more impressive than the physical accomplishments.

So, what did I think about Running and Jumping?

I’ve said it before, I’ll undoubtedly say it again—I’m not a sports guy. But a good sports novel? (or movie/TV show—Go, East Dillon Lions!). I’m totally game for that.

Still, I wouldn’t have figured that long jumping would be a great focus. Sure, you’re competing against others, but it’s not head-to-head. There’s none of the inherent drama of looking someone in the eyes at the beginning of a play, or seeing someone off to the side in your peripheral vision, etc.

But Kedie made the right choice—he is able to get the tension just right, to get you on the edge of your seat. Yes, it’s largely a competition with only yourself on the field (as much as your scores are compared to someone else)—but really, who’s a better opponent than yourself?

I was a little shaky at the beginning, but Kedie got his hook in me. I was there for the personal ups and downs, the athletic highs (and there were several) and the lows (too many to be good for my psyche), the rivalry between Adam and Chris was just intense.

This was really a surprisingly effective, moving, gripping, and entertaining novel. The psychology alone makes this more than worth the time. I don’t know how accurate it is, or how safe it is to generalize from Adam to Olympians in general—but when you read this, you can’t help but believe it is.

Take a chance on this one.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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“If someone does try to shoot me this week, do you have to dive in front of the bullet?”

“That’s the idea,” says Amy, without conviction. “Though that’s mainly in films.”

It’s hard to dive in front of a bullet, in Amy’s experience. They go very fast indeed.

Some Preliminary Thoughts

While I’m always (or almost always) happy for authors to branch out in new directions, to see if they can do something they haven’t before, I’m frequently trepidatious about actually following them. Particularly if all I know is series X and they’re trying something new.

There are authors I’ve come to later in their careers, where they’ve already tried a few things, or authors whose first handful of projects are so different from one another that you know that’s what you’re going to get—something new.

But when you (as a writer, anyway) are known for a series of cozy-adjacent mysteries featuring octogenarians set in one community, step away to try something featuring someone far younger, and with more action and a lot of globe-trotting, you can understand why some readers wouldn’t be sure about stepping out with you. I think it’s fair.

The prologue (which wasn’t called that, probably just so people wouldn’t skip it) was pretty good, and caught my attention. The first chapter was strong, and I enjoyed it. 1.5 pages into chapter two, and I was more than ready to sign on for the rest of the book and was officially okay with Osman taking a break from the Thursday Murder Club (I imagine he’s greatly relieved to hear that).

Steve Wheeler

Probably longer ago than I want to admit, Ken Levine had a great bit on his blog about Sorkin always having a Danny in his shows (I’m sure he wasn’t alone in this observation, but I only remember his). I wonder if Osman needs a Steve in the same way. It doesn’t matter at all. That’s just a thought that struck me partway through, and I can’t shake it off.

So, what’s the deal with this Steve? He’s a retired detective, and it seems like he was a pretty good one before he settled down in a small community with his wife to enjoy that retirement. His wife pushed him into starting a PI agency, “Steve Investigates.” He does small jobs—the occasional marital observance, finding lost pets, seeing who’s messing with trash bins—that sort of thing.

He kept up the agency after his wife’s death, and does a quick patrol of the town twice a day on his way to sit on her favorite bench to enjoy the view and talk to her. Then it’s off to the pub to talk to some friends before going home to watch TV and pet his cat.

He speaks to his son rarely since his wife’s death, but speaks to his daughter-in-law frequently, almost daily.

Amy Wheeler

Amy is that daughter-in-law. She works in close protection and security. She globe-trots to do so, but tries to call Steve daily (unless she’s prevented by work or immanent danger). She’s very much Charlie Fox, with a sense of humor—and a different kind of trauma growing up.

She’s good at what she does, she takes it very seriously. She’s traveling the world and enjoying it—and lives for the adrenaline.

Rosie D’Antonio

Rosie is…a lot. That’s her in a nutshell, really. She’s Amy’s current client, as the book opens. She’s a world-famous author, from a time when that would make someone very rich—and she’s enjoying a career resurgence. She’s the best-selling author in the world, actually—if you don’t count Lee Child.

She’s wealthy, she’s of an uncertain age (and likes it like that), with a lust for life (and men).

She recently erred when she based a character off a certain Russian oligarch and did a very poor job of disguising it—so he’s put a price on her head. Which is where she and Amy got together.

What’s We Solve Murders About Then?

Three clients of Amy’s agency have recently been murdered in similar, ghastly ways. These influencers have little in common (at least on the surface) other than that. One of those murders happens close enough to where Amy and Rosie are staying that Amy goes to investigate (and brings Rosie along to keep her safe until she can arrange for something else).

Things start getting dangerous then—shots are fired, more dead bodies appear, and it’s clear that Amy is the next target on the list. Rosie’s having a blast with this—as long as no one’s firing at her, anyway. But Amy is going to need help from someone she trusts who also has experience in solving murders. So she essentially forces Steve to come and help.

More shots are fired and other attempts are being made at killing Amy. Flights to all over the world are taken in quick succession. Secrets are uncovered. Rosie flirts with many men. And an appreciation of Van Halen comes in far handier than anyone would expect.*

* Words would fail me if I tried to express how much the Van Halen material made me smile.

The Tone/Approach

I hate to dwell on the comparisons between this and his other books, but it seems like something I should talk about. First, this is told in a series of close-third person narratives from multiple perspectives. There’s no first person anywhere, and everything is told in the same typeface. That’s notable (if you ask me, anyway.)

Second, this is more overtly comedic. Clearly, TMC is full of humor, but it’s more of the gentle character-based humor. This is full of funny moments, situations, and lines that are clearly meant to get a laugh or a grin. In my notes I called it jokey, but I’m not sure it goes that far (too often, anyway). I’d compare it to Evanovich/Goldberg’s Fox and O’Hare books, Goldberg’s Ian Ludlow books (but more restrained), or Duncan MacMaster’s mysteries. (all of which are compliments, I want to stress)

But Osman is still Osman and there are plenty of earnest, heart-string-tugging moments, too. Particularly with Steven—talking about his dead wife or even considering his lifestyle and what has led him to his very self-contained life. Amy isn’t that reflective of a character (if anything, she avoids it with action), so we don’t get much of that with her—although the way she avoids thinking gets us to a similar point with her.

So, what did I think about We Solve Murders?

Did my appreciation of the book vary much from the verdict I made in Chapter Two? Well, I ended up liking the novel more than I did back there. Does that count?

This was just so much fun—while I had my reservations and questions before starting, I also had high hopes. The end result was better than those.

Osman can do an action scene pretty well—and keep the comedy going. We don’t have anything particularly drawn out here, but there are bursts. And his ability to create a story with strong momentum and great twists is well-documented.

More importantly—Osman’s gift for characters really shines here. The supporting characters—criminals, witnesses, people the protagonists happen to encounter (whether for a handful of paragraphs or for several chapters), are just golden. To describe the best of them would be to deprive you of your chance to meet them. Once it was clear that Rosie wasn’t just going to be someone we met to establish Amy as a bodyguard, I wondered a little bit about her tagging along. But it didn’t take me too long to fully embrace the character, and now I’m looking forward to seeing her in the future.

I’m not sure that I should’ve made the comparison to Charlie Fox above—you really can think of this as a Charlie Fox book with laughs and be pretty dead on. Others might disagree, but I’ve had the comparison stuck in my head for a couple of hours now and can’t shake it.

I’m not 100% sure the final solution was honest, it felt a little like he cheated to get [redacted] to figure out that the Big Bad was [redacted]. The Big Bad’s accomplice, however, was obvious for longer than it should’ve been to get the characters to suss them out. So, on average, he did okay there. The red herrings were great, and made up for whatever issues I might have had with the solution (but really, give us one more chapter where [redacted] goes over the clues again in their mind or something—actually, just a paragraph before they say “I know who Big Bad is.”)

This was just so good, really. At this point, it’s not quite as good as Osman’s other work—primarily because nothing had the emotional weight that the gang at Cooper’s Chase (which is close enough to Steve’s home to provide hope of the characters brushing up against each other) seems to find in their adventures. But the potential is there for this series to equal it. And, really, considering the tone of this one, that kind of punch might have felt out of place or contrived.

Either way, I strongly recommend this to Osman’s readers or people who’ve never heard of the man/his books. You will have fun, and you will want more. I guarantee that for 99% of you.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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REASONS I HAVE DIED:

The emperor of the wasteland wanted to make an example of my mother, and started with me.

One of my mother’s boyfriends wanted to cover up what he did to me.

I was born addicted and my lungs didn’t develop.

I was born addicted and my brain didn’t develop.

I was left alone, and a stranger came along.

The runners came for a neighbor, and I was in the way.

The runners came for my mother, and I was in the way.

The runners came for my mother’s boyfriend, and I was in the way.

The runners came for no one, serving nothing at all but chaos and fear, and I was what they found.

Sometimes, I was just forgotten in the shed where she kept me while she worked or spun out, and in the length of her high and the heat of the sun I fell asleep alone and hungry and forever.

REASONS I HAVE LIVED:

I don’t know, but there are eight.

(that’s how you end a first chapter!)

A Quick Word

I read this to take part in Shared Stories Bookstore’s Sci-Fi Book Club—I’ve never been to a Book Club before, I’m looking forward to doing so again. But that’s not what I’m going to talk about here—but I need to say that some of what I’m going to say about this book has either been shaped/informed by or directly stolen from someone at that meeting. I won’t share their names, because I didn’t get permission, but I wanted it out there that the smarter things I say here comes from them.

What’s The Space Between Worlds About?

This is tricky for a few reasons, some of which I really can’t get into. In a sense there are four stories* in this book and each resolves (pretty much) before the next launches. So obviously, I can’t get into the latter stories. But the first one or two I can sketch out a little bit…

* This is stolen from our discussion leader.

In a pretty distant future world—following some sort of environmental collapse (and maybe some military-induced collapse, but mostly environmental) the world is covered in city-states (that’s actually a guess, we know almost nothing about the rest of the world). There’s a city called Wiley City—which is pretty much everything you think of when you think of a futuristic city—shiny buildings, cool tech, and whatnot. Outside the City is another settlement, called Ashtown. Ashtown is where the poor, the unwanted, the criminal classes live. There are also people who live outside Ashtown and in (or at least spend time in), called Ruralites—who are a strictly religious group and it seems most of the people of Ashtown are (at least nominally) dependent upon their efforts.

Travel between parallel universes is now possible. Maybe for just the residents of one Earth, anyway. The catch is, you cannot travel to a universe in which you exist—and it doesn’t go well for the person entering a world they exist in. This makes the ideal candidate someone on the fringes of society—those who are most likely to live a dangerous life or a life with inadequate resources, so they might die early from natural causes. The more realities that you’re dead in, the more you can travel on behalf of the corporate entity that runs the multiverse technology.

Enter Cara, a resident of Ashtown, who is dead on 372 of the worlds that humans can travel to. She’s largely keeping her head down, just trying to make it through the next few years without losing her job—which will result in her being removed from Wiley City—if she can last long enough, she’ll become a citizen and she can then relax a little. She cuts loose a little in the worlds she visits, but lives a pretty careful life on “Earth Zero.”

She receives word that she’s been assigned to a new world—yet one more version of her has died. When she gets there, things start to go wrong and she really can’t complete her mission. She can, however, by her mere presence, act as a catalyst for some big changes in the leadership of that world’s Ashtown and Wiley City. This will end up having some ramifications on Earth Zero—and maybe elsewhere, too.

The Technology/Its Depiction

This is one of those books that’s filled with all sorts of cool sci-fi technology—especially the traveling between universes, but it’s not limited to that. And Johnson gives us no Asimov-esque explanations for it. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I’ve already given you almost all of the details you’re going to get about the science behind the travel between universes.

And yet, it works. I’d hoped for a little more detail, but I wasn’t bothered by its lack. In fact, I cared so much about Cara and what she was doing—and the people she was surrounded by in the various Earths she went to, I didn’t stop to think about the tech. And when I did…it didn’t matter, really.

It’s there, it does what it’s intended to do. That’s all you need to know.

Spirituality/Religion

We get more of this, really, than the science behind the traveling and other tools they have in Wiley City.

The Ruralites have a hybrid religion with features of Christianity (that’s obvious) and Buddhism (I needed someone to help me see that) and some other things accumulated over the centuries. It’s pretty strict and regimented—but there’s grace and mercy, too.

There’s a burial scene—including a good part of the rituals used. It’s very detailed and tells you as much about the religion as it does the people taking part in it. It is so well done, that you almost want to see more people killed so Johnson will describe it again.*

* Sure, you can just re-read that part. But if she writes it again, she might include new details.

There’s also a superstition—if it’s not a full-blown mini-religion—that has developed among those who travel between worlds. It’s not endorsed by, or encouraged by, the company—but it’s pervasive and has a hold on those travelers. They will tell you there’s a presence, a person of some sort, governing the travel. Someone they can feel and sense between the worlds.

Our culture currently likes to pit science vs. religion/spirituality/whatever. There is no such division for Cara and most (if not all) of the people she knows. They exist side-by-side, informing actions and morality each in their own way.

This is such a good idea for Johnson to introduce and her execution of it—and explanation of both sets of beliefs are just great. We don’t get a creed or even a full idea about the religious tenants of the Ruralites—but we see enough to believe that such a creed exists.

So, what did I think about The Space Between Worlds?

In short, this is really just a stunning book. The back of the book promises “surprise twists” and yeah, there are some, but the book is about more than a twist or five, as skillfully as Johnson executes them. As someone at the book club said, you think the main story is about to wrap up but there’s a whole bunch of more pages to left. None of the storylines feel rushed nor do they feel stretched out. There’s one mini-arc you might want more time in, but that’s just because it’s so pleasant (and given the rest of the book, pleasant is nice).

Cara is a wonderfully complex character. When we meet her, she seems fully realized—like one of those characters that’s going to remain largely the same person at the end of the novel as she was at the beginning. But that’s not it at all—she goes through a great period of personal growth, of changing the way she sees the world and people in it. Her motivations behind her choices on Earth Zero get pushed to the limit, and she is going to be faced with some major changes in that reality (as well as others).

I don’t want to overlook the other characters…at least some versions of them. There are some truly despicable characters (one’s despicable on every world we see him on, one is despicable—vile actually—on most worlds—which makes it hard on the other to accept him (for Cara and the reader)). There’s an evil mastermind who is pretty chilling. There’s some criminal types who show more honor than anyone else in the book. There are some characters that are likable, admirable, and even loveable (depending on the world). It’s a rich, rich world full of wonderful people (that you meet several versions of).

I need to talk about the prose, and yet I don’t know how to adequately express how much I was blown away by it. You could almost open up to any random page and find something worthy of quoting, of meditating on, or marinating in. Johnson has this ability to take a benign, everyday, or plain sentence and turn on a dime and make it bleak, gutting, or even hopeful (that’s the less-popular option.) Cara does have some grit to her, she is a wiseacre. The book isn’t a doom and gloom, I frequently smiled. But her world is a harsh one, particularly outside the walls of Wiley City, and Johnson’s language reflects that.

Apparently, there’s a sequel. It didn’t feel like the first in a series—and can absolutely be read as a stand-alone. This is one of the best written books I’ve read this year—and the story is really compelling. With twists you won’t be able to guess most things that happen over the course of the novel. It’s a very SF novel, but it’s also the kind of SF that people who aren’t super-into SF can get into (like one person at the book club). I’m at the point where I’m just running in circles—so I’ll shut up, you go get the book. Deal?

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Nobody’s Hero About?

A decade ago, Ben Koenig helped a woman disappear—and to do so in a way that even he (who knew more than anyone else in the world about it) wouldn’t be able to track her. But now, she’s surfaced—as someone responsible for a couple of brazen murders on the streets of London. He and his watcher/minder/handler Jen Draper are tasked with finding her and finding out what made her come into the open.

It takes all of their creative approaches to investigating—and Draper’s security firm’s extensive resources—plus a little luck to get on the path. But will they survive it?

Standing in their was is a team of assassins, criminal police officers, smugglers of various stripes, petty criminals—and bigger ones—and schemes that are truly chilling. Their strengths? The aforementioned creativity and extensive resources, some assistance from a certain Agency, their shared drive, Koenig’s lack of fear, his strange humor and odd trivia.

Obviously, the bad guys are in for trouble.

A Daring Move

Far too often when someone/some group in a novel has a completely innovative, genius, unbelievably original idea, it really isn’t. At best they’re usually clever, but nowhere near as mind-blowing as characters act. Too often, I think authors would be better off alluding to a plan without giving us all the details, and readers have to suspend disbelief to keep going.

For a while, I was worried that Craven had bitten off more than he could chew in revealing all that he did—when it was all shadows, I was really invested. But as the book progressed and we got more and more details about the scheme afoot, the more I realized that this was one of those exceptions that proved the rule. There’s some really ingenious stuff going on here.

I should’ve trusted the mind that brought us The Botanist (as only one example).

Can I promise that every reader is going to have their mind boggled by this? No. But even the cynics or the people who suss it out before the reveal are going to admit that this is atypically clever, and you can absolutely understand why Koenig and Draper have such difficulty with this—and are willing to risk so much to stop it.

The Title

I’m not going to get into it now, but I can imagine that more than one book club is going to spend some fun time speculating about/arguing over who the title is referring to.

I mean, I’ve spent some time speculating about it and arguing with myself over the identity. I figure Craven has multiple characters in mind, actually, rather than just one. But I’m prepared to be wrong about that.

Caveat Lector, or, the Fight Scenes

If you’re like me, and decided at one point or another to not have a meal while watching Bones, at least until the (first) body is taken back to the Lab (the CSIs may have driven viewers to a similar choice), you’re going to want to take a similar approach to the fight scenes in this book. That’s actually an excess of caution, you’re really only going to need it for some. But better be safe than sorry—really.

Now, once you put the meatball sub aside, these fight scenes are really well-written. I think they’re better than those in Fearless. Craven brings the goods in the technical sense/ability to depict things clearly, the impact on the plot, and the overall entertainment value.

So, what did I think about Nobody’s Hero?

This is really one of those books best discussed among people who’ve read it—most of the glowing things I want to say would reveal too much—and you don’t have to read too much of Craven’s work to know it’d be a bad idea to cross him. So what can I say?

Let’s start with this—between Fearless and Nobody’s Hero I read a couple of thrillers with a one-man Army in the Reacher/Koenig/Ash/Ryan/Orphan X etc. mold that soured me on the whole thing, so I started this with a little trepidation. Also, I didn’t know how he’d follow up Fearless and feared a little sophomore slump. It took me very little time to cast all that aside and just have a blast with this—I’m back to my appreciation of the genre, and I don’t know if Craven has the word “slump” in his vocabulary.

Ben Koenig is one of those characters that I hope to spend a lot of time with, there’s just something about him that I really like. It was good to see Jen Draper in action and to see the shift in the relationship between these two from where it was in Fearless and the beginning of this book to the end. They’re a good team.

I don’t know where to put this, but I need to say that between what we see in Nobody’s Hero and some of the Poe series, I really have to wonder what kind of drinking establishments Craven frequents (or I hope, for his sake, used to frequent).

One of the assassins has a…let’s put it generously and vaguely…a quirk. It feels like the kind of thing that Craven stumbled upon at some point in the last 15 years and said, “I need to put this in a book some day.” I’m very glad it did—I’m not convinced that a hitman could become a success with that quirk, really. But Craven uses it so well, that I’m not going to complain. I really enjoyed the way it paid off.

We didn’t get a monologue at the end by an evil mastermind, which still happens even after being made a cliché decades ago—it wasn’t necessary, and what we got instead was so entertaining. It was truly a great change from what was expected.

I don’t know that we need that last reveal—nor does the series—but, I look forward to Craven coming back to it in the future (however far away that future may or may not be).

Action, snark, and some really great twists. There’s a momentum to this that builds and builds and builds as the tension ratchets up in a way that shows you’re in the hands of a Thriller Master. Sure, every decent thriller has that characteristic. But anyone who’s read a couple of thrillers knows the difference between standard-issue momentum and tension and something special. This is the latter, and it ain’t even close.

Do you need to read Fearless before this? No. Will it help a little? Not much, but yes. The important thing is that you read both of them. You won’t want to put it down once you pick it up.

Long live Ben Koenig.

Disclaimer: I received this eARC from Flatiron 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 King Arthur & The Ladies of The Lake About?

This is a telling of the Arthur legend with a focus on the women in his life—his mother, sisters, Guinevere, the Lady of the Lake, and so on.

It’s also a telling of the clash between (a) Celtic religion and Christianity, with Arthur trying to maintain an atmosphere that allows both to coexist. I think the version of Celtic theology reeks of anachronistic thinking, and the “new” religion also feels a little off. But it works for this telling. It’s not just about religion—but about the way it works out in the lives and attitudes of Arthur’s people.

It’s really hard to say more than that—it’s Arthur from infancy through the end of his life, the growth of his reputation and kingdom, the controversies and losses.

A Word About the Art

So I really dig the watercolor art—it works well with the subject and the feel that Pompetti’s going for with the storytelling. There’s a dreamy quality to it that matches the storytelling, the magic and the visions that drive Arthur. I don’t know if that’s just how Pompetti works, or if he chose that deliberately for this story. Either way, it’s a win.

Yeah, there’s part of me that would appreciate a good inker and some more standard art and coloring. I think that’s primarily because that’s what I was raised with and am used to. But it just wouldn’t work as well for this work.

So, what did I think about King Arthur & The Ladies of The Lake?

I tipped my hand earlier when I talked about the clash of cultures driven by religion. Whoops (in my defense, I was trying to stretch that section beyond a couple of lines). While I didn’t appreciate the historical depictions, I did think it worked for a Fantasy tale.

In Pompetti’s telling there’s a feeling of groundedness to some of the standard elements of Arthurian legend—Excalibur, Guinevere’s affair, and so on. Yet, he didn’t remove magic and supernatural elements (I did wonder if that was the direction he was going for a moment)—it’s just not entirely the way we’re used to it with this story.

Like most people, I’m game for a good Arthurian retelling—and this is a pretty good one. I think the medium hurt it a little. 113 pages works for graphic novels, but it’s hard to squeeze in a lot of depth into those pages—particularly when the art looks like his does—the pictures are larger than they’d be with other artists, so the story details have to be lighter. It’s a tradeoff that’s worth it, I wouldn’t want Pompetti’s art to be smaller.

I enjoyed this on an initial read, and the bits I reread while preparing this post held up pretty well. I think it’s one of those books that I’ll appreciate more on successive re-reads, too. I’d absolutely read more by Pompetti and would encourage you to do the same.

Disclaimer: I received a copy of this from ARC from the Author via Edelweiss, and i appreciate that, but the thoughts expressed are my own.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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But she was also a little off. You could see it in her eyes. She was crazy. Had an edge to her, hard and sharp. There was an alpha dog, a predator, hiding behind that sweet, pretty smile.

What’s The Debt Collector About?

What do a couple of neighborhood drug dealers, some gang members, a bookie, a finance-bro who refuses to pay said bookie, a slightly bent cop, a low-level mobster, and miscellaneous henchman have in common?

Abigail Barnes. A debt collector who just wants a job.

Now Abby isn’t the kind of debt collector who calls you at inconvenient times of day and harasses you about outstanding medical debt, or whatever. She collects for people who can’t go through services like that. People like the aforementioned bookie. Or other drug dealers. Loan sharks. And other people who could collectively be called “criminals.”

She doesn’t look like your typical tough guy, however. The man who introduces her (in one way or another) to the above, Hector, describes her thusly the first time he sees her (while sober, but that’s another story):

He opened the door and saw a very attractive young blond woman standing there. She was a white girl, with very white skin; piercing, electric blue eyes, and a sort of round face framed by shoulder-length hair that added to her youthful appearance. She was average height for a girl with a well-rounded, curvy body that looked more solid than it did plump. She had on a white blouse that matched her very white teeth and blue jeans with black cowboy boots. She was carrying a six-pack of beer in one hand. In the other was his Maverick 88 pump action shotgun, angled upward and pointed directly at him at just about crotch height.

But as Hector will learn shortly after this—and just about everyone else she comes into contact with does, too—appearances are deceiving when it comes to Abby.

She’s got some training. She’s smart, too—she knows her limitations, and what people expect from someone who looks like her—and she combines those three attributes in ways that pretty much mean that she always comes out on top. At least regularly enough that she can earn money and stay off the radar of the authorities. But sometimes, things do get hot enough that she has to relocate and start over.

This is what she’s trying to do when she encounters Hector for the first time (and he’s nowhere near sober)—in one of those scenes that you can’t help but see play out like a movie as you read. It’s a great opening to the book, and then once Hector starts introducing Abby, we’re off to the races.

I Don’t Think I Want a Steady Diet of This, but…

Near the halfway point, there’s a pretty good fight scene between Abby and some people who have come to collect her—some of the henchmen I mentioned earlier. And, well, it doesn’t go well for them. This is a common theme in this book. And frankly, given the kind of novel this is—it’s not altogether unexpected.

But Russo does something cool here—he rewinds things a bit after the fight, and then we get to see the fight from the other point of view. It still doesn’t go well for the henchmen—but the change of perspective helps you see everything that happened in a fuller way, and better appreciate Abby.

I wrote in my notes, “that’s pretty cool, but I wouldn’t want to see that all the time.” If every time Peter Ash, Charlie Fox, or Ben Koenig got into a fight with someone we saw it from two angles, it’d get tiring (and would slow down their novels). But as a sometimes-treat? I’d love to see this kind of thing more often.

Particularly if the author did it as well as Russo did.

So, what did I think about The Debt Collector?

I had a blast with this novel—it’s one of those that in a world where I didn’t have work the next day, a family that I should pay attention to, or a blog to maintain, I’d have tackled in a single reading. I distinctly remember sitting down to dip my toe in the water one night, and maybe read 10 percent or so of the book. I got to 28% without noticing—and had to force myself to put the book down.

It just moved so smoothly—the first scene gets you hooked, and by the end of the first chapter, you’re invested in Hector and Abby (more the latter than the former, but he has his charm). And it keeps getting better and better from there.

I used the word “smoothly” above—and that’s the only word that comes to mind as I try to describe this experience. It feels effortless the way that the novel keeps you turning page after page after page—a sure sign that it took plenty of effort. There’s a little humor, Abby’s got a fresh-feeling perspective that you want to see more of. And the action? Really, really well delivered by Russo. You may think you have a general idea of how things are going to go early on (and you are likely right), but the way he reveals the plot and takes you through the fight scenes and the movement of the plot will have you not caring about your own theories when you can just keep turning the pages.

I thought the second half of the last chapter, in particular, was a tasty little cherry on top of the sundae. We really didn’t need it—but I tell you, I’m glad we got it. (The Epilogue is another thing we didn’t need—and the novel would’ve been completely fine without it—but it made me smile).

This was just a pleasure—and makes me really hope we don’t have to wait another five years for Russo’s next novel.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Hermit of Paradise About?

This starts with an old friend, Sunny, asking Aubey to find her some justice for an old crime.

Then we flashback a little bit to watch Aubey’s last days on the Dallas Police as a detective before his retirement.

Then we flashback to Aubey’s childhood days, living in his family’s home on a lake where he spends summers reading, fishing, and getting into antics with some older men and some children the same age. Free-range parenting at its best, and despite hanging out with criminals, Aubey seems like a well-adjusted kid in love with nature. The fateful summer in consideration, however, brings him into contact with a couple of peers who will change his life—including the aforementioned Sunny.

Something traumatic happens at the end of a beautiful summer—something that will haunt Aubey and his friends for the rest of their lives.

We then flash-forward to his retirement, Sunny asking for justice (with more context), and Aubey’s efforts to get that for her.

That’s the barebones of the plot, anyway. I gave a richer (and provided by the author/publisher) description on my Spotlight yesterday.

I’m Going to be Frank with You

(I’m always honest when it comes to my opinion on books, as far as I know, but occasionally I’ll pull a punch)

Under any other circumstances, this would’ve been a DNF for me. The pacing was off; the book spent far, far, far too long in the childhood section compared to the retired adult section; given what Aubey knew about the crime, too much of what we know about the people/area/history comes from inelegant info-dumping; what he did in the retirement section to investigate it made no sense—other than to make more opportunities for info-dumping….and I don’t want to beat up on things.

I could go on for paragraphs on how bad the dialogue was—I really want to rant about it (actually, ask anyone who lives in my house and they’ll tell you what I think of it). But let me just tell you this much: there are several conversations between two people where each part of the exchange contains the other persons name in the first sentence.

Allow me to illustrate from a well-known scene (with apologies to Mr. Tarantino):

Vincent asks, “And, Jules, you know what they call a… a… a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris?”

“Vincent, they don’t call it a Quarter Pounder with cheese?” Jules asks, surprised.

“No man, they got the metric system. Jules, they wouldn’t know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is.” Vincent laughs and shakes his head.

“Then, Vincent, what do they call it?” Jules raises his voice.

“Jules, they call it a Royale with cheese.” Vincent replies, stretching out “Royale.”

“A Royale with cheese. Vincent, what do they call a Big Mac?” Jules wonders, chuckling.

Vincent shrugs a little, “Well, Jules, a Big Mac’s a Big Mac, but they call it le Big-Mac.”

“Le Big-Mac, Vincent.” He practices “Ha ha ha ha. Vincent, what do they call a Whopper?”

“I dunno, Jules, I didn’t go into Burger King.”

Except every sentence should be longer—if not a small paragraph—overflowing with exposition and nowhere near as interesting. If I had a hard copy, I’d have thrown it across the room the second time I encountered this (I could let it go once). But I wasn’t about to throw my phone or e-Reader, as nice as it would’ve felt.

So, what did I think about Hermit of Paradise?

The childhood flashbacks made me think of someone trying to go for a Scout, Jem, and Dill feel. Or something out of a William Kent Krueger novel. It even kind of reminded me of A Snake in the Raspberry Patch by Joanne Jackson or something of a Tiffany McDaniel-talks-about-young-people feel. But Sanders isn’t in their league (yet?).

Sanders swung for the fences in every chapter—more than once in every chapter. I think there’s a decent (not necessarily good, but at least decent) novel hidden here. But Sanders needs a few more drafts and a skilled editor to bring that out.

If I was talking about intentions, desires, and aims here—I’d have a lot of good to say. But I’m not—I’m talking about the characters, writing, and novel—so I can’t say a lot of good.

I do think the characters (most of them, anyway) were promising—too many of the minor characters were interchangeable enough that we didn’t need them all. Again, a little more refining and editing would’ve helped a lot there.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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This Was Harder to Write than I Expected

There was a part of me that wanted to just do a light edit of my post about Cunk on Everything: The Encyclopedia Philomena and call it good. But that seemed like cheating. But there are giant parts of it that would work.

Still, I’m borrowing a little here and there from it, just so I don’t have to re-invent the wheel. I apologize in advance if you don’t appreciate that. Also, let this section serve as an all-purpose footnote so no one accuses me of plagiarism.

What’s The World According to Cunk About?

It’s a history of the world, as much of one as Cunk can fit into 50,000 words with minimal research, anyway. The point is to get it out in time for the holiday season—targeted toward the UK and the US, so it’ll predominantly be about the history of that/those cultures, while remaining the sort of history book that recognizes that things happen in parts of the world that aren’t dominated by Western Culture.

Also, we’re told, that she’s taking the innovative approach to history and will be writing chronologically, not alphabetically or by some other standard. Whodathunk it? History in order. I tell you, what this Philomena Cunk is a gutsy maverick.

If you’ve watched YouTube videos, Instagram reels, or any of the other quick ways we share videos online (with or without copyright infringement), or if you’ve seen any of the various series/specials on Netflix or

British TV networks that I can’t remember the names of, you know what you’re getting into with Philomena Cunk. If you haven’t, well, that’s trickier. It means you’re a reader or something rare like that—Cunk is a fictional documentarian (or at least the presenter of them). her approach to the documentary specials or the history in this book are a combination of naïveté, misunderstandings (especially in mispronunciation/misspellings), and cynicism.

Miscellaneous Observations

Doing a deep dive on this would be difficult for two reasons—I read an ARC, so I don’t want to quote anything (also, it would be very hard to know when to stop. Ask my wife, after you read the end). The second, and primary reason, is that if I talk too much about things, it’ll ruin the jokes for you when you read this (and you really should)

In lieu of that, here are some miscellaneous observations:

• Every time Cunk looks at non-English speaking cultures was a win.
• You’d think that there are only so many jokes you can make about “the Dark Ages” involving the absence of luminescence—and that few of them would be funny. And you’d be wrong on both counts.
• Best WWI humor since Black Adder Goes Forth. I don’t know that there’s a lot of competition there, but Cunk nailed that material.
• The technology jokes landed every time.
• I’m still chuckling at the phrasing for Caesar’s cause of death
• You are going to hear Diane Morgan’s deadpan delivery in your head whether you read this or get the audiobook. Just know that going in. (you likely assumed it that already, so know that you’re right).

It Did Falter a Bit

The last chapter, “The Global Globe” started off strong, but as the history got more and more current, the humor changed. Maybe it’s that Cunk’s particular brand of absurdity requires some distance to really work. However you explain it, this just didn’t work for me.

Now, was it funny political humor? Satisfying satire? Yes—I truly appreciated almost all of it. It just didn’t feel very Cunk-like. I couldn’t “hear” Diane Morgan’s voice. If it’d been in another book, I’d have really liked the end of this last chapter. But here? It just felt out of place.

So, what did I think about The World According to Cunk?

I didn’t see (but maybe overlooked) the writers behind this book listed anywhere—but whoever they were, they deserve a round of applause. Or two.

I chuckled and laughed out loud a lot while reading this. There’s really not much more to say—that’s what they were going for.

My wife doesn’t get the appeal of Philomena, I don’t know why, I think it’s undeniable and obvious. So I really annoyed her by reading lines or paragraphs to my daughter while the three of us were in the same room. Sometimes, I had a stockpile of parts my daughter would like from reading when we weren’t in the same room. My kid and I had a lot of fun laughing together at this while my wife just looked at us strangely. I don’t share this to give you more insight into our fun little family dynamic—but to say that at least once (maybe three times, but Mrs. Reader denies this) even she laughed.

Seriously, up to the end of the last chapter, this was about as fun as you could want. Since I discovered Dave Barry Slept Here decades ago, I’ve been a sucker for history comedy—and The World According to Cunk by Philomena Cunk is a great entry in that category. (you might want to skip most of what happens after 1980).

Disclaimer: I received this eARC from Grand Central Publishing via NetGalley in exchange for this post—thanks to both for this.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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Ruby

Ruby is a young twentysomething-ish woman*, new to Boston, having moved there following a bad breakup. She’s left the comforts of home and family to start again and prove to herself (and probably her ex) that she can do it on her own. She’s generally optimistic, talks to herself, is a bit overwhelmed with everything but she still has a cheerful personality—which is reflected in everything from the way she dresses to the way she looks at life. Despite Winter in Boston, which really isn’t treating her well, that is.

* Just before scheduling this post, I remembered that Ruby can’t spend time in bars. So, she’s a really young twentysomething-ish. I could probably look it up, but that’s good enough.

She’s jobless, but looking, and is getting close to the desperation point. But she’s not going to quit until she has to.

She shares her apartment with a woman who is very different than her, and their communication…well, it’s lousy. And not just because Ruby’s killed all but one of her houseplants.

Cordelia

Cordelia is noticeably older. Not truly grumpy, but optimistic and bubbly are definitely not things she’s been called (or would want to be called). She’s maybe not a huge success, but she does well enough that she’s not worried about money or comfort (there’s more to it than that, but I’ll let you read it for yourself). She likes to stay home in the evenings and read.

And drink. And drink some more. I don’t know if she’s technically an alcoholic (a functional one, for what it’s worth) or if she’s just a heavy drinker. It’s probably an academic question, really.

Cordelia doesn’t have much of a social life, she gets along with her coworkers—none of whom know that up until recently she’d been having an extended affair with their very married boss.

She doesn’t understand Ruby’s optimism, her approach to life/job hunting, resents what she’s doing to her houseplants, and just doesn’t know how to get through to her at all.

A large part of that stems from the fact that Cordelia was found dead a few months ago, and is now a ghost who likes staying in her former apartment while she gets a handle on the whole afterlife thing. Ruby, is (I should’ve said earlier, but I just assume it) very much alive and was more than happy to move into an already furnished apartment.

What’s A New Lease on Death About?

The book opens with Cordelia trying to talk the brand-new ghost of their neighbor through the opening minutes of his afterlife. He’d been murdered just outside their building and he is not taking the whole experience very well.

In one of the early attempts at actual communication between the roomies, Ruby gets the idea that Cordelia is trying to tell her they should investigate the murder like someone on one of the True Crime podcasts she’s a huge fan of. Cordelia was actually trying to keep Ruby as far as she could from all that, and seemed more than ready to accept the police’s rushed theories.

Before you know it, these two had become much more than people…entities?…sharing an apartment, they were a semi-functional team on the hunt for a killer.

The Ghostly Brass Tacks

This isn’t a book steeped in magic, supernatural creatures, and other things common in Urban Fantasy or even other supernatural mysteries I’ve talked about here. The Supernatural (at least in this book) is limited to ghosts who linger around—and not many do. We’re not really told why, but Cordelia has a theory.

It’s not easy to help someone when you’re incorporeal, invisible, and unable to make yourself heard. It’s also hard to “lean on” or assist someone if you’re not all that sure is actually around, or off doing their own thing.

And honestly, that’s just the beginning of their problems.

Blacke paints a picture of Claudia’s reality, her state, her learning curve, and her abilities to interact with the physical world and people in a way that absolutely makes sense, is consistent, well thought-out, and believable. It’s truly impressive—and darn entertaining—to watch Claudia try to be Ruby’s partner through all this.

It’s strong to say there’s a relationship between these two, but there is.

So, what did I think about A New Lease on Death?

In brief—this is everything I hoped it would be (well, I wanted a few more jokes, but I got over that). I bought in right away to everything—Blacke made that really easy—and both the plot and characters kept me fully engaged. I was faster than the pair on a thing or two (nothing applicable to this case, but what appears to be the next one), but didn’t get to the solution to the mystery until about the same time as Ruby and Cordelia.

It’s both a fun and well-executed novel and a solid introduction to a world and series (it’s at least a duology, I just don’t know how many books Blacke/Minotaur Books have in mind). There’s not a huge cast of characters that we can expect to see again—but there are some. We’ll see some of Ruby’s coworkers, I’m sure (eep—minor spoiler, she finds some kind of job); there are some figures we’ll see from the apartment building; and there’s one ghost I expect Cordelia to learn a bit more from. But it’s essentially a cast of two—and that’s more than enough to fuel this book and series.

In a step in a new direction for Blacke, this isn’t a cozy mystery—or so Blacke’s website says. And it’s true, I suppose—largely depending on how strictly you define “cozy.” But almost every cozy reader will embrace the storytelling. Blacke’s fans, in particular, will be fine with this after a little adjustment, and will likely embrace it without much trouble.

It’s not as lighthearted, warm, fuzzy, and pun-filled as The Record Shop Mysteries were. There’s little in here that’s outright funny—although you’ll smile most of the time, and the book is rarely dark. Tonally, it’s close to Darynda Jones’ mysteries, Janet Evanovich, and Lee Goldberg’s Eve Ronin (although all of those contain more jokes).

What Blacke carries over from the Record Shop Mysteries is her charm. You will like these two women right away. You’ll look for signs of friendship, camaraderie, and understanding between the two—and be pleased when you find them (and when you don’t have to look anymore).

This is the fourth book by Blacke that I’ve read, and it’s the fourth book of hers that I enjoyed. But she’s displaying a greater skill when it comes to writing, plotting, and character here than she has before. I think that’s a function of subject/subgenre rather than skill or anything. I’ve liked her books before, but this impressed me in a way the others haven’t. I don’t think it’s me comparing the two series—because I honestly want her to circle back soon to the environs of Sip & Spin Records (as little as I expect it). It’s just this is a better canvas for her to display more of her talent.

If you’ve tried her earlier material, you’ll see what I mean. If you haven’t, just realize I was dancing around a point—and maybe landed near it.

Regardless—this is a fun odd couple/buddy cop outing featuring amateur sleuths (so, yeah “buddy cop” isn’t technically right, but you know what I’m saying) with a side order of supernatural woowoo. The solution to the mystery is satisfying and fitting—and the conclusion of the novel launches into the next novel/series. What’s not to like? Very little. I’m already eagerly awaiting the next volume. I feel like there’s something I’m not saying, but I can’t figure out what it is. So I’ll just leave it at this point.

I’m looking forward to the next book, I expect almost everyone who reads A New Lease on Death will find themselves in the same boat. And I really hope many people come aboard—like you. Yes, you. Pick this one up.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Black Maria About?

Detective Felix Kosmatka knows he shouldn’t think of this murder case being a launching pad for his career—his ticket out of the hometown where everyone of a certain age (including the police department’s receptionist) still uses an embarrassing nickname. But thinking about that does help distract him from a sight that threatens to make him lose his lunch.

The grandson of the region’s richest person has been found in his bed with his throat slit. There’s no sign of a break-in, nothing is missing, and everyone is accounted for (except for his father).

The grieving grandfather is prominent enough that a specialist from outside of area is brought into this small Pennsylvania mining town to help Felix. Detective Adam Shaffer wants to find the obvious answer, but Felix isn’t sure that Occam’s razor applies here and is determined to find something deeper.

In this former coal town, there’s plenty of deeper and darker places to go. By the time this investigation ends, everyone in the Department and everyone touched by the case will changed in one way or another.

My Other Post About the Book

Last Tuesday, I posted my thoughts about the book at about 100 pages in. In this post, I made some guesses about where I thought the book was going to go. It took less than 60 pages* for Boyer to prove me wrong. Very wrong about a lot of it—the kind of wrong where it might have felt like she was rubbing my nose in it, if I cared. Which I really didn’t—I was having too much fun reading the thing.

* I could tell you exact pages for both of these points, but I won’t to preserve a little bit of surprise.

Also, the formatting on the post was questionable and says a lot about the rush I was in to get it done on time. It’s actually more embarrassing than how wrong I was about the book (because it’s entirely my fault, and not because of a clever writer).

So…can I explain why I was wrong without giving much away? Not really—but I can say that I made the same mistake that both the detectives (and others) made.

So, what did I think about Black Maria?

There’s a lot that was impressive about this book—there’s a solid twist that derailed me, and some really well executed reveals throughout.

This is a police procedural where the whodunit isn’t that interesting (and is given away really quickly), the howdunit is pretty obvious (although the reasoning behind the how…), it’s all about the why and when. The how/if the killer gets caught comes in as a close second.

Boyer gets the people—the detectives, the killer, the victims, and the relatives of them all (and anyone else I didn’t mention). There are a lot of rich backstories at work here—we don’t get them all, we actually get very few of them. We get flashes of several others, just enough to tempt you, really. It feels like everyone tied to law enforcement (and more than a few others) could be part of a long-running series, and we only get to see them in this one installment. It’s a nice touch.

A lot of this novel wouldn’t work if it wasn’t told in the early 1970s, but I still wonder why that was important to Boyer to do. Did she start with an element of the story and/or a desire to tell something having to do with it, and then had go put the rest of the story there (and which element was that?). Or does she really just like that period of American/Pennsylvanian history? I don’t think it matters, but I’m curious.

I don’t know that except for the thing I alluded to in the previous section that I was ever blown away by the writing or the plot. But at every point, it was clear that Boyer was executing her vision exactly the right way. This is a solid piece of writing from someone I’d gladly pick up another book or three from. I might not be moved to rave about this book, but I will gladly recommend it widely. This is the way to do a historical mystery.

Disclaimer: I was provided a copy of this ARC by the publisher, without any expectation that I would post about it. My choice to do so, and what I chose to say are mine alone.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The More the Terrier About?

The Carpenter family returns from a vacation to find that their house/dog-sitter has brought in a stray from the weather. Before they can take it to their rescue shelter to scan for a chip, his son, Ricky, recognizes the dog—he’s a little terrier that they’d fostered a few years ago, who’d gotten lost and found his way back to a place he knew.

Andy returns the dog, to find out that this was a bit of coincidental timing. The dog was adopted by a mother and son—the son attends a local college, and is in jail awaiting trial for killing a professor. His current lawyer is pressing him hard to take a deal, but BJ is resisting. Andy has a conversation with BJ and takes over the case—there’s something fishy about this lawyer and how he got involved in the case.

As one expects by now, the more that Andy looks at things, the more complex things appear. Soon, Andy and his team are up in their necks with experimental computer software, drug dealers, sexual assault (don’t worry, it’s not anywhere near graphic), and other sorts of criminal activity. This includes one of the biggest challenges (possibly the biggest) Marcus has faced in this series.

Marcus

At one point in this book, Andy and Marcus are having a conversation and in the middle of it, I stopped just to marvel at a totally normal conversation happening between the two without any wisecracks in the narration about finally understanding him or anything.

It was just strange. It’s good, I think I like it this way. But it’s taking some getting used to.

Marcus as a whole is losing some of his mystique, though. He’s becoming more human—which is a good (and a bad thing, I miss the superhero).

The Holiday-ness of It All

Since this is a “Christmas”/”Holiday”-themed release, I like to take a moment to talk about that aspect of the book. There’s barely any. If someone had told me that Rosenfelt had spent a day changing the Summer 2025 book into the Holiday 2024 release, it’d come out like this.

That said–it worked. We don’t need chapters upon chapters every year about Christmas, Laurie’s obsession with Christmas decorations and music, all the stuff about gifts, etc. If you’re a fan who reads every book, the allusion is enough. If you’re new to the series–or just not obsessive–there’s enough Holiday content to add flavor, to set the mood.

This is not a comment about quality or quantity. I’m good with either—it’s just an observation. Also, it’s hard to find something to talk about here at book #30.

Metaverse Overload?

So the Metaverse is a major component in this novel—it’s a place where the victim spends a lot of time, as well as several other characters in the book. There’s a lot of conversation about it, and so on.

Few things speak to the lead time between the submission of a manuscript and its publication as clearly as something like this. I verified my assumptions with the Gen Z and Millennial people in my family, and they all tell me that the Metaverse is just not as big as these characters made it seem (and people thought it would be a few years ago).

Does this hurt anything? Nope. It just made me roll my eyes.

So, what did I think about The More the Terrier?

Few things in my life are as certain as that I will have a good time with an Andy Carpenter book. The More the Terrier is no exception. We get to spend some time with some good friends, maybe make another friend or two (maybe just good acquaintances)—we get to see that Corey’s relationship is growing (we need another Team K-9 book!!).

The mystery is satisfying. The way that Andy and Co. solve it is, too. Andy’s narration is reliably entertaining and chuckle-inducing. The material about the dogs is great (the Sebastian jokes are something I’ve started to really look forward to). Andy’s courtroom antics are restrained here, but the trial is still the best part.

I really don’t know what else to say—this is a fun read. If you’ve never read an Andy Carpenter book, you’ll enjoy it–if you’ve read 1-29 of them, you know this is the case.

Rosenfelt’s books are like potato chips—once you start, you just can’t stop. Go ahead and open this bag.

Disclaimer: I received a copy of this book from St. Martin’s Press—thanks to both for this.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Candle & Crow About?

What isn’t this about? Al has to address a potential treaty violation of a group against some British citizens, which leads to some treaty re-negotiations; Gladys wraps up business she started in the last book, prepares to leave her job, and sees some shite; the Morrigan tries to settle among humans in her new body; Al, Buck, and Nadia are targeted by the police; Al has to help out his American counterpart with a tricky problem; Al gets a line on who cursed him; and…a few other things that I can’t figure out how to describe in a phrase or two.

Seriously, this book is busy. But somehow, it doesn’t feel crammed or over-stuffed; everything gets as much time as it needs to be addressed; everything makes sense; you don’t lose track of any plotlines; characters get to grow and develop (and be introduced!). And the last couple of chapters are so satisfying that I don’t care that I can’t finish this sentence properly.

A Trio of Druids

Fittingly for what Hearne has stated will be the last book in the universe of the Iron Druid Chronicles (I’m waiting for him to change his mind. Maybe a foolish hope, but it’s one nonetheless), we get to see all three of the Druids from that series for a little while—and none of them togther.

Working with his students has been good for Owen, Atticus—I mean, Connor—is in a good place (in several senses of that word), and Granuaile is…well, still Granuaile. I think I’ve mentioned she was getting on my nerves toward the end of IDC, and she’s still there. But she’s still essentially the same character—so if you weren’t annoyed by her, you’ll enjoy her appearance (I did, even with my attitude).

We got just enough time with them all to get a sense of where they are, what the future holds for them, and to see that they’re doing well—the events of Scourged are far enough past that they’ve settled into the next stage of their lives. It’s a good way to say goodbye to this world.

Deities

Since at least book 3 of the IDC we’ve had a good understanding of how gods, goddesses, and lesser deities function, live, and have power both now and throughout the ages. Hearne’s had Atticus and Al explain it a time or two since then, so faitful readers will get it.

But in these pages, we are given two examples (or three, depending on how you want to count something) of how this functions toward entities that aren’t part of the major pantheons (or minor ones, either—how would you describe Perun’s?). They are two divergent types of entities and the application of what we know about deities in this world is quite different (while linked).

I think it’s clear that I’m struggling to describe this without giving something away (if you haven’t noticed, let me assure you that I am). However, for fans of this world and fans of just good worldbuilding—Hearne does a great job with this stuff, if I didn’t know better*, I’d say that he started building toward this novel in Hammered.

* Okay, I don’t know better, he might have had this as part of his Master Plan all along. But I’m willing to bet he didn’t.

Al and the English

Al has to deal with a representative of the British government a few times over the course of this book as a part of his sigil agent duties. I honestly don’t know if I’ve been so purely entertained by Hearne (outside of an Oberon-heavy moment) as I was in reading Al’s narration during these parts.

He really doesn’t like this guy—and it’s tough to say that Al gives him a real chance before deciding to write him off—but the reader can understand why. I think that Al gets close to mean in his attitude and actions toward this man, but I don’t think he crosses the line. Then again, I was chuckling and highlighting so much in these interactions, I might have missed it.

So, what did I think about Candle & Crow?

I have said many good and complimentary things about the books in this series—and I stand by them—but this is what all of the Ink & Sigil books should’ve been like, at least at their core. We’ve seen a little of the Sigil Agent life, but there’s been a lot of other things going on, and not that much of it has to do with the administration and enforcement of contracts. It was just so cool to focus on that as much as we got to here. Yes, the big action stuff, taking on whacky monsters and nasty people experimenting on supernatural creatures and whatnot is pretty cool, too. But we get that kind of thing in all sorts of UF—we don’t get to see a lot of supernatural people wrangling with human governments over the wording of a hundred year old document* and the deadly ramifications of that wrangling not going well. It’s a shame that Hearne embraced this aspect of Al’s life so completely here at the end.

* Well, we get glimpses of that in The Rivers of London series, don’t we? But it feels very different.

I enjoyed every bit of this book—and am not sure how to talk about it without just blathering on and on about how good everything was. The action—and despite what I may have suggested earlier, there was plenty of it—was gripping and moved well. The emotional arcs of the characters were done with Hearne’s typical deftness (and maybe more than typical deftness). The humor was Hearne at his best. The magic at work was perfect, and…yeah. I just have nothing but compliments upon compliments here.

If you have any kind of emotional investment in Buck, Nadia, or Al going into this book, you will love the ending. It was a real treat, the last chapters just made me feel all warm inside.

I was so enthusiastic about this book that I think I might have convinced a friend to pick up the first IDC book just so he can catch up and appreciate all of this book—and another friend who’d read Hounded through Scourged to pick up this trilogy. And I’m more than ready to do that to anyone else reading this post.

I don’t know what Hearne’s next project will be, but I’m ready for it. In the meantime, I’m just going to bask in how wonderfully satisfying that Candle & Crow was.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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The Back of the Book

There’s no way I could put all this as concisely as (I’m guessing) Sharp did for the back of the book. Also, I think I’d trip over myself not saying some of this, but I clearly think some things are more spoiler-ish than others do. So I’m just going to steal this:

Life is looking pretty good for thirty-two-year-old Jessica Dodd. She just bought her wedding dress and closed on a house with her trial lawyer fiancé, Thomas. But first, she needs to take care of one tiny issue: her husband – a youthful indiscretion from a drunken weekend in Vegas years ago. She never saw the guy again, so it didn’t really count. Still, she needs to get divorced.

CIA agent Parker Salvatore has thought of his “Vegas wife” over the years, though it was never time to start dating her. However, when he returns from a two-year assignment to find that she is literally in bed with the enemy, he realizes it’s time to make his move. First, he needs to catch the bad guy, then he can woo the girl.

Things begin to unravel when Jessica finds out Thomas has been lying to her. Determined to confront him she follows him to Italy. Fueled by a surplus of caffeine and a colossal lack of sleep her plan becomes a hell of a lot more complicated when she walks straight into the middle of the CIA’s criminal investigation of her fiancé.

Set against the backdrop of the Tuscan countryside, Parker and Jessica find themselves treading the perilous waters of infiltrating a well-known crime family, filing for divorce and attempting to keep their rekindled attraction at bay.

Slightly Ajar Door Romance

I’m not an expert on this kind of thing, but I can read definitions online, so I feel safe saying that this isn’t a closed-door romance. But it’s really not that far off–I’ve read books (Romance and otherwise) that put more on the page. Sharp does fade to black pretty quickly, thankfully*, but she could fade a bit quicker–and take a little more time before fading back into light.

* That’s a reflection of my prudish-inclinations.

I just figure that I should mention it since I’ve talked about things like this in the past–and I know some of my readers care. Basically, I’ve learned from the Sunshine Vicram books–these are not ones I will give my mother. Although I have to say, I kind of think I’d be more comfortable knowing that my mother read this over Sunshine (and much more comfortable with my mother knowing I read these, too). That might be a silly basis for rating, but that’s where I am.

So, what did I think about Big Trouble in Little Italy?

I only took one note while reading this book–after the first chapter, I wrote simply “Zany.” And I really never came up with anything to say beyond that. There is a lot more to the book than that–but that word is pretty much always applicable.

Sharp’s voice is infectious–I thoroughly enjoyed the writing here, more than the rest of it (which is saying something). The characters lept off the page and right into your heart (except for the small handful you just wanted to spit out as quickly as possible, and then spit on). There’s an Italian agent working with Parker who is one of those characters that comes close to stealing the show–I’d love to read more about him. That’s true for most of the more significant supporting characters, too. Yes, the focus of the book is (rightly) on Jessica, Parker, and Thomas–but Sharp has this book bursting with characters you want more of.

This is very much a Romance novel–yes, a Romantic Comedy, yes, a Romantic Comedy with a Thriller flavor. But the key word there is Romance/Romantic. As such, I’m not really the intended audience for this, but after talking with Sharp at an event this Spring, I really wanted to read something she wrote–and thankfully, the Comedy and Thriller parts of the book were strong enough that I could handle the Romance.

I’m not sure what people who read more Romance fiction than I do would think of this. I think die-hard Thriller readers would think it stretches things a bit (but not as much as a couple of Lee Child books have, for just one example). The Comedy never misses, though. Not once.

I can see myself coming back for more in this series, actually. I can also see me dropping it pretty quickly if the laughs die down. I say that without rancor–but because I recognize that I’m just dabbling in this world.

I’d definitely like to hear what people better versed in Romantic fiction have to say about Sharp’s work. But for my money, this is worth your time and money. The plot zips along well, the CIA-Crime story zigs and zags the way it should, and the comedy is pretty consistently goofy and yet heartfelt–actually, all of it is heartfelt. Zany and Heartfelt. A heckuva combination.

Oh, be sure to have your local Italian restaurant’s online delivery menu pulled up, you’re going to want to use it. Or have it, and your payment methods, locked away if you don’t need to treat yourself in that way.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Buddy the Knight and The Queen of Sorrow About?

Buddy the Knight is a teddy bear. A valiant teddy bear, devoted to protecting his Person from the monsters from The Realm-Under-The-Bed. He’s a knight and has spent years defending a little girl named Mieya from these fearsome foes. He’s frequently assisted by his companion, a stuffed tamarin—a mandolin-playing bard. Esteban not only fights at Buddy’s side, but his songs frequently tell the tales of Buddy’s victories.

One night before Buddy can dispatch it, a monster inscribes a rune over Mieya—one that will bring her certain doom unless Buddy can defeat the monster’s master—the Queen of Sorrows. Buddy is given an enchanted googly eye to guide him and Esteban as they journey to the heart of The Realm-Under-The-Bed to find this Queen. There are countless enemies and obstacles along the way, but they have until dawn breaks to complete their quest, so they will have to be quick as well as brave.

The Cover

I don’t do this enough, but I need to call out the cover here. Candice Broersma knocked it out of the park with this one. I just love this cover. It’s one that you want to have on your shelf/eReader.

Also, I’d buy a print if Broersma/David were to make them available.

A Little Treat

There’s a reference at one point to a series of books that Mieya read. I hope, hope, hope that kids who read this have their curiousity piqued and go ask someone (like a librarian or bookseller) what it might be a reference to and then read those books. They’ll be in for (another) treat if they do.

Just seeing the reference was enough for me.

There are other nods to fiction and movies, too—cleverly hidden throughout, and just enough to make the grown-ups reading this smile (the Captain Shakespeare/Captain Johannas Alberic nod was particularly well done). None of them made me quite as happy as the series of books she read, but that’s me. You (if you’re above the age of 15), will likely have other favorites—but you’ll enjoy all that you catch.

So, what did I think about Buddy the Knight and The Queen of Sorrow?

I know that many people think that Paladins are boring characters. I’m not one of them—just think of Sturm Brightblade, Superman, Michael Carpenter, or Paksenarrion and tell me they aren’t great to read (okay, some people have made Supes a little boring—but not all of them). Buddy the Knight is yet another entry in the Great Paladin Characters list I should get around to compiling sometime.

Esteban is one of the better comic relief sidekicks with a lot of heart, too. As funny and heartfelt as Shrek‘s Donkey with the devotion of Samwise Gamgee. The other allies and people—including the sentient magic sword—who help Buddy out are really well done, too.

The monsters, other antagonists, and (of course) the Queen of Sorrows are equally well depicted—but unlike the above, you really don’t want to spend time with them. They’re all drawn from types we’ve all seen before, but given a twist to make them feel new—and the reason we’ve all seen them before anyway is that they’re just about always compelling, and with David’s twist? They’re just what this book needed.

Throughout the book—either in flashbacks that Buddy has to his maker’s lessons or in the things the characters say to motivate each other or themselves—the reader is going to get a lot of slogans, life lessons, or morals thrown at them. I appreciated reading them—and I expect that readers 40 years (plus or minus a couple) younger than me will, too. Coming from stuffed animals probably makes them more palatable and somehow less corny than they’d be coming from an authority figure (in fiction or real life). It’s likely that some of these will get lodged in the back of a young reader’s mind and will prove beneficial later in life.

The story itself is a pretty straightforward Fantasy tale—the hero and his allies (some picked up along the way) are on a journey with a deadline to fight a powerful in order to rescue someone. As always, it too, is effective.

There’s a lightness to the prose, but it’s not a comedy—it comes across as whimsical and fantastical. It will charm you as it draws you in. We don’t really see Mieya in action and don’t get to know her, but we want her safe, we worry for her, because Buddy, Esteban, and the others are so devoted to her. We care about her because we care about the bear and the tamarin, and anything they think is important we think is important.

This is the kind of book that 10 year-old me would’ve curled up with and read and re-read. It’s also the kind of thing that my kids would’ve loved—and I’d have had a blast reading to them. And 51 year-old me was just about as captivated with it as my younger self would’ve been. I strongly recommend this to those young at heart and those young readers you happen to buy books for.

Disclaimer: I received a copy of this eARC from the author in exchange for my honest opinion.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s The Teachings of Shirelle About?

I’m just going to go with what’s on the author’s site:

“Relish the day. If you’re not in awe, you’re just not paying attention.”

She hadn’t even been in the crowded pound a week, but she’d already developed a nickname, “Knucklehead.” As a puppy she destroyed property and precious clothes; as an adult she injured her owner, ruined romances… and changed the world-views of those around her.

Have you ever watched an animal and wondered how it thinks, how it sees the world, how it views you? And have you ever wondered what wisdom you might learn if you could see things as that animal does?

This unique book is many things: an amusing and moving memoir about a memorable dog, a poetic ode to a human-animal connection, and a serious philosophical, psychological, and spiritual inquiry into the lessons a man gleaned from the simple-minded brilliance of a teacher, a lover, a liver of life to the fullest… a Knucklehead.

That penultimate sentence is demonstrably false, but the rest of that gives you a pretty good idea of what to expect from this book.

The Good

Douglas Green truly loved his knuckleheaded canine companion. That is incredibly clear. She was frequently a goof, that’s clear, and brought a lot of joy and laughter to Green’s life and to those with whom she interacted (mostly).

The parts of the book that were just stories about Shirelle were great and brought several smiles to my face (and I expect the same will be true for many readers). They’re relatable, they’re fun, they might make you chuckle.

I really appreciated moments like where Green tried to describe things like the joy Shirelle (and just about every dog) expresses when their person returns home. And he’s right—why don’t we have the same kind of joy for each other? (we could probably express it without the jumping). Many—maybe even most—of the lessons he takes from Shirelle are similarly well-written, well worth the time, and showed the a smilar kind of thinking.

I couldn’t help but think about Dave Barry and David Rosenfelt’s lessons from their dogs during this time.

Even the parts about Shirelle’s medical struggles—that eventually ended—and what Green went through to get her the care she needed were rewarding reading (although by the time we got to that part, a lot of the book fell into what I talk about in the next couple of sections). Her making it through so much was great to see, even as you feel bad that she had to go through it.

The Meh

I’m going to lump in just about everything that Green puts about his biography, his various jobs, his love life, and his professional and semi-professional pursuits here. I didn’t pick up this book to read about Douglas Green, his career in film or stage—or his move into psychotherapy.

When Green wrote about Shirelle in conjunction with this, that really helped—she’s why people come to the book after all. Shirelle as an unofficial and untrained therapy dog is the kind of thing readers want to see.

The Bad

The metaphysical claims that Green makes, the philosophy he espouses, and things along those lines were tiresome, not well conveyed, and typically interfered with the book as a whole. Your results may vary, obviously, but if I want to read about manifesting or things of that nature—I’ll go grab Rhonda Byrne’s book, not a book about a ridiculous dog.

I’m not entirely sure that those parts of the book were all that internally coherent—I mentally checked out during most of those parts of the book for both of our sakes. That way I wasn’t miserable and I wouldn’t end up going on an extended diatribe about them. I’m on the verge of that now, however, so I’m going to shut up.

Well, after this one additional note. If you’re going to appeal to a term from Christianity (or any other religion) to buttress your point, you should maybe do a quick web search to make sure it means what you think it means. Hint: Christ’s “Passion” doesn’t come close to contemporary usage of “passion,” no matter their etymological link. It’s hard to take someone seriously when they do that.

So, what did I think about The Teachings of Shirelle?

I don’t think that Green and I would get along in person (I’d be glad to be given the opportunity to discover otherwise, and the drinks would be on me). I don’t think we’d actively dislike each other, but we’d just rub each other the wrong way. Until we started telling stories about the silly balls of fur, energy, and devotion that we share our lives with. Then, I think we’d find some great common ground and probably enjoy the conversation.

I bring that up because I think this book works for me along the same lines. When it’s about Shirelle as the animal companion that makes people laugh and/or feel good in other ways, I think the book is at its strongest and most appealing. I’m down for that kind of thing anytime and Green handles it well.

When the book strays from that, it loses me—and the further it strays, the less I care about it and the more I’m going to find things to quibble with.

Are you going to agree with me? I don’t know. Are you going to think I’m out to lunch and really jibe with Green and everything he has to say? It’s possible.

Either way, if you’re a dog-lover—or if you’re someone who enjoys reading about dogs. You’ll probably be glad you gave this a shot, I am (generally).

Disclaimer: I was provided a copy of this ARC by the author in return for my honest opinion, which he may be rethinking now.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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Research shows, and here I’m talking my made- up research, but I’m sure actual research would back me up on this . . . anyway, research, real or otherwise, indicates that once you’ve grabbed your readers’ attention (by, for example, throwing the word sex into your title), the best way to keep them turning those pages is to present them with prose so superbly written, so free of errors in spelling and punctuation and syntax, that they simply lose themselves in your wonderful narrative.

What’s Grammar Sex and Other Stuff About?

Well, that’s in the subtitle—it’s A Collection of (mostly humorous) Essays. The word “brief” is the only thing missing from the title—there are 32 of them and the book is 82 pages long, so none of them are all that long.

The title itself comes from the sixth essay, “Grammar Sex (How Dangling Your Participle Can Hurt Your Book Sales),” a fun list of tips for authors—aspiring or otherwise—when it comes to learning how to use language. That’s not all he has to say about grammar, either, a little later we’re treated to a series called “The Grammar Snobs Trilogy”—a combination of useful tips and some silliness (neither of which interfere with the other).

We also get essays about the brief experience he and his wife had as being an Arbitron family, Jury Duty, baseball (and the money behind it), a dog he bought in college, some semi-random observations, and more.

If You’d Like a Sample

Germaux has provided a few guest posts here over the years, in case you’d like to take a quick look at his work. One of those happens to be an essay from this book, so you can get an actual sample of this book—”Literally? Really?” popped up on this site back in 2016(!). It’s a good way to catch a little flavor of this collection—and just a decent read in general. You might as well read the others, while you’re at it (if you haven’t already—and/or could use a refresher)

So, what did I think about Grammar Sex and Other Stuff?

The non-humorous essays weren’t my favorite—they were a little too generic, a little too…something. They were heartfelt for sure, and I don’t want to take away from that. But they didn’t do much for me, it seemed like Germaux was restraining himself in one way or another so he could make a point, and I don’t think the price was worth the result.

The rest were well worth the (short) time it took to read—and probably worth more than the time. I’m not going to promise you that you’re going to laugh out loud on every page—or even in every humorous essay. But you’ll find enough amusing to keep going.

A couple of months ago, I described the humor of a Patrick McManus book as “gentle.” That’s a good word to describe this humor, too. However, there’s a little oomph to Germaux’s humor that McManus doesn’t really have—I attribute that to the clear influence of Dave Barry on Germaux. He doesn’t rip off Barry’s style or anything (and I should know, I used to do that a lot), but even beyond mentioning Barry a time or three, you can tell that Germaux has read his share of the Floridian humorist.

I had a good time with this collection, and am more than ready to try the next in the series (and not just because I accidentally purchased it when I tried to get this one). I do recommend this for some pleasant and mostly humorous reading time.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Cursed Cocktails About?

The cynical side of me wants to summarize this as a gender-flipped Legends & Lattes with a couple of twists. But as apt as that is, it feels petty and dismissive.

Rhoren is a retired blood mage. I won’t get into what a blood mage is, but it’s about as pretty as the name would lead you to believe. The fact that his nickname “Bloodbane” (a nickname known throughout the nine kingdoms, I should add), is another clue. The “retired” part of Rhoren’s description is a rarity, not many blood mages survive long enough to retire. Those who do, like Rhoren, aren’t in the best of health. Rohren’s given some advice about relocating to the coast (and away from the cold) for his health. Needing a change of pace and scenery, that’s just what he does.

And it’s just the right call for him.

Being in the military (and a fairly active part of it), he didn’t have a lot of chances—or reasons—to spend his earnings, so he has a pretty nice nest egg in addition to his pension. A new place to live and a good amount of funding—just what you need to start the second part of your life.

One of the first things he does when he moves to his new city is befriend a bartender, Kallum. Kallum loves his job, but dreams of being able to be more creative with a menu and creating new cocktails.

Rhoren needs a new purpose in his life and finds an open storefront building with an apartment above it. Sure, it’s open because it seems to be haunted, but what’s a rogue spirit (if the place is actually haunted) for a guy like Rhoren? So he buys the place, moves in, and suggests a partnership with Kallum.

It’s not smooth sailing by any means from this point forward, but chasing dreams (old or new) is worth a few risks, right?

Bloodbane

Rohren doesn’t like to think about his days of service—and likes to talk about it even less. He doesn’t want anyone to know he was a blood mage—especially not Bloodbane. He’s ready to shed that name, that vocation, and the reputation that follows both.

Also, using that kind of power the way he has for decades is the biggest thing impacting his health—the very reason he had to move.

But even the best-kept secrets have a tendency to come to light—especially when events outside of Rohren’s control might call upon him to unleash his abilities.

While I really have no complaints about anything in this book, I thought this was its strongest point. Rowland depicted Rohren’s desire to get away from his past, dealing with his health (both how he’s still limited, and how he’s improving with the weather), and having to step up and tell people about his past, with sensitivity and precision. That was really well done.

The Cozy-ness

After a little peak at the hardships of those who serve and protect in the north and the hazards they face, we shift into the cozy atmosphere we’re promised in this book. And aside from a scene or two (which don’t detract that much), that atmosphere pervades the rest of the book.

There’s some light humor (including some fantastic liquor names—and a cameo from a distinctive bottle design)—there’s a warmth between the characters, a largely supportive populace in the city, and the setting is ripe for stories.

You just can’t help but feel comfortable while reading this. You really might as well be kicking back in your favorite cocktail bar while reading this (and, I should add, you really should have something to drink—not necessarily alcoholic—nearby), you just feel content and warm.

So, what did I think about Cursed Cocktails?

There’s just enough conflict and danger to keep this from being the coziest fantasy that I’ve ever read—but it’s close. In fact, one source of potential conflict never produced any (which was a relief, but also a mild irritation), making the whole thing cozier.

That doesn’t mean the book is dull—far from it. It’s just that you turn the pages for another reason—instead of being on the edge of your seat to see what happens next. You keep going to keep the warm and fuzzy feelings going. It’s here that my mostly joking comparison to Baldree’s book really comes into play, if you got into one, you’ll get into the other.

And that’s a feeling that I don’t mind in the slightest. If you need a break from mayhem and suspense in your reading—or an escape from the world at large—Cursed Cocktails will give you the oasis you need. With at least two more books in this series that promise the same kind of thing, you’d best be hopping on board—you’ll be glad that you did.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Winter Lost About?

Mercy’s brother Gary shows up at their front door late one night in a royal mess—he’s almost unidentifiable. More than that, he’s having a hard time understanding what’s going on around him and is having a worse time communicating it. No one has any idea why he’s there, where he came from, or what happened.

A quick consultation with a couple of Fae sends Adam and Mercy to Montana—the type of magic that zapped Gary is characteristic of a particular Fae. Along the way, an epic winter storm engulfs Western Montana, Idaho, Eastern Washington—and perhaps more.

Adam and Mercy meet the one responsible for Gary’s state—to free him, they have to complete a task (the guy’s not being a jerk by this, it’s literally a condition of the spell). They have just a couple of days to find something, free Gary, save a wedding, and…I kid you not…save the world.

Everything Else

While the main story is plenty to talk about, there are a couple of other things to note. There’s some good development with Mary Jo, Honey is making some interesting choices, Tad and Jesse are up to something fun, Zee and Adam are involved in a project, and plenty of other things are afoot.

We continue the whole jockeying-for-dominance thing under Adam with Warren, Darryl, and Sherwood—but it seems to be going better than it was in the last book—but it feels like there’s some sort of slow-burn story going there and I’m not sure I’m going to enjoy where it ends up.

There’s more action on the building conflict with various witch groups and the conflict with Bonarata. I want to be super-vague about both of these, but want to mention them. They both took very little space in the novel as a whole and part of me wonders if we really needed them now—we could’ve come back to them in book 15 and spent more time on both (while assuming things were ongoing with both). But…I really liked the way that Briggs wrote both of them.

Bonarata is conducting some psychological warfare on Mercy, which seems to be pretty effective. As part of that, he’s hurting other people. The best example the readers get in this book is a certain kind of horrific. I don’t know if Briggs has shown something so depraved since Iron Kissed—but this time the victim is someone we don’t even know the name of. Part of me is really impressed with how Briggs wrote this, most of me wishes she hadn’t.

So, what did I think about Winter Lost?

There are a couple of things to say—first: I had a whole lot of fun with this one. Yeah, the stakes are higher than they sometimes are. But this felt more fun than the last couple of books, things have felt very weighty since Silence Fallen. This was closer to River Marked, it seems.

But more than that, Briggs was trying some new things narratively, both in the order and way she was telling the story—and in the way the cast of characters were spread out in this book. And everything she tried worked really well. At the moment, I can’t think of a way to talk about this with any level of detail and not spoil some big things—so let’s just leave it with Briggs trying some new things for the series and succeeding. I don’t know if she’ll want to try to tell another story like this anytime soon (and I’m not sure she should), but I like to see her experimenting—and hope she continues.

There’s not much more to say—there’s some great action, some solid character moments, a nice bit of new mythology, and Briggs has planted all sorts of seeds for a couple (or more) future installments in the series. This is just what Mercy fans needed, and I hope we get more of it soon.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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Where Does Grave Cold Take Place?

In a dystopian future the geography of the (what we’d now consider) the Western U.S. looks much different—states are a thing of the past, and two major population centers are the District of Utah (which does contain Salt Lake City) and the District of Portland (Oregon, not Maine). There are people who have been Genetically Modified for one reason or another—and in the D.P. they’re largely feared and ostracized because of what they are and what they can do.

D.P. is where the action takes place in the novel—and it feels like it came out of Portland, OR, too. And not just because Voodoo Doughnuts still exists. Yes, even in a quasi-dystopia people want their donuts. Maybe they need them more than we do, come to think of it.

There’s a lot of the tech, etc. that one usually associates with more utopian-looking/feeling SF. And maybe for many people it’s just that. But D.P.’s government is definitely of the dystopian type (and, boy howdy, do we learn more about that as the book continues), and the area outside the District feels that way, too, filled with mutants and who knows what else.

If you’re one of those readers who really gets into worldbuilding, you’re going to be happy with this read.

What’s Grave Cold About?

Cait’s a beautician with a lot flair and very little money. She’s scraping by, barely. When she sleeps (which she tries not to), the dead come to her and talk to her, trying to get her to do things. So…it’s easy to understand why she doesn’t like to sleep.

A man named Nyle sneaks into Portland after having been prevented legal entrance by a guard—and he’s not the only one like him who has been denied entrance. Nyle, however, is older, more experienced, more powerful, and probably more determined. He and those like him are called “ravens” (although there are other, more contemporary(?) names like “ferrymen”)—they’re tasked with freeing the spirits of the dead from their bodies. It’s been so long since they’ve been permitted in D.P. that Nyle has been compelled to come so he can do his work.

He and Cait have a strong rapport right away, she has some friends (and some family she has a troubling relationship with), but not that many. The two of them click right away, and Cait helps Nyle change his appearance so he can hide from the authorities. He tells her that she’s not Genetically Modified, she has supernatural abilities like him—she’s a necromancer.

While it’s not the same power, it’s close to his and he has experience with necromancers and guides her to use her abilities better.

Working together, they begin to free the spirits of the dead and learn why ravens have been blocked from entering D.P.—those spirits are being used by newly developed technology. This pits the pair against the authorities and other powerful people.

Here’s the Thing

I don’t get magic/paranormal/supernatural systems like this one where someone/something is required to separate souls from bodies at/around/near death. Whether it’s this book (and it’s oncoming sequel), Amber Benson’s Calliope Reaper-Jones series, the TV show Dead Like Me, or any of the other examples I had in mind for weeks to bring up that disappeared as soon as I started composing this post. It just doesn’t make any sense to me.

This doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy these works of fiction. I just don’t understand what ties these non-corporeal entities/substances/existences/whatever to the body at or after death and why someone has to come along and separate them.

So I guess I’m saying two things here—1. If you’re like me on this point, you can still get into this book. I honestly didn’t think about it while reading the Grave Cold, it’s only when I think about the book/system that it gives me pause. 2. If you’re not like me…can you explain this?

So, what did I think about Grave Cold?

I cannot describe it to my satisfaction, but Knight has embued this novel with an atmosphere, a texture that you can’t help but feel as you read. Her descriptions are pretty sparse, but at the same time, I really think I know what Cait’s environs look and feel like.

It’s difficult to think of spirits as capable of being mistreated or abused—they’re spirits of dead people, right? But in Knight’s world that’s exactly what’s happening. Abusing the dead ranks right up there with elder-abuse somehow. As Nyle says,

“It’s easy to see the dead as non-persons when you’re alive. It’s harder when you know them.”

Instead of going on to whatever is next once the spirit is released, the former citizens of D.P. are trapped and exploited.

While this story is dark and harrowing, there’s a real pleasure (and sometimes lightness) in watching the friendship between Nyle—a centuries-old being—and Cait deepen and grow stronger. It’s a tricky thing to attempt (much less pull off), but Knight does it well.

Great world-building, questionable (to me) magic system—but it’s cool to see in action, some well-designed characters (including all of them that I didn’t mention here), a plot that moves well and is intricate enough that you’re kept wondering where it’s going until the end. Knight has written (on my blog) about coming up with the sequel, so I know one is coming. And I’m looking forward to it—at the same time, were this a stand-alone, it’d be very satisfactory as one.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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What’s Bad Actors About?

Matt Spiller, Man Down‘s actor turned cab driver turned vigilante made it to Hollywood. His first feature film is about to drop, he’s on the verge of starring in a premier TV show—all his dreams have come true.

And then his agent from England drops in unannounced—blackmailing Spiller for a significant amount of his earnings.

Then the detective who couldn’t quite put him away in England shows up, wanting to pin the murder of another action star to him.

And a would-be up-and-coming actor starts acting aggressively toward him.

His ex-wife and her new flame are coming to town.

Maybe some of his nightmares are coming true, too.

Spiller being Spiller, there’s really only way way for him to react—and that’s violently.

But before it’s over, there’s going to be a lot more going on than Spiller trying to keep his career and money going on. He’s going to make some powerful enemies and may stop some horrible people from doing some horrible things. But he’s not going to be able to lie down with these pigs and not get dirty himself.

A Manifesto on the Movies

In between the mayhem and hijinks—several people from various backgrounds sound off on the state of movies today. I think they speak for a lot of us when it comes to complaining about violence, spectacle, shallow characters, and more at the cost of story, plot, and craft.

These complaints—coming from Pepper’s characters, and any number of people in the real world—aren’t going to change things. But it’s sure nice to read. Choir members do appreciate being preached to.

From Everyman To . . . ?

So, in Man Down, Matt Spiller was kind of an everyman who found himself in a situation beyond his control and reacted in ways that…well, few everymen would.

In Bad Actors, Spiller is on the verge of a Hollywood career. His first movie is about to be released, and the buzz is pretty strong (particularly after a memorable appearance on a late-night show). He has more money than he knows what to do with.

It’s harder to root for him this time—partially because of his success, but only minimally really. Actually, Spiller doing well after everything he endured is vicariously encouraging. But it’s everything that he does to maintain his new position in life that makes it difficult. Things go up and down—so your estimation of his actions and motivations fluxuate as well (as they may have during Man Down).

This has no effect on the entertainment value of the novel—just your perspective on Spiller.

So, what did I think about Bad Actors?

This is a sequel to Man Down, but there’s also an aspect that makes it more—if you’ve read Pepper’s Veteran Avenue or Man on a Murder Cycle

Do you need to have read Man Down before this? Nope. You learn everything you need to know about Spiller and the rest here. Would it add to the experience? Sure. And I enjoyed Man Down more, so it wouldn’t be the worst idea to pick it up.

As for Bad Actors? It was a heckuva ride. I was less than satisfied with the way that several aspects of the storylines wrapped up—and not merely due to the outlandish nature of them. I still recommend it.

I’m a little unsure how to wrap this up beyond that—so I’m just going to borrow my conclusion from my Man Down post—Bad Actors is a good sequel in that way.

This was a bonkers read—that’s a compliment, in case that wasn’t clear. On the one hand, it’s impossible to predict how Pepper is going to start at Point A and end up anywhere near Point Z, but he does, and when you look back at it, the logic is clear and sound.

I can’t tell you how many times he pulled the rug out from under me (he does the same to Matt almost as often)—sometimes eliciting a laugh, sometimes shock and dismay, sometimes I was so dumbfounded as not to know how to react. [deleted because of the stuff I talked about in the above section]

The humor is dark, the action is frequent and dynamic, with [many] characters that you want to get to know better and see more of. I’m not sure what else to say at this point without giving away everything, so let’s just go with if you’re in the mood for a Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride of a thriller, get your mitts on this one pronto.

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader.

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Every Who is shaped by a Where.

In this case, the Where is a tiny coastal village named Seaside. from the beach there is a constant, breathy shhh-ahhh sound as the waves flow first in, then out, each exhalation coating the simple, whitewashed buildings with a fine, salty mist. Through the village center runs the Queen’s Road, a winding ribbon that traces the curving shoreline of the island nation to which Seaside belongs. Grassy, rolling hills surround the village to the north, so that when viewed from above, it appears as a single pearl on a string nestled on a bed of seagrass.

Seaside was given its unimaginative name by its unimaginative people. In fact, hostility toward creativity and change is a central feature of the Seasider mentality, a proud tradition handed down from generation to generation. They value simplicity, practicality, and—above all—uniformity. For this reason, it has been decreed that every building in the village must adhere to the same basic plan: squarish shape, white walls, dark roof. This arrangement makes it obvious which villagers are lax in their home maintenance, and are therefore not to be trusted. The same principle applies to matters of appearance, behavior, and topics of conversation. Unsurprisingly, the most popular topic of conversation is the failure of others to conform….

With the matter of Where set aside, it is time to meet our Who—Sophie Farrier, a kind-hearted and imaginative young girl who fits into Seaside about as well as a whale fits into a rowboat, and has been just as uncomfortably shaped.

What’s The Glass Frog About?

Thankfully for her, Sophie will not spend the entire novel in Seaside. But she has indeed been shaped by that village, and try as she might, she will act in the way she was shaped (both in ways she recognizes and ways she doesn’t). She’s also been shaped by books she’s read—a scandalous notion to many people in Seaside—and a devoted older brother, Damon, who has stepped up in so many ways that her deceased parents cannot and that her guardian aunt will not. Without her books and her brother, Seaside would’ve turned Sophie into a successfully conformed young woman.

Things change in Seaside one day when some kelp harvesters find an unconscious stranger who had the absolute temerity to wash up on shore. It’s rude, unheard of, and not at all fitting with the unimaginative ethos they prefer. There’s some debate amongst the villagers—with a majority wanting to send this stranger back to the sea he came from—but a couple of stalwarts (including Damon) refuse and arrange for him to be cared for by the local doctor. Sophie helps the doctor in her own way—and the doctor beings to think she might have a future in medicine.

When the stranger finally awakes, he wastes little time before he sets out to leave Seaside and resume his interrupted quest. Something about him, about what he says to her—and some drama at home—drives Sophie to follow him. Or try to, anyway. He has a pretty solid headstart and can move much more quickly than she can. Also…Sophie’s never left Seaside, so she really doesn’t know what to expect or how to interact with people who aren’t from there.

Meanwhile, a powerful group arrives at Seaside, demanding that the stranger be returned to them or the city will be destroyed. Everyone in the Village who was ready to throw him back into the sea are more than ready to give him up. If they only knew where he was.

So, what did I think about The Glass Frog?

I’m not certain who Lowry’s audience is, like the BlueInk Review cited on the back cover says, it can work for “discerning reader[s], from middle grade to adult.” I can think of readers I know/have known up and down that range who would appreciate the book, and I can’t think of any reasons to try to wave off a middle grader (which is refreshing).

It’s hard not to like Sophie—and I don’t understand why anyone would resist it—her brother is a little tougher to like, but that’s not necessarily his fault. Most people that she encounters after she leaves Seaside are pretty likable, too (with some notable, and easy-to-identify exceptions). The people of Seaside are an interesting mix—most (maybe all of them, I didn’t take a census) are good fictional characters and the reader will appreciate them as such. As people? Eh, it’s a mixed bag. But it’s a more complicated question than you’d expect from the early descriptions of the village.

I don’t believe Lowry’s prose was particularly purple at the beginning of the book, but it was headed to that end of the visible light spectrum. My notes said something like, “you’d better not use every adjective in your account too early or you won’t have any leftover for the last chapters.” I do think he got it under control pretty quickly—or I became inured to it, I’d believe either, but I think it’s the former.

There was some pretty solid comedy in this book (particularly involving the citizenry of Seaside), but it’s not a humorous fantasy in the mode of Terry Pratchett or Sean Gibson. I’d categorize it as a light, whimsical fantasy with some really funny moments. But there are some serious moments, too. A lot of heartbreak and loneliness—some self-destructive behaviors on display, too. Maybe a dash or two of romance. Plus some villainy, cowardice, avarice, xenophobia, and manipulation to balance out the acts of heroism (intentional or inadvertent). A little bit of everything, really.

I don’t know that I want a sequel to this—but I would like other books set in this work (with Sophie and those close to her showing up in the background). There’s just so much to explore, and Lowry has created a bunch of fun places and ideas to play with. Some of the minor characters from this book would be great to see again as protagonists—or at least, playing a larger role than they got to here.

But most of all, I’m curious about what the next novel (in this world or another) from Lowry will look like, I bet it’ll be worth the time—just like The Glass Frog was. You should check it out.