wisb-Guardian-Express

Most of you know the story.  In 2009, the merchant vessel Maersk Alabama was hijacked by four Somali pirates off the coast of Somalia.  Her captain, Richard Phillips, was taken hostage and was not freed until several days later when a Navy SEALs team shot and killed the pirates.  It became a national story almost immediately:  the first American vessel hijacked by Somali pirates, a miraculous and brave rescue by the U.S. military (always a hit with the news), and a new-found hero in the figure of Captain Phillips, who, we're told, risked his own life to keep his crew safe.

A Captain's Duty:  Somali Pirates, Navy SEALs, and Dangerous Days at Sea is Captain Phillip's personal account of the events.  Beginning days before the hijacking, Phillips lays out a populist account of the politics of coastal Somalia, life on merchant vessels, the history of the merchant
mariners, and the personal struggles he and his wife endured during and, to a lesser extent, after the hijacking.  As a work meant to educate and entertain, it is at times quite dull, and at other times quite fascinating, though not necessarily for the reasons you'd expect.

What I found most compelling about this book were its sections on life in pirate-heavy seas.  Many of the chapters are preceded by quotes highlighting previously successful hijackings, and the chapters themselves provide a fair amount of detail about the procedures for dealing with piracy and the knowledge sea captains like Phillips must acquire before and after they traverse the seas.  These sections were the most interesting in the book, as they highlighted the real problem piracy poses and provided Phillips' personal perspective on the issue.  If anything, these sections do far more to describe who Phillips is than any of the chapters about the hijacking of the Maersk Alabama.  They likewise provide a somewhat populist view of the issues in the Somali region, which do certainly add sympathy to an already sympathetic figure.

However, these chapters are sometimes overloaded by excessive description.  The book was clearly written for a general audience, yet some sections of the book obsess over the minute details of ship life, most of which have no direct bearing on the events yet to unfold.  One section on the captain's duty to inspect the ship could easily have been left as a short paragraph explaining what the inspection is for.  I'm sure someone who finds ship life idyllic -- or, perhaps, romantic -- will find value in these sections, but I personally felt they drew away from the more pressing concern:  piracy.  Truthfully, I was far more interested in how an actual ship captain views life in dangerous waters than in everyday ship life, as it is difficult to form an objective opinion on such matters from the safety of my computer chair.  Regardless, though there are some rather dull sections in the book, the overall thrust of the first few chapters is worth reading, if only for the reasons I have already stated.

Unfortunately, Phillips' account of the actual hijacking strains credulity.  While one can forgive him for making assumptions about his attackers, mis-remembering details, or even conjuring some up in an apparent dream-like daze, his assessment of his own behavior from the beginning of the hijacking makes one wonder why the U.S. Navy was all that concerned about Somali pirates in the first place.  For example, Phillips reminds us more than once that the Somalis have been enormously successful at hijacking ships and earning ransom as a result.  At no point are we to believe these pirates are completely inept at what they do, even if they are poorly armed, trained, and supplied.  Phillips spends considerable time, as I've noted above, describing how Somalis perform hijackings, their success rate, the politics, and so on, painting a fairly clear picture of just who we're about to deal with; that picture offers credence to the threat of hijacking.

But once the hijacking occurs, the Somalis are presented as dimwitted to the extreme, completely inept at just about everything; they are described like children who only just figured out how to turn on the boat.  They seem utterly perplexed by the boat's machinery, despite clearly having at least a basic understanding of radar equipment.  Worse, throughout the ordeal, Phillips claims to have been in continuous contact with hidden members of the crew via a handheld radio he "snuck away."  Only he repeatedly uses this radio right in front of the Somalis, or at least within sight, such that it's really quite impossible to believe that they haven't noticed.  This is made more unbelievable when we're reminded that the Somalis are rather annoyed that Phillips doesn't know where the rest of his crew is.  One problem:  clearly he does, and even if he didn't, he's clearly in contact with them.

This particular issue doesn't get better over time.  Frequently, Phillips is shown giving away tactical information to the crew -- numbers, weapons, positions, etc. -- while looking straight in the eye of the hijackers.  It's as if we're supposed to believe these Somalis are not only really bad at what they do, but completely disinterested in the fact that their captive is sharing sensitive information with the very people they wish to find (or, in some cases, with the military itself, as Phillips communicates with the U.S.S. Bainbridge while trapped in the cramped lifeboat).  All of this is dropped from the film adaptation -- probably for the exact reason that bothered me:  it just doesn't make sense.

The book's other flaws are in its contradictions.  For example, Phillips tells us that the Somalis let him swim in the ocean to cool off after kidnapping him and fleeing in the lifeboat.  But several chapters later, Phillips tells us the Somalis never let him out.  One of these two statements is true; they both can't be.  These details draw into question other aspects of the narrative, such as Phillips' claim that a Somali boat came to talk with the leader of the hijackers; the Navy, apparently, denies anything of the sort happened, which Phillips rejects for no reason other than because "he says so."  If he were to at least admit that his account is perhaps colored by his experience, some of these details could be forgiven.

Basically, the deeper Phillips takes us into his experiences as a kidnap victim, the less credible his account becomes.  Detached from the experience, he is able to paint a thorough picture of conditions at sea, but in trying to apply the same rigor to the moment of trauma, he invariably paints himself into a corner from which he cannot escape.  This is, quite frankly, an unbelievable book which would fail even as a work of fiction.

In all fairness, I can understand why the book fails as much as it does.  Trauma has a way of fragmenting memory, which might explain why Don Delillo's mostly disliked post-9/11 novel, Falling Man, is largely told in fragments.  Phillips tries to account for these fragmented memories by injecting an illusory voice of authenticity, but instead fictionalizes his own account.  On that front alone, there might be some value, as those interested in studying trauma may find something of value in a book which, in my mind, falls apart precisely because it is an attempt to remove the personal account from the effects of the event.  For me, however, I found myself unwilling to cede narrative ground for a book which exceeds the boundary of its genre simply by failing to adhere to the genre's basic necessities.  At the very least, non-fiction demands the illusion of truth.

between the two world wars) and the women who were almost forgotten there.  As an experiment in feeding female artistic expression (painting) through literary interpretation (fiction), the collection draws parallels between the worlds of metaphor (the paintings) and the very real discourse of female identities in the wake of a patriarchal culture -- this is part of the mission of the "Conversation Pieces" series at Aqueduct Press (to explore the "grand conversation").  "Birthday," for example, expands upon Dorothea Tanning's painting of the same name by turning the unknown woman into Emma, who has spent her formative years taking on the identities required of her by her parents and the culture around her (53-54).  Thus, when Emma inherits her parents' apartment complex, marries Joe at 21, and soon has a child (Jenna), she embarks on a quest to find an identify that more appropriately fits her inner self.  What begins as a series of cruel gestures on Emma's part (leaving her family and her various lovers, one by one, by changing apartments within the same complex) quickly become the sympathetic acts of deliberate personal interrogation through others.  Perhaps the most disturbing of the three stories, "Birthday" is also perhaps the most profound in the collection as a work of neo-surrealist magical realism that draws into question the ways humans have been conditioned to accept identities for convenience.


Birds and Birthdays is currently available at Aqueduct Press as an ebook or paperback.  It is the 34th volume in their "Conversation Pieces" series.  You can learn more about the author on his website.

I've included images of the paintings Barzak describes in his book below.  You will also find two YouTube videos of early surrealist cinema at the bottom (specifically, Entr'acte by Rene Clair and the popular La Voyage dans la Lune by Georges Melies -- the latter is not technically a surrealist film, though it is sometimes seen as an important precursor to the surrealist cinematic movement).  Enjoy!

(Note:  This review was originally intended for publication, but certain professional and personal obligations prevented its completion.  My apologies for its lateness, but I could not sit on this version any longer.  Thanks to Abigail Nussbaum and others who viewed it in earlier incarnations.)

Michael F. Flynn's In the Lion's Mouth is a space opera of the new variety, which is to say that it takes a genre that once stood for oversimplified adventure, sometimes of the Campbellian mode and redolent of the pulps, and infuses it with political intrigue and sociological awareness.  The planets that make up the novel's empire have ceased to be spaces only of conquest, adventure, and wonder, and become contained worlds connected by a common but divergent history.  This is not to suggest that Flynn's novel has abandoned the tropes of the adventure story, but that it brings a rigorous examination of the conditions of the empire in which that adventure occurs.  In the Lion's Mouth is compelling not because of its adventure elements, but because it is at once an
exploration of the inner workings of its network of worlds and an almost satirical play on the conventions of the old, pulpy space opera.

In the Lion’s Mouth alternates between two stages of Ravn Olafsdottr’s journeys through the labyrinth of the Lion’s Mouth, the bureau that oversees an exceedingly efficient class of assassins known as the Shadows, which has begun splintering into competing factions.  The frame narrative concerns her attempts to convince a rival organization, the Hounds, to put their cards on the table of the civil war raging within the Lion’s Mouth.  This narrative also forms a clever stage upon which Ravn can demonstrate her manipulative talents as she relates another tale through flashback.  That second strand concerns an intimate of the one Hounds:  husband and father Donovan buigh.  Donovan, a former Shadow who had his mind split into multiple personalities by an as-yet-unknown agent, was, we learn, kidnapped by Ravn to fulfill, willingly or otherwise, a purpose in the war.  As the frame narrative cuts into Donovan’s story, we also learn that Ravn is up to much more than truce and explanation.  Rather, she’s up to something vaguely sinister.

Flynn uses this structure to tell two unique tales of intrigue, both deeply political and both productive of an edge-of-your-seat reading experience that always has a surprise in store – even on the last page.  The frame narrative, far from being merely a stage for Flynn’s "story time," has a hidden agenda of its own, which Ravn and the Hounds eventually unearth.  As Ravn remarks, in the heavy accent of Confederal, before embarking on the first piece of Donovan’s story:  "This will be a tell to tangle your strings, oon my word; but I will give it to you in my oon way and reveal things in their oon time.  Life is art, and must be artfully told, in noble deeds and fleshed in colors bold" (28).  Here one might find Flynn’s satirical play on space opera, forming an astonishing tale of Donovan’s and the Shadows’ extraordinary feats in the Lion’s Mouth through Ravn’s (admitted) flawed retelling of the events:

"Tell me," [Bridget, the Hound] says, "how you can know the thoughts of Donovan buigh, when I doubt even he knows them so well?"
The Confederal [Ravn] smiles.  "You must grant me two things.  The first is many weeks of conversation between us, in which he may have revealed his mind to me."
"That would be quite a revelation as I understand things.  And second?"
"And second, you must grant me some poetic license."  (53-54)

Should we take Ravn’s words as gospel, as Donovan’s daughter believes we should ("I think she tells the truth.  The Donovan she describes is a man I recognize.  If she has embellished his thoughts, she has not done so falsely" (55)), even if she fills in the gaps with her own "poetic" imaginings?  Or are the embellishments meant to distract us from the signs that something is amiss?  For Ravn, it seems, the myth is a means to an end, not the property of a particular body politic to retell the story of history.  In other words, the tropes of traditional space opera – the empire, the grand adventures, the loose attachments to actual mythological forms – are exposed by Ravn for their farcical nature:  they are little more than devices of empire, broadly speaking.  And for Ravn, that means it’s a device than can be retooled for different purposes, even to work against the established structures of power.

In a way, In the Lion’s Mouth as new space opera is a response to Darko Suvin’s assertion that space opera is sub-literature – a literary form which has more in common with the elements of myth and fairy tales than with the literature of cognitive estrangement, inside of which he places science fiction.  Flynn, whether intending to or not, sets the stage for an internally rigorous re-imagining of the space opera (though certainly he is not alone in this endeavor).  This rigor is evident in a number of elements, but for the sake of space, I will only briefly discuss two:  language and the world.

While dialects are not new to science fiction, Flynn puts language to a particular use:  manipulation.  Ravn’s centrality in the narrative, as already mentioned, provides an ambiguous reading of events, but so too does her language.  The consistency with which Flynn elaborates on Ravn’s accent is eventually made questionable by her intentional slippages:  “It is a rhetorical trick, this abrupt dropping of the hooting accent, but no less effective for that.  It freights her pronouncement with greater significance” (26).  If it isn’t clear by the 26th page that Ravn is a questionable figure, then the numerous slippages of language to follow and her dubious alliances should do the trick.  As much as the text is a performance, so too are the characters who are playing in it.  But Flynn never fully reveals the game.

Within Flynn’s future space, language rests on a solid foundation.  From the opening pages, we are shown the degree to which Flynn has built his world:  a map roughly showing the layout of worlds provides the scope of things to come.  While many of these worlds are not part of the narrative, the ones that are provide the illusion of completeness.  One illuminating scene in this regard draws upon the clichéd history of the bar as a staging area for men (or women) of ill repute.  The chapter opens with two sections which tell us the history of Yuts’ga (the world where the various pieces of the Shadow puzzle have begun to assemble).  The first of these explains the ancient history of Yuts’ga – where it got its name, who settled there, and what those settlers found when they set up shop (208-209).  The second narrows the historical scope to Cambertown (209-210), and finally, in the next section, to the Mountain Dragon Inn, where we are introduced to Domino Tight, one of the many Shadows elaborated upon in Ravn’s tale (210-212).  It is here that Flynn gives us a breakdown of the complex inner workings of the Shadows-in-action:  who the Shadows command (their “flocks”), how they operate, and so on (213-226).  While this is not the only scene that shows us the Shadows-at-work (one of the other interesting scenes is an official duel between two Shadows), it is a scene which illuminates the rigor with which Flynn has created his world.  These are fully realized elements which exist within the familiar spaces of the adventure, but also seem to bring something new to the mix.  But In the Lion’s Mouth is not just an exploration of the internal machinations of empire; it is also an adventure which twists the old into something with the appearance of the new.  Flynn manipulates the old, reductive network of worlds made loosely into belongings of empire or spaces to be explored and conquered by its agents into one with the pieces tenuously placed on the board while its interiors pull themselves apart.

In the Lion’s Mouth, however, does suffer from a sense of overdevelopment.  Seasoned readers of Flynn’s universe will likely recognize many of the features which seemed alien to me.  While the novel can be read, as the publicist suggested, independently of the rest of the series, I would suggest starting from the beginning.  Where the beginning begins depends on whether you believe his Firestar cycle (Firestar, Rogue Star, Lodestar, and Falling Stars) should be read before The Spiral Arm series (The January Dancer, Up Jim River, and In the Lion’s Mouth) – this is apparently a center of mild debate.  Then again, Flynn apparently has a tendency to tie “worlds” together.

In any case, so much of In the Lion’s Mouth gave me the impression that no matter how closely I read, I would always be missing out on something, like an "in" joke.  There is an extensive universe attached to this novel, one which Flynn only touches with the tips of his writer’s toes.  I don’t want to suggest that Flynn’s novel is unreadable, however; the truth is that even with the alienation, the novel never ceases to entertain.  But I can’t help feeling that the full reading experience for In the Lion’s Mouth demands familiarity with the rest of Flynn’s universe.

And yet, despite that need for familiarity and the lofty praise of Flynn’s neo space opera, the ultimate measure of a novel’s value is in its ability to entertain.  In the Lion’s Mouth never falters on that front.  At once a political thriller and a high-tech war story, Flynn’s novel does nearly everything right.  The experience is immersive, the plotting relentless in its forward motion, its secrets desirable, and its action – and attending developments – enormously exciting.  If this is the new space opera, insofar as such a thing exists, then science fiction is definitely on the right track.

If you want to learn more about the author or his work, check out his Tor.com profile.

Every time I read an urban fantasy, I remind myself that I am not the primary audience.  After all, much of what I dislike about urban fantasy are the very things I dislike about bad books.  Stereotypical characterization, repetitive narratives, and repetitive tropes (if I see one more tramp stamp cover I'm going to blow a gasket).  But Rhiannon Held's Silver bucked the trend, taking what should have been yet another stupid werewolf novel and turning it into a rigorously constructed sociological foray into a potential werewolf culture.

The novel's focus, oddly enough, is on Andrew Dare, not the character from which the novel draws its title.  A werewolf pack enforcer, Dare discoveres Silver wandering in Roanoke territory, seemingly delirious and injected with, well, silver (the connection to her name is explained in the novel).  Silver's condition reminds Dare of a past that he would rather forget, and one which we
discover through him as he battles against the memories.  Working to uncover those responsible for Silver's torture, Dare must confront the demons that make him anti-social and unwilling to lead.

One might say that I'm an unusual reader when it comes to urban fantasy.  All those flashy monsters and the like really don't mean much to me if they are substitutes for character development.  What is powerful about urban fantasy for me isn't so much that it is the fantastic littered in contemporary spaces; rather, it is that urban fantasy seems like a perfect space for examining the relationships between characters, human and otherwise.  Silver is such a novel, with a tangential focus on plot.  What centers the novel, and made it work for me as a fantasy, are its characters.  Dare is sympathetic and mysterious; reading about his development as a character, moving from a man afraid of responsibility to a man who must take it, was refreshing, in part because it meant the story needn't reduce itself to a long series of random werewolf fights in order to explore a set of themes (in this case:  haunted pasts, torture, pack culture, etc.).  Likewise, Silver, the second POV (less focused in this novel for reasons that become obvious as you read), suffers from similar traumas.  Though her development is less pronounced than Dare's -- it is partly her past that Dare is trying to uncover -- Silver's growth as a character offers a emotional exploration into psychosis and werewolf phenomena. Readers expecting an action-packed novel would do best to explore elsewhere; this is not that kind of story.

Perhaps the novel's greatest strength lies in Held's attempt to take a fantastical concept -- the existence of werewolves -- and put a soft science spin on it.  Much of the novel draws attention to the dynamics of werewolf packs and the power struggles that exist within them.  While the idea is likely not original, it is one that Held handles well.  Rather that infodump, the pack dynamics play a central role in the plot, allowing the reader to see the interrelations between packs, the ways in which individuals maintain pack dominance (including Dare's struggles with his own alpha nature), and so on.  One might look at Silver and call it anthopological urban fantasy.  That would be a fair assessment considering that Held has argued in interviews that the world of Silver is more science fiction than it is fantasy; the werewolves have an implied evolutionary origin in the novel, which will play a more important role in future novels.  Whether her universe can be conceived as a science fiction one is up to speculation; regardless, the rigor with which Held constructs her werewolf culture means the story never takes its fantastic elements for granted.  That's something I can appreciate as a reader.  The werewolves don't exist just for the sake of existing, as is sometimes the case in urban fantasy.  They exist because there's a seemingly logical reason for it.  I sometime call this "building a world that feels lived in."  Silver brings us that world:  a lived-in-world in the present, with a definable, if not mysterious, history.

My largest criticism of Held has to do with what she does not adequately cover.  One of the subplots is the expected development of a relationship between Dare and Silver.  While Dare struggles against his instincts, feeling that even a sexual flirtation with Silver is a violation of his ethical code, he eventually gives in, and it is implied that they will remain mates (in werewolf terms) for future novels.  What troubles me about this is what it says about the characters, and what is not said about how others view their relationship.  In other words, their relationship is, to put it bluntly, troublesome for precisely the reasons Dare cites:  Silver is disabled and still psychologically unable to cope with what has happened to her, even though we see her move away from that weakness towards the end of the novel.  In a very real sense, her ability to consent should be questioned, puzzled out, and explored in more depth.  While Held does attempt to explore this social dynamic, Dare seems to give in too easily to temptation, and not enough resistance, in my mind, is provided by the secondary cast.  Perhaps this stems from Dare's alpha nature.  If so, I hope future novels will delve into the problems of their coupling.

Overall, though, this is a solid first novel.  Even if what Held does is not wholly original, her ability to craft a werewolf mythology that is more anthropoligical than paranormal is commendable -- and certainly appreciated by this reader.  Silver is the kind of novel that shows an author's strengths.  Held handles the character drama with focus and molds a fantastical present worth exploring further.  She has a lot of potential as a writer, and I sincerely hope Silver does well enough to warrant future books, whether in this series or otherwise.

If you want to learn more about Silver, you can check out the publisher's website or Rhiannon Held's page.  The book is available just about everywhere books are sold.

(You can also check out an interview of Held over at The Skiffy and Fanty Show.)

they're a threat against the military, and neutralize that threat if necessary; Faisal Jenkins, captain of the Carthage, who wants to ferry people down the river to safety and listens to the river for the day when it will consume him and his ship; and an eclectic mix of secondary characters, from a con artist to a ship's first and second mates to military men and resistance fighters, all searching for a sense of home, a sense of who they were and who they have become, and a sense of what it means to have lost everything but not the will to find it all again.

immediately after, and the intermediate moments between "the world as it was" and "the better world to come."  And it's that focus which makes After the Apocalypse one of the most beautiful literary feats of 2011.

After the Apocalypse is a thorough, if not unsettling, journey into the human psyche after catastrophe, at once thrilling, compelling, and disturbing.  This collection alone proves that McHugh is a force to be reckoned with in the world of genre, for her simple-but-beautiful prose, evocative imagery, and raw human explorations make After the Apocalypse one of the best works of SF of this decade.  You can expect to see this book appear in my WISB Awards in February.


If you'd like to learn more about Maureen McHugh, check out her website.  You can find more information about After the Apocalypse at Small Beer Press.

which will seem suspiciously familiar to Americans who know a little about the United States' history with the Native Americans.
Walking with the Comrades is a quick read, though by no means an easy one.  Roy spends considerable time setting the stage for her walk with the Maoist "revolutionaries" in the forests of India.  She provides cogent analyses of the Indian government's old and new programs for stifling dissent, the language they use, and the results of their activities.  Likewise, she explores the history of communism in India, leading us through suppression, violent acts, revolts, and the mindset of the people on the ground -- the very comrades with which she walks.  Walking with the Comrades, as such, is part of the grand tradition of travel narratives, but it is also an expansion of Roy's long and distinguished career as a novelist and cultural critic.

And it's the travel narrative aspect which is most compelling.  True, Walking with the Comrades is about the political and economic situation in contemporary India, but it also an attempt to put a face on the great "security threat" of India.  It's a clever tactic, because understanding that there are humans behind the mask of terror forces us to think about who we are fighting against, and why they are resisting.  In the case of India, the Maoists are fighting a government that wants communism in all its forms destroyed, and the indigenous people protected by Maoists -- even if only for political gain -- moved off and adapted for industrial society -- at the expense of their traditions, native lands, etc.  To realize who the Maoists are is to make blind faith to India's new cultural projects impossible, if not because we care about the Maoists and their goals -- most of us in the U.S. likely do not because we have a tendency to be ruthlessly anti-communist here -- then at least because we understand why they are doing what they do.  Perhaps it's the optimist in me thinks that maybe reasonable compromise can be found in this cesspool of violence and hatred if only we can see the humanity in everything.

Still, some might be willing to dismiss Roy's work simply because she often provides polemics and doesn't seem altogether genuine when she concedes points to the opposition; in the case of Walking with the Comrades, Roy occasionally tries to suggest that the Indian government might have a solid rationale for some of their actions, yet the overwhelming majority of the book rips India to shreds, thereby weakening the conciliatory gesture.  But to dismiss the book for this reason would be to discount what is clearly a problem that transcends borders and exposes the divisions and strategies utilized by a government bent not on compromises with indigenous people, but the destruction of their way of life.  Even if you shrug Roy off as a wacky liberal, the facts point to a disturbing history which does not paint a pretty image for the Indian state.  And even if you look at the other side, it's hard to ignore the words spoken by the people in charge, the projects set in place, the militarization of the police, and the general sense that things are not as they should be.

It's perhaps for that reason that I come out of Roy's book feeling unable to challenge the anger and disbelief she channels throughout her book, despite wearing my critical thinking cap during the reading process.  Roy doesn't pull many punches when she attacks India's government and the corporations attached to it, but I found myself wondering why she bothered pulling the ones she did.  If her facts are in order -- they are -- then what the Indian government is doing doesn't deserve conciliatory gestures, friendly discussion, or calm reasoning.  Rather, it seems to me that to fight an extremist state, one must attack it with an extreme position. Roy certainly heads in that direction, and the result is an enormously educational reading experience.  When I finished reading, I wondered where we are supposed to go from here.  Maybe Roy will cover that in her next book...

Walking with the Comrades is one of the most compelling non-fiction books I have read this year, and certainly one worth remembering for years to come.  If you're interested in contemporary Indian history or global capitalism, this is a book to add to your collection.

If you want to learn more about the author, check out her Wiki page.  You can also find more information about the book on the publisher's website.  The book should be available pretty much anywhere.

Read With:
Little Fuzzy by H. Beam Piper


(This feature will only be included on reviews of non-fiction books.  It's intended to offer a suggestion or two for SF/F books that might be interesting to read alongside the book being reviewed.)

The question becomes:  Who can play the narrative game with cunning and skill, and who will flounder in a sea of their own artistic deficiencies?
Crack'd Pot Trail does two interesting things:

1. It draws upon a rich history of larger narratives told through artists weaving miniature tales. 
2. It provides a meant-to-be-humorous, if not disturbing, scenario involving cannibalism and artists.

Suffice it to say she was the first to set out from the Gates of Nowhere and her manservant Mister Must Ambertroshin, seated on the high bench of the carriage, his face shielded by a broad woven hat, uttered his welcome to the other travelers with a thick-volumed nod, and in this generous instant the conveyance and the old woman presumed within it became an island on wheels round which the others clustered like shrikes and gulls, for as everyone knows, no island truly stays in one place (16).

Apto rubbed at his face as if needing to convince himself that this was not a fevered nightmare (as might haunt all professional critics), and I do imagine that, given the option, he would have fled into the wastes at the first opportunity, not that such an opportunity was forthcoming given Steck Marynd and his perpetually cocked crossbow which even now rested lightly on his lap (he'd done with his pacing by this time) (41).

Is there anything more fraught than family?  We do not choose our kin, after all, and even by marriage one finds oneself saddled with a whole gaggle of relations, all gathered to witness the fresh mixing of blood and, if of proper spirit, get appalingly drunk, sufficient to ruin the entire proceedings and to be known thereafter in infamy.  For myself, I have always considered this gesture, offered to countless relations on their big day, to be nothing more than protracted revenge, and have of course personally partaken of it many times.  Closer to home, as it were, why, every new wife simply adds to the wild, unwieldy clan.  The excitement never ends! (150)

Good news!  I got another book review published.  Awesome, right?  Go read it and let me know what you think.  And if the book sounds interesting to you, go buy it on Amazon or B&N or somewhere else!

cat -- Max sets off on a journey to meet a mysterious wizard and discover why he and his companions have been whisked away to such dangerous world.
Down the Mysterly River channels a number of interesting genres.  The most obvious is fantasy, which is an unavoidable fact both for the reader and for Max, who has to come to grips with the reality of the world around him.  The second is the young detective story, which Willingham brings out through Max via a methodical set of steps of detection.  These detective elements are interesting, though I have to admit that they sometimes felt forced.  That is until you get to the big reveal, which immediately draws into focus Max as a character and the old-time-children's-story feel he evokes.  The same thing can be said about the dialogue, which sometimes seemed too advanced or perfect for a character as young as Max; but once you realize what has been happening throughout the book, you start to understand why Willingham writes dialogue in the way that he does.  To be perfectly honesty, young folks are probably not going to notice these issues.  With or without the ending, however, the mixture of elements works, in part because it gives Max an enhanced sense of agency in a story that could reduce him to the victim trying to escape an evil that wants to kill him.  Having Max attempt to discover "why" things are happening, to put it another way, makes for a story that does more for its reader than provide an extended chase.

That said, Willingham's plot and pacing is expertly crafted.  The story moves at a good clip and the twists in the story are sure to amuse or shock readers (there are two major twists or revelations, plus a fair deal of minor ones; the ending, however, will blow your mind).  Willingham makes a good effort to introduce the genre mixture and Max's character traits without damaging the flow of the adventure story; in many respects, he succeeds.  One issue I had with the plot's construction, however, was Willingham's use of non-central POVs to show things the main characters couldn't see.  These are fairly minor, and are perhaps more common in literature for young readers than I am I aware, but they can pull you out of the suspense.  Regardless, the journey of the main characters is rarely disrupted, moving forward with an even dose of revelation and action.

Willingham also succeeds at constructing a cast of sympathetic (or terrifying) characters.  Max is a clever young boy who refuses to let the situation get the best of him, but also a boy who has a strong sense of morality -- he's easy to sympathize with as a result.  Banderbrock is a warrior with a soft heart who serves as a wonderful companion, and the interactions between the badger and McTavish -- which translate roughly to an animal kingdom version of "I'm tougher than you" -- are amusing.  Walden, who is the only actual member of law enforcement in the group (though a bad one), is also lovable as a character, which seems perfect for a bear. And the more you learn about him and watch him try to adopt Max's detection skills, the more you love him.  How can you fault a big, hug-able bear for being a less-than-stellar sheriff?  Even the Blue Cutters, who are the story's villains, are interesting characters -- and it's because of them that I want to see more stories set in this world.  They are pure villains, but there is a hint of complexity in Down the Mysterly River that I think Willingham needs to explore -- either through additional Max stories or via some other character.  There's a lot left to be told about this world.

Overall, Down the Mysterly River is a fantastic book.  The characters are amusing, the young detective storyline is compelling, and the fantastic elements are enjoyable and exciting.  I had trouble putting this book down, in part because I wanted to know why Max ended up in the world and in part because the mixture of genres and the characters seemed to beckon me through the cover.  Hopefully others will feel the same way.

If you want to know more about Down the Mysterly River, check out the publisher's website.  You can find the book just about anywhere books are sold (except, perhaps, the Moon).

him on an interstellar journey, Jeff agrees, and the two of them set off on a grand adventure involving aliens, robots, evil galactic empires, and the fabled Universal Remote.
I had a blast listening to Kangazang!  While I knew from the start that my mind would make comparisons between Cooper's tale and Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, I intentionally set out to let myself have fun with it.  And I wasn't disappointed.  Cooper's humor is unmistakably British and, quite frankly, hilarious.  I found myself chuckling out loud a number of times, an act that does not come to me easily when I am alone.*  The situations and the jokes are sometimes too ridiculous to avoid laughing at.  What's not to love about the wimpy child of a deceased evil warlord being forced to take over and run a galactic empire, despite knowing nothing about running empires?  The fact that he turns out to be too good at it makes for an amusing story.

The characters, if the above is any indication, are perhaps the most fascinating aspect of the novel.  Each of them is distinct, not simply because they have a different voice, but more accurately because they have distinct personalities, quirks and all.  Jeff and Ray are as different from one another as any other two characters.  This makes for a cast of characters who are as compelling as they are amusing.  Even the villain of the story is given plenty of "air time," the result of which, as mentioned, is a hilarious play on evil galactic warlords and their less-than-evil kin (there are, of course, many villains, some of whom drag up Ray's less-than-reputable family history).  The mishmash of characters are really what makes Kangazang! work, because the situational comedy that arises from their interactions is precisely what makes this book so amusing.

If I have to criticize Kangazang! for anything, it is that certain parts of the novel are predictable or move too swiftly.  One of the romantic plotlines, for example, develops too fast, in part because Cooper has a character "grow" suddenly in order to facilitate the romance.  While that plotline turns out to be quite cute -- in a mushy way -- I do think more attention could have been paid to the development of the characters as they embarked on a romantic journey (or as they came close to embarking on that journey).  The same is true of other aspects of the story.  But it could be that Cooper has left a lot of things out in order to leave plenty to discover in future volumes.  If so, I will certainly follow along.

The last thing worth mentioning is Colin Baker and the production quality.  Cooper's tale is narrated using multiple voices, voice effects, sound effects, and more.  It's like listening to one of those old radio dramas with all the actors reading out their lines and banging things to make sounds.  And it really works.  The way Baker reads (the inflections, etc.) and the voices he creates improve the overall product ten fold.  I can't imagine reading Kangazang!  It seems right to have Baker read it for me.  It seems natural.  That's not to say that reading the book the old-fashioned way would make for a less enjoyable experience.  Rather, I think the fact that I was first exposed to the book as an audiobook of such quality gave me an experience that a traditional book cannot reproduce.

Despite the minor flaws, Kangazang! is a wonderful listening experience and well worth buying.  If you're a fan of British comedies -- Doctor Who, Red Dwarf, Spaced, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, etc. -- then this is a book for you.  Cooper has a knack for humor and I hope there will be more books in the future.

If you've never heard of Kangazang!, then you need to check out the website and get a copy right away.  For 7.99 (in British pounds), the audiobook is really a steal (or 5.99 for the paperback, which is also a steal).  You can't get them that cheap in the U.S. unless they're on sale or old!  All I'm hoping for right now is that Cooper and Baker team up again for some more scifi comedy gold.


*(Liar Liar holds the record for hardest lonely laugh for me)

selfishness and debauchery.  And the best allies are sometimes you most recent enemies...
I keep saying that I am not an urban fantasy fan, and then I read a really good urban fantasy book like Hexed and have to eat my words.  Hearne's novel is simply a great deal of fun, and it's also quite refreshing. While many of the stock urban fantasy "creatures" are present here, the novel itself avoids doing the same old nonsense, perhaps because the main character is an Irish Druid instead of a tramp-stamped clone.  Atticus as a character is not only "new" -- in the sense that his character "type" hasn't been seen very often -- but also fascinating.  Hearne writes him with a modest sense of self-confidence, which I found rather endearing.  Here is a character who has an extraordinary amount of power, who occasionally gets a little cocky about it, but knows when he's been outmatched (though he wouldn't tell his enemies as much, seeing how that would be stupid).  Since we're in his head, however, we get to learn who Atticus is in a very intimate way, a feature that gives Hexed an extra edge.  First person is hard to do, too, but Hearne manages it with flare.  (One example of "flare" I can't help bringing up, even if it's not the best written of Hearne's near-nerdfests, is when Atticus and Oberon, his canine companion, have a brief discussion pertaining to why a local road is suspiciously like Mos Eisley; if you don't get the joke, then something is wrong with you.)

One of the other interesting aspects of Hexed is how Hearne has taken most, if not all, of the major or memorable forms of religion and inserted them firmly into the real.  While Atticus "worships" (though that's the wrong word) the Celtic gods of his origin, others adhere to a strictly Abrahamic faith (Christianity primarily), while still others stick to their Native American or "dead religion" roots.  I couldn't help finding it endlessly amusing, especially when traditional figures of the various faiths make an appearance in Hearne's book (such as the Virgin Mary, various Celtic gods, and plenty of mentions of the Norse varieties).  Most interesting is what the book suggests about the various human myths:  that co-existence is not that far from possible, so long as you accept that a world which takes the supernatural at face value would inevitably present the supernatural as strangely less-than-powerful than our ancestors seem to remember them.  Hearne's world is one in which gods can die, albeit with great difficulty.  They all have weaknesses, and many of the gods, true to their mythological nature, play power games to off one another (just as humans do, which perhaps explains why so many of our various versions of mythological faith are about gods and creatures that are suspiciously human in personality).  Placing Atticus in the middle of this, in the field of the mortals as opposed to the realms of the gods, lets us imagine (and see) what surviving in a world of vindictive and egotistical deities is really like -- granted, with a heavy dose of humor and snark.

The only things that presented problems for me as a reader were:  a) the way Atticus sometimes presented information; and b) the distinct feeling that there was supposed to be a book prior to this that I hadn't read yet.  The former is a result of the first person narration, which occasionally falls prey to matter-of-fact telling in chapters.  Atticus reminds us too often of details we need to know, without attempting to find other ways to convey the same information; these moments sometimes pulled me out of the story, but they also bothered me because they reflect the fundamental flaw of the first person narrator:  namely, that presenting information in FP is uniquely challenging if one intends to avoid the pitfalls of telling.

The latter is a problem that the publishers should have fixed from the start.  Hounded, which precedes Hexed chronologically, should be read first, something which I could only find by comparing publication dates.  Some of the events that happen in that book are at play, at least peripherally, in Hexed, and most of those events shape Atticus in ways which become important to later volumes.  While jumping into the middle doesn't detract from the strength of Hearne's story, I would still avoid doing so in exchange for a better reading experience.

But don't take the previous two paragraphs as a reason for avoiding this book.  Unless you dislike first person narration, Hexed's main character is a joy to read.  Perhaps the only thing lacking for Atticus is character development (in terms of "growth" as opposed to "presentation").  But what I learned about him by the end of the book allowed me to see Hexed for what it is:  a darkly humorous game of fiddling with the encyclopedia of myths that have and continue to dominate our modern world.  Atticus comes through as a strong character with a fun personality; the myths and legends spill from the page like paint on a godly canvas; and the fast pace and amusing plot spins the (urban) fantasy trope of good vs. evil on its head.  And let's face it:  even if stuffy literary critics can't accept Hexed for what it is, SF/F fandom sure as hell can.

If you want to lean more about Kevin Hearne, check out his website (and the publisher's website).  You can find the book just about anywhere, if you're so inclined.

Erin Hoffman's debut novel is a traditional high fantasy romp formed from the ashes of a collaborative project.  It's origins are a bit unusual in a field of secondary world fantasies created by individuals with Tolkien on the mind, and the effort to move beyond the collaboration shows in the development of the world's magic system, mechanics and all.  As a novel, Sword of Fire and Sea leaves something to be desired, but as a fantasy adventure, it hits all the right marks.

Vidarian, a reputable ship captain, gets caught up in a complex web of magic-wielding priestesses when he reluctantly agrees to ferry fire priestess Ariadel to a safe haven.  There, the priestesses hope, the Vkortha, their mortal enemies, will not be able to find Ariadel, whose abilities might threaten Vkorthan power.  But the journey takes Vidarian and his crew through dangerous waters, where pirates and sorceresses await.  Yet more shockingly, the journey reveals a destiny that Vidarian never knew he had, one which puts the fate of the world in his hands:  in the end, he will
have to choose between one future and another, digging through centuries of myth and legends to find the right "choice."

One the interesting things about Hoffman's novel is its bipolar adherence to the traditional forms of fantasy.  While at the heart of the narrative can be found a cliche "chosen one" story in the form of Vidarian, the narrative also takes away the security of knowing what is the "right choice" for the mythical figure.  Vidarian not only must choose which future is the right one for his world, but he must also do so without knowing for sure which choice is the right one, all while fending off Imperial soldiers who want to prevent him from making any choice whatsoever and others who want him to choose one path or another.  The novel never betrays its answers in this regard, which might help boost it above other high fantasy novels floating out there.

But beyond that, Sword of Fire and Sea is essentially an adventure fantasy akin to the adventure novels of the romantic period.  There isn't anything wrong with this, but it is important to recognize.  A great deal of the novel is occupied with action:  ships in combat, the heroes fighting back enemies of various shapes and sizes, heavy uses of magic, searching for enormous mystical creatures and combating unknowns.  Thankfully, the novel avoids the pitfalls of D&D dungeon crawlers.  While the characters do have to "collect things" in order to succeed in their mission, Hoffman avoids making such collecting about fighting back nameless, faceless monsters in "secret places" (a.k.a. a dungeon or magical forest).  The people involved in stopping Vidarian and Ariadel are the very people one wouldn't expect to turn their backs, which adds some depth to a novel which doesn't show itself as particularly "deep" (as most adventure novels don't, even when "depth" does exist).

In many respects, Hoffman's balance between adventure, manipulated cliche, and character make for a compelling novel that is a lot of fun to read.  Personally, I am not an adventure fantasy fan, and I have a very short leash for the trappings of the fantasy genre.  But Sword of Fire and Sea navigated those trappings in a way that allowed me to get lost in the excitement.  If not for all of the characters being adults, you might expect this story to show up on your young adult shelves, enticing teenagers (and the adults like me who sometimes pretend to be teenagers) with its magic and wonder.  There's something to be said about the way we read YA fantasy, as opposed to fantasy marketed for an adult audience (in which teenagers undoubtedly implant themselves, because they like Tolkien and GRRM too).  But that's something to think about later.

The adventurous nature of Sword of Fire and Sea, however, is also where a some of Hoffman's flaws can be found.  While enjoyable, the novel often moves too swiftly, jumping through significant moments of conflict to get the characters to the next "level."  The result is a lack of tension for many important aspects of the novel.  Yes, Vidarian often must fight against unusual things, sometimes at overwhelming odds, but his success in these ventures sometimes feels too easy; he rarely sheds blood, or Hoffman allows her characters to escape.  One examples involves the fire priestesses, in which Vidarian and his companions learn and ugly truth and are trapped by the Vkortha.  Without much in the way of physical conflict, they manage to escape, taking flight in a gryphon-pulled basket that conveniently lay in wait.  There are other instances like this; each of them detracts from the worry we should have as readers that something might actually happen to Vidarian or his friends.  Of course, things do happen to them, but I would have liked some of the physical conflicts to take part in those "happenings."  Largely speaking, the physical conflicts in Sword of Fire and Sea serve to maintain the adventure narrative.

One other aspect of the novel which is given weak treatment is the growing romance between Vidarian and Ariadel.  Their relationship develops far too swiftly, the result of which is a strain on our ability to suspend disbelief.  Hoffman skips a lot of time early in the novel in order to avoid pages and pages of people walking on the deck of a ship, but more scenes between Vidarian and Ariadel might have helped show how they went from mere acquaintances to close friends to lovers.  Without such scenes, the romance comes out of nowhere and Vidarian's motives for much of the last half of the book lack the power needed to justify his actions.

Despite this, however, the book is a load of fun, and it does leave a lot of interesting questions to be answered in future volumes.  Unlike some traditional fantasy narratives, Vidarian's stint as a "chosen one" ends in the first book, hinting that what will occupy the next two in the series (yes, another trilogy) are the conflicts arising from his choices as a chosen one.  I have a feeling that Hoffman is going to take us into very different territory from this point forward.  I, for one, am looking forward to it.

If you want to learn more about Hoffman and her work, check out her website (and Pyr's website).  You can also check out the interview my friend and I did at The Skiffy and Fanty Show about the book and Hoffman's other interests.

I'm sensing a pattern in Gateways.  One really good story, followed by a bad one, followed by a good one, and so on and so forth.  Larry Niven's "Gates" is one of those bad ones.  Split between two perspectives -- a science fiction writer talking about the singularity/Bill Gates and Bill Gates making the decision to create a virtual world in which he is filthy rich -- "Gates" lacks anything resembling plot or character development.  In fact, beyond presenting a gimmick, I'm not sure if the story has a point.

Is it a story that wants us to buy its premise that the world we live in is a virtual world a la Second Life in which all but Bill Gates and his friends are intelligent programs?  If so, Niven has failed to provide a coherent "world" within which we can come to that conclusion.  Or is the singularity / Bill Gates section a fictionalized account of the tech icon's rise to "power" written by the science fiction writer of that previous section?  That might be interesting, but beyond the fact that the
science fiction writer talks about Bill Gates (from which the title obviously comes), the connection is loose.

Then again, perhaps we're supposed to think of this story as a couple of alternate histories about old Bill.  But each "vision" lacks depth.  The characters are cardboard cutouts -- people we've seen before.  The stories themselves, if you could call them that (vignettes might be a more appropriate term), go nowhere; we never see the worlds these different characters are talking about, or learn anything about the characters to give us a sense of who they are and what they've done to get here.  Maybe that's the point, but there are writers who have approached similar themes more effectively.  This story, however, is one I would recommend skipping.