Tag: Disability

Posted in Book Review Tuesday

Book Review Tuesday (6/17/24) – Floating Hotel

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

Old news: I’m desperate for good cozy sci-fi, and most of that desperation comes from the fact that nobody does it like Becky Chambers, but publishers will slap “perfect for Becky Chambers fans!” on literally any sci-fi book with a hint of several people crammed on a ship. It has to stop. Floating Hotel looked like it might actually live up to those expectations, but I was hesitant because I didn’t enjoy Grace Curtis’ debut, Frontier. But I’m glad I gave Floating Hotel a chance, because it was just what I needed!

Enjoy this week’s review!

Floating Hotel – Grace Curtis

The Grand Abeona Hotel knows no borders, no political affiliations, and no galaxy or planet to call home. But for many, the Grand Abeona is their home away from home—a safe haven where nobody cares who you are and why you’re here. Run by Carl, the aging manager who first came to the hotel as a stowaway, the Grand Abeona is home to a vibrant cast of characters, all of whom will have paths that will unexpectedly intersect. And as small mysteries begin piling up in the far corners of the Grand Abeona, Carl and the hotel’s misfit staff must pull the pieces together before the hotel itself is put in harm’s way.

TW/CW: death, torture (both offscreen), verbal abuse

In retrospect, there’s really no better book that I could have read on my Kindle, which has the Grand Budapest Hotel on the case. Some things were just meant to be.

I doubt anyone will ever top Becky Chambers in terms of cozy sci-fi, but Grace Curtis comes close—and that’s exactly why I’m so glad that I gave her another chance. Though it’s not without its mystery and relatively high-stakes subplots, Floating Hotel is a cup of tea for the soul: quiet, observant, and downright warm and charming.

My main issue with Frontier was that it promised action, but delivered next to nothing; it’s not that I don’t like books without action, but when your book’s tagline is “love, loss, and laser guns,” you kind of…have to deliver there, no? After reading Floating Hotel, it’s clear that quieter, cozy sci-fi is what Curtis was meant to write; aside from the rebellion subplot, which was relatively under-the-radar and wasn’t a major issue until the last 20% of the novel, this novel had comfortably low stakes. Although there was a fair amount of turmoil in the empire established in the world of Floating Hotel, you really do feel like the Grand Abeona is a safe haven from all of the ills of the galaxy. There, nobody cares who you are, so long as you have a story to tell.

Another issue with Frontier was that, with all of the characters and subplots it juggled, a lot of the plot points blended together, giving the reader little time to connect with anybody. If my leap from Frontier’s 2-star rating to my 4-star rating of Floating Hotel wasn’t indication enough, Curtis has significantly improved on that aspect of her writing in the space between the two novels! This novel similarly juggles a multitude of characters—many of whom only get one chapter in the vast sea of POVs—but all of them have a unique place in the story. None of the backstories or motivations felt forced, and all of them connected back to how the Grand Abeona has healed them as people; through all of their eyes, whether it’s a waitress, a piano player, or a professor visiting for a conference, you can see just how important of the Grand Abeona is as a safe haven. Floating Hotel is one of the few books with more than 10 (I think?) POVs that has truly worked for me, and it’s a combination of really being able to connect each one to the hotel and its story, and it incorporates other characters organically before we even get their POVs—the interconnectedness was so smooth that I didn’t mind the massive amount of voices displayed.

Curtis clearly understands the cozy part of cozy sci-fi that so many people who market books as “cozy” never seem to get—the near absence of stakes. For the majority of the novel, it’s a very down-to-earth, slice-of-life kind of plot where all of the mysteries are more humorous than troubling; I mean, one of the main subplots of the first half of the novel is trying to find the culprit of an anonymous admirer leaving love letters in the lobby index. And I ate it up. It’s just so gentle!! Is the fate of the galaxy at stake? Absolutely not! The hotel staff is just getting together once a week to watch terrible movies for nostalgia’s sake!! Peak cozy sci-fi right here, folks!! There are queer and disabled characters abound (WOOHOO!!), but neither homophobia nor ableism are plot points at all! They’re just going about their lives!! This is the stuff!!

What both Curtis and Becky Chambers get right about cozy sci-fi as well is that cozy doesn’t necessarily equal apolitical. In the background, there’s plenty of discussions of imperialism with the tyrannical empire crawling with shady cloning and nepotism (take a guess at how those two things tie together…). Curtis isn’t afraid to take stabs at capitalism, environmental destruction, xenophobia (I love the subplot about the empire banning media about aliens because it would compromise the perceived superiority of the human race), and so much more over the course of the novel, and it elevates it exponentially. It emphasizes another truth (for me, at least) about cozy sci-fi, and being a gentle person in general—cozy or quiet does not equal docile or unwilling to speak out about injustice. To quote IDLES, another bastion of kindness: “Ain’t no doormats here/It doesn’t mean you have to bow, or say “Your Highness”/Just kill ’em with kindness.”

All in all, a gentle and masterful piece of cozy sci-fi, and a marked improvement from Grace Curtis’ debut. Consider my faith in her writing restored! 4 stars!

Floating Hotel is a standalone, but Grace Curtis is also the author of Frontier.

Today’s song:

am I ashamed of listening to this on repeat while writing the third book in my sci-fi trilogy? absolutely not.

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 (6/11/24) – Junker Seven

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles! I’m back from vacation, and I’m feeling rested—and ready to review one of the books I read on my trip.

Junker Seven hung around on my TBR for about a year, and I ended up buying it on Kindle for my trip; as I’ve said ad nauseam, queer sci-fi is the stuff of life for me, so I’ll always lap it up when given the chance. Although I wish the worldbuilding (and the politics) were more creative, it was a solid tale of of love and the joy in reminding yourself that your existence is an act of resistance.

Enjoy this week’s review!

Junker Seven (Twin Suns duology, #1) – Olive J. Kelley

Castor Quasar makes a solitary but dangerous living as a junker, ferrying scrap—and fugitives—across the galaxy. They prefer to stay out of the business of others, whether that’s the widespread political unrest throughout the galaxy or simply making friends. But when Castor is offered a job with an exorbitant amount of money, they can’t help but be suspicious, even though the offer would mean valuable repairs for their ship—and an easier living. Their cargo is Juno Marcus, a trans activist with a target on her back and an urgent need to escape before the Intergalactic Peace Force finds her. Castor reluctantly agrees, but they soon find themself in over their head—and head over heels in love…

TW/CW: murder, loss of loved ones, transphobia, deadnaming, misgendering, ableism, police brutality

Junker Seven was by no means without its flaws, but if you’re looking for a love letter to trans love and identity, a slow-burn romance, and resistance in space, then you’ve come to the right place! Not my favorite, but this was a good book to start off pride month—unabashedly queer and political.

Structurally, there were a lot of odd worldbuilding choices (I’ll get to that later), but despite that, the world of Junker Seven felt wonderfully lived-in. The quiet moments where Castor was alone on their ship were what convinced me of this world being tangible; not everything is sleek, clean, and untouched. You never get the sense that the ship is cramped just because it was made so, but because of all of the choices that led Castor to the place they are today. It’s not just a plot device vehicle—it’s got special nooks and crannies that have been shifted over the years, and there’s a goldfish that’s been there through it all, Castor’s only constant companion. Details like this, as well as some of the pockets of resistance that Castor and Juno find throughout their journey, added a real human element to the story. Even with only two characters for most of the novel, Kelley did an excellent job of making the galaxy seem like a tangible place where humans have settled—and brought their unique ways into a new, far-future world.

If you’re looking for representation, especially trans representation, then you’re in the right place—Junker Seven has diversity in spades! Both the main character and the love interest are trans, as well as several side characters, and Castor is also disabled—they have burn scars, a prosthetic leg, and autism! The key part of said representation is that it never felt like a checklist; if the acknowledgements are any indication, Kelley’s goal was to create a resonant story of trans joy, love, and resistance, and though I’m not trans (disabled and queer, though), that love shone through; Junker Seven felt like a love letter to trans resistance all the way through, from Castor and Juno’s slowburn romance to Castor’s gradual radicalization. I love how the disability representation was handled as well! All of the details about Castor’s autism affects their job felt authentic as a neurodivergent person; no stone was left unturned, whether it was how wearing their prosthetic affected their sensory issues to how it affected their relationships. It’s clear from every page that the diversity in this novel wasn’t borne out of a need to tick off every possible marginalization—it was borne of a need to put authentic queer, trans, and disabled stories out into the world.

That being said, the worldbuilding of Junker Seven gets stranger the more I think about it. There are enough pockets that could convince you that, yes, this could be hard sci-fi that had some thought put into it, but the actual worldbuilding ends at the descriptions of the climates of the planets that Castor and Juno are hopping to and from. Other than that, the politics are the main focus, but given how political this book is, I was surprised at how unoriginal it was in terms of the evolution of politics and queer resistance. Junker Seven is set several hundred years from now, and yet the politics are all but copied and pasted from the U.S. politics of today—no changes whatsoever, save for being stricter when it comes to the treatment of trans people in particular. Yes, history does tend to repeat itself in terms of treatment of the marginalized, but it’s never in the exact same way twice; technology changes, rhetoric changes, leadership changes. None of that is reflected in Junker Seven; honestly, it was familiar to such a degree that it would have worked more if it were set in a less futuristic dystopia set on Earth. This story is set so far in the future that minimal changes in language and policy just makes no sense. It would have been so much more potent—and creative, frankly—to see how the adapted technology of the future actually factored into how trans people in this universe were being oppressed. There were a few throwaway mentions of more advanced technology that was being used to surveil trans people, but that was about the extent that anything changed. It all boiled down to unused potential—there were so many opportunities to explore how (possible) aspects like advancing technology, increased policing, and advancements in genetic modification could affect the status of trans people throughout the galaxy. And yet, Kelley chose to change almost nothing about our current political climate and paste it into space—to the detriment of my suspension of disbelief. Oppression of marginalized groups remains the same in its goals, but not necessarily in its methods—those change with the times.

What also suspended my disbelief was how little we knew about Marwood save for that he was horrible. Save for being a Trump stand-in, we knew almost nothing about him, save for that a) he’s evil (Trump), b) there’s a widespread news network that’s basically his mouthpiece that he uses to demonize trans people (Fox News), and c) did I mention? He’s evil. I will give Kelley some credit for at least establishing the Zephyr News aspect and the fact that his nepotistic predecessor both ended presidential term limits and instated Marwood in a corrupt, illegitimate election so that his fascist, ultra-conservative values would live on. That, at least, felt like a reasonable enough start for a villainous character, but that was it. The key word here is start. I wouldn’t say it completely falls into the dystopian trope of “we’re not going to say anything about the government, but you have to understand. They’re BAD, guys. BAD,” but it comes rather close. This circles back to my overarching issue of unoriginal worldbuilding, but I wanted to know what separated Marwood from any other run-of-the-mill fascist—did he come from a celebrity background and had no real political experience, like Reagan or Trump, or was he a more cold and calculating type with political prowess who knows exactly how to undo any kind of progress and twist the laws in order to abuse his power? A successful, frightening villain needs to be more than an evil cardboard standup that lurks in the shadows, and we never got more than fragments to show that Marwood was more than a stand-in fascist to move the plot along. (Also, did the entire galaxy, after blending into an almost universal accent after several hundred years, universally adopt a vaguely American two-party system and government? It’s…yeah, I have trouble believing that too.)

Although the disability representation is excellent, as I said before, I did find it odd that it wasn’t a part of Castor’s radicalization; being disabled in the 21st century is already a cyberpunk dystopia as it is, so I’m surprised that there wasn’t much discussion of not just Castor’s experience with being disabled, but how it affected their work or their perception of politics. Save for a throwaway line about an autistic person being driven to a life of crime because of how poorly said autism was treated and handled, there wasn’t much rumination on it other than that. I get that the main focus of Junker Seven was trans resistance specifically, I do wish we at least got more of it than what we got. Come to think of it…as diverse as Junker Seven was, there wasn’t a whole lot of intersectionality in terms of politics. I think there was…maybe one line about race and police brutality, and that was about it? I wouldn’t say that this is inherently a flaw of the book itself, but, once again, given how unabashedly political it was, I did find it odd that there wasn’t at least a small mention of the intersection of queer/trans issues with aspects like race, class, and disability.

All in all, a solid piece of queer sci-fi which suffered from unoriginal and nonsensical worldbuilding, but was nonetheless a shining ode to queer resistance. 3.5 stars!

Junker Seven is the first of the Twin Suns duology, followed by the forthcoming sequel Rebel Rising, which is slated for release in September. Kelley has also released D3F3CT: A Twin Suns Novella, set in the same universe as Junker Seven, as well as the novellas As the Light Goes Out and A Very Lighthouse Christmas. They have also contributed to Spectrum: An Autistic Horror Anthology and the forthcoming Dead Cowpokes Don’t Wrangle: A Weird West Anthology.

Today’s song:

why, why, WHY DID I PUT OFF LISTENING TO THIS ALBUM FOR SO LONG??

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 (5/21/24) – Squire

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

Squire has faintly been on my radar on-and-off for the two years that it’s been out. I figured it would be something fun, but I didn’t expect such a hard-hitting, timely, and wholly beautiful graphic novel full of vibrant characters and sharp social commentary.

Enjoy this week’s review!

Squire – Sara Alfageeh and Nadia Shammas

Aiza wants nothing more than to be a Squire—she’ll be able to become a knight revered in legends and lore and send money home to her family, who are barely scraping by. And as a member of the Ornu ethnic group, she’s considered a second-class citizen by the empire of Bayt-Sajji, and becoming a Squire and joining the Knighthood is the only way to become a citizen. At first, she’s elated to join the ranks of the recruits, but after failing her first test, she’s relegated to the night watch. But she’s soon discovered by Doruk, the groundskeeper, whose past may lead her to discoveries about the Knighthood that may change everything. Soon, Aiza realizes that she’s become a part of the same machine that’s destroying her people, and must make a decision—loyalty to her heritage, or loyalty to the empire.

art by Sara Alfageeh

TW/CW: war themes, racism, violence, colonialism/imperialism themes, amputation (forced)

Whew. This hit me so much harder than I anticipated. But I am all the better for it—I’m so, so glad that this graphic novel exists, especially since it’s aimed at a younger YA audience.

Squire has some of the sharpest critique of imperialism in YA that I’ve seen since Maggie Tokuda-Hall’s The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea duology. It’s all the more poignant since the main character is so young—we never get an estimate, but it seems Aiza is on the younger side of the 12-17 age range for Squires. It’s an intimate portrait of watching everything you know about patriotism, faith, and empire be deconstructed in front of your eyes, and how that radicalizes a person—especially a young person—into enacting positive change. It holds no punches, and that’s exactly what it’s meant to do: imperialism is not something to be sugarcoated, even for younger reasons, and Squire does all of this and more.

Seeing all of this through Aiza’s eyes was what made Squire so unique. Her journey throughout the novel is as complicated as they get; at a young age, she has to grapple with the fact that the only way to gain recognition and help her family survive is to betray her own people. It’s a decision that she feels is straightforward at first, but having been fed on heroic, medieval-style propaganda, she feels in her heart that she’s right. It’s only when she fails to meet the standards of the empire that she sees the error in her ways, and her crisis begins: how can she hold an empire that she’s been groomed to love and an identity that has shaped her life in equal regard? Not such a simple decision, especially when you’re 13 or 14—and when you realize that this empire has been carrying out raids on the very same people that you once called family and friends, who the empire likens to mongrels and scum. Alfageeh and Shammas executed her journey, in all of its emotional messiness, with such care and beauty; you really feel for Aiza as she watches the reality that the empire constructed for her crumble, and her eventual mission to pursue justice was a truly resonant call to action for our times.

For the first 30% of Squire, I didn’t think that I would end up rating it 5 stars. I loved Alfageeh’s art, toeing the line of stylized and realism with ease, with each character displaying a unique emotional range. For the first third of Squire, it’s mostly seeing Aiza go through her training—a lot of running around in the countryside and playing at being a Knight. But the minute the tone shifts, it shifts dramatically—and for good reason: this is when Aiza’s image of the empire is turned to dust. Never once did the tone shift feel unrealistic; not only did it represent the drastic fall of Aiza’s faith in herself (and the Knighthood) after failing her first round of tests, but it felt true to her age and situation. If I’d been in the same situation at that age, I would have lashed out just like she did, that classic mix of sadness, anger, and deep-seated frustration at trying so hard, only to miss your goal by a hair.

Squire’s cast of characters were equally vibrant, and beautifully rendered by both Alfageeh and Shammas. Shammas’ writing made them feel like real teenagers grappling with circumstances out of their control. Like Aiza, each of them went through a complicated journey before joining Aiza and her cause; some had reason to believe that empire was beneficial to them, others never wavered in their faith until the end. Above all, they felt like confused kids—and that’s what they were. But the relationship that stood out most to me was that of the mentor relationship between Aiza and Doruk. After some hesitation, Doruk begins to see himself in Aiza—a child abandoned by the empire and forced to see the might that she once viewed as heroic being turned against her own people. I’m always a sucker for stories with ambitious, energetic kids being guided by disgruntled, older mentors, but in this case, it was a relationship that was crucial to Aiza’s development. Here was someone who had been ground through the same machine as she was and come out the other side knowing the truth; Doruk knew he had the power to change things, and mentoring Aiza in secret was his way of rebelling: teaching. God. God. Somebody hold me.

Squire’s climax was one of the book’s strengths, not just in its execution but in its symbolism, if the latter was in your face. (I’d argue that it’s supposed to be in your face—explosively annihilating a symbol of imperialism doesn’t really scream “quiet” to me.) The unity of Aiza and her band of misfits shone through after page after page of delicate development, and the conclusion, as dramatic as it was, really was the only way the book could end: in flames. What a beautiful note to end on—the physical representation of imperialism and blind patriotism, both as a character and a location, going up in flames as a result of the justice and drive of ordinary people. Yes. YES! I’ve seen some reviews that it’s a very straightforward way of going about imperialism as a whole, but I think what Squire has the power to do is be an introduction to the horrors of imperialism for younger readers just getting into the genre. Especially in these horrific times, Squire gives older MG and younger YA readers a picture of imperialism digestible enough to apply to both history and the present (especially the present). And I can’t think of any other novel fitting of the job: it’s a heavy load to carry for so many young readers, but I am so, so glad that Squire exists.

All in all, a timely and deeply emotional portrait of imperialism and war that is sure to touch the hearts of readers young and old. 5 stars!

And by the way, if it wasn’t already clear: Free Palestine.

Squire is a standalone; Nadia Shammas is also the author of Ms. Marvel: Stretched Thin, Confetti Realms, Where Black Stars Rise, and several other comics. Sara Alfageeh is also the illustrator of Not Yet: The Story of an Unstoppable Skater, and has contributed to Once Upon an Eid, Bingo Love, vol. 1: Jackpot Edition, and many other comics.

Today’s song:

I LOVE MY MOM!! (in the sense that I love my mom, and also this album, I Love My Mom.)

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 (1/23/24) – Echo North

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles! Here we are on the first satisfying day of the year (to me, at least)—January 23rd, 2024. 1 + 23 = 24. It’s the little things.

After I thoroughly enjoyed Into the Heartless Wood, I went looking for every other Joanna Ruth Meyer book that I could get my hands on. I’m still more sci-fi than fantasy at heart, but god, I’m a sucker for a good fairytale, and Echo North scratched that itch in the most heartstring-tugging way possible.

Enjoy this week’s review!

Echo North – Joanna Ruth Meyer

When she was seven years old, Echo Alkaev was attacked by a white wolf caught in a trap, leaving her face permanently scarred. For years, she lived under the protection of her father’s love, despite the taunting and abuse she suffered at the hands of her peers because of her appearance. But one winter night, her father leaves for the city and doesn’t return. Echo sets off into the woods to find him once more, only to come face to face with the same white wolf who attacked her all those years ago. Desperate to find her father, she agrees to a deal with the creature: if she lives with him for one year, he will bring her father back. But the wolf’s home is a strange realm full of rooms to be sewn together like fabric, and Echo is unsure if she’s in over her head…

TW/CW: blood/gore, animal attack, animal death, ableism, emotional abuse, murder

I am nothing if not a sucker for a high-quality modern fairytale. Joanna Ruth Meyer captured my heart the minute I finished Into the Heartless Wood, and I’m overjoyed to say that Echo North is just as masterful of a modern fairytale, clever and emotional in equal measure.

January was really the perfect time to read this novel—everything about Echo North was so deeply wintry in a truly delicious way. Fitting that it was in the negatives and snowy when I was reading this last week. All this is to say is that Meyer’s prose was truly atmospheric—for me, one of the markers of a good fairytale is being immersed in whatever strange and sinister world that the author has penned. Echo North juggles various settings, and all of them are rendered in exquisite detail. All of the descriptions, from the humble village that Echo calls home the Wolf Queen’s frozen kingdom, are so full of life that I could practically smell the crispness of the snow and feel the prickling touch of snowflakes on my cheeks. It’s already a hefty task to write just a single, central setting so vividly, but Meyer’s prose made every single place brim with life.

Speaking of settings…the wolf’s library was one of my favorite settings that I’ve read in…oh, years, I think? Aside from being an incredibly inventive twist on the typical Beaty and the Beast retellings, it’s so richly detailed and full of twists—I never grew tired of spending time in it. The mirror-books were delightful, and I loved how they became tangible pocket dimensions of sorts in Meyer’s hands; after all, books tend to have that quality, and I loved how this book basically made it more physical to be able to visit the place and characters within the books. Additionally, the rooms of the library slowly unwinding and having to actually sew them back up with a giant spool of magical thread so that they don’t fall apart was just fascinating—and it lent itself to some pretty tense stakes early on in the novel. Truly unique stuff.

I also love how disability was handled in Echo North! Echo has facial scars (as a result of a wolf attack in her childhood…that ends up circling back to a prominent part of the novel), and her journey of self-acceptance was truly heartwarming. It’s not the first novel to have a journey of self-acceptance like this, nor will it be the last; the notable difference was where the pity came in. Meyer specifically wrote it so that we pitied Echo not because of her scars, but because of how her family and peers treat her because of the scars. She grows to hate her scars in her early childhood, but the more independent she gets, the more accepting she is of herself—and uncaring of the opinions of others, and having to encounter so many different figures over the course of the novel only amplifies her sense of self-empowerment. I was hinging on this novel having a romantic subplot (which was excellent, by the way), but I loved that Echo’s scars neutrally factored into it—they were simply a part of her, and Hal loved all of her, as she loved all of him.

And…oh god. The old magic. The old magic got me. I don’t care how many people call stories about the power of love corny, but Echo North did it gorgeously. There are so many different kinds of love, both positive and negative, familial and romantic, that this novel explores, but it’s true: unconditional love has the power to move mountains. And love did tear down mountains—it’s the kind of love that makes no excuses and has room for everyone so long as they return it. This, in concert with the themes about Echo’s scars, made it all the more poignant—the ones who matter most are the ones who love all the parts of you. Having that as the crux of the climax got me a little emotional, I’ll admit. Love. LOVE. Love is the old magic!!! Love is the fing!!! :,)

All in all, a deeply emotional and lusciously written fairytale full of blizzards, wolves, and love in unexpected places. 4.5 stars!

Echo North is the first novel in the Echo North duology, followed by the companion novel Wind Daughter. Joanna Ruth Meyer is also the author of the Beneath the Haunting Sea series (Beneath the Haunting Sea and Beneath the Shadowed Earth) and Into the Heartless Wood.

Today’s song:

schooling myself before I see Robyn Hitchcock on Friday night!!

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 (1/16/24) – Godkiller

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

Godkiller has been out for almost a year now, and it’s been on my radar since last December. Fantasy is second to sci-fi for me, especially where high fantasy like this is concerned, but the compelling characters and the lush, queer-normative world drew me in. Sure would be a shame if the second book wasn’t out yet…oh.

Enjoy this week’s review!

Godkiller (Fallen Gods, #1) – Hannah Kaner

In the kingdom of Middren, the worship or belief in gods of any kind is strictly forbidden. The gods of Middren grow bigger and stronger with every human that believes in them, but after a devastating war between the gods and humankind, Middren has deemed them too dangerous to continue living. In the aftermath, the last gods are hunted down by Godkillers. Kissen is a Godkiller; after her family was slaughtered by a fire god, she has taken up the mantle to ensure that what happened to her family never happens to anyone again. But when she stumbles upon Inara, a noble-born child with a minor god bonded to her, she knows that the only way to break the bond without killing her is to go to Blenraden, the last stronghold of the wild gods. The road ahead will be filled with unexpected allies and strange turns, but Kissen and Inara are weary. For a war is brewing once more, and they may be caught in the middle…

TW/CW: loss of loved ones (on- and off-page), fire, blood, violence, animal death, child death, sacrifice (human/animal), war themes, PTSD

It’s incredibly rare that I enjoy any kind of high fantasy these days, especially with the vaguely European setting and medieval technology level. But Hannah Kaner has managed to elevate all of those elements and create something truly special—a queer-normative high fantasy with no trouble being itself in a sea of carbon copies. I thoroughly enjoyed this one!

I’m all for a good trope subversion, and this presents an especially delicious one that even I’m aspiring to add into my own writing. I’ve seen a ton of posts/general discourse about how a lot of creators have shied away from making female characters that match common archetypes, but since many of the archetype’s traits are seen as more masculine, it’s almost entirely male characters that end up making up the demographic. In this case, you have the hardened warrior-type who reluctantly ends up taking a child under their wing who eventually melts their cold heart. It’s a trope I’ve always loved, but I’ve rarely seen it done with female characters. Along comes Kissen, and I’m reminded of how excellent the trope can be when it’s done exceptionally well. She has the classic personality of the archetype, but done in a way that makes her character feel fleshed out—she isn’t just hardened for the heck of it, and you get to see exactly how and why she became that way. Her interactions with Inara, from the initial reluctance (which, again, is developed more than “I don’t need a child around”) to her motherly role towards the end, felt tenderly genuine, and watching their relationship develop was one of the highlights of the book.

You know me. I’m all for queer-normative and disability-friendly sci-fi and fantasy worlds, but Godkiller feels so special precisely because of how high fantasy has historically treated both of those things. For disabled characters in particular, it’s practically an expectation that they have to be bitter and constantly in a state of suffering because being in a medieval setting where their disability is minimally understood automatically makes them a weakling. But Godkiller flips that entirely on its head—not only is the main character disabled (facial scars and a prosthetic leg), but it isn’t a main part of the plot; never do we see Kissen suffering for the plot because she’s disabled, and her disability is seen as something neutral, and something to be cared for accordingly. (There is some discussion about the discrimination that Kissen faces because of her scars, but it’s more on the front of being marked by a curse and not necessarily the scars themselves.) One of the side characters is also Deaf, and not only was she one of my favorite side characters, her scenes were explicitly shown so that the reader could see how happy she was with her wife! The fictional sign language was also treated in a similarly neutral/positive way—there’s even a bit of worldbuilding where Kaner explains that sign language isn’t just used by Deaf or mute people in Middren, but it’s used by pirates on the high seas to communicate when the roar of the ocean drowns out speech. 10/10 worldbuilding. 10/10 disabled representation, and 10/10 disabled people in happy relationships.

The god-killing premise was also one of the main draws for me about Godkiller, hence the name. It could have been easy for a book like this to ride on the premise being interesting and then proceed to do hardly anything out of the ordinary to it, but Kaner’s worldbuilding surrounding the gods of Middren was excellent! Every kind of god is explained, and I loved the wide variety of gods that we saw throughout the novel, from the more formidable ones that caused the war to minor gods like Skediceth, who were just little creatures with surprisingly formidable powers. I also loved the concept of gods tangibly feeding off of belief—the more shrines there are, the more powerful a god continues to be. Not only did this flesh out the worldbuilding, but it made a lot of elements that would have otherwise been forgettable contribute to the overall stakes of the novel.

My only major complaint about Godkiller was the ending. The pacing was solid for most of the novel, but the ending felt so much more rushed compared to the rest of it. The stakes got milder for a significant stretch, but it only felt like they were amped up in the last 5-10 pages just so that Kaner could tie in a thread to the sequel and remind the reader that Godkiller wasn’t a standalone. It was one of those endings that had me turning back to the last page and then back to the acknowledgements and wondering “wait, that it was it? that was the ending?” For how cleverly most of the novel was constructed, it just felt so sudden and sloppy compared to the rest of it.

All in all, one of the better high fantasy novels I’ve read in a while, with lovable characters, a refreshingly disability-friendly world, and neat, fascinating worldbuilding. 4 stars!

Godkiller is the first novel in the Fallen Gods series, followed by Sunbringer, which is slated for release this March. Godkiller is Hannah Kaner’s debut novel.

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!

Posted in Book Review Tuesday

Book Review Tuesday (12/26/23) – The Siren, the Song, and the Spy (The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea, #2)

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles! Also, a belated Merry Christmas and a Happy Kwanzaa to those celebrating!

To my parents: I tried so hard not to finish this in one day. I tried. But it was just too good. Just like how I devoured The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea around two and a half years ago, its sequel, The Siren, the Song, and the Spy captured my heart, and added some intricate depth, timely commentary, and no shortage of emotion to Maggie Tokuda-Hall’s fantasy world. Also to my parents: thank you so much for the incredible Christmas present!

WARNING: this review may contain spoilers for The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea—tread lightly!

for my review of book 1, click here!

Enjoy this week’s review!

The Siren, the Song, and the Spy (The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea, #2) – Maggie Tokuda-Hall

After the Pirate Supreme and their crew wounded the Emperor’s fleet, they have gone into hiding, growing the Resistance that they hope will end the colonial rule that has trapped them for decades. In the ruins of the battle, Genevieve, a loyal daughter of the empire, has washed up on the Red Shore. Now in the company of strangers, she must decide where her loyalties truly lie—and decide for herself if the empire has lied to her all along. Back on the mainland, Alfie is a spy in the Imperial Palace, hoping to tear it down from the inside. But when everyone is hiding false intentions, who can he trust in his quest to see the Resistance win?

Meanwhile, the Sea readies for battle, looking for vengeance after years of the Emperor robbing her of her daughters…

TW/CW: colonialism, genocide, blood, murder, self-harm (ritual), racism, animal death (off-page), ableism

I would have been satisfied if The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea was a standalone—it had an ambiguous, hopeful ending, and it’s rare to see novels that willingly keep their worlds in one book after an ending styled like that. Usually, when authors go and make said ambiguous but satisfying endings not so ambiguous by expanding the story and the world, it feels hollow—the sequel doesn’t always live up to the original, and sometimes, it just feels like a cash grab. The Siren, the Song, and the Spy is none of these things. It does what every sequel (and duology-closer) should do—it makes the already beloved characters, world, and plot all the more intricate and vast, but has no trouble sticking the landing and wrapping things up.

I think The Siren has the most POVs I’ve ever seen in a single book; some POVs only appear once or twice, but even still, I can think of at least ten (maybe more, I didn’t go back and count) that this novel cycles through over the course of just 320 pages. Usually, any number of POVs over five or six is too much for any author to handle; some characters don’t get developed the way they should, and some of them don’t need the page time or the internal dialogue that other characters need to make the story move forward. Normally, uneven emphasis on certain characters is also a flaw of multiple-POV novels. However, what Tokuda-Hall succeeded in was knowing when characters needed attention and when they didn’t; some chapters are dedicated to side characters, but they’re few and far between, and often shorter than the main character chapters. And somehow, by a stroke of luck, all of them felt necessary to the narrative—and all of them were compelling. Even minor antagonists got their time in the spotlight, but Tokuda-Hall used those moments to her advantage—sometimes, these chapters were more to reveal secrets than to peer inside characters’ heads. It’s a skill that very few authors have, but The Siren proved that Maggie Tokuda-Hall is incredibly adept at the art of the multiple-POV novel.

With Evelyn and Florian mostly out of the picture, The Siren develops many of the side characters present in The Mermaid—many of whom got necessary backstories, and often, something of a redemption arc. I didn’t expect to start rooting for Alfie after everything that he did in The Mermaid, but Tokuda-Hall did an excellent job of making him come to realize the error in his ways, and at least partially put him on the path to improvement. I don’t fully believe that he can ever be fully forgiven, and Tokuda-Hall acknowledges that, but what she’s also very skilled at is created complicated characters—”morally gray,” as much as it’s become a buzzword in both book communities and publishing these days, really is the best word for it. The difference is that Tokuda-Hall actually seems to know what the term really means. Introducing a batch of new characters (and not taking the easy route and killing a bunch of them off) was also a tricky task to surmount for Siren, but both the new characters and locations elevated the novel a ton; Koa and Kaia worked incredibly off of each other as siblings with wildly different personalities, and they meshed easily with some of the already established characters like Genevieve. And as with Mermaid, Siren is full of diversity—most of the new characters are people of color (as are most of the characters in the novel), and we also have Kaia, who has one hand, and a character who uses neopronouns.

Speaking of Genevieve…

I was already excited to see what Genevieve would do next after how Mermaid left off, but that was mostly because of how cunning of a character she was. At first, it didn’t seem necessary to me for her to have a redemption arc—she could have been such a sneaky minor villain, and I would’ve enjoyed seeing that develop. But her character arc was so much more than redemption—it was one of the most well-written case studies in colonial brainwashing and subsequent decolonization that I’ve read in years. What with her POV jumping back and forth between the past and the present, you can see exactly the kind of manipulation that went into her being duped into believing in Lady Ayer and the Emperor, betraying her own identity in the process. Her change of heart wasn’t straightforward either—it was plenty messy, and it wasn’t until she actually witnessed a full-on genocide that she realized what the empire was actually doing all along, but the messiness in the middle was what made her arc so memorable. Decolonizing one’s identity is anything but straightforward, and Genevieve’s journey of restructuring her beliefs and identity was rocky—as it should have been. Genevieve alone should be proof of Maggie Tokuda-Hall’s incredible skill in crafting authentic, messy characters.

On the subject of colonization and decolonization, I also appreciate the realistic—and unrelentingly anti-colonial—approach that Tokuda-Hall took to bringing down the empire. The stakes built up over both books made them feel like a real threat, and not just a hollow “evil empire” that’s only evil because the author takes great pains to tell you so. (Basing this empire off of multiple real-life examples of colonialism probably helped, but my point still stands.) The initial takedown was was incredibly emotional, and appropriately incorporated the awesome forces of the Sea. But after that final battle, what stuck out to me the most was the epilogue; it was very brief and appropriately hopeful, but what it emphasized was so important to understanding the process of decolonization—it’s messy. Even several years after the fact, everything isn’t magically fixed—things take time to rebuild, and not everybody instantly changes their minds. In such a short amount of time, Tokuda-Hall managed to portray an essential reality of colonialism that most sci-fi and fantasy narratives miss: change isn’t instantaneous, and the limbo between changes in power is a long, messy process.

All in all, a worthy sequel that proves Maggie Tokuda-Hall’s many, incredible special talents as an author—juggling dozens of POVs with ease, writing flawed characters with complicated arcs, and giving both colonialism and decolonization with the nuance that’s often missing from fantasy and sci-fi portrayals of the subject. 4.5 stars!

The Siren, the Song, and the Spy is the sequel to The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea, and is the end of the duology. Maggie Tokuda-Hall is also the author of several picture books and graphic novels, including Also an Octopus, Love in the Library, Squad, and the forthcoming The Worst Ronin.

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!

Posted in Book Review Tuesday

Book Review Tuesday (11/28/23) – Hunger Makes the Wolf

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

Hunger Makes the Wolf came on my radar when I was looking for more books with disability rep (as always), but I ended up buying it on my Kindle after my dad notified me that I had some unused Kindle points (thank you for reminding me!)—it was free with the points added on, so how could I resist? And while Hunger Makes the Wolf wasn’t perfect, it’s a ton of gunslinging, space-fantasy fun.

Enjoy this week’s review!

Hunger Makes the Wolf (The Ghost Wolves, #1) – Alex Wells

Hob Ravani ekes out a living in the deserts of Tanegawa’s World, a planet owned by TransRifts—the corporation who controls the market on interstellar travel in the whole galaxy. For 10 years, Hob has gotten by with the help of the Ghost Wolves, a group of bandits roaming the desert and finding money where they can. But when Hob discovers the body of Nick, the man who recruited her to join the Wolves, abandoned in the desert, she knows that she has to act before TransRifts discovers their operation—and discovers the powers that she’s kept hidden from sight.

TW/CW: murder, descriptions of injuries, descriptions of corpses, violence, loss of loved ones, human experimentation

Writing accents phonetically is a slippery slope that I’m not going to get fully into in this review. In this case, though, Alex Wells had decent success with making everyone who was meant to sound like they had a Southern accent actually sound like they had a Southern accent, which worked—this novel was a space Western, after all. That being said, the unintended consequence was that Wells’ spelling of Hob’s accent was that I imagined her voice more like Holly Hunter in Raising Arizona than the badass, hardened gunslinger that she was made out to be. It sort of worked, though.

As far as sci-fi subgenres go, I’m not usually huge on space Westerns; I’ve rarely seen them done exceedingly well (even The Mandalorian got more than a little repetitive eventually), but the best are at least fun. And that was what Hunger Makes the Wolf was—incredibly fun. It had all of the trappings of a debut novel, but what Wells did get right on the first time was that pacing. Although the action sequences were what made Hunger such a blast to read in the best parts, Wells also knew how to balance them out with quiet, more emotional moments, and also moments to slip in worldbuilding without absolutely walloping you with it. Wells’ action was really the star of the show here; their fight scenes had just the right amount of tension, levity, and butt-kicking to make for more than one delightful scene.

Recently, I’ve read several sci-fi books that were marketed as “space fantasy,” and none of them have really fit the bill. And yet, Hunger Makes the Wolf wasn’t necessarily marketed as such, but it does what the other novels lacked. Even amidst the classic sci-fi backdrop of corporate greed, massive spaceships, and gruesome human experimentation, there’s the element of the characters’ strange hidden powers. Naming said powers “witchiness” was already a win in my book, the charm of it really fits the Western atmosphere that Wells was going for—it hits that sweet spot of not sounding overly jargon-y or formal, but not too hokey, either. Every time one of the characters mentioned it, I couldn’t help but smile—especially in Hob’s aforementioned Holly Hunter voice.

Hunger Makes the Wolf is an incredibly ambitious novel, and the ambition is accentuated when you remember that this is Alex Wells’ debut. In some ways, it worked; Wells managed to juggle a safe amount of the worldbuilding without leaving the reader without context, but also without dumping it excessively. However, what Wells did not juggle as well was the sheer amount of characters that we jump between. Hunger was clearly meant to have a found family theme to it, which I’m normally a sucker for, but Wells just had so many extraneous characters on their hands that none of the character relationships felt fleshed out. If we had gotten more scenes with Hob and the rest of the Wolves, for instance, I would have believed that they really were as thick as thieves. Adding onto this, the perspective switches may not have been necessary; Mags, although she plays a prominent role, doesn’t have a perspective or voice that added anything substantial to the narrative. It’s a classic debut author case: Alex Wells had some spot-on ideas, but they bit off far more than they could chew.

All in all, a rollicking space fantasy with action aplenty, but with characters that left me wanting more. 3.5 stars!

Hunger Makes the Wolf is the first book in the Ghost Wolves duology, followed by Blood Binds the Pack. Hunger was Alex Wells’ debut novel; they are also the author of the short story Angel of the Blockade.

Today’s song:

FARGO IS BACK I AM FOAMING AT THE MOUTH OH MY GOOOOOOOD

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 (10/10/23) – Always Human

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

Always Human came onto my radar around three years ago—probably from my fellow bloggers—but I’d forgotten about it until I came across it at my college’s library. I’m always a sucker for cozy sci-fi, and I never say no to a graphic novel, so of course I picked this book up. But while it was sweet and had some great commentary on disability, it didn’t quite scratch my sci-fi itch in all the right ways.

Enjoy this week’s review!

Always Human – Ari North

Sunati lives in a world of body modification. With simple, easy-to-use technology, she can change any part of her appearance that she wishes—even enhancing her memory so that she won’t have to study for tests. But not everybody has it as easy as Sunati. Austen has Egan’s syndrome, which means that her immune system rejects any kind of body modification. When the two meet by chance, it’s love at first sight. And although they are different in all kinds of ways, it won’t take long before they realize that they were made for each other.

Art by Ari North

TW/CW: nothing that I can find—Always Human is very gentle, and I’d be hard-pressed to find anything triggering about it. Enjoy!

Always Human is sweet. It was a soft, tender palate-cleanser, but I didn’t find myself getting very attached to any of it. It’s cute, and I’d say it’s worth a read, but it lacked the emotional weight to fully immerse myself in the characters or the world.

Let’s start out with the positives. It’s rare that fictional, sci-fi disabilities actually mirror the experience of disabled people, but Always Human did an excellent job of portraying Austen’s disability. Austen has Egan’s syndrome, a fictional autoimmune disorder where her body rejects any kind of body modification, which is central in the futuristic world where Always Human is set. Throughout Sunati and Austen’s developing romance, this novel makes the very important case that disabled people do not exist to inspire you, and that going through life as a disabled person isn’t some grand feat. It’s something that Sunati has to contend with when talking about Austen, and watching her learn made at least some of the romance work.

Additionally, I loved how vibrant the art style was! I’m not usually one for the quasi-manga style that North draws in, but every panel really did pop. The vibrant pinks and blues truly shone, which simultaneously sold the joyous glow of young love and the bright, technology-centric world that Sunati and Austen inhabit. Just like the story itself, there are no hard edges: everything is soft and cloudy, calling sunsets, cotton candy, and hope to mind. It suited the story exceptionally well—Ari North absolutely looked like she knew what she was doing.

However, there was one part of the art that didn’t sit as pleasantly with me. Although the colors consistently popped, the character movements…did not. Their poses looked so consistently stiff. And listen. I’m an artist. I get it. Drawing dynamic poses is so hard. Game recognizes game. But the characters’ movements looked so wooden, no matter what pose they were drawn in. These static poses failed to immerse me fully in the story—if they don’t look like they’re really moving, how can I believe that anything else is? I’m saying this to myself as well as Ari North: maybe a few more of those nice references on Pinterest would have livened up the art.

Always Human made the jump from WebToon to print after seemingly wild success on the former, but I’m not sure if the plot format survived the leap. The broken-up chapters would theoretically work if I were getting them, say, once a week, but all together, they didn’t feel quite as coherent. I’m all for cozy sci-fi and slice-of-life stories, but what makes the ones I like work is that there’s still some kind of end goal, however low-stakes it may be, that the characters are heading towards. Always Human felt rather meandering in that sense. It really felt like the plot was being made up as North went along, and the result was quite lukewarm. Even the romance, which the plot clearly hinged on, was set up and happened so quickly that the rest of the story didn’t hold much water. If the romance had been slowly developed over the course of the graphic novel, I would have felt much more engaged. Thus, I never really felt the emotion that North was trying so hard to get across—it all felt rushed and half-baked. Insta-love is never the answer, kids.

All in all, a light and fluffy sci-fi comic that boasted vibrant color and cogent points about disability, but felt rather stiff in both the art and the plot. 3 stars.

Always Human is the first volume in the Always Human series; the series concludes with Love and Gravity.

Today’s song:

adore this album, but also, I can’t listen to it too many times in a row, y’know?

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

Posted in Books

The Bookish Mutant’s Books for Latinx Heritage Month (2023 Edition)

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Friday, bibliophiles!

Here in the U.S., National Latinx Heritage Month lasts from September 15 – October 15! I’m always looking to diversify my reading, but this month is especially important to me since I’m half Latina myself, and I love exploring parts of my culture and others’ through literature. I sadly didn’t get around to making a recommendations post last year, since it landed when I was still trying to settle into college, but I really wanted to make on this year, so I planned ahead. And even though the header says YA (I’m stingy about my WordPress space), I wanted to include books of all age ranges in this year’s post. Enjoy!

For my past lists for Latinx Heritage Month, click here:

Let’s begin, shall we?

THE BOOKISH MUTANT’S BOOKS FOR LATINX HERITAGE MONTH (2023 EDITION)

REALISTIC FICTION/CONTEMPORARY

FANTASY/PARANORMAL

SCIENCE FICTION:

TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK! What are your favorite books by Latinx authors? Have you read any of these books, and what did you think of them? Let me know in the comments!

Today’s song:

merry Shakey Graves, everybody

That’s it for this post! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Book Review Tuesday

Book Review Tuesday (8/8/23) – Machinehood

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

After I read Meru back in June, I immediately went through the rest of S.B. Divya’s full-length books and put them on my TBR. Even though sci-fi is my favorite genre, I don’t readily jump for sci-fi thrillers quite as often, but after loving Meru, I was willing to give this one a chance. And while it wasn’t without its flaws, Machinehood was an incredibly detailed and twisty novel!

Enjoy this week’s review!

Machinehood – S.B. Divya

2095. In Welga Ramirez’s world, humans and machines work in an uneasy symbiosis. Artificial intelligence has become so advanced that humans must take all manner of pills, not only for them to keep from getting sick, but to be strong enough to compete with the machine labor force. Welga has intentions to retire from being a bodyguard. But after a client is killed in front of her and a hybrid human-machine terrorist group called the Machinehood is to blame, she must track down her killer—and the members of the Machinehood that have threatened to attack every major pill funder until production comes to a standstill.

TW/CW: violence, murder, racism, substance abuse, abortion/forced pregnancy, miscarriage

You ever finish a book that’s so detailed in its worldbuilding that not only can you imagine all of the described conventions and their ramifications, but the massive google doc that was probably behind it all? That’s how Machinehood felt to me—aside from the one other S.B. Divya book that I’ve read so far, Machinehood was one of the most thoughtfully-crafted books I’ve read in a long time.

At its best moments, Machinehood felt like a good Christopher Nolan movie. There was no shortage of suspense, and while it was difficult to keep up with at times, it was always an enjoyable read. I don’t gravitate towards sci-fi thrillers as much, even though sci-fi is my favorite genre, but this novel reminded me of what the really well-written ones are capable of doing; the suspense kept me guessing, the tension hardly ever let up, and there were twists aplenty to satisfy any sci-fi reader’s appetite. And of course, nothing makes a thriller like a main character about to retire, and then has to do that One Last Mission™️. When it’s not a part of a huge franchise, it works for me.

Machinehood is S.B. Divya’s first novel, and even then, it’s easy to see the threads from where they eventually branched off to Meru. The most prominent of those was, by a long shot, the worldbuilding. Like Meru, the dystopian, AI-dominated world of Machinehood is painstakingly detailed, down to the most minute consequence of any given sociopolitical ramification. I wouldn’t be surprised if Divya had some kind of Pepe Silvia-style conspiracy cork board to keep track of all the possibilities of this world that they created. There truly was no stone left unturned, and for the most part, it was a positive experience—between the moments of suspense, it was fascinating to see these possibilities unfold. From the myriad of pills that keep humans competing with the AI labor force to the ways that genetic and physical modification advanced, there was nothing that Divya didn’t think of, and that created one of the most fleshed-out sci-fi worlds that I’ve read recently.

Unfortunately, the downside of all of that excellent worldbuilding was its delivery. Having read Meru first, it’s easy to see how Divya improved on this delivery from Machinehood to there. Meru deftly toed the line between explaining its complex worldbuilding and dumping it all in one sitting. Machinehood, on the other hand, could have used some work in that department. As much as I enjoyed how richly layered the worldbuilding was, Divya had a frequent tendency to ramble on about said worldbuilding; even with all of the suspenseful plot points falling into place, this novel took frequent breaks to explain why [x] was a result of [y] and [z], which took away from the tension built up during the parts where the actual plot occurred. It’s a pitfall that I can almost excuse, given that a) Divya’s worldbuilding is obviously top-tier, and b) this was their debut novel, but it definitely took away from some of my enjoyment of the book as a whole. This novel probably would’ve gotten the full 4 stars from me if not for all of this.

All in all, a twisty and suspenseful debut with extensive worldbuilding that sometimes suffered from just as extensive rambling. 3.75 stars, rounded up to 4!

Machinehood is a standalone, and S.B. Divya’s first novel. Divya is also the author of the Alloy Era series (Meru, Loka, and an untitled third book) and Runtime, and has contributed to many short story collections.

Today’s song:

been listening to this song a bunch again, we’re levitating over here

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