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.
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!
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!
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…
I would have been satisfiedif 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!
Far be it from me to start the month off with a negative review, but that’s just how my December started off. Eh. Should be a lesson to me for trying to read something that’s been on my TBR for 3+ years—my tastes generally don’t change dramatically in that amount of time, but my standards for writing and plot certainly did. That’s all to say that The Witch King was a promising, inclusive fantasy that quickly proved itself to be not worth my time.
Wyatt Croft is a witch, and in the North American realm of the fae, witches are the enemy. Years ago, Wyatt’s magic got out of control, forcing him to flee back to the human world and go into exile. But his betrothal to Emyr, the prince of the fae, has not dissolved, and Emyr is back on the hunt for him. Forced back into the world of the fae, Wyatt must come to terms with his engagement—one that may hold the lives of all of North America’s witches in the balance. And his feelings for Emyr may be coming back, as much as he wants to hide them…
The Witch King has made me realize that I need to expand my criteria for DNFing books; most of my DNFs are 1-star books—the ones that are just so bad that I can’t finish them. In comparison to a lot of the other books on my DNF shelf, The Witch King wasn’t comparably as bad. But the difference is that at a certain point, it was just so clear to me that this book was not worth my time. I really wanted to like it, but once I got past the first third, there wasn’t any point in me finishing this book. A DNF is not always a 1-star read, but a 1-star read is not always a DNF. It’s like geometry but easier to explain.
I wanted to emphasize that I really wanted to like The Witch King. But in the 3+ years that this book has languished on my TBR, it’s clear that my standards have changed. The foreword by Edgmon was incredibly touching, and it’s so clear that this was the book of their soul—there’s no denying the love that went into this book. And it’s so, so important to support trans authors like him, but it’s just as important to remember that even when you read diversely, a book’s diversity doesn’t automatically fix every plot hole and writing issue. There’s some slack I’m willing to give Edgmon because this was his debut, but The Witch King really left a ton to be desired.
It’s clear that Edgmon put a lot of thought into constructing Wyatt’s character, but in his quest to make him as relatable as possible, Wyatt turned from simply “relatable” to an incompetent mess. Even as a queer person, there’s only so many “I am a gay little worm who makes terrible life decisions” (actual quote from the book) jokes I can take. Jesus Christ. The word “cringe” is outright abused these days, but I feel like this is a valid quality to ascribe to the writing of The Witch King, since most of the humor feels so overdone and unfunny. If your type of humor consists of Tumblr jokes from 2017, then boy, do I have the book for you. All of the attempts to make Wyatt seem more human and fallible made him just feel like a pathetic mess incapable of seeing past his personal faults and (many) mistakes. It absolutely grated on me after a certain point. The rest of the writing wasn’t all bad, but good god, Wyatt’s characterization made me want to jump ship almost immediately.
Since I abandoned ship after the first third, there’s probably some context that I inevitably missed, but the worldbuilding of the North American fae really left a ton to be desired. Apart from the rivalry between witches and fae, there really wasn’t much of an explanation as to how the fae worked in tandem with the human world: where do the borders between human and fae begin and end? How do the two interact? And more importantly, what are the different interactions between the different species of fae? There were a bunch of different creatures that were just thrown at you in the background with zero explanation, never to be seen again. There’s a difference between convoluted worldbuilding and worldbuilding that just isn’t properly thought-out, and this fell firmly into the latter camp. It was all just a hot mess. I’ve read several reviews saying similar things about the worldbuilding, so…I guess it never did get better beyond what I read? Oof.
That being said, I really appreciate the diversity that Edgmon wrote into The Witch King. Having a trans main character is so important, and as much as Wyatt got on my nerves, characters like him need to be in the spotlight. Edgmon presented a lot of character that were very diverse in terms of race, gender, and sexuality, and while it seems like the representation wasn’t all accurate and some of Edgmon’s depiction of social issues wasn’t handled as well as it could’ve been (glad I didn’t get to that part, I guess…), it’s always good to have a range of characters like that. It’s about all I have to say about The Witch King that’s positive, but it’s worth being highlighted.
All in all, a diverse fantasy debut that sadly crashed and burned in its characterization and lazy worldbuilding. 2 stars.
The Witch King is the first book in the Witch King duology, followed by The Fae Keeper. Edgmon is also the author of the Ouroboros series, which consists of Godly Heathens and Merciless Saviors.
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!
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.
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!
Here I am with a proper book review this week! I’m not exhausted now! However, I’ve still been in something of a reading slump for a fair portion of the month. Behold the consequences.
Knives Out in space? Yep. I am not immune to propaganda. I fell for that one. The gorgeous cover helped. Duped by a pretty cover again. I’m always on the hunt for YA sci-fi that really delivers, but even though Stars, Hide Your Fires was an entertaining read, it largely fell into the “ballrooms in space” trap that so much of the subgenre suffers from.
Cass knows her place. As a thief scraping out a living on a backwater moon, she knows that there’s no escape that the life that the Emperor and his family have made for people like her. But when she sees the chance to hitch a ride to the Palace Station, she knows she’s hit it big. Steal enough jewelry, and she’ll be able to escape the planet forever. But when the Emperor is mysteriously murdered and suspicion lands on her, Cass must find a way to escape the space station—and clear her name.
TW/CW: murder, blood, sci-fi violence
I really need to stop going after YA sci-fi books where most of the plot takes place in some kind of ballroom or palace. After a certain point, it just gets so bogged down in the flowy dresses, jewelry, and court intrigue modeled after…I don’t know, Ancient Rome, probably, that it barely feels like sci-fi anymore. It’s really a travesty. But even though Stars, Hide Your Fires was far from perfect, it didn’t fall into every single one of the pitfalls I just described. It at least had a few elements that almost set it apart. Almost.
I’ll give Best this—for the first quarter of the book or so, Stars, Hide Your Fires did actually feel like science fiction. Although we didn’t get into the full extent of the worldbuilding, I did like the setup of the class difference just from showing the differences between two planets. You really did get a sense for Cass’ situation, and the setting of the dead, backwater moon really emphasized not only that, but the stakes that Cass later had to follow up on. Best’s writing sold the dusty, gloomy setting that dominates the first quarter of the book, and in comparison to all of the glittery ballroom business that comes later, it was a well-written contrast.
I’d also have to hand it to Best for keeping Stars, Hide Your Fires so tightly paced! Even though I lacked much connection to the plot, I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge how neat it was—that part really felt sanded to a polish. All of the beats lined up straight into place, and with the exception of some dawdling in the middle, it at least held my attention for most of the novel. If anything, Stars, Hide Your Fires had some solid timing—Jessica Mary Best clearly had her line of dominoes ready to fall from the start, and the suspense was palpable.
That being said, other than the first and last quarters, I barely got the sense that this was science fiction. It’s one of those books where it could have just as easily been a historical drama or even fantasy if you took away the space setting. Sci-fi is my go-to, and usually, I’d like for a novel to present at least something partially new, whether it be a subversion of a typical setting, a unique kind of technology, or even some aliens to populate the universe. (ALIENS! ALIENS! ALIENS!) But other than being set in space, Stars had nothing to its name in that department. You could have just as easily made the palace a grounded palace on Earth, and hardly anything about the plot would have changed. Cass’ home moon could have been a different country, the spaceships could have been trains, the escape routes that she took could have been back alleys or indoor ventilation ducts. Even though it’s billed as sci-fi, Stars, Hide Your Fires doesn’t have anything to show for it other than being in space.
Additionally, I felt hardly any connection to the plot or characters. That was in no small part thanks to how unoriginal much of it was. You’ve got a generic setup of a tyrannical empire, but you don’t get much of a sense of what exactly is tyrannical about what they’re doing, other than being generally evil and a bit of monkey business with clones. To oppose them is an equally generic rebellion, and other than them being billed as heroic, you don’t really have much motivation to root for them since their goal is defeating said empire and not much else. Cass doesn’t have any ties to either, but other than her poorer background, there’s not much to her, either. My, a loner, rebellious pickpocket? Where have I seen that before? That’s the sad thing about this novel—if we’d had some original elements to any of the plot points, it could have been really fun. I’m all for a heist in space, but you’ve got to have the sci-fi chops to pull it off. And there’s some slack I’m willing to give Best since this is her debut novel, but it was still disappointing on that front.
All in all, an entertaining YA novel that could have elevated itself above simply “entertaining” if it had boasted any kind of original elements. 3 stars.
Stars, Hide Your Fires is a standalone; it is also Jessica Mary Best’s debut novel.
Today’s song:
thank you to whoever was in charge of the Wilco pre-show playlist on Sunday night for this
That’s it for this week’s Book REview Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
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.
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!
It might still be a week or so before I completely return to some semblance of my normal schedule, but I’m starting to get to the point where I know where I’m going and what I’m doing. And as much as I hate the constant home football games we’ve been having, at least it means that my already quiet floor is even quieter, so I can get my homework done in a serene environment—and write these reviews as well!
Since my birthday last month, I’ve taken all of the books I got—ones that I bought on my birthday and gifts from family—back to my dorm, where I slowly (yes, slowly, settling into college is weird) devoured them over the course of several weeks. I’m happy to say that it was a fantastic batch—not every one was the best book I’ve ever read, but it’s chiefly in the 4-star range. I got a 5-star book out of these as well! And now they sit proudly on my little dorm bookshelf, ready to be reviewed.
Verse, Chorus, Monster! is the memoir of iconic British musician and Blur co-founder Graham Coxon, charting a life of music, fame, addiction and art. Before the noise and clamour of the Britpop era, Coxon was a shy Army kid tempering his anxiety through painting and a growing love of music. As he honed his artistic skill at school, his band with school friend Damon Albarn, fellow student Alex James, and a drummer called Dave Rowntree began to get noticed. But there are things they don’t tell you before you get famous. There are monsters out there. And some may even be lurking inside yourself.
☆
TW/CW: substance abuse/addiction, themes of mental health issues
I’ve been trying to branch out into more nonfiction over the past few years, but even if I wasn’t, I would have picked this up eventually either way. My Blur awakening back in 2021 made sure of that. So of course I was excited to see that Graham Coxon was coming out with a memoir—he’s always struck me as such a sensitive, creative person, and Verse, Chorus, Monster! fortunately cemented that, for the most part!
I always have a lingering fear that celebrity memoirs will somehow ruin my image of them, but with this one, I still hold that Graham Coxon seems like such a deeply insightful and sensitive soul. This glimpse into his mind was all at once raw and touching; the frequent sections about his struggles with anxiety and alcoholism were difficult to read, but I’m so glad to have verbal confirmation that he’s been getting better as of late, and that he’s starting to work on himself in that respect. Beyond that, there’s just so much about this memoir that was immediately endearing. The insight into one of the main creative forces behind one of my favorite bands (and a fantastic solo artist in his own right) was fascinating to hear from the front lines, and I loved the pieces we got of his creative process—opening the book with the spark of inspiration that lead to the hook of my favorite song (“Tender”) was the quickest possible way to win me over. And it’s easy for memoirs to have a sense of humility that’s manufactured, but Coxon’s personality really did come off as genuinely humble.
All in all, an excellent memoir by a truly admirable creative force—and a refreshingly humble one. 4 stars!
In the ashes of a dying world, Red finds a letter marked “Burn before reading.”
So begins an unlikely correspondence between two rival agents in a war that stretches through the vast reaches of time and space.
Red belongs to the Agency, a post-singularity technotopia. Blue belongs to Garden, a single vast consciousness embedded in all organic matter. Their pasts are bloody and their futures mutually exclusive. They have nothing in common—save that they’re the best, and they’re alone.
Now what began as a battlefield boast grows into a dangerous game, one both Red and Blue are determined to win. Because winning’s that you do in war. Isn’t it?
A tour de force collaboration from two powerhouse writers that spans the whole of time and space.
☆
TW/CW: blood, violence, murder, self-harm, descriptions of bodies/corpses, torture, poisoning, war
Hoowhee, brother. This one was good.
Time War had floated on the edges of my radar for years ever since it came out, but I ultimately decided to pick it up on the recommendations of one of my professors and one of my best friends. And their high praise—and the high praise of so many others—was more than well-deserved.
For such a short novella, Time War packs a truly unforgettable gut punch, vibrant and rich with emotion. Who knew that these two characters identified only by colors would consume so much of my days when I read this? I can’t praise this book enough. The prose is beyond rich, truly enchanting and expansive, fitting for the cosmic scale that this story is set in. It has an almost gothic sensibility to it, even with the firmly sci-fi trappings—what’s more romantic, dramatic, and emotional than two lovers reaching for each other across the vastness of space and time itself? But even with this grand scale, This is How You Lose the Time War is one of the most deeply human stories that I’ve read in ages. It taps into that innate desire to love and be loved, or even to just have someone to talk to as the world around you is collapsing. In spite of the grand, cosmic conflict and multiple universes colliding, nothing can come in the way of our desire for love and connection. It’s one of those stories where plot details—names and how this time-spanning war started—mean nothing in the face of the deep resonance of the characters.
Hold me. I need a minute…
What else is there to say? Go read this, what are you even doing? 5 stars!
Ambassador Mahit Dzmare arrives in the center of the multi-system Teixcalaanli Empire only to discover that her predecessor, the previous ambassador from their small but fiercely independent mining Station, has died. But no one will admit that his death wasn’t an accident—or that Mahit might be next to die, during a time of political instability in the highest echelons of the imperial court.
Now, Mahit must discover who is behind the murder, rescue herself, and save her Station from Teixcalaan’s unceasing expansion—all while navigating an alien culture that is all too seductive, engaging in intrigues of her own, and hiding a deadly technological secret—one that might spell the end of her Station and her way of life—or rescue it from annihilation.
☆
TW/CW: themes of colonialism/imperialism, murder/attempted murder, violence
College isn’t all sunshine and rainbows, but man, it’s fun sometimes. I got an A on a literary theory assignment where I compared this book to an essay we read in class. I love being an English major.
If the fact that I used A Memory Called Empire for a literary theory assignment doesn’t make you think that there’s a ton of great stuff to chew on in this book, I’m not sure how else to convince you. It’s fantastic space opera, but it errs more on the side of a political thriller—a common enough combination these days, but one that was so well-executed in this case. Reckoning with the history of colonialism in science fiction has been on the rise—and for a very good reason—but A Memory Called Empire had such an interesting take on it. This is the first of these kinds of novels that I’ve seen tackle the seduction of colonialism; along with the actual murder mystery afoot, Mahit Dzmare is also being pulled—both physically and mentally—into the clutches of the reigning Teixcalaanli Empire, and is being groomed into the ruling culture as she tries to stay afloat and protect her space station from imminent colonization. The character work is nothing short of excellent, the worldbuilding is top-notch, and the suspense is palpable from start to finish. It’s all a treat.
This book has gotten quite a lot of hype over the years, but it really is all that—alluring, suspenseful, and nothing short of insightful. 4 stars!
Stel and Atan are interstellar investigators trying to find a lost space station and its crew. When they discover the mythical paradise planet Edena, their lives are changed forever. The long out-of-print Edena Cycle from Moebius gets a deluxe hardcover treatment! Moebius’s World of Edena story arc comprises five chapters–Upon a Star, Gardens of Edena, The Goddess, Stel, and Sra–which are all collected here.
☆
TW/CW: nudity, mild sci-fi action
I’ve been meaning to get into Mœbius for years now; ever since I reactivated my pinterest and went on a deep dive of sci-fi art, I’ve been drawn to the enigmatic, meticulous, and downright wondrous quality of his art. (I feel like it would’ve happened eventually—turns out that he was a major influence on Tony DiTerlizzi, and especially his inking style in the Search for WondLa trilogy, which has shaped me beyond repair.) I started here with Edena, and I put it on my birthday list.
I still hold that he may be one of my favorite artists. His style is so ethereally captivating, and I found many a piece that I’ve used for my desktop wallpaper in the past few years inside Edena. His landscapes are instantly transporting, and there’s not a single character design lacking in whimsical charm. The story itself…slightly less so? It’s like a sci-fi Yellow Submarine, but if the script was due in an hour and he’d forgotten all about it until then. Given the circumstances, it’s understandable; Edena apparently started out as a car ad (???), and then it took on a life of its own, completely unplanned. There’s inconsistencies aplenty with both the story and the art, but for the most part, it was just so wild that I enjoyed the ride. If it gives you some idea of what happens, Mœbius pulls the classic “IT WAS ALL A DREAM” move that ends up resolving (if you can call it that) the whole mess. It’s nuts. But there were so many pockets that I wished we could have explored more. There were some super interesting gender themes going on—I wish we got to know why Stel and Atan were on their gender-neutral hormone supplements, for a lack of a better word, but the resulting transformation into their Adam and Eve roles (hence the name) was so fascinating, especially since this only came out in the late eighties or so. (Of course, Atan/Atana effectively becomes a damsel in distress post-transformation, but that’s a whole other can of worms. Ouch.)
In short, The World of Edena was beautiful, if not a bit of a mess. Luckily, the mess was endearing, for the most part, or at least fun. 3.75 stars, rounded up to 4!
As a biracial, unenrolled tribal member and the product of a scandal, Daunis Fontaine has never quite fit in—both in her hometown and on the nearby Ojibwe reservation. When her family is struck by tragedy, Daunis puts her dreams on hold to care for her fragile mother. The only bright spot is meeting Jamie, the charming new recruit on her brother’s hockey team.
After Daunis witnesses a shocking murder that thrusts her into a criminal investigation, she agrees to go undercover. But the deceptions—and deaths—keep piling up and soon the threat strikes too close to home. How far will she go to protect her community if it means tearing apart the only world she’s ever known?
☆
TW/CW: racism, murder, sexual harassment and assault, misogyny, rape, death, gun violence, descriptions of injury, substance abuse
Originally, I put off reading this book because a) I’m not usually much of a YA mystery/thriller person, and b) the mountain of hype was certainly intimidating. I ended up reading Warrior Girl Unearthed because the plot fascinated me more from the start, and I loved it so much that I ended up buying Firekeeper’s Daughter after all. And, once again, I’ve been struck with the luck of hyped books being all worth the hype.
Every part of Firekeeper’s Daughter is excellent, from the effortless way that Angeline Boulley weaves a scene and setting together to the never-ending suspense that kept me guessing for page after page, twist after twist. Making a setting as tangible and populated as hers was is no easy feat—and it suited every other aspect of this book in every conceivable way. You can’t have a corrupt, hidden history of a town without the town itself. The sense of community—and the rifts driven into it—were some of the best I’ve seen in YA fiction in quite a while. Part of that wouldn’t have been possible without Boulley’s equally excellent character work; Just like their community, every character feels nothing short of authentic and multilayered. This all made the twists so much more effective—with such layered characters, I learned to expect the unexpected. And even with the ongoing expansion of diversity in YA as a whole, I feel like I haven’t seen as many novels centering Native American or Indigenous characters and stories, so I’m glad that this book exists in that sense as well. (Shoutout to Darcie Little Badger and Moniquill Blackgoose as well!) And Daunis is mixed-race as well! Yay!!!
If you’re questioning whether or not Firekeeper’s Daughter is worth the never-ending hype: trust me, it’s worth a read. 4 stars!
Change or die. These are the only options available on the planet Jeep. Centuries earlier, a deadly virus shattered the original colony, killing the men and forever altering the few surviving women. Now, generations after the colony has lost touch with the rest of humanity, a company arrives to exploit Jeep–and its forces find themselves fighting for their lives. Terrified of spreading the virus, the company abandons its employees, leaving them afraid and isolated from the natives. In the face of this crisis, anthropologist Marghe Taishan arrives to test a new vaccine. As she risks death to uncover the women’s biological secret, she finds that she, too, is changing–and realizes that not only has she found a home on Jeep, but that she alone carries the seeds of its destruction. . .
☆
TW/CW: death, violence, animal death, gore
I picked this one up after how much I loved So Lucky, also by Griffith. Thing is, I had no idea that a) this book was written almost 30 years before So Lucky (although this cover should’ve tipped me off to that), and b) that, even with the genre difference, that this would be a very different kind of book. At this point, nothing tops So Lucky for me, but Ammonite was still a fascinating book in its own right.
If you’re going into this book expecting what most would consider traditional science fiction, you’ll be sorely disappointed. Most of it follows Marghe, who is tasked with delivering a vaccine to an isolated colony of women whose community was decimated by a mysterious illness that wiped out all of the men. At its heart, Ammonite is firmly a survival story; it’s a story of the wilderness, of venturing into the unknown, and adapting to the world around you. There are moments of suspense, moments of tenderness, and moments of absolute fear. Another reviewer described it as “Dune but gay,” and other than the more traditionally sci-fi elements of the former, the comparison was spot-on. Ammonite also has the fact that it’s much slimmer than Dune going for it, but given how long Dune is, that’s not saying much. But I think what has seemed to make this book so groundbreaking is its take on gender dynamics. The cast is entirely women, but when all of the men are taken by the illness, the remaining women don’t automatically form a pacifist, hippie commune; there are flawed women, there are good-hearted women, there are warlike women, and everything in between. This banishing of broad generalizations about gender, I think, is what makes Ammonite feel so ahead of its time.
Sidenote: this was written in the nineties, so Nicola Griffith had to have known about goth people…right? Just saying, calling the barely-described alien megafauna “goths” made me envision a giant, towering version of Robert Smith, not, y’know, whatever she wanted us to picture.
All in all, a very unique take on sci-fi and survival with some groundbreaking gender dynamics that have held up for the past 30 years. 3.5 stars!
A mutated Abe Sapien fights carnivorous monsters crawling out of the desert sand, a fortified militia that’s walled Phoenix off from the rest of the world, and a vicious zombie swarm, while a mad necromancer rises over the monster-infested ruins of Seattle. Collects issues #6-#7 and #9-#11 of the series.
☆
TW/CW: gore, blood, violence, racism, body horror
I haven’t caught up on the actual Abe Sapien series since…[checks notes], eight grade, I think. Jesus. I just remembered flying to New York when I was about 14 and reading the first volume. But even then, I think I subconsciously chose a good place to pick up with it, since there’s a pretty clear gulf between the first three and vol. 4—before and after Abe gets mutated, shot, and quits the B.P.R.D. Just another day at the office for the guy, y’know?
Suffice to say, I was somewhat disappointed by this volume. It was still enjoyable, and even though I was never the biggest fan of Fiumara’s art, the more stylized look suits Abe’s stretched-out, mutated form. Other than that, there wasn’t a whole lot here that I found terribly memorable. Abe goes through the exact same arc as Hellboy upon leaving the B.P.R.D., but it never seems to culminate in much development on his end. Plot-wise, it’s the same ol’, I’m afraid—Abe goes into a random, apocalypse-ravaged town in the middle of nowhere, and, surprise surprise, it’s time to fight some zombies and witness a copious amount of fungus-related body horror. Somehow, the latter works better when it’s the whole B.P.R.D. trying to deal with it—the group dynamic is what makes B.P.R.D. consistently shine, and as much as I love Abe, I’m not sure if he could carry a story like that when it’s the same format they’ve been using on and off for several years. Abe is one of my favorite Mignolaverse characters, and it’s such a shame that he’s never gotten to shine as much in his solo comics. And judging from the reviews on the later volumes, it seems like the quality tanked until we got the band back together for The Devil You Know. Shame.
All in all, an entetraining trade, but one that ultimately did a disservice to one of the Mignolaverse’s most beloved characters. 3.25 stars.
Today’s song:
I swear, this has to be some of Mitski’s best work in YEARS
That’s it for this batch of mini reviews! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
We’ve come around again to Bisexual Visibility Week,which lasts from September 16 – September 23rd! September 23rd is also recognized as Bisexual Visibility Day. And to celebrate, I’ve rounded up another batch of some of my favorite bisexual books that I’ve read in the past few years. Even though I’ve been out as bisexual for nearly five years, seeing myself represented in that aspect of my identity never ceases to warm my heart. I’t’s hard to match the feeling of being seen, really seen, like some of these books have made me feel. But like my last post about Latinx Heritage Month, I wasn’t able to compile a list last year since I was still settling into college. So I prepared a post in advance so I can share my favorite bisexual books that I’ve read since my last post. (And although I’m trying to add more age ranges to these posts, almost all of the ones I wanted to highlight ended up being YA books, so here you are.) Enjoy!
TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK! Have you read any of these books, and if so, what did you think of them? What are your favorite bisexual books? Let me know in the comments!
Today’s song:
loving this album
That’s it for this year’s bisexual visibility week recs! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
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:
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!
I’ve been reading Becky Albertalli’s YA books since middle school, and they’ve always had a special place in my heart. Although some of them have been hit-or-miss, I was looking forward to reading this one—it seemed so deeply personal to her, and I was so excited for the bisexual rep! And although it wasn’t perfect, it was such a deeply authentic depiction of the bisexual experience.
Imogen Scott knows her place—the token ally amongst her very queer friend group. She knows the nuances of queer culture and discourse in and out, but she’s confident in her heterosexuality. But all of that changes when she stays with her best friend Lili at her new dorm in college. Lili, who happened to tell everybody that Imogen was her ex in an ill-thought-out lie. Imogen is happy to keep up the ruse, but when she meets Tessa, one of Lili’s new (and very cute) friends, she begins to question whether or not it’s the role of “ally” that’s the lie after all.
From the start, I knew that Imogen, Obviously was going to be a deeply personal book for Becky Albertalli. That’s exactly what it was, and that’s exactly what it should have been. Even though it wasn’t without its flaws, Imogen, Obviously is an incredibly important book in that it shows us a narrative of bisexuality that isn’t portrayed as much, and that there is no one true narrative of how bisexuality is in the first place.
As a bisexual reader, Imogen’s story resonated so much with me, even if our coming-out journeys were different. And the fact that Imogen has a coming-out journey that deviates from a lot of the bisexual representation in media in general is a breath of fresh air; along her path of self-discovery, there’s some fantastic discussions about how we internalize stereotypes, the pressure to be “queer enough,” internalize biphobia and feeling like you don’t belong in queer spaces, and so much more. (And I’m glad that somebody’s talking about how random bisexual “traits” that float around social media…I once saw one that said “you may be bisexual if winter is your favorite season”…huh? What does that have to do with anything?) It’s a love letter to those who who feel like exceptions from the norm in a place that’s already populated by outsiders.
Adding onto that, what makes Imogen, Obviously such an important book to me is that it has such an important message about bisexuality, and about queerness in general: there is no one way to be bi, and that the entire queer experience doesn’t have to be entangled with suffering. We watch Imogen struggle with feelings of imposter syndrome in the queer community and repeatedly being put down by a “friend” who feels like she has the ultimate queer authority because she’s experienced quite a lot of homophobia, and it serves as an important reminder: we can’t exclude queer people from their own community just because they “aren’t queer enough” by some arbitrary measure. Again, it speaks to the personal element of this book, what with Albertalli’s own recent forced outing, but it’s a message that needs to be loud and clear.
Apart from the many wonderful messages that this book spreads, I loved watching the relationship between Imogen and Tessa develop! It really felt accurate to having your first queer crush in real time, with all of the stomach butterflies and shy conversations. They were a lovely match for each other, and although I was cheering for Imogen for every page, the two of them made my little bi heart so happy. Their romance really was a resonant and joyful one, something that Albertalli has nearly mastered writing.
All that being said, I had some issues with the writing that prevented me from giving Imogen, Obviously the full four-star treatment. I don’t remember enough about her other books to say how they were written (it’s been a while), but the way that she wrote these high school and college characters just felt so…off. She just peppered in all of the gen z slang into her dialogue whenever possible, and none of it felt natural or genuine. It felt like somebody observing gen z and/or TikTok from a distance, then trying to employ said slang from memory. It all felt so clunky, and at times, as much as I hate to say it, painful. I’m pretty sure that nobody says “discoursing” as a verb for discussing discourse. As fantastic as the rest of the book was, the cringy nature of the writing put me off from fully enjoying it.
All in all, a beautiful and necessary depiction of bisexuality that was hindered by its attempt to capture gen z speak, but excelled in every other department. 3.75 stars, rounded up to 4!
Imogen, Obviously is a standalone, but Becky Albertalli is also the author of the Simonverse (Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda, Leah on the Offbeat, and Love, Creekwood) and Kate in Waiting. she is also the co-author of What If It’s Us and Here’s to Us (with Adam Silvera) and Yes, No, Maybe So (with Aisha Saeed).
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!
The Bookish Mutant 