What I Read in August

Hello, and welcome back to the blog! Before I dive into my August reads, I wanted to mention that, with the start of school approaching, I’ll be cutting back my posting to once a week. Tuesdays will be my day moving forward, though I hope a stray Friday post will find its way here every now and then. Now: onto the books!


64. Starsight by Brandon Sanderson

In this sequel to Sanderson’s YA space romp, Skyward, we join our lead and newly-minted pilot Spensa as she undertakes a mission to the heart of enemy territory in disguise. After a few too many plot-enabling coincidences in the first act, Starsight‘s thrusters kick in and the book roars forward with impressive gumption. Sanderson writes a space-dogfight with energy rivaling that of Star Wars, and gifts us with a lovable new ensemble that well and enough makes up for the fact that we see so little of the old one. Diplomacy also steps up to play a surprising role in this otherwise war-minded take on a galaxy in distress, forcing Spensa to contend with the limits of her––and humanity’s––trigger-happy approach to conflict. Complex, expansive, and with a devastating cliffhanger ending, Starsight does its job very well: I’m chomping at the bit for book three.


65. Spinning Silver by Naomi Novik

Naomi Novik’s loose retelling of “Rumpelstiltskin” is a book of many talents. Gorgeous world, generous characterizations, rich character dynamics, and incredible complexity abound in this absorbing wonder of a book. Novik’s careful attention to the everyday lives of her characters does as much or more to form the sinews of her fantasy as the magic itself, reveling in trade, candlelight, and craft. The romances, of course, like the one in Uprooted, are catnip to anyone who has a taste for love stories of the Death-and-the-Maiden variety, but some of the book’s most moving portraits are of family, its every page as welcoming as the warmest fireplace. (Reviewed here.)


66. The Wild Girl by Kate Forsyth

I don’t consider myself a denizen of the historical genre, but for Kate Forsyth, I’ll make an exception. In The Wild Girl, set during the Napoleonic Wars, Forsyth follows a young Dortchen Wild as she falls for one of the neighbor boys, a young scholar by the name of none other than Wilhelm Grimm. The real-life Dortchen Wild is actually documented as the source of many of the fairy tales compiled and edited by the Brothers Grimm, and, with precious few liberties, The Wild Girl fits them into a compelling dramatic framework, bolstered by a moving look at the effects of war on the middle class. Though the book sometimes drifts into sensationalism, it remains softly, stirringly human.


67. The Wicked King by Holly Black

After entertaining a middling opinion of The Cruel Prince, the very last thing I expected was for its sequel to sweep me off my feet. By expanding the scope of her world, amping up the personal stakes and wielding enigma like a dagger, Holly Black crafts a sequel that is dizzyingly fun and full of surprises, both personal and political. On the personal front, The Wicked King boasts the defining moments of one of young adult’s finest enemies-to-lovers couples, which, at long last, I finally have no choice but to root for. On the political, though, Black doesn’t neglect to keep pace: court intrigue, rival kingdoms, and a fair share of spying anchor the deliciously thorny romance for a singular fantasy treat. (Reviewed here.)


68. A Dress for the Wicked by Autumn Krause

This book’s pitch promises couture enlivened with intrigue: when a teenage seamstress gets a once-in-a-lifetime chance to compete in a design competition, she must fend off doubt, elitism…and sabotage. A Dress for the Wicked, however, is plagued by weaknesses endemic to the contest setup, from personal stakes floundering under competitive ones to contestant-character soup. Things pick up after a lumbering first half, but not enough to compensate for the peril feeling wholly arbitrary. With a supporting lineup of mostly flimsy archetypes, a stale and tensionless romance, and blunt, unrefined prose, the book evokes a gown in substantial need of tailoring.


69. Great Goddesses by Nikita Gill

Nikita Gill’s re-imagining of Greek myth holds poems of varying potency. My favorites are all the ones that inject tenderness where we’ve previously imagined cruelty: what Gill does with Hephaestus and Aphrodite, Ares and Calliope, and Hades and Persephone marks, I think, the height of this collection. Gossamer-delicate, liberal with humanity, and refreshingly sincere. Sometimes, though, where Gill is more overt with her themes, they lose the meat of their substance, leaving the reader with little more than bones to chew on. Great Goddesses is well-suited to portraiture and less so to manifesto, but strong with imagery across the board––even in poems I didn’t like, I have phrases tabbed for future reference.


70. Reality Boy by A. S. King

Every time I read another A.S. King, I find myself wishing it was Please Ignore Vera Dietz, her incredible debut. Reality Boy is no exception: stripped of the gritty fabulism that lines her other books, it has only realism to rest on, which, in this volume, makes for a clumsy stance that leaves it apt to lose its footing. King’s interrogation of reality TV and its human damages is powerful, but her plotting and scene structure isn’t; I often had to read chapters over again because the whole thing escaped me. Though suited to the character, the narration is both vulgar and abrupt, yielding a reading experience that left me struggling to keep up and feeling punished for doing so.


71. Exit West by Mohsin Hamid

Mohsin Hamid’s tale of war and migration turns a keen eye on policy failure where it concerns aiding refugees, but mostly owing to his choice of style, I struggled to appreciate it. The book contains one element of magic realism, but its use is sparse and purely utilitarian, which comes as a sore disappointment to any fool (me) who picked it up for that reason in particular. Hamid is much more interested in his characters, but his approach to style tends to keep them at arm’s length. Pages and pages will pass with no dialogue whatsoever, for instance, the scenes not so much transpiring as being recounted to the reader. All of this is intentional, of course, but it makes the characters feel like strangers even by the book’s end, their substance closed to us by the author’s pen.


72. When the Sea Is Rising Red by Cat Hellisen

This quiet fantasy from 2012 holds many little treasures: an interesting, Victorian-tinged maritime setting, a unique approach to the love triangle, and an elegant use of sea-based eldritch horror are chief among its charms. But where fictional caste is concerned, Hellisen falters, falling into the extremist member of the minority-as-villain trap in a way that shines unfavorably on the narrative’s ultimate deference to the status quo. Still, the book’s depiction of the crumbling splendor of once-great houses of wealth is ripe for exploration, as is the internalized elitism in Felicita, When The Sea Is Rising Red‘s fugitive heiress heroine. At just under three hundred pages, though, the novel’s lofty aims of a revolution begun and ended feel rushed, and Felicita’s development, likewise, unfinished.


73. The Betrayed by Kiera Cass

Kiera Cass’ latest duology isn’t for everyone, but there is more to love here than just a re-run of The Selection. Both volumes, The Betrayed in particular, are heavy on family dynamics, paying just as much page time to our protagonist’s adopted mother figures as to the romance and the (woefully) shaky plot. Some of my hopes from The Betrothed, which I, seemingly alone in this, loved, were dashed, but this book mostly makes up for it. In subtle ways, through small tokens and intimate scenes of character development, Cass knows, just as well as any of her books’ love interests, how to win a girl’s heart. (Reviewed here.)


74. The Merciful Crow by Margaret Owen

Where When The Sea is Rising Red is coy about its fictional caste system, Margaret Owen’s debut is uniquely concerned with hers––and its troubled bottom rung. Known as the Crows, it is their lot to contain a plague ravaging the land of Sabor, and they face unprovoked violence and apathy from authority figures as they do so. While there’s plenty of on-the-page danger, however, there’s something about Owen’s prose that keeps the suspense from singing. There’s more than enough elsewhere to make up for it, though: a thoughtful look at a corrupt and unequal society, a textured approach to worldbuilding, and strong relationship dynamics (both platonic and romantic) anchor this sturdy, purposeful first installment.


So concludes August! How was your reading month? Feel free to tell me about your favorites, least favorites, and general bookish antics, in the comments. 💕

A Universe of Adventure in “A Thousand Pieces of You”

Of four alternate universes––one with bananas new developments in tech, one where things are barely stepping out of the industrial revolution, one with a slight turn in physics research, and one where most of the Earth has been submerged by rising sea levels––what do they have in common?

Give or take a few family members, every one of these universes comes equipped with one Marguerite, or Margarita, Caine, one Paul or Pavel Markov, and one Theo Beck. This is no mistake: the rules of travel via Firebird, a discreet, consciousness-transporting device that masquerades as a necklace, lock the wearer out of universes in which they don’t exist. Ergo, the contents of the next dimension are anybody’s guess, but the cast is consistent, giving Evernight author Claudia Gray an alcove of tight-knit personal drama in the eye of an ever-changing storm of dimensions and research conspiracies. A conniving tech mogul or Firebird-toting spy is never more than a few steps away, but they’re never more pressing than the feelings at hand. Because the same things are at stake in so many realities, every secret is life-or-death. Claudia Gray has hardwired the implications of her book’s tense, sorehearted love triangle to be as wide-ranging and catastrophic as possible, a drastic but effective measure to marry plot and romance, and beautifully, a foolproof way to make 360 pages pass like a dream.

To helm this Firebird-powered chase through the dimensions, Gray chooses the impassioned, artistic Marguerite, daughter of physicists Henry Caine and Sophia Kovalenka, who understands just enough of the science to get around the multiverse, but frets over the ethical and historical possibilities with much deeper consideration. Her parents have been working on the Firebird for a number of years before A Thousand Pieces of You opens, but the story starts and ends with Marguerite, whose ties to her parents finally take the new technology out of careful, impartial hands. Through Marguerite’s deep, detailed relationship with visual art, Gray parses out the differences in parallel realities, giving each one a new flavor, and each Marguerite a different artistic backstory––in one dimension, she’s fascinated by color and paint, in another by lines and charcoal, but detail is the uniting thread.

Claudia Gray explains this coherence of chance through her characters, in the beginnings of a scientific treatise on destiny. The physics student Paul Markov, among many stray post-grads Marguerite’s parents have housed, poses a theory on recurring patterns and tendencies through dimensions––what happens in one often recurs in others, leaving some things down to an intangible force that sounds an awful lot like fate, and yet is so tentative, so cautiously approached and carefully considered, that it blends in with the scenery of grounded science fiction.

Gray makes swift use of parallel worlds’ literary tradition––her writing straddles new ideas for the genre and familiar tropes; it’s conscious that this idea has been done well before and fashions a broader, more varied jaunt out of existing language. The grief that tore Rose Tyler apart in Doctor Who’s 2005 episode “Father’s Day” reappears when the deceased in Marguerite’s world are still alive in others, and she has to keep the truth and despair to herself as she faces a figure who’s all but risen from the dead. Gray also takes a cue from Everett’s Many-Worlds theory, and fashions her multiverse on a system of possibilities, with every outcome of every action spawning a different universe, where Josephine Angelini’s Trial by Fire, of the same year, populates the multiverse with the outcomes of decisions instead.

A Thousand Pieces of You also does some nuanced work with morality, adding to the conversation, “Does every ‘version’ of you hold the same moral fiber?” The question never touches Marguerite, but it does brush Theo, another postgrad from her parents’ research cohort, and Paul , who both take turns as the suspected guilty party (in one universe or another) in a gripping revenge story that propels the book’s thrilling chase.

Claudia Gray’s work, in this case, isn’t the full-bodied deconstruction of vengeance that The Last Voyage of Poe Blythe is, relying, instead of on characters, on a withholding of information on the part of the circumstances that surround it. But Gray’s work makes due, keeping away from the whodunit just long enough to keep it interesting. Her eventual villain might creep into later books with just enough frequency that the works lose their adventurous tendencies and fix on a cat-and-mouse plot without much room left, but for now, the excitement of new worlds dominates the Firebird trilogy’s opener, filling it with opportunities to exhibit fascinating world-building and a brilliantly-displayed sense of scope––all of which are possible without the plot overwhelming the bounds of character, which Gray keeps at pace with her racing plot through her use of flashbacks.

Such flashbacks are often the book’s most powerful scenes, which Gray ensures by never just using them to emphasize how important these characters are to each other––that much is obvious by their choices in the present, no flashbacks required. Instead, Gray’s flashbacks weave the dimensions together, much like the ins and outs of Marguerite’s artworks, posing a newly remembered fresh wound as a challenge to the possibilities of an alternate universe. Through this, she and her ties to the central cast of characters remain at the heart of the storm.

The multiverse and all its wonders are well enough open to Claudia Gray in the next book––and Ten Thousand Skies Above You cooking up something interesting is the closest mathematical possibility.


Thank you for reading! This review was originally posted on Goodreads in 2019. I reviewed the sequel in a wrap-up earlier this month.

What I Read in July

Welcome back to the blog! I’m pleased to say your local blogger devoured quite the stack this month, owing to the abundance of free time that comes with summer break, and some wonderfully readable sci-fi and fantasy picks. Once I cleared a couple flops, I had a reading month of nearly uninterrupted delight, and I can’t wait to share it with you.


55. Magic Study by Maria V. Snyder

The story begun in Maria V. Snyder’s Poison Study continues in this rather frustrating sequel. Taking a completely new direction mid-series is always a gamble, and in this case, it resulted in an across-the-board fumble: far from the political intrigue of the first book, we follow a half-baked mystery, meet characters who are either under-utilized (Leif, Irys, Cahil!!!) or under-developed (Goel, Roze) and forego the potential of Snyder’s original premise for something that never manages to overcome the feeling that it’s little more than a diversion. Still, there are pieces of truly original worldbuilding to be found and surprising developments in the series’ magic, both best appreciated with the allowance that neither are fully realized.


56. Murder at the Vicarage by Agatha Christie

Try as I might, I just can’t get hooked on the Queen of Mystery. This novel, the first in her Miss Marple series, has all the ingredients for a satisfying ensemble piece––a full and distinctive cast, an unlikely observer, and a small town whose currency is idle gossip––but a barely-there detective in Miss Marple and a trite, predictable choice of killer kneecap its attempts at suspense. There are also several indistinguishable government authorities on the case, none of whom make a lasting impression. It’s a shame, too: there are several dynamics in the story that humanize the characters involved, and a missed opportunity to take a closer look at the family of the deceased and introduce some complexity into the equation, but each character is merely an intriguing silhouette––and nothing more.


57. She-Ra: Legend of the Fire Princess by Gigi D. G.

If you’re a fan of the Netflix series She-Ra and the Princesses of Power, this spin-off graphic novel is essentially a filler episode, though an enjoyable one that’s on par with the show’s best one-off adventures. There’s an effort to include the whole ensemble, a trade-off that accepts minimal time for each character to shine in exchange for the appearance of everyone’s favorites (a gambit that, admittedly, worked on me, given that I was downright giddy to see Entrapta). As far as lore goes, this volume isn’t essential, but it does breach some interesting questions about the runestones that pay off if you slide Legend of the Fire Princess into your watch or re-watch where it’s set, between seasons two and three.


58. Exhalation by Ted Chiang

Ted Chiang’s short works of science fiction are more-or-less dependable stunners: here and there a story is more heady than it is affecting, but even then, the hypothetical, and Chiang’s keen observation of humanity in the face of some new technology or paradigm, is more than enough to carry it through. At its best, this collection had me crying in the airport (courtesy of the title story), but even at its mildest, it had me churning obsessively over its themes, however unmoved by the characters I was (“The Lifecycles of Software Objects” and “The Merchant and the Alchemist’s Gate”). Word of advice: don’t skip the story notes! They’re as fascinating as the stories themselves, and beckon a well-worth-it reread.


59. Ten Thousand Skies Above You by Claudia Gray

Claudia Gray’s delectable sequel to her multiverse romance A Thousand Pieces of You boasts everything a good middle volume requires: the stakes are dialed up both plausibly and bombastically, the beliefs our protagonist, Marguerite, rested on to get through the first book are challenged in a way that wrecks everything we think we know, and the ending is devastating––wickedly so. Though the parallel universes explored here aren’t quite as lusciously developed as they are in book one, Gray sets a promising course for the series finale, with a resonant set of villains and skillfully placed dystopian undertones. I can’t wait to see what universes she has in store for us next.


60. Ice Like Fire by Sara Raasch

Following Sara Raasch’s Snow Like Ashes, this sequel’s efforts are more mixed: as a fantasy that straddles grounded politics and lofty magic, its increasing dependence on the latter messes with the effectiveness of the former. That said, Raasch’s settings and supporting players are in top form start to finish, and it’s only really at the end that magical developments truly overshadow her dependable strengths. As a follow-up, it adds mostly believable caveats to the victories we saw in Snow Like Ashes, and slides an extremely compelling complication into the romance that bloomed there as well. There’s reason to believe the third installment will be messy, but Ice Like Fire makes a good stand as a worthy answer to the first.


61. Archenemies by Marissa Meyer

Following Renegades, Marissa Meyer’s original superhero story, Archenemies broadens the trilogy’s scope with a distinctly ethical bent, yielding a volume that is as suspicious of the superhero tradition as it is willing to put its flashy sensibilities to good use. Dealing heavily in the politics of powers––and the slippery slope of their regulation––is the perfect pivot for this second volume, whose increased focus on minor antagonists keeps its big bad fresh and shrouded in ambiguity ahead of the series’ conclusion. Archenemies leaves its lead characters wanting, however: Nova’s status as a yet-uncompromised spy takes the bite out of the enemies-to-lovers romance, and “they killed my parents”-itis is a disease endemic to contemporary villaindom––it does no favors for an otherwise complex superhero story here.


63. Villette by Charlotte Brontë

Though it doesn’t eclipse Jane Eyre in my eyes (what can?), I’m still immensely grateful to have made my way through Charlotte Brontë’s final novel, Villette. The gothic sensibilities very much shine through in this book, with a healthy dose of possible phantoms, visions, and candlelight, but there’s also something to be said for Brontë’s prowess in the realm of the grounded and real, as she looks at the charmed lives of her shallow wealthy characters with a critical eye, and leads her enigmatic heroine, Lucy Snowe, away from the fanciful, at both its light and dark extremes, for a mean that is all the more rich for the comfort it refuses to provide.


64. The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There by Catherynne M. Valente

Month of sequels this turned out to be, it’s only fitting that I ended it here, with the follow-up to Catherynne M. Valente’s whimsical, episodic The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making. The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland is a tale whose resonance sometimes falters, but never fails to sprinkle asterisks on the first book’s absolutes where needed. Valente’s digressions, made in the tradition of Oz-esque children’s literature, are always outwardly charming, but not always in service of the book’s thematic ends, though, to her credit, the truly important moments hit where they should. As an answer to a story that could very well function as a standalone, it’s good at making itself necessary without then rendering the now-series self-defeating. That, in itself, is a gift. May all sequels tread down its path.


Thank you for stopping by! Tell me about your July in books in the comments below.

What I Read in June

Happy July, everyone! My summer is off to a pleasant, if not incredible, start where reading is concerned: I read 10 books this month, with a tad more sci-fi and nonfiction on offer than usual. This month’s books showed me distant planets, mathematical oddities, and re-imagined monsters, and I thoroughly enjoyed (most of) the experience.


45. Spinning Starlight by R. C. Lewis

Holding this book against the author’s wickedly fun space-opera “Snow White” retelling, Stitching Snow, there’s really no comparison: Spinning Starlight is less focused, less adventurous, and suffers from a truly dreadful case of supporting character soup. When it breaks the yoke of these flaws, however, there are some marvelous ideas in store, and R. C. Lewis’ use of alien technology, coupled with her intriguing variations on the original fairy tale, Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Wild Swans,” make for a fascinating sci-fi, if not always a thrilling one. I was also rather fond of the predicament of our main character, Liddi, who’s a tech heiress with no preternatural engineering abilities to her name, though, like a few other of Lewis’ intriguing concepts, Spinning Starlight would’ve done well to explore it more. (Reviewed here.)


46. The Anatomy of Story by John Truby

Absolutely packed with examples and brimming with the author’s careful study of pop culture, this writing enchiridion proved to be one of the month’s unexpected treats. In breaking from craft-book tradition, The Anatomy of Story tackles symbolism and setting before it even touches plot, and the resulting approach––deeply concerned with meaning, and content to wait for structure to emerge organically from there––holds an allure that almost makes up for the fact that I had to read a 20-page scene-by-scene summary of a movie I have not, and will never, see. Almost.


47. The Long Way to A Small, Angry Planet by Becky Chambers

As an early foray into adult sci-fi (I’m trying to branch out), Becky Chambers’ warm, inviting, expansive first Wayfarers novel is a wonderful choice. In it, we meet a hodgepodge, banter-y crew and journey with them on a politically dangerous (but financially rewarding) mission to war-torn territory at the heart of the galaxy, with stops at sketchy black markets and deserted outposts along the way. The book is rip-roaring and eventful when it needs to be, but it’s also great at letting its characters slow down and bond with one another. Like with most of my favorite spacefaring science fiction, it’s in the combination that it shines.


48. The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

This wildly popular work of literary fiction is so far from my cup of tea it’s almost Sisyphean to fully articulate my quarrels with it, but here goes: I could not finish this book fast enough. The supporting cast is nothing but a shallow cluster of canvases for the fears and neuroses of our romantic leads, said romantic leads seem to have nothing to live for or want besides each other, and the book employs time travel in only the most basic of ways, that last strike being so extreme as to render its trivial complications the fatal ones. Ultimately, I found it to be hardly a compelling sci-fi, and even less a stirring love story.


49. Hilda and the Stone Forest by Luke Pearson

Being so attached to the animated series, it’s near-impossible to separate it from its source material, particularly where it concerns an expansion on theme, and the addition of some marvelous supporting players. Against the series, the graphic novel feels wanting in scope and emotional intensity, but its fresh use of familiar fantasy concepts and enticing, eerie setting make for an absorbing reading experience nonetheless. Author and illustrator Luke Pearson’s keen sense of whimsy unites the cozy and the creepy in a magical world that’s always beckoning to be returned to, for both its familiar comfort and its exciting possibilities.


50. Minor Feelings by Cathy Park Hong

Cathy Park Hong’s essay collection explores the Asian American experience with both a broad sweep and a concentrated punch, just as personal as it is political, and deeply concerned with the potent harm contained in white America’s thoughtlessness. Minor Feelings isn’t content to let any flippant remark rest, not where are you really from, not Asians are next in line to be white, and not the U.S.’s supposed “post-racial” state. Armed with the potent language of poetry and the careful eye of cultural criticism, the book is both engrossing and revelatory, right to its searing final page.


51. Summer of Salt by Katrina Leno

Katrina Leno’s magical seaside coming-of-age story holds all the trappings of a grounded, atmospheric work of contemporary fantasy––and none of the substance. The start is subtle and intriguing enough, but after an inciting incident near the halfway mark (!!!), a failure to fully articulate the stakes sends the book into a tailspin. Whatever charm Summer of Salt held at curtain is lost in a climax that feels forced and a halfhearted grasp at theme that skips the most promising aspects of the book’s concept in favor of the straight and narrow path.


52. Captive by Aimee Carter

The sequel to Aimee Carter’s 2013 YA dystopian, Pawn, this second installment in the Blackcoat Rebellion trilogy was always going to be steeped in the tradition of The Hunger Games‘ many imitators, but that’s precisely how I like it. The soapy dramas of future America’s treacherous ruling family, coupled with a syrupy-sweet love triangle and the revolution-lite vibes of its climax, make Captive compulsively readable fun for those who still linger at the literary graveyard of the frothy teen dystopian––and an inexplicable choice for everyone else. Still, its emphasis on blaming evil on the system rather than on the bad actors it created is refreshing, and save for its trite parent reveal and numerous death-cheats, it’s a great time.


53. Flatland by Edwin Abbott

This slim volume of mathematical fiction is hardly more than a day’s worth of reading, but Edwin Abbott’s explanation-over-plot style made it a trial to finish. We follow A. Square as he guides us through his home world of only two dimensions for several dozen pages of digression, clarification, and elaboration before finally getting to the “good stuff.” (At what cost?) Anyhow, the book clearly isn’t intended to be an adventure or a character study, but even held as a work of hypothetical curiosity, or satire, it’s wholly unfulfilling, and burdened by a straight-laced, rote approach to worldbuilding, besides.


54. Hilda and the Mountain King by Luke Pearson

It is pure serendipity that the only graphic novel out in the current Hilda series yet to be adapted is far and away the best. Though it follows a huge cliffhanger, Hilda and the Mountain King is, on its own, a complete and fulfilling tale, re-examining the role of stone trolls, one of the series’ magical staples, for a conclusion that’s as satisfying as it is challenging, and as dark as it is fanciful. Bolstered by a careful use of color and Pearson’s trademark visual charm, it’s hard to imagine the fun but simple first volume exploding out into something this complex, but that’s all the more reason to start there and savor the series as it grows. (Besides, of course, waiting on more from Netflix.)


Thank you for reading! If you’re so tempted, I’d love to hear from you in the comments. How was your reading month?