Nik Kroushl

This book is clearly intended for a non-fiction audience, but it's well-written and its advice is sound. It's got some special blurbs for fiction writers as well. Mr. Sambuchino's success in platform-building can be seen on his Twitter and Facebook pages, and his words are definitely something to keep in mind, even for those of us (fiction writers) who have less need of a platform in today's literary market.

I learned a lot about actual lgbtq figures and history, but as others have pointed out, the author's definitions of many identities are outdated or just plain wrong/problematic. (See: calling asexuality a “phase”, bisexuality as attraction to “both” genders in some places and “various” genders in the index, some weird language/pronouns around trans people but specifically Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, ignoring pansexuality except to equate it with being “sexually fluid”...)

The book could also be quite pedantic at times. I picked up the “for young people” version mostly because it was shorter than the original (still almost 300 pages).

This is a good book if you're already on the up and up as far as queer identities but lack a historical context. AKA, good context for Very Online lgbtq+ folks like me.

I flew through this book, partly because I did identify with a lot of the experiences and partly because I am a trash Zillennial so Jen's sense of humor soaked in internet memes and self deprecation really worked for me. There were several really poignant essays and concepts: The Power Dynamic, Neon Sweater. Knots (all in a row!), A Queer Love Story. There were also resonant parts of other essays. Jen's memoir encompasses queerness but also privilege, politics, parriarchy, technology etc., a kind of overlap that feels necessary to me.

Some small complaints. Jen pulls influence from Shiri Eisner whose book similarly has some resonant points and also some big flops. Jen also apparently has only had exclusively bad experiences with lesbians, and makes several offhanded quips about how lesbians don't like them. (These are mostly jokes and obviously the author's experiences are their own, but still.) (I'm disgustingly in love with a lesbian and thus defensive. Lesbians are great! Dating in New York just apparently sucks no matter which genders you're into.)

Some other reviewers have mentioned Jen's passages about privilege and unlearning. I feel split on these because while on one hand I think it's refreshing to have someone own up to being a clueless white person who did racist things and is trying to do better, and on the other hand the inserts felt performative in some ways (especially because... she is writing and making money on a book in a space/platform that QTPOC authors are often denied). But also, writing this book without acknowledgment of privilege or fuckups or the impacts of racism & race on queerness would be worse, and nonfiction books written explicitly about bisexuality already seem scarce. I'm not sure white people “unlearning” in public forums/platforms is ever not going to be somehow performative. For this reason I would say that anyone who doesn't want to deal with “unlearning” white people can skip this one, but there are essays and moments worth reading if you don't mind (or if you are or have been that same cringey “unlearning” white person... I have been, probably still am).

Jen doesn't write anything more revelatory than the queer theorists she often quotes. But couched in the narratives of their experiences, I resonated with many of the essays in a visceral way that sometimes doesn't happen for me with theory.

This book is really all over the place. Some positives are the inclusion of trans experiences and issues, critique of whiteness in bisexual and queer communities, critique of assimilationism in mainstream queer movements, and some thought-provoking writing on bisexuality as a means of disruption and and hybridity. Some negatives include the lengthy discussions of “monosexism,” some strained comparisons of bisexuality to “racialized identities”, and the fact that I can't really find a compelling thesis in the book.

The author contradicts herself a lot, which she might argue is a quality of bisexuality and therefore not necessarily bad. In fact, the first thing she does is say that bisexuality cannot be defined. And then she defines it. I found it difficult to follow and believe her argument that bisexuality is both a unique and distinct identity/concept and also a fluid connector of many things. The author states many times that she doesn't want “monosexism” to imply that biphobia expressed by gays and lesbians is equal to biphobia expressed by straight people, and then repeatedly implies that it is. The same thing happens in the discussions of “passing,” where the writing tries to say that bisexuals “passing” for straight is not a privilege but also is. (I think we need to be honest that the emotional damage of being presumed straight is different from the potential physical violence that could result from being clocked as queer. Equating those things feels lacking in truth.)

I think other readers have mentioned this also, but it could've been a much shorter book. There are some pieces of value here but it's very esoteric.

I'm a writer, but like most writers, inspiration is often difficult to come by. I can often find inspiration in books–books that I wish I had written, books that I fall madly in love with. This is both a blessing and a curse: one one hand, the inspiration is awesome and the book is awesome. On the other, these books are very difficult to find.

Unmade (as well as the other Lynburn Legacy books) is one of these books. And what's even more surprising about that is that it's been so long since I read the first books that I barely remember them, and Unmade took my heart by force regardless.

I love young adult and I love fantasy, so SRB had the advantage there. But there was so much else to love in this book that had nothing to do with my M.O. I loved the ancient family dynasty, the magic, the small-town names and feel. I loved each character and the way even the most minor characters managed to be unique and memorable and heart-stealing. I loved the humor, the way any character could spout at intervals a one-liner that would have me literally laughing out loud. (We type “lol” so flippantly now while giving faint smirks at our screens... this book made me emit embarrassing, snortlike noises of laughter regularly.) I love the love in this book most of all–not just the romantic love (and that one steamy scene in the beginning–WOW SRB, go you), but all of the other types of love that SRB has strewn, unabashedly and endearingly, throughout the book. The love the families have for each other, the love the people have for their town, the love the friends have for each other.

If I can write a book someday that makes me feel the way that this book has, I will consider myself wildly successful. Until then, I'll keep Kami Glass and all her friends with me, as both inspiration and as one of my favorite stories.

Erin Bow is my favorite author, and THE SCORPION RULES is another bullet point on the list of reasons why. Erin can write prose like no other YA author I know. I consistently must stop to sit here and think “holy shit, what a beautiful line” after a particularly compelling piece of it.

As always, Ms. Bow's world building is extensive and fascinating. Her other books have been based on existing cultures, but in this futuristic novel, Bow builds an entirely new and rich culture to explore. I loved every detail, every anecdote, every moment of hilarity and gravity in this brave new world.

I believe, however, that Erin Bow's greatest strength lies in her ability to construct and develop wonderful characters. I adore and feel for them all. Talis, especially, is a gem. The struggles that Greta and her friends face are more serious than those faced by protagonists in most adult books, and they make and break themselves in rising to meet the challenges. My heart broke and knitted itself back together multiple times over the course of this book, each time more acutely than the last. The feeling that THE SCORPION RULES left in my chest is the reason that I read.

Additional props for a strong, well-developed, totally heartrending queer romance of the kind that every YA novel attempts to achieve but rarely does. Seriously, holy shit.

Basically, Erin Bow has outdone herself and I am so glad that this book is the first in a series because I cannot wait to read more.

Butler continues to tell gripping stories with well-wrought characters and large-looming social commentary. Butler's use and building of religion is beautiful and grounding and unique. This story is incredibly dark but still somehow hopeful. I see it less as a cautionary tale and more an example of the sort of community building that will be necessary if we want to build a better world. There are definitely some loose ends I'm hoping get tied up in the sequel.

I didn't quite finish this before the audiobook zipped back to the library but I got close enough – and the reason I didn't finish before the due date is because this book is a slog. The author uses the phrase “which is to say” approximately a thousand times, is deeply enamored with adverbs, and writes in a dense and somewhat confusing way, vascillating between describing a catastrophic effect of climate change as a foregone conclusion and then writing something like “but actually, scientists don't know how this will play out and there are several things that might stop it.” (I mean, just admit that we don't know exactly what might happen up front?)

It's entirely possible that I had trouble engaging with this book because it's so very bleak. For the first couple hours I did feel weirdly empowered by getting a vision of what a heavily climate-change-affected world might look like – and hope because, in the introduction, the author notes that he decided to become a parent despite the bleak outlooks. Wallace-Wells does do a good job of describing scientific processes in laymen's terms (things like the Albedo effect and carbon capture). I do feel like I received a broad survey of the potential effects of climate change which I did not previously have appreciation for, though the sheer volume of information (and perhaps the audiobook format) made it difficult to hold onto the information. That said, the most concrete conclusion I got from this book was that we really have no damn clue what climate change will wreak upon us, except that it's probably going to be pretty damn bad. And that at this point, cutting emissions will not on its own be enough to change the course – that now, we do actually need to look at technology solutions in addition to drastic changes to our infrastructure and ways of life.

What a wonderful first book of the year. So much love clearly went into writing this book about love, which encompasses not only romantic love but all relationships and a “love ethic” with which we treat ourselves and strangers. There are some dated moments (including a weird condemnation of Monica Lewinsky?) but overall this is a timeless book. One that I feel might be worth a yearly revisit.

I returned this book to the library half finished, not because it was a bad book, but because I already knew most of the myths inside. Also because the due date was looming. It's definitely a great resource for anyone who wants to brush up or learn about well-researched Greek myths in the story format we love so much about them.

The massive conclusion to this series was fitting, I believe. I spent the last six or seven hours straight in bed, reading it. At this point I've become so invested in the characters that I'm not even sure I'm fit to give a review based on the book's quality. But I guess that in itself is an indicator, isn't it? I was more or less satisfied with the endings that each of them received. I am a sucker for happy endings, and I appreciated the fact that Clare lingered on this book's ending in order to give everyone the closure I felt they deserved.

As far as how the book is written itself: still simple and yet managing to yank the emotion out of me. As always, the dialogue and characters are what keep me in this series. The prose is mostly unremarkable, the plot devices somewhat cliche or verging on deus ex machina, but after six books–three and a half of which focus on fighting the same villain–there's only so much new material to come up with. The romantic scenes are, as always, steamy and compelling, which is half of why I suspect this series is so popular. As Clare experiments more with multiple perspectives later on in the series, I find myself appreciative of getting new views from different characters, especially those who have grown in importance from the beginning of the series.

I will say that the POV from Emma Carstairs annoyed me. It was a really obvious ploy to segue more easily into Clare's next planned series/cash cow in the Shadowhunter universe, and I found myself wanting to skip Emma's parts because I was reading this book to find out what happened to the Lightwoods, Jace, Clary, Simon, &etc., not about these new children being introduced.

In the end, despite how skeptical this review ends up sounding, I loved this book and this series, period. And I'll probably reread them again some day soon.

Another reviewer wrote that they felt “manipulated by” this book and honestly, same. It was such a dark, difficult read with endless abuse (serious trigger warnings re: physical, emotional, sexual abuse near constantly throughout the novel). You root for Mary and think at one point that a happy ending might be in store and yet... yikes!

Excellent writing, I finished within 24 hours. But holy hell!

Interesting format. I didn't really “believe” this book, the idea that a sixteen-year-old boy was facing life in prison for allegedly acting as a lookout for a robbery gone wrong. The crime did not seem to match the threatened consequence.

I also disliked how little insight we got into the characters' minds, and how Myers chose to leave the actuality of the main character's guilt ambiguous. This story is a story told for the sole purpose of making a point, rather than for the point of telling a story, which is not a technique that tends to resonate well with me.