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Book Review Tuesday (11/26/24) – Countess

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

I try not to let my lizard brain take over when it comes to my TBR these days (that’s how it got to almost 1,100 books back to high school…that took some serious pruning). That being said, at this point, I’ve accepted that the phrases “space opera,” “queer,” and “anti-colonial” strung together activate me like some kind of sleeper agent. Thus, Countess found its way onto my TBR and swiftly onto my Kindle. It excited me even more that Countess was Caribbean-inspired and that the author is Trinidadian-Canadian (!!!!), so my expectations were high. Though it wasn’t perfect, Countess was a raw and brutal novella—hardly a page was wasted.

Enjoy this week’s review!

Countess – Suzan Palumbo

Centuries after the British colonized islands in the Caribbean, an evolution of their iron fist remains in space. Under the harsh rule of the Æcerbot Empire, planets and moons are stripped of their resources and their inhabitants left with the paltry choice to enter an immigration lottery to find work or make a meager on their exploited homeworlds.

Virika Sameroo has sworn her life to the empire, loyal to their army for years. But just as she attempts to ascend to a higher position, her captain mysteriously dies—and the imperial authorities frame him for his death. Imprisoned and alienated from the empire that brainwashed her, Virika becomes an unlikely figure for a galaxy-wide revolution—but will she survive long enough to see the Æcerbot empire fall to its knees?

TW/CW: colonization/imperialism themes, torture, murder, descriptions of corpses, blood, self-harm, attempted suicide, sexual assault

how it feels to enjoy a retelling when a bunch of the reviews say that it doesn’t follow the source material (I’ve never read The Count of Monte Cristo):

Of course, regardless of whether or not I’ve actually read The Count of Monte Cristo, I think it’s worth saying that a retelling doesn’t have to stick to every plot line to a T. I get going into a retelling and being disappointed on that front, but even if the setting is wildly different (as Countess is), I don’t think it’s a crime to tweak many of the plot points. In this case, having a vastly different setting kind of necessitates the plot being different, but from what I can gather, Countess is more inspired by The Count of Monte Cristo than it is a direct retelling. That’s fine, in my book. No pun intended.

As a whole, Countess was a fantastic read, but its one weak point was the writing. In a way, the writing style, even if I disliked some of it, worked for the story—and the character—that Palumbo was telling. It picks up at the halfway point, once the plot rockets into a breakneck pace in terms of both action and stakes, but for the first half, the prose felt very bare-bones. Even in this new, expansive empire in the stars full of political intrigue, there wasn’t much to embellish the prose—it was all very quick and to the point, with language that took the quickest routes to explain how we got from point A to point B. This is my first experience with Palumbo’s writing, so I’m not sure if it’s just her style, but either way, it works in connection to Virika; she’s been groomed to be a perfect, obedient soldier, so I doubt she’d be one to mince words or get into excessively flowery prose. For some of the scenes where Virika is in prison and a decade blurs by in only a handful of pages, it makes complete sense. Yet I needed some more descriptive prose to get me immersed in the setting—and in the other characters outside of Virika.

I’m all for having gentler books about resistance, but that doesn’t mean that narratives centered around brutal realities have no place. In fact, in stories like that of Countess, I’d argue that they’re necessary. This is a novella about the horrors of imperialism, down to the most minute aspects. For me, it didn’t go full grimdark, but it was because there was realism to it; grimdark is, for the most part nothing but suffering and pain with no real basis, but the events of Countess, horrendous as they are, were logical byproducts of the crushing weight of a colonialist empire with the galaxy under its colossal thumb. Palumbo pulled no punches with the depictions of what Virika goes through (especially the sequences in prison…please pay attention to the trigger warnings); some of it bordered on gratuitous, but this is a slim novella, and all of it was in service of the theme that the crimes under imperialism are many, varied, and real.

As I’ve said so many times, I see the phrases “queer,” “space opera,” and “anti-colonial” and I’ll run towards the book like I’m a bull that’s just seen the tiniest sliver of red in my peripheral vision. What grabbed me about Countess in particular was that it was Caribbean-inspired—particularly Trinidadian. My grandparents on my mom’s side are from Trinidad, and I’ve seen hardly any literature—much less speculative fiction—that incorporates these cultures. Admittedly, I’m more than a little distanced from that part of my heritage, but I’ve been learning thanks to the tireless research of my amazing artist mom, who is in the process of making a Caribbean oracle deck of her own! It’s thanks to her that I caught a lot of the Trini and generally Caribbean references (the fact that there’s a rebel ship called the Pomerac was gold), and there are plenty scattered throughout the novella—I’m sure I didn’t catch all of them, but what I recognized, I loved. I’ve loved witnessing the shift towards marginalized voices in speculative fiction, but one of the reasons it feels particularly beautiful to me is because for so long, our communities have been denied a place in the collective imagination, a place in a distant future among the stars. So thank you to Suzan Palumbo for this novella, and thank you to my wonderful mom for being the reason that I got these references.

In these kinds of stories (and in life in general), I always try to look for a glimmer of hope, even if it’s foolish of me. Make no mistake: Countess is a tragedy, one of the many (forthcoming) ones that Palumbo has written, according to her Goodreads bio. This novella is a very realistic depiction of how revolutions often make martyrs of their figureheads, and that was Virika’s fate from the start. Palumbo does make you feel the wasted potential of her life as she falls, but I couldn’t help but see the swell of revolution that she ushered in as the ultimate form of revenge—and an assurance of a better tomorrow, at least for a short time.

All in all, a brutal and bold—if not rote in periods—novel of revolutionary change and one woman’s struggle to break free of imperialism. 4 stars!

Countess is a standalone novella, but Suzan Palumbo is also the author of the anthology Skin Thief: Stories and several short stories in various magazines.

Today’s song:

finally got around to listening to Songs Of A Lost World!! this was my favorite—the whole album tended to be repetitive, but it was great nonetheless.

That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Book Review Tuesday

Book Review Tuesday (11/19/24) – Loka (The Alloy Era, #2)

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

…so. Elephant in the room here, quite literally. I’ll venture to say that last Tuesday was one of the worst Tuesdays in American history. Hence, no activity. (Also, I had a whole cocktail of midterms to study for and papers and annotated bibliographies to write.) I needed the time to grieve. Let me tell you the truth: I’m so scared. I’m betrayed. Being in my formative years under a president who systematically mocked the identities of everyone who isn’t him—not just the ones that comprise my family—forced me to confront the fact that America had no regard for me. If there was change to be made, I had to do it myself, and with the help of the communities around me. So I started writing. I started educating myself. The process is never over, and will continue until my dying day; even with the sort of beef that I have with Sara Ahmed (yeah, killjoy etc. etc. etc., I’m on board with 50% of it, but can’t feminism be gleeful sometimes?), I look back to her words: “To become a feminist is to stay a student.” I am always learning. I am far from perfect, but I am trying. The key here is motion: we can’t afford to stay static, not in our ideas or in our actions. Resistance comes in many forms (and don’t let anybody tell you that there’s one right way to fight), but the key is that we must always keep moving. Donate. Protest. Pay someone a compliment. Make art. Write with hope in your heart. Trump and his ilk win when we’re too far into the quicksand of hopelessness.

Never lose hope and never lose love, because that is what the Trump administration lacks. Grieve, and grieve on your terms. I certainly did. The last thing I wanted was a repeat of that November morning when, at the age of 13, I woke up to my dad hanging his head over the kitchen counter as he made lunches for my brother and I. I remember clinging to him tighter than I ever had, frightened of every horrid possibility. Some of them came true. Some of them didn’t. I called both of my parents. I cried the same tears to them that I cried when I was young. Cry the same tears, but remember that they are the same tears. I’m frightened. But if we can resist Trump once, we can do it again. We can fight the same good fight. I love you.

…

All this is to say that, even though my output has been lessened lately (college!), this won’t change a thing. I’ll still be reviewing queer books aplenty, and no election will change that. Gather ’round.

After a solid two weeks of reading nothing but fluff to keep my mind off of everything, I remembered that Meru, one of the more innovative new sci-fi novels I read last year, had a sequel that was finally out! I was eager to re-immerse myself into S.B. Divya’s endlessly creative futuristic landscape, and Loka found itself on my Kindle in no time. Loka turned out to be contrary to my expectations and a very different book to Meru—it was a mixed bag at first, but by the final third, I’m happy to say that it stuck the landing in a deeply moving way.

Now, TREAD LIGHTLY! This review contains spoilers for Meru, book one in The Alloy Era series. If you haven’t read Meru and intend to do so, read at your own risk!

For my review of book one, Meru, click here!

Enjoy this week’s review!

Loka (The Alloy Era, #2) – S.B. Divya

Akshana is a child that defies all existence. Her mother is human, and her maker is an Alloy—a post-human being with godlike powers. The ruling Alloy government condemns her very existence. For years, she has lived a sheltered existence on the planet Meru, raised by her human mother. But once Akshana turns 16, she heeds the call of Earth, the ancient homeworld of humankind. With the help of her friends, she takes up the rigorous Anthro Challenge: a trek to circumnavigate the habitable zone of Earth. As she navigates foreign terrain, Akshana comes to terms with how she was born and created—and where her destiny lies.

TW/CW: near-death situations, medical emergencies (related to sickle-cell anemia), xenophobia/discrimination (fictional), life-threatening storms

I thought that Meru had scared off all of the people who thought that S.B. Divya invented neopronouns, but apparently people are still complaining about it in the reviews for Loka? Did you just…miss book one in its entirety, or what?

I’ll get my main gripe about Loka out of the way first. The more I think about it, the more that I realize that my issue with Loka is that to some extent, it has the exact same stakes as Meru: a young girl/woman has to take a daring trek onto a foreign landscape, all the while facing prejudice from the outside world and alien, terrestrial dangers from the ground beneath her feet. S.B. Divya remains an excellent writer and crafter of worlds, but in terms of plot, in this case, lightning couldn’t strike twice. Aside from Akshana’s differing personality and the novelty of Earth 1,000 years in the future, there wasn’t as much to distinguish the two plots once I broke them down.

I wasn’t crazy about the main plot of the Anthro Challenge. In the future landscape of Loka, this challenge is designed for humans and Alloys to circumnavigate the landscape of Earth as humans did millennia ago. Only a few strips of Earth remain habitable (forming ringed borders around the world), but the brave adventurer must cross swaths of the Southern hemisphere and the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans in order to complete the challenge. In concept, it’s a great bit of worldbuilding, but it didn’t make for a very compelling of a plot. For the first half of the novel, it felt like the same regurgitation of 1) reach new landscape, 2) inter or intra-personal conflict within the friend group, and 3) make a harrowing trek to the next stop on the Challenge. This was rinsed and repeated with less change than I wanted; even with the new landscapes, none of the side characters had much time to develop, and they seemed to encounter almost the exact same problems for a solid 100 pages. It bordered on feeling cheap, given how innovative Meru was.

That being said, even though the plot faltered, Divya’s writing never did. You’ve just got to trust in her abilities at this point, because she can write some fantastic sci-fi, even if the foundation of the plot is flimsy. Her voice for Akshana perfectly captured that teenage urge to explore beyond your parents’ backyard and prove everyone wrong. Divya’s descriptions of future Earth, from the raging seas to the lush greenery to the plains of a futuristic America, immersed me instantly in a vibrantly crafted vision of the future. I’ll get to the specifics of the emotional core of Loka later, but that was perhaps the best part of the novel—S.B. Divya’s brand of space opera borders on hard sci-fi for me, but it keeps the emotional center that so many other hard sci-fi novels forget to consider.

The subject of disability was one of the more compelling aspects of Meru; in a genre rife with eugenic practices that get dismissed as signs of a “progressive” society, Divya changed the game by creating Jayanthi, who, in a future when most disabilities were edited out of the gene pool, was specifically engineered to have sickle-cell anemia. More than that, her sickle-cell anemia was advantageous for surviving the landscape of Meru. Fast-forward 16 years, and Akshana is experiencing, as I said before, the same plot, but her sickle-cell anemia presents unique challenges on Earth, leading to many a close scrape when she exhausts herself to near-fatal levels. She has thoughts of resentment towards her mother, who made a conscious decision to pass this gene down to her. S.B. Divya said that Loka was inspired by their experience being a disabled parent, and that shone through in Loka; eugenicists would have you believe that this would constitute cruelty on the highest level, but Akshana comes to reconcile with—and understand—her mother’s logic. By erasing this gene and others from the gene pool, the Alloys past erased entire cultures, as well as the ways in which they moved about in the world. Being disabled is challenging, to say the least, and in my experience, bothersome and at times taxing to deal with on a daily basis. Yet it has shaped my life in ways that I will never regret. Akshana comes to realize that her mother, even though the road to this decision was rocky, merely wanted her to know that individuality, adversity, and culture cannot be erased by a purging of the gene pool.

Which brings me to the ending. The buildup of Loka concerns the mounting pressure and prejudice surrounding daring Akshana and her friends as they complete the challenge and return to a world that wants to erase their bravery and ban the Anthro Challenge altogether. Not only has she come to terms with her disability, she has come to reckon with her status as a half-human, half-Alloy being in a galaxy where neither party wants her to exist. Yes, there was the physical challenge, but the real Anthro Challenge is the identity crisis you have along the way, amirite? All jokes aside, that was the real hurdle to overcome. I know how corny I sound, but the real journey was Akshana’s journey to self-acceptance in all of the facets of her identity. At the end of the treacherous paved with prejudice and hatred, Akshana learns that the only way to survive is to be yourself, unapologetically so. As she says, in Loka’s stunning final lines:

“Our bodies don’t have a true end. Subatomic particles bounced between skin and air continually. So what did that make me, or any person? If I coexisted with everything and everyone, then part of me was also part of them, and vice versa. To some people, I would never be human enough. To others, I would always be too human. In the end, I had no choice by to be myself.”

And if anything could save Loka from being a letdown, it would be this, and the character arc it coincides with. Excuse me for a moment…no, I’m not crying, it’s just raining on my face.

All in all, a sequel with a plot that nearly dragged the novel down, but just like Akshana completing the Anthro Challenge, beautifully stuck the landing after a rocky journey. 4 stars!

Loka is the second book in The Alloy Era series, preceded by Meru. S.B. Divya is also the author of Machinehood, Runtime, and several other science fiction short stories.

Today’s song:

NEW HORSEGIRL IN FEBRUARY? ON VALENTINE’S DAY? PRODUCED BY CATE LE BON? today is a GOOD day

That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Book Review Tuesday

Book Review Tuesday (10/29/24) – The Book That Wouldn’t Burn

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

The ranting hour is upon us…yet I didn’t hate the book I’m reviewing today. It’s not abject hatred, more just frustration. Maybe I am a good-for-nothing Gen Z-er with no attention span, but I feel like if you don’t get into much concrete worldbuilding until the halfway point of a nearly 600-page book, that’s a real crime in your writing. Unfortunately, The Book That Wouldn’t Burn is guilty.

Enjoy this week’s review!

The Book That Wouldn’t Burn – Mark Lawrence

At a young age, Livira was kidnapped, then rescued and delivered to a sprawling city. Within that city was The Library, a building with layers upon layers inside, containing an archive that spans thousands of years. Now focusing on the education she never had, Livira will discover secrets that will change her world forever.

Evar has lived his entire life trapped inside of the bowels of The Library. Hunted by monsters, he was orphaned at a young age, and his siblings have slowly been picked off as well. With no escape in sight, he spends his days desperately looking for a way out—and he cannot see one until he finds a lost girl named Livira.

TW/CW: kidnapping, loss of loved ones, blood, violence

DNF at 44%.

I know I often gripe about long fantasy novels taking eons to get to the point, but this pushed it to the extreme. All of the rave reviews kept swearing that there was some massive payoff to the excruciating trek that was this book, but the intangible promise of something wasn’t enough to keep me going. The Book That Wouldn’t Burn felt stuffed to the brim with plot lines of no substance or development, and it’s not like the book was too short to be cut down. 571 pages. There were absolutely some chapters that had no business being there.

Suspense and worldbuilding are story elements that normally aren’t confused, but it seems that Lawrence got them mixed up in the construction of The Book That Wouldn’t Burn. It’s one thing to have a crucial element of your world be a secret—that was what the novel hinges on, and from the looks of it, understandably so. This technique is mainly for elements that will change the way the reader and the characters perceive the world. Lawrence’s problem was that he applied that to almost all of the worldbuilding. We get a brief glimpse of the outside world, but not much is known save for the divisions between humans and sabbers (a hostile, dog-like species), and that there’s a Vaguely Medieval Epic Fantasy Town™️ outside of The Library. I get that the focus is on The Library, so what’s the point of establishing any of it if it’s not going to be of any consequence later on in the book? Granted, I didn’t finish it, but the way it was written was so hasty. I did get some semblance of how The Library works, but it was too little too late. If you dangle some reveal over the reader’s head the entire time, you should at least have some information about the world to scaffold why you should care. To some extent, I can see that since all of this was foreign to Livira, but that’s not an excuse to barely describe anything!

I wanted to like Evar, but in the end, his situation was more compelling than who he was as a person. That’s because he’s a walking case study in why tragic backstories don’t automatically make a character fleshed-out. We know all about how he’s been trying to claw his way out of the catacombs of The Library and has been hunted by monsters who have killed his parents and many of his siblings…but we know nothing else other than that. Aside from an implied resilience on the virtue of him being able to survive being trapped in a monster-filled maze beneath a library, I know nothing about this kid. We are given exactly zero hints about his personality. I felt pity for him because of his circumstances, but I put down this book knowing nothing about what makes him tick, other than a vague semblance of revenge. I don’t know why he speaks the way he does, I don’t know his habits, I don’t know how he interacts with the world. I wanted to know him! His relationships were solely defined by their proximity to other people (many of whom were dead). By the time he finally met Livira, I couldn’t care less about how they would interact—mostly because Livira got sucked into some Library portal right before anything of significance could happen. 250 pages, about a third of which were devoted to Evar, and I just could not care less.

Now, for why I picked up The Book That Wouldn’t Burn in the first place…The Library. Again, this could be a consequence of me not reading enough of the book, but I think there’s merit in saying that there’s not nearly enough focus on what’s actually interesting about it for the first half of the novel. After the initial revelations that a) Livira now has access to a library the size of a city with archives spanning thousands of years and b) that there are people trapped in a monster-filled maze beneath it, we get…nothing else. There’s much more focus on Livira’s education in The Library, mainly because when she comes there, she does not know how to read or write. That wouldn’t be a bad thing if it weren’t for the fact that these scenes are repetitive to a fault. Remember what I said about this book potentially benefitting from some hedge trimming? This is precisely where I would slim down the page count. I don’t ascribe to the belief that every little thing has to advance the plot, but you’ve got to have something to keep the reader’s interest—it felt like the same cycle of Livira reading, writing, and getting teased by the apprentices. Rinse and repeat for approximately 100 pages. Now do you see why I quit?

The lesson of The Book That Wouldn’t Burn is that you can’t hold a book afloat on a concept alone. I wanted to like the premise so much—what’s not to like about a massive, age-old library that’s larger than a city and holds unknowable horrors beneath it? But the scaffolding necessary to keep me interested was flimsy at best. Lawrence’s writing had moments of being clever, but that, along with the shaky bits of information about the library, were not enough to hold my interest. 1.5 stars, because it wasn’t all bad, but I was so painfully bored by a book with a fascinating premise, which is truly a crime.

The Book That Wouldn’t Burn is the first novel in The Library trilogy, followed by The Book That Broke the World and The Book That Held Her Heart. Mark Lawrence is also the author of several fantasy series, including The Broken Empire trilogy (Prince of Thorns, King of Thorns, and Emperor of Thorns), The Red Queen’s War trilogy (Prince of Fools, The Liar’s Key, and The Wheel of Osheim), and many more.

Today’s song:

saw the magnetic fields for the 69 Love Songs anniversary tour over the weekend—what an incredible show!!

That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Book Review Tuesday

Book Review Tuesday (10/22/24) – The Brightness Between Us (The Darkness Outside Us, #2)

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

We’re keeping up my sequel streak for the time being, so it seems. The difference between this and The Heart of the World is that I had no idea that The Darkness Outside Us, one of my favorite books of 2021, was even getting a sequel in the first place. That novel rocked my world—it really enraptured me in a way that not a whole lot of books ever have. But it was beautiful as a standalone—it had about as satisfying of an ending as you could ask for. So I was teetering towards hesitantly optimistic when I heard about The Brightness Outside Us, but in the end, I’m so glad I took the gamble; this novel is a different kind of twisty than its predecessor, but it’s worth taking the leap.

Enjoy this week’s review!

Now, tread lightly! This review contains spoilers for book one, The Darkness Outside Us. If you haven’t read it and intend on doing so, read at your own risk!

For my review of book one, The Darkness Outside Us, click here!

The Brightness Between Us (The Darkness Outside Us, #2)

In the 24th century, Ambrose Cusk is on the cusp of the greatest space mission mankind has ever embarked on. After losing his sister Minerva in a troubled gambit outside of the solar system, Ambrose is set to cross the universe itself in order to save her. But when he discovers that he won’t be on the ship—only clones of himself—he is determined to get to the bottom of what his true mission is—and what really happened to Minerva.

30,000 years in the future, the final clones of Ambrose and Kodiak have grown from the teenage clones they once were into fathers of two children. Owl and Yarrow live a peaceful but sheltered existence on the surface of Minerva. Owl yearns to learn what the rest of the planet holds, but her parents are keen on keeping her safe. But when her brother Yarrow begins acting strangely, the family suspects that a stranger thousands of years in the past may have sabotaged their mission.

TW/CW: violence, war, past mentions of child death, animal death, terrorism, intrusive thoughts

It didn’t even cross my mind that The Darkness Outside Us would have a sequel. I went into this novel with trepidation—how do you follow up a novel as twisty, complex, and heartwrenchingly beautiful as The Darkness Outside Us? By splitting the novel in two, as it turns out. I didn’t think that The Darkness Outside Us needed a sequel, but nonetheless, I’m glad I stuck around to see the result—of course Eliot Schrefer would have something fascinating up his sleeve.

The Brightness Between Us reminds me of how much I love a good “space colony gone wrong” story. As I said, I didn’t even think about The Darkness Outside Us getting a sequel, but this novel has the perfect setup for precisely this kind of plot. I should have trusted Schrefer from the start, given how masterful book one was, but wow, the Minerva plot amazed me! There was so much solid, hard sci-fi put into the terrain, climate, and wildlife of Minerva, and Schrefer did an excellent job of keeping the reader in the dark just enough to make everything suspenseful, even when the mysterious bones that Owl digs up in her exoplanet yard only turn out to be from a duck. From the research behind the wildlife, the weather, and the atmosphere, no stone was left unturned, each one its own Chekhov’s gun waiting to fire.

Although Owl wasn’t my favorite protagonist, she fits perfectly for the environment she’s in. Every “space colony gone wrong” needs a character who questions everything; there is always some part of the planet that has been unexplored, and someone needs to be curious and daring enough to want to discover what’s on the other side of the world. It can be even more effective when that character is a child; children are naturally curious, making it more than simply questioning authority—the authority is often their parental figures, and the excuses of them hiding things “for their safety” feel more tangible. Fifteen-year-old Owl was naturally curious, but also paired with her more obedient (at first) brother, Yarrow, giving her more resentment towards her parents. She wasn’t as likeable as Ambrose or Kodiak (I loved seeing them become parents), but they had the home field advantage of book one. But I can recognize when a character is perfect for the plot they’re in, and Owl was the perfect match for the plot of The Brightness Between Us.

After the pummeling of gut-wrenching twists that we call The Darkness Outside Us, the sequel was going to have to pull off a miracle to follow it up in terms of plot. The main twist was so earth-shattering that I thought it would be impossible to come up with anything better. I remain correct—I don’t think anyone, much less Schrefer, could come up with a twist that could top book one. But the main twist that we do have was excellent enough to propel me to finish the book in one sitting—just like The Darkness Outside Us! (The difference is that it was at a reasonable hour this time. I’ve matured since 2021, I promise.) Not only is this duology a love story 30,000 years in the making—it’s a conspiracy 30,000 years in the making! I loved the twist that Devon manipulated the frozen fetuses to develop violently aggressive traits as they grew—it gave even more stakes to an already gripping plot, and it made the days of present future half of the novel gripping as well. It gave the “space colony gone wrong” side of The Brightness Outside Us a truly unique twist—sabotage from 30,000 years in the past, and two versions of the main characters communicating across time to thwart it.

All this talk about the Minerva plot, and I haven’t even touched on the “present-day” Ambrose and Kodiak…oops. I don’t have a favorite child, I swear. The worldbuilding in this half of The Brightness Outside Us was my favorite part; getting a glimpse into the forgotten world that we only knew about in whispers in book one was fascinating. Schrefer’s vision of a world divided into a corporate hellscape of excess and a corporate hellscape of rigidity was one that was mapped out just as vividly as the alien world of Minerva. You really do see how it is that Ambrose and Kodiak got to be how they were at the start of book one. In terms of character development, it did tend to feel like listening to a broken record after book one, but that’s my only minor nitpick—Schrefer made sure that they had startlingly different—and almost as emotional—arcs as their clone counterparts in The Darkness Outside Us. Devon was a fascinating, slippery antagonist, and his sabotage was one of my favorite parts of the novel to witness unfolding.

All in all, a sequel that had a Herculean task to live up to its predecessor, but delivered a miracle in spite of the odds—just like Ambrose and Kodiak. 5 stars!

The Brightness Between Us is the second book in The Darkness Outside Us series, preceded by The Darkness Outside Us. Eliot Schrefer has also written several other books for children and young adults, including the Ape Quartet (Endangered, Threatened, Rescued, and Orphaned), The Lost Rainforest series (Mez’s Magic, Gogi’s Gambit, and Rumi’s Riddle), Queer Ducks (And Other Animals): The Natural World of Animal Sexuality, and many others.

Today’s song:

EVERGREEN COMES OUT THIS FRIDAY, ARE WE READY?

That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Book Review Tuesday

Book Review Tuesday (10/15/24) – The Heart of the World (The Isles of the Gods, #2)

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

The day has finally come…the Isles of the Gods duology has concluded. The end of a (short) era. I’m all over anything that Amie Kaufman writes, and even though fantasy isn’t my top genre, she made me fall in love with her brand of it. Naturally, The Heart of the World was one of my most anticipated releases of the year, and while it fell barely short of book 1, it stuck the landing to become a fulfilling conclusion to a duology full of heart.

Now, tread lightly! This review contains spoilers for book one, The Isles of the Gods. If you haven’t read it and intend to do so, read this review at your own risk!

For my review of The Isles of the Gods, click here!

Enjoy this week’s review!

The Heart of the World (The Isles of the Gods, #2) – Amie Kaufman

Selly Walker has failed.

When she, Leander, and Keegan tried in vain to seal away the gods from the mortal world, they created a conflict much worse than they could have ever imagined. Now, Leander is the mortal messenger of Barrica, goddess of war. Possessed by power beyond human comprehension and puppeteered by a being of unearthly sway, he knows that war is brewing—and that allowing Barrica into the mortal realm would kill him in the process. Selly, now deeply in love, will risk anything to make sure that Leander is unscathed, but little to they know that the rival god Macean has his own Messenger—and that he’s hungry for war.

TW/CW: violence, blood, murder, loss of loved ones, neglectful parent

Man, Amie Kaufman just can’t resist writing relationship dynamics where one becomes all-powerful and the other is Just Some Guy, huh? Not to call Selly just some (gal), but…Aurora Cycle fans, we see it, right?

It’s not like me to rate a solo Amie Kaufman book in the 4-star range. Well, sort of. The Isles of the Gods was a 4.75 for me, but that was easily rounded up to 5. I expected The Heart of the World to be more of the same, and it almost was. Almost. Its fatal flaw was that it took so long to get back on its feet after the chaos and craziness that was the ending of book 1. That was so campy (in an Indiana Jones way) and explosive that it must have been so hard to ground the beginning afterwards. An additional problem is that this book is 400 pages long, which meant that, for the first fifth to a quarter of the novel, it bordered on dragging. Kaufman’s writing didn’t suffer, and neither did the characters, but The Heart of the World took so long to regain its sea legs that it never fully recovered.

From there, however…I have no notes. Even if that first fifth (or thereabouts) dragged in terms of plot, it excelled in terms of character development. Leander’s arc was among the most well-developed of the novel—as it should have been, given that he’s on the cover and all. As I said before, unceremoniously foisting godlike power onto ordinary people and watching them try and grapple with the consequences is Amie Kaufman’s bread and butter. Leander’s internal struggle of being both a puppet of Barrica and being tossed around by the royal family—his family—and being treated like an overpowered chess piece made for some enticing internal struggles. I hesitate to say that his relationship with Selly was a genderbent carbon copy of Kal and Auri, but…the similarities were there. However, what sets them apart is the differences in Leander and Selly’s characters. Unlike Auri, Leander was slick and confident before he he was forced to embody Barrica’s power—thinking he had sway and power was nothing compared to having a taste of uncontrollable, immortal power, and it fundamentally rearranged who he was as a person. Selly, on the other hand, was already out of her depth and new to the relationship, but clung to the glimpse of the real Leander, and knew that she couldn’t risk losing him—or their shared home. I trust Amie Kaufman enough to know that she wouldn’t copy and paste a relationship dynamic, and the more I think about it, the less it feels like a rehash—Selly and Leander were so sweet together, and this wrench in their romance was one that created an intricate rift to explore.

Speaking of Selly being out of her depth…good god, I just want to give her a hug. Lord. Kaufman already gave her a great obstacle in trying to find her way through the palace life and feeling like a fish out of water while trying to navigate impending war. Then she had to resolve the arc about Selly looking up to her dad…who, as was faintly hinted at in The Isles of the Gods, turned out to be using her for her magic, then abandoned her. My poor girlie…either way, it was written so sensitively. After the smoke screen of her dad pushing her to foster her magic fell away, Selly realizes that he’s just been using her as a tool to bolster the family name, and Kaufman was able to hammer in just how crushing that was for her. All her life, she’s been in his service, and all of these years she’s waited for him to return, and you just knew that he only came back to her because Barrica had him and the rest of his crew under her spell. Their reunion was hollow, just like the remainder of their relationship. Once she began to come too grips with it, however, it was beautiful to see Selly assert that she would no longer be somebody else’s pawn—just like Leander. Waiter! Waiter, more parallels, please!

In my review of The Isles of the Gods, I said that I was miffed at the book being tagged LGBTQ+ when all we got was a background lesbian couple that was about the equivalent of that one scene in The Rise of Skywalker. (You know the one.) I couldn’t help but be disappointed. Let me say on the record that I stand corrected! The additional queer queen and consort aside (diversity win! This warmongering queen likes women!), we’ve also got some wonderful queer representation in Jude. Another minor complaint that I had about The Isles of the Gods was that Jude didn’t have an awful lot to do, even though he was one of five of the POV characters. Not only does he have a beautiful, tearjerking character arc, HE’S QUEER! AND HE’S HAS A WONDERFUL BOYFRIEND! After all that this poor guy has been through, I’d say that’s the ultimate reward. I had a feeling that something had to be queerer about The Isles of the Gods, but I’m so glad that Jude finally got his due diligence in terms of character development and focus—and queerness. We love a battle-scarred guy with a secret stash of fantasy books.

Another character arc I loved seeing resolved…Laskia! Along with Leander and Selly, she’s part of the unofficial “spent their lives being moved around like chess pieces” trio, and seeing her come into her power—without the help of Macean—was a beautiful redemption arc. Laskia was driven to villainy by a desire to be loved, constantly shoved in the shadow of her sister Ruby, and like Leander and Selly, she let herself believe that she was in control. For her, the ultimate act of heroism was to become her own person—to steer her own course in life. Looking back, that’s what the whole Isles of the Gods duology feels like it’s been about. The ultimate form of magic is to know your power, to know that you have control of your life, and that despite the pressures telling you to sail one way or another, you’re the captain of your own ship. 🫡

In the end, if there’s anything that Amie Kaufman can write like nobody’s business, it’s a final battle. It was so tightly paced and action-packed that it nearly made me forgive how slow of a start The Heart of the World had. An aspect that The Heart of the World introduces is how the gods and goddesses factor in (Kaufman’s descriptions of which were arresting, as was expected), but it gave stakes to the battle that truly made it feel like thousands of lives hung in the balance. And to conclude it all in an assertion that spending your life grieving will never make any new love grow? And how that grief can feel so desolate that nothing else can grow there? And that remembering the connections that you have in the here and now is how you can move forward? And…and…and…dammit, Amie Kaufman, you did it again. You can only hide behind so many cheery “hi my friends!” before the jig is up. YOU HAVE TO STOP RUNNING A STEAMROLLER THROUGH MY FEELINGS LIKE THIS.

All in all, a duology concluder that faltered slightly in its early stages, but stuck the landing with buckets of action—and many a resonant message to spare. 4.5 stars!

The Heart of the World is the final book in the Isles of the Gods duology, preceded by The Isles of the Gods. Amie Kaufman is the author and co-author of several series for children and young adults, including the Elementals trilogy (Ice Wolves, Scorch Dragons, and Battle Born), the Illuminae Files (co-authored with Jay Kristoff – Illuminae, Gemina, and Obsidio), the Aurora Cycle (co-authored with Jay Kristoff – Aurora Rising, Aurora Burning, and Aurora’s End), the Other Side of the Sky duology (with Meagan Spooner – The Other Side of the Sky and Beyond the End of the World), and many others.

Today’s song:

We Are Lady Parts brought me here…

That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Book Review Tuesday

Book Review Tuesday (10/1/24) – Death’s Country

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles, and happy October!

Since today is both in the middle of Latinx Heritage Month and the start of spooky season proper, I figured I would deliver on both fronts. I’d heard a lot of buzz about this one, especially the fact that it had polyamorous representation—something I rarely see in literature, much less in YA. Genre fiction written in verse is also uncommon, so I had to pick up this book since it combined both of them. The result was something that was inventive at every turn.

Enjoy this week’s review!

Death’s Country – R.M. Romero

Andres Santos is ready for a new start. After moving to Miami from São Paulo, he’s keen on leaving his past behind—especially his brush with mortality after nearly drowning and seeing the face of Death itself. He barely escaped by making a deal with Death for a second chance at life. Now, he’s a part of a happy, poly triad, deeply in love with spunky photographer Renee and joyous dancer Liora. But when a car crash puts Liora in a coma, Andres and Renee know that the only option is to confront Andres’ past—by returning to the Underworld where he once bargained for his very life.

TW/CW: car crash/coma, emotional abuse, suicide, self harm, eating disorders, fantasy violence

The minute that David Bowie was mentioned, I tried so hard not to go headfirst into liking this novel. My expectations were average, and I wanted to be surprised. And then “Space Oddity” became a recurring motif. You know me, I ate that up.

For the most part, I’ve rarely seen genre fiction and novels in verse mix. The latter is usually reserved for telling realistic fiction stories and occasional historical fiction, though I’ve only seen one or two examples of the latter. But using this method outside of fiction is something that, now that I’ve read Death’s Country, I feel should be utilized more often. Poetic language lends itself to describe the dark, fantastical setting of this novel and fantastical settings in general, and Romero’s is no exception; even if it doesn’t fill up the entire page, the flowing language renders the setting in luscious detail. Given that romance is also at the beating heart of this novel, Romero’s decision of putting it in verse made the romance feel all the more like the center of the narrative. Once more, her language didn’t just put the spotlight on it—the sparsity of the amount of words on the page truly made it feel like the center of the universe.

Even with the leaps and bounds that literature, mainly YA, has made in terms of queer representation, I’ve seen hardly any with polyamorous representation. (The only other one that I can remember is Iron Widow, which I also recommend!) What I liked about how Death’s Country handled it was that it was a polyamorous story, but that it wasn’t necessarily about polyamory; those stories have a place, but sometimes, the most powerful representation comes from seeing yourself in fantastical stories usually reserved for white, cishet, etc. protagonists. There are great discussions about the stigmas surrounding polyamory (cheating, slut-shaming, etc.), but they were only a part of the story, not the whole. The more that I think about it, a poly triad makes this story work in a way that it might not have with a couple; having two people, not just one, braving the Underworld for their girlfriend in a coma, presented a unique twist on a story that’s been retold countless times, and presented an opportunity to explore multiple perspectives of love under duress.

I went into Death’s Country expecting a meditation on death (obviously), but what I didn’t expect was such an insightful metaphor about how we idealize those we love in death. The Underworld in Death’s Country is almost a vehicle for reproducing what people deem most memorable about them: not just how they die, but how they were seen in death. Liora, who was adored unconditionally by both Andres and Renee, has been molded into a romanticized version of herself that, upon closer inspection, barely resembles the real Liora. Most of that is thanks to the manipulation of The Prince, but we later find out that even he is a reflection of the dark side of Andres’ love—that kind of unquestioning idealization that strips a real person into a glowing facsimile of who they once were. This provided an insight into these kinds of retellings (Death’s Country is a loose retelling of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice) that they don’t normally touch on; death changes the people you love physically, but also mentally—in the perceptions of others that come to define them once their physical body is gone.

However, I feel like Death’s Country could have used a dual POV to execute the emotion to its absolute fullest. The only perspective we get is Andres, while we never get into the headspace of Renee, who is journeying with him through the underworld alongside him for the entire book. I wasn’t as big of a fan of Andres as a protagonist (I found him to be on the abrasive side at worst), but Romero’s writing of him was never sloppy or badly-executed in a technical sense. I just had the strongest sense that Renee had just as much of a story to tell as him! I get that Andres was specifically the one who made a deal with Death for another shot at life, but Liora isn’t just his girlfriend—she’s Renee’s girlfriend too. She needed more backstory, but I have a strong feeling that Death’s Country would have been enhanced if she’d also had more of a voice.

All in all, an inventive, fantastical novel-in-verse with plenty of fresh twists on otherwise well-trodden literary ground. 4 stars!

Death’s Country is a standalone, but R.M. Romero is also the author of The Dollmaker of Krakow, The Ghosts of Rose Hill, A Warning About Swans, and the forthcoming novel Tale of the Flying Forest.

Today’s song:

A NEW CURE ALBUM?? what a time to be alive

That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Book Review Tuesday

Book Review Tuesday (9/17/24) – The Crumrin Chronicles, vol. 1: The Charmed and the Cursed

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

2024 really is the year of healing my inner middle schooler…I can feel the Courtney Crumrin obsession jolting back into my body…

I’ve been a fan of Courtney Crumrin from a young age—maybe a little too young, considering how quickly the subject matter gets dark, for better or worse. You know what? Definitely better. It was one of my favorite comics growing up, and Naifeh’s talent in both the writing and illustrating department has had a permanent impression on me, and spurred on my love of paranormal comics even before my Hellboy obsession was kicked into high gear. This continuation of Courtney’s story was one that I’d nearly forgotten about, but delighted in as a longtime fan—a worthy continuation of the story of the most dangerous witch in Hillsborough.

Enjoy this week’s review!

The Crumrin Chronicles, vol. 1 – The Charmed & The Cursed

Wilberforce Crumrin was trapped in the faerie realm for a century, while his older brother Aloysius got to live out a full life in the mortal world. Now rescued from his curse of never aging, Will finds himself under the wing of his adoptive older sister, a feared witch by the name of Courtney Crumrin. To help her little brother adjust to the mortal world, Courtney gifts Will with a charmed locket that will make everybody who encounters him go to great lengths to be his friend. But the love he receives from his classmates is hollow, and soon, Will must learn to discern who his real friends are.

TW/CW: fantasy violence, bullying, anaphylactic shock, loss of loved ones

When I say “I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs,” I mean Courtney Crumrin. Let a middle school girl with an ungodly amount of magical powers rain righteous fury down on a bunch of corrupt older men if she wants to.

I’m so glad that my mom reminded me that The Crumrin Chronicles existed, because it was high time that my middle school Courtney Crumrin obsession got reanimated. These new installments of the story prove that Ted Naifeh’s still got it, whether you’re talking about the stellar, eerie writing or his distinctively angular art style. In every way, it’s a treat for any longtime Courtney Crumrin fan!

Several years after the events of The Final Spell, Will has been rescued from the faerie realm, and now has to acclimate to the mortal world—which has progressed over a century from when he last saw it. The shift in the series’ name reflects the shift in the protagonist—it will always be about Courtney, but it’s clear that this is Will’s story through and through. I’m loving the ways that Naifeh has begun to develop Will’s character; apart from his delightfully old-fashioned mannerisms (ex. calling everybody “chaps,” constant exclamations of “jolly good” and whatnot), you truly get the sense that he’s a fish out of water in every way—he knows nothing about this new world that he’s in, and on top of that, he constantly has to pretend that he’s in the loop with everyone else.

In the shift from Courtney to Will as the protagonist, Courtney has also filled the role of Uncle Aloysius in the original series. What with their parents remaining as bafflingly clueless as they always were, Courtney is the only person Will can turn to for advice and comfort—she’s the only person in his life who knows the truth about his origins. Courtney, now with several years of maturity (and honing her powers) behind her, has grown more reclusive, but no less of a formidable force, both for fury and for love. Her being in a more secondary role doesn’t dull the truly awesome impact of the magic-wielding moments she gets; age has only focused and sharpened the reach of her wrath, and she uses it to its full extent when it comes to protecting the ones she loves—especially her little brother.

Protecting said little brother is what drives the central conflict of The Charmed & The Cursed; the inciting incident is brought on by a charm that Courtney places on Will that will make all of his classmates love him, thereby making his transition to modern school easier…in theory. Even if it does go awry, it teaches Will a valuable lesson about true friendship—and gives him a few real friends along the way. But the gesture alone felt so true to Courtney; she knew firsthand what it was like to be the new kid and not have anybody to show her the ropes, both socially and magically. What she and Will both learn by the end is that, in terms of the horrors of middle school, nobody can protect you from that. It’s a fact of life that puberty and making friends are rough, but sometimes, it’s up to you to decide who your real friends are.

Side characters usually aren’t a strength of Courtney Crumrin—by nature, Courtney really doesn’t have friends, save for her crotchety, geriatric warlock uncle, some talking cats, and a handful of fantastical creatures who come and go (and often either turn on her or die horribly. Fun times. Guess who hasn’t gotten over Skarrow…), but the ones that Naifeh introduces in The Charmed & The Cursed have a lot of promise! I immediately saw a bit of my younger self in Tucker, and as a kind of foil to Will, she works wonderfully; in contrast to Will, who wants to understand the real world he’s now trapped in, all she wants to do is escape it. Both of them show each other a version of reality—Tucker shows Will how his “friends” really see him, while Will shows Tucker that maybe the real world does have something in it for her. Putting a goth girl in this universe was an obvious choice, but I love Cinnamon too—and her burgeoning romantic relationship with Tucker!

The magical conflict (a CEO who happens to be a vampire, and this time, not in the metaphorical sense) was very much just a setup to stoke the flames for the rest of the series, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a fantastic ride. Between the callbacks to Courtney Crumrin’s Monstrous Holiday to Courtney getting to unleash the full extent of her magic, I was grinning to ear the entire time! The callbacks didn’t feel shoehorned into the narrative either—the element that does return does so for a logical reason, and there are enough new solutions to the vampire problem at hand that it doesn’t feel like a straight-up rehash. It’s loads of fun—and it provided a fascinating setup for what seems to be the main conflict of The Crumrin Chronicles.

All in all, a return to a comic I remember fondly that was clearly created with nothing but love. 5 stars!

The Crumrin Chronicles: The Charmed & The Cursed is the first volume in the Crumrin Chronicles series, followed by The Crumrin Chronicles: The Lost & The Lonely, and The Crumrin Chronicles: The Wild & The Innocent, which will be released on October 1, 2024. This series is a sequel to the Courtney Crumrin series, which consists of The Night Things, The Coven of Mystics, The Twilight Kingdom, Courtney Crumrin’s Monstrous Holiday, The Witch Next Door, The Final Spell, and the prequel Tales of a Warlock, which tells the story of Uncle Aloysius. Ted Naifeh is also the author and illustrator of several other comic books, including The Good Neighbors (written by Holly Black), Polly and the Pirates, Princess Ugg, and many more.

Today’s song:

FINALLY listened to all of It’s a Wonderful Life yesterday!! Sparklehorse and P.J. Harvey was a combination I never knew I needed so badly…

That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Book Review Tuesday

Book Review Tuesday (9/10/24) – The Sun and the Void

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

Looks like I’m back! I’ve returned to college, and, as it always does, it has taken me some time to settle in. My ducks aren’t fully in a row, but they’re straightened enough that I’ve figured out when and where I’ll have times to squeeze in some writing. Key word is some: chances are I’ll stick to the two posts a week for a while now that I’ve got lots of schoolwork on my hands.

For this week’s Book Review Tuesday, I have a book that it’s almost miraculous that I liked as much as I did; at their worst, overly long epic fantasy novels are the bane of my existence. The Sun and the Void clocks in at nearly 600 pages, and I expected at least some of it to be a slog. Lo and behold, this novel held so much more in store—vibrant characters, Venezuelan-inspired mythology, and a daring quest across an inhospitable land.

Enjoy this week’s review!

The Sun and the Void (The Warring Gods, #1) – Gabriela Romero Lacruz

Reina has lived her life on the outskirts of society. Though her kind, the nozariels, have won their freedom, her tail and features mark her as an outcast. Reina returns to her estranged grandmother in dire need of healing—and answers. Now kept alive by means of dark, unpredictable magic, she is now the owner of a terrible secret: her grandmother is in league with a demon-god hungry for sacrifices, and one such sacrifice may be someone that she holds dear.

On the other side of the kingdom, Eva struggles to hide her true self. Her mixed heritage—part human, part valco—makes her a target. Soon after she is set to be married off to a man she barely knows, she falls in with a revolutionary. But this charming, volatile man has a darker side, a hunger for power that will not spare her if she stands in the way.

The paths of these women intersect as the clock ticks, and the fate of both of their worlds may hang in the balance…

TW/CW (from the author): alcohol, assault, blood, child death, childbirth, death, demons, emotional abuse, gore, infertility, kidnapping, pregnancy, racism, religion, sexually explicit scenes, mentions of slavery, violence

Ever since my tastes started drifting more into adult novels, I’ve had a history of getting a hundreds or so pages into an epic fantasy novel, losing my way, and coming out with only the vaguest sense of plot and one character. There’s some of it that’s on me, but it’s often a case of rambling; I’ve found many such novels to be more wordy than necessary and convoluted in their delivery of the worldbuilding. I lowered my expectations for The Sun and the Void for this very reason, though I clung onto it because of the promise of the Venezuelan and Colombian-inspired setting and anticolonial storyline (!!!!!!!!!!!!). Beyond being sick of generic, catch-all European settings in fantasy, my half-Colombian Spidey sense was tingling…and for good reason! The Sun and the Void is an overlooked gem of epic fantasy, with magic and action abound.

The vibrant setting that Romero Lacruz crafts was the clear star of The Sun and the Void. Her South American-inspired landscape was a breath of fresh air in a sea of vaguely European epic fantasies, breathing some much-needed life and diversity into the genre. Logistically, this region of South America—Venezuela and Colombia—also provides a variety of biomes to play with: we get flashes of deserts, forests, and glittering, tropical beaches, all with a fantastical dash of demons and monsters. That alone would have already put it a step above your average epic fantasy, but it was this series’ unique fantasy races that truly shone! As metaphors for oppression and who the dominant power in society deems “acceptable,” the nozariels and valcos were effective on that front. Their designs, however, were what made them so fun, making for memorable characters in looks and culture as well as personality.

In my experience, there are certain brands of epic fantasy that are allergic to accessible writing. When I say accessible, I don’t mean simple; accessible doesn’t mean the absence of artful prose or clever metaphor. For me, accessible prose is inventive, but not so caught up in making itself sound clever that it becomes a chore to read. Romero Lacruz’s writing is a fantastic case study in how to hit the balance between artful and digestible. Every action scene, political machination, and argument is rendered in ways that do feel like how people talk, and yet she never forgets to season her prose with unique metaphors and descriptors of the characters and their surroundings that keep you hooked—or, in my case, vigorously highlighting on my Kindle. At no point did the writing feel pompous or overly convinced of its own talent—it’s writing for writing’s taste, which is what writing should be.

Power dynamics were at the forefront of The Sun and the Void, and the explorations of them were some of the most impactful parts of the novel. Through the side characters, Romero Lacruz portrays the different way that power manifests itself in people; no matter how “noble” their causes, characters like Doña Ursulina and Javier became so obsessed with achieving their goals that it subtly began to eclipse all else. What was unique about The Sun and the Void, however, was how it was framed: through the eyes of vulnerable, sensitive women that get pulled under their spells. Such abusive dynamics meant that Reina and Eva were respectively drawn into the web of these other characters. At no point were they helpless—they were victim to people that promised them healing or freedom, and became so entangled in the schemes of others that they had to fight tooth and claw to find their way back to the light.

That being said, the weakest links in The Sun and the Void lay in the worldbuilding. Even though this novel is one of the few lengthy epic fantasies that I’ve read that miraculously doesn’t get overly convoluted, the price it paid was that some of the worldbuilding was left messy and sloppy once I took a closer look. The glossary was helpful, but it took quite a while to get used to some of the intricacies of the magic system. Terms are thrown around in a very slipshod way, and instead of the dreaded page-long block of worldbuilding exposition, we get…a few sentences, at most, before said facet of the magic system is barely mentioned for the rest of the novel. It’s an issue with followthrough—once something was mentioned, it often took 300 pages for it to make a brief appearance, only to poof back into the unexplained ether. It’s clear that there was a lot of thought behind the worldbuilding, but the issue was more of following the time-honored rule of Chekhov’s gun—Chekhov’s magic system, in this case. The gun did go off in the end, but it took so long to get to that moment that I completely forgot the significance of it being there in the first place.

All in all, an epic fantasy that defied the conventions of the genre—setting, writing style, and more—in all of the best ways. 4 stars!

The Sun and the Void is the first novel in the Warring Gods series, followed by The River and the Star, which is slated for release in 2025. The Sun and the Void is Romero Lacruz’s debut novel.

Today’s song:

BLESSED WITH ANOTHER NEW SOCCER MOMMY TRACK AND A NORTH AMERICAN TOUR NEXT YEAR!!!!!

That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Book Review Tuesday

Book Review Tuesday (8/13/24) – Beautyland

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

As far as science fiction goes, I’m not usually for the literary side of it—that goes for most literary novels of any genre, to be honest. I’ve often found that the sci-fi part is dulled in favor of mass appeal. But the premise of Beautyland fascinated me, not just as a science fiction reader, but as someone who’s grown up feeling like an alien. Surprise, surprise—I cried.

Enjoy this week’s review!

Beautyland – Marie-Helene Bertino

Philadelphia, 1977. Humanity has given the gift of Voyager 1, along with its landmark Golden Record, to space. Unbeknownst to us, a power hidden deep in the cosmos has given humanity a gift in exchange. At the same time as the launch of Voyager 1, a baby is born to an unknowing mother, not human but alien. Her mother names her Adina, and as Adina grows older, she learns how to communicate with her kinfolk in space, reporting the oddities of human life and culture through an old fax machine. As Adina pretends to be human, she experiences the joy and terror of human existence, but longs for closure—will she ever be able to return to her homeworld?

TW/CW: cancer, sexual harassment, loss of loved ones, pet death, bullying, grief, 9/11 themes (brief)

One of the best feelings is when you pick up a book that you’re interested in, but not expecting anything marvelous from, and then getting absolutely pied in the face out of nowhere with the feeling that this book gets me. Setting aside my reservations for literary sci-fi, Beautyland digs into the heart of my experience growing up—of feeling alien, but of cataloguing all of the nonsensical facets of American culture and the feeling of not belonging. I cried. I laughed. I had an echoing pang in my chest for a while. Like life, all of it was worth reading and living.

Observations about the human condition formed the heart of Beautyland. Through Adina’s messages on a fax machine, she reports to her alien superiors on everything from the oddities of American culture (“When it was time to decide the official food of movie-watching, human beings did not go for Fig Newtons or caramel, foods that are silent, but popcorn, the loudest sound on earth”) to the painful and uneasy truths of human existence (“The ego of the human male is by far the most dangerous aspect of human society”). Bertino’s writing shone the most when chronicling Adina’s observations. She adopted a blunt, matter-of-fact tone of a distanced journalist, someone watching our species from the sidelines, yet always managed to wring the emotion from it, be it humor or sorrow. The wonder of Adina when she visited her superiors at night, in a vast room inside of her mind, was just as palpable, capturing her childlike curiosity. You felt every joy of Adina reporting back on the eccentricities of humanity, and every sorrow once Adina matures and realizes the dark side of our nature. The eventual abandonment of her superiors as she grew older drove the point home even more—at a certain point, nobody can answer these questions for you, and you realize that you don’t have the answers, and neither does anyone else. All that’s left to do is live your life, and observe.

Though it wasn’t outright said or diagnosed, the neurodivergent themes of Beautyland were what stuck with me the most. (I have sensory processing disorder, and, among other things, I felt Adina’s growing discomfort with sensations as simple as hearing people breathe and chew.) Whether or not you believe that Adina is actually an alien, the experience of being on the fringes and unable to understand not just other people but their actions deeply resonated with me. As Adina moves through middle and high school and is ostracized by her more popular peers and tries to scientifically observe them, she’s confronted with a frequent feeling of questioning why it has to be this way: why are these girls looking at me like I’m gum on the bottom of their shoes? Why is not wanting sex such an affront to men? Why don’t they like me? That feeling of knowing something’s missing, but being unable to find it, put into words a feeling I struggled with through my adolescence, a sense that everybody else knew something I didn’t, and that was what made me so strange to them.

I read Beautyland as both science fiction and historical fiction; some people have put it up in the air as to whether or not Adina actually is an alien, but I think the answer is…yes. Both can be true. I’ve grown up in a similar way to Adina, feeling so on the outside of everything that I’ve attached myself to science fiction and alienness in general. Like Adina, it’s informed by some neurodivergence and general outsiderness, but there’s something to be said for all of the questions presented being true. Yes, she may be an alien sent from an advanced race beyond the solar system, and yes, she has some neurodivergent tendencies as well. The two can coexist. And Beautyland’s embrace of how these qualities can intersect was what made it so impactful; this experience fundamentally makes us human, even if it makes us feel alien. I often see criticism of alien or robot characters who are characterized as “inhuman,” but what makes them inhuman boils down to them just having the traits of neurodivergent people (“lack” of emotion, misunderstanding of how humans work) and those on the asexual/aromantic spectrum (no desire for romance or sex, that which “makes us human”), and I think it’s a valid criticism to apply to characters who are written thoughtlessly. But who’s to say that an alien character like this can’t also be neurodivergent and asexual? Again: the two can coexist. Bertino wrote Adina as a character with a deep understanding of human culture, and that, to me, does not skew the reading of her as asexual and neurodivergent.

Somehow, one of the most emotional parts of Beautyland for me was how Bertino wrote about Carl Sagan. As I mentioned before, the novel is written in fragments, not always linearly, but taking frequent detours outside of Adina’s immediate life and into moments of relevant pop culture at the time—the popularity of Carl Sagan being one of them. With her connection to the Golden Record and the absence of her own father, Adina looks up to Sagan as a surrogate father, someone who can teach her more about the cosmos from which she was born from. Even having never met him in person, the way that Adina processed Sagan’s death was where I lost it; this is one of her first experiences of loss, and it’s the loss of someone who has unknowingly guided her through her alien life, teaching her about the universe, and by proxy, given her a roadmap of the human condition. Fleeting as it was, Bertino wrote this instance—and the connection to Sagan in general—with the kind of love of someone you feel like you’ve known all your life, but have never even met.

All in all, a deeply human exploration of what it means to be alien. 5 stars!

Beautyland is a standalone, but Marie-Helene Bertino is also the author of Parakeet, 2 A.M. at The Cat’s Pajamas, and the short story collection Safe as Houses.

Today’s song:

new Smile!! not my favorite, and I can see why they left it off the album, but a solid track nonetheless.

That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Book Review Tuesday

Book Review Tuesday (8/6/24) – The Stardust Grail

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

Here I was thinking that I hadn’t had a 5-star read in so long, and bam…two in a row! I was expecting to enjoy The Stardust Grail because I loved The Deep Sky, Yume Kitasei’s debut. To my delight, it turned in a much more space opera direction, but not only that—it had one of the most heartwarming sci-fi universes that I’ve had the privilege of experiencing!

Enjoy this week’s review!

The Stardust Grail – Yume Kitasei

Maya Hoshimoto is a grad student, pouring her life into her studies on an Earth university far from her colony home. But what her university doesn’t know is that her extensive background in alien cultures comes from a history of art theft, stealing alien artifacts and returning them to their rightful owners. When a friend from her past offers her one last job, Maya is ready to refuse—until she learns that the artifact in question could mean that her friend’s species could be brought back from the brink of extinction. Plunged back into her old life, Maya now faces her hardest job yet—putting an entire alien species on the line.

TW/CW (from Yume Kitasei): themes of colonialism/imperialism, genocide, chronic illness (migraines), torture, suicidal ideation (brief), violence/gore, torture/confinement, war themes, pandemic

I loved The Deep Sky, but it was more literary than my usual tastes in sci-fi. I went into The Stardust Grail expecting more of the same, knowing I’d enjoy it, but I did not anticipate it being the perfect book for my constant space opera hankering! Heartwarming friendships, intergalactic hijinks, and excellent creature design—I’m ecstatic to report that The Stardust Grail has it all!

You all knew I was going to go after the creature design first. THE CREATURE DESIGN!! THIS IS THE ABSOLUTE CREAM OF THE CROP HERE!! My only issue is that we didn’t get to see all of the alien species that Kitasei set up, but to be fair, with a story jam-packed with rival parties and factions, it would’ve been a chore to have to incorporate every single one of them. (Maybe what we need is a companion novel in this universe? WE NEED TO MAKE IT HAPPEN!) Back to my point—even in sci-fi, it’s a difficult task to make aliens feel truly alien, not just in looks, but in culture, lifespans, and general quirks. The Frenro, and Auncle in particular, felt bizarre in the best possible way. I love a good cephalopod-like creature, but Kitasei did an excellent job of portraying not just xer mannerisms and what made xem unique as a species, but having those in contact with Maya’s more human sensibilities—there’s a ton of cultural confusion, even though they’ve been friends for at least a decade, but both Kitasei and the characters themselves handle it with a humorous grace. I also loved the design of the Belzoar—again, arachnid-like aliens are also tons of fun, but like the Frenro, they had enough distinguishing qualities to separate them from just being giant spiders.

I could go on and on about how much I adored these characters! Even if I didn’t have a soft spot for alien characters in the first place (being marginalized and generally an outcast will do that), Auncle would be my favorite by far—xe was just so delightful in their joyous dialogue and relentless optimism, but xer deep history of tragedy, both personal and in the context of xer species, was handled with all of the respect that it deserved—xe was joyous in spite of it all, because joy is all you’ve got in some cases. (AMEN!!) Maya was a fantastic protagonist—like Auncle, Kitasei did an excellent job of giving the reader the full breadth of her motivations and past that led her to the place where she is now. Her devotion to a fair galaxy and to help the Frenro made for a beautiful quest, and her feeling of outsiderness amongst both humans and aliens resonated deeply with me. (Given the themes of mixed-race identity in The Deep Sky, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was another analog. YES!!!) Wil and Medix were charming and lovable as side characters, and all of the colorful denizens of the galaxy were equally so—not a single character felt flat or out of place.

In her personal review of the novel on Goodreads, Yume Kitasei cites Star Wars—A New Hope in particular—as her primary inspiration for writing The Stardust Grail and much of her other science fiction. The Deep Sky was much more on the literary side of sci-fi, and while I loved it, I’m hoping that Kitasei keeps in this direction for her next few books. (I’ll read anything she writes at this point, but my statement still stands.) As a fellow space opera girlie and an avid Star Wars fan, the passion of both Kitasei’s personal life and her love for those movies shines through in The Stardust Grail. Kitasei took all of the right lessons from George Lucas and company. Not only do we have a vibrant galaxy full of characters who are just as vibrant, this novel hits the right balance of emotional weight and campy, truly fun action. Speaking of George Lucas…another obvious inspiration in the latter third of the novel was the Indiana Jones franchise, and those action scenes were the best kind of fun amidst an otherwise deeply grounded and emotional novel. Never at any point do the emotion and serious themes contradict the aforementioned action, nor the other way around—all of it is earned, and all of it feels like a worthy tribute both Star Wars and other such space opera works.

Speaking of said serious and emotional themes…as I said earlier, The Stardust Grail has such grace in the way that it handles the myriad of themes that it explores. From Maya’s lasting effects of an alien illness that linger into her life to her experience as an outsider, being raised on a colony isolated from Earth, every topic is treated with the weight it deserves. Imperialism and the ownership of art is the primary theme of the novel, and it’s unabashedly anti-colonial, which I adored. However, it didn’t just say “colonialism bad” and leave it at that—just as in the real world, nothing in The Stardust Grail is without nuance. With dozens of alien species and factions amongst said species, everything is gray, even in the case of their main mission. Would it have been fine if all there was to The Stardust Grail is “colonialism bad?” Sure, I agree. But the fact that Kitasei chose to explore all of the layers to the various conflicts and perspectives made it so much more worthwhile.

All in all, a deeply emotional and heartwarming tale of resistance, friendship across cultural barriers, and retaining joy in spite of it all. 5 stars!

The Stardust Grail is a standalone, but Yume Kitasei is also the author of The Deep Sky.

Today’s song:

That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!