Just a short post today about how much I love books. (As if you can't tell...)
People read every day, whether they want to or not. Email, social media, street signs - they all require the skill of reading. Suffice to say, reading is a part of life. There are those who read because they HAVE to; then there are those wonderful, enlightened, intelligent, open-minded, brilliant pillars of humanity who read because they WANT to. There is nothing "wrong" with being the former - except not being the latter. (I say this in jest. Or do I?)
One of the things I will always be the most grateful to my mother for is setting a reading example for me. I can remember back when I was a child, my mother always had books around. We had bookcases in nearly every room of the house, and crammed on the shelves were a magical rainbow of covers with titles that ranged from The Bible to Harlequin romances to Sherlock Holmes mysteries. (Looking back, I can safely say this is probably why I have such eclectic taste in reading.) My mother had a particular love for Louis L'Amour, and he is still the stick by which I measure all westerns (and let me tell you, no one else stacks up). The first "grown-up" book I can remember reading all the way through was L'Amour's Passin' Through. I was maybe ten years old. I remember the cover had a wild-looking cowboy astride an even wilder-looking blue roan horse. I was so proud of myself when I finished that book; I felt like I had entered a secret club for people who loved stories. And it's a club to which I still gladly pay my dues.
Books are my kryptonite. If you were to ask my husband what my biggest weakness is, he wouldn't even have to think about it. "She spends all her money on books. And she doesn't even read them all," he'd say, shaking his head. It's true. I want them ALL. Every one of them. Even the terrible ones. (OK, maybe not the terrible terrible ones, like Fifty Shades, but I will admit to owning the Twilight series...) I have been known to keep books that are absolutely rubbish just because I like the cover, and they look pretty on my shelves.
That is, however, not to say that I don't have some sort of discernment when it comes to books and reading. I like to think that my broad range of tastes and interests give me an advantage when it comes to reading, because I am willing to read a lot of different types of books. I can enjoy a romance just as much as I can a literary classic; I can enjoy a YA paranormal just as much as I can a mystery. There are very few types of books that I turn my nose up at (I'm sorry, but I will never NEVER be able to make it through an Amish inspirational - I don't care how much cash you offer me), and I can find things to appreciate in most any book I read, even if it turns out to be a dud. This is because, in general, I <3 books. And I appreciate the work - the time, the thought, the dedication - that went into its creation.
As a writer, I have an extra appreciation for books; I know how difficult it can be to produce one. Each finished piece is a representation of millions and millions of hours of work. (Don't roll your eyes. It's the truth.) So for something to come together in such a way - the author believes in an idea enough to make a story out of it, the agent believes in it enough to represent it, the editor believes in it enough to buy it, the publisher believes in it enough to produce it, the reader believes enough in it to buy it - is an amazing feat.
So, props to you authors out there who keep writing great stories that I want to read with gorgeous covers I want to decorate my shelves with.
The ramblings and adventures of a quirky librarian who is an avid reader, writer, and dreamer.
Saturday, April 15, 2017
Wednesday, April 5, 2017
Passing the Proverbial Deerstalker
I have a healthy respect for mystery authors. From a writer's standpoint, I have always been fascinated by the ability to plot so intricately a story full of twists and turns that ends with a surprise. As a lifelong panster (and as such, completely unable to plot a story ahead of time), I'm a little jealous of the talent it takes to be a good mystery writer. A good mystery makes me want to continue reading, page after page; holds my attention throughout the entire story; keeps me guessing until until the end of the book; and makes it next to impossible for me to forget about it once I finish. Some mystery authors (Elizabeth Peters, Robert Galbraith, Cleo Coyle, and a recent fun discovery Ellery Adams) keep me entertained, but don't particularly make me appreciate the craft of writing a mystery. Recently, I highlighted a mystery I read by Agatha Christie (read that post here), and now consider myself an devotee of the Queen of Crime. She made me appreciate the craft. As does Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Thanks to recent incarnations of the Dynamic Duo (not that Dynamic Duo - no Batmobiles here - only the consulting detective and his loyal assistant), the exploits of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are, once again, en vogue. It's nearly impossible to turn around without bumping into a handsome man wearing a deerstalker hat (Benedict Cumberbatch, I'm looking at you...), or to walk into a bookstore without seeing a dozen versions of Holmes and Watson in one form or another. In a way, this is wonderful; another generation of readers, watchers, critics are being introduced to Doyle's masterful storytelling and his incomparable characters. In another way, this is awful; some of the retellings are complete rubbish, and the characters fall flat in a complete injustice to the original source material.
So you can imagine my trepidation when I picked up Brittany Cavallaro's A Study in Charlotte. In this particular homage to the master, not only is Holmes a girl, but the story takes place in America. Oy. Here's the cover (fab) and blurb, stolen shamelessly (but cited, nonetheless) from Goodreads:
The last thing Jamie Watson wants is a rugby scholarship to Sherringford, a Connecticut prep school just an hour away from his estranged father. But that’s not the only complication: Sherringford is also home to Charlotte Holmes, the famous detective’s great-great-great-granddaughter, who has inherited not only Sherlock’s genius but also his volatile temperament. From everything Jamie has heard about Charlotte, it seems safer to admire her from afar.
From the moment they meet, there’s a tense energy between them, and they seem more destined to be rivals than anything else. But when a Sherringford student dies under suspicious circumstances, ripped straight from the most terrifying of the Sherlock Holmes stories, Jamie can no longer afford to keep his distance. Jamie and Charlotte are being framed for murder, and only Charlotte can clear their names. But danger is mounting and nowhere is safe—and the only people they can trust are each other.
First things first: the blurb is terrible. It wasn't the blurb that made me give this book a chance; it was the cover. (I've told you before, covers sell books. This is the truth of that claim in action.) It makes this book sound like a high school drama. Which it's not. It is a smart, funny-at-times story about two great characters who happen to still be teenagers. The characters are flawed; Jamie Watson is adorably naive for much of the book, until he starts to realize he's not in a story, and begins to take ownership of the events of his life, and Charlotte Holmes is arrogant, quirky, brilliant, and slightly horrible (naturally - she's a Holmes, after all...). The mystery is believable; someone bumps off a student at our duo's boarding school and attempts to frame them for the crime. The writing is impeccable; Cavallaro tells a great story in a clean and efficient way.
WHAT I <3ED: One particularly interesting thing Cavallaro did here was make the classic Holmes and Watson real people, and Doyle their literary agent. I thought this was a fantastic idea. It allowed her to set up a "real" story for the descendants of the original characters, and allowed her to supply some commentary on the original characters, and discuss some of the original cases. It leaves room for there to be generations of tangled history between the Holmeses and the Watsons (and the Moriarties!), and demonstrates the fallout from some of the original team's escapades. This decision also gave her the opportunity to imbue Charlotte and Jamie with some of the more recognizable characteristics from the classic stories (Holmes' drug habit, Watson's compulsion to write everything down, etc.), making them familiar enough for readers to feel like they're "in" on the joke, but different enough to keep from being predictable. Which leads me to...
THE CHARACTERS. Oh, my. I absolutely adore how Cavallaro wrote Holmes and Watson here. I'll start with WATSON. Jamie is a lovely amalgamation of classic Watsonianism and a completely unique character. Though he is still Holmes' "sidekick", he has some interesting qualities of his own. For one, he's a rage machine. I mean, at times he goes full-blown Hulk. Yet, on the flip side, he's sweet and caring, and just a little bit slow on the uptake. He's exactly the type of hot nerd I would have fallen hard for in high school. Then there's HOLMES. Brilliant (understatement) and distant and odd, she's the type of girl I would have simultaneously wanted to be friends with and have been a little bit terrified of. Her past haunts her and, at times, it seems like she's doing penance for her past sins. When she talks of dark secrets and dangerous deeds, she really means it. So this book becomes as much about solving the characters as it does solving the mystery.
WHAT I DIDN'T LIKE: Minimal. At no point in the book did I say, "Man, I wish she would have _____". There were, perhaps, a couple too many superfluous side characters (classmates of Holmes and Watson), that I didn't really care about, but that is a minor complaint.
I am very much looking forward to reading the second installment of this trilogy, The Last of August, in which some of the questions left hanging in A Study in Charlotte will be answered. AND it takes place across the pond, so YAY, England! Cavallaro has a fan in me.
This book is a good choice for those of you who fancy updated versions of classics, mysteries with a little bit of an edge but very little blood, and contemporary stories that use historical literature as touchstones.
If you're looking for readalikes, try:
Lock & Mori by Heather Petty - another contemporary Holmes/Watson/Moriarty series with teen versions of the titular characters.
The Clockwork Scarab by Colleen Gleason - a unique pairing of Mina Holmes (Sherlock's niece), and Eveline Stoker (relative of Bram), set in Victorian London with a steampunk twist.
Lockwood & Co. by Jonathan Stroud - this series, though on the paranormal side, is about independent, teenage investigators.
I've just finished the Heirs of Watson Island trilogy by Martina Boone (in three days, nonetheless), and will be reviewing that series next. So good! Ghosts, curses, Southern charm, and sweet tea by the gallons!
Thursday, March 30, 2017
RoseBlood-y Awful
Well, that's that.
I have been looking forward to reading this book for months. I <3 A.G. Howard's Splintered series (except the cop-out ending, but that's neither here nor there), and expected to <3 RoseBlood, too. I didn't. Before I get too far into my review, though, here's the GORGEOUS cover, and the blurb from Goodreads:
In this modern day spin on Leroux’s gothic tale of unrequited love turned to madness, seventeen-year-old Rune Germain has a mysterious affliction linked to her operatic talent, and a horrifying mistake she’s trying to hide. Hoping creative direction will help her, Rune’s mother sends her to a French arts conservatory for her senior year, located in an opera house rumored to have ties to The Phantom of the Opera.
At RoseBlood, Rune secretly befriends the masked Thorn—an elusive violinist who not only guides her musical transformation through dreams that seem more real than reality itself, but somehow knows who she is behind her own masks. As the two discover an otherworldly connection and a soul-deep romance blossoms, Thorn’s dark agenda comes to light and he’s forced to make a deadly choice: lead Rune to her destruction, or face the wrath of the phantom who has haunted the opera house for a century, and is the only father he’s ever known.
I can recall with crystal clarity my first introduction to The Phantom of the Opera. It was Gerard Butler as Erik, Emmy Rossum as Christine, and Patrick Wilson as Raoul. The atmosphere, the setting, the music, captivated me, and I must have watched that film a hundred times, listened to the score a hundred more. No, the contemporary version definitely does not hold a candle to Sarah Brightman and Michael Crawford's performance (which I saw later), but was stunning to my heart and soul, all the same. And while I appreciate the absolute perfection of the West End Brightman/Crawford version, there's just something about the jazzed-up coolness of Butler and Rossum (and the brilliant supporting cast - Minnie Driver is incomparable as Carlotta) that keeps their representation of the tragic story relevant and relatable.
This is the love which led me to RoseBlood. And then RoseBlood broke my heart.
Let's start with our heroine. (Believe me, I'm using the term very loosely here.) She's the most Mary Sue Mary Sue that ever Mary Sued. She is (of course) beautiful. And she is (of course) monumentally talented (though her talent drains her). She (of course) has a tragic past she has to overcome. And she is (of course) kind and generous and friendly and selfless and misunderstood by the mean girls. And she is (gasp!) cursed by gypsies! (Insert eye roll here.) There is no - not one - instance in this book in which I liked, or even cared about Rune Germain. (Let's digress here for a moment - Rune brings to mind Celtic and Scandinavian mysteries, not French ones, so for me, "Rune" was a distracting misnomer. Yes, I suppose it has something to do with her gypsy [again, eye roll] heritage, but just dislike.) And, in my opinion, she's ignorant. Not in a book-learnin' way, but in a way-of-the-world way. A *mysterious* stranger tells her that she is his soulmate, destined to be his lover, and she's just like, oh, ok, sweet. That explains everything. Whaaaa? She's obviously never heard of stranger danger.
Now, I am a sucker for a good gothic mystery. What I am not a sucker for is the most gothic of gothicy gothicness wrapped in gothicity. This book has potentially the coolest setting imaginable - a boarding school in an old opera house situated way out in the French countryside. There's a graveyard; there's a chapel; there's an aviary. I mean, seriously cool. But its extreme coolness is dulled by the fact that EVERY SINGLE element of EVERYTHING, right down to the motes of dust dancing the waltz in shafts of golden, iridescent light, is described in painful detail, which removes any opportunity I have as a reader to use my imagination. It's as if Howard doesn't trust her readers to grasp how awesome this place is, and so she takes it upon herself to make sure the readers understand. As a reader, I hate it when authors do this. I like to think the author assumes I have some level of intelligence, and can reach certain conclusions on my own, without being led there every step. The result here is pure and unadulterated tedium.
"There has to be some redeeming quality in this book," you say. "How about the hero? Is he dreamy?" No. He's not. Oh, he's gorgeous, because in this book everything is (and the author will tell you so, multiple times, and over and over and over ad infinitum). But Thorn exists as a tortured soul (and a thorn in the side of this book), and the pseudo-step-son of Erik, the original Phantom. Potential! Wasted. Because you know what's even worse than blood-sucking vampires? Psychic energy-sucking vampires. Because apparently that's a thing. Buh-bye - I'm out.
Though touted as a Phantom of the Opera retelling, it's more of a continuation of Leroux's original narrative; it picks up Erik's story (though he's not the main character here) years in the future (and for those of you who like math, you'll notice how many years...) where he is creeping around making Thorn do his nefarious deeds for him. He leaves notes signed OG, which definitely doesn't stand for Original Gangsta', but for Opera Ghost (I just rolled my eyes so hard I saw my brain). The turn Howard has made him take is disturbing, and the fact that he owns a rave (yes, you read that correctly - Phantom of the Rave, because dub-step is so much cooler than opera) is just this side of completely ridiculous. And his ultimate plan something seventh level of creepy hell.
In short, don't waste your time. This was a complete swing and a miss for me. I wish Howard the best of luck with her next project, because I really think she has talent and imagination, but IMO, she tried way too hard on this one.
My next review will be of A Study in Charlotte, and will be decidedly more flattering to both book and author.
I have been looking forward to reading this book for months. I <3 A.G. Howard's Splintered series (except the cop-out ending, but that's neither here nor there), and expected to <3 RoseBlood, too. I didn't. Before I get too far into my review, though, here's the GORGEOUS cover, and the blurb from Goodreads:
In this modern day spin on Leroux’s gothic tale of unrequited love turned to madness, seventeen-year-old Rune Germain has a mysterious affliction linked to her operatic talent, and a horrifying mistake she’s trying to hide. Hoping creative direction will help her, Rune’s mother sends her to a French arts conservatory for her senior year, located in an opera house rumored to have ties to The Phantom of the Opera.
At RoseBlood, Rune secretly befriends the masked Thorn—an elusive violinist who not only guides her musical transformation through dreams that seem more real than reality itself, but somehow knows who she is behind her own masks. As the two discover an otherworldly connection and a soul-deep romance blossoms, Thorn’s dark agenda comes to light and he’s forced to make a deadly choice: lead Rune to her destruction, or face the wrath of the phantom who has haunted the opera house for a century, and is the only father he’s ever known.
I can recall with crystal clarity my first introduction to The Phantom of the Opera. It was Gerard Butler as Erik, Emmy Rossum as Christine, and Patrick Wilson as Raoul. The atmosphere, the setting, the music, captivated me, and I must have watched that film a hundred times, listened to the score a hundred more. No, the contemporary version definitely does not hold a candle to Sarah Brightman and Michael Crawford's performance (which I saw later), but was stunning to my heart and soul, all the same. And while I appreciate the absolute perfection of the West End Brightman/Crawford version, there's just something about the jazzed-up coolness of Butler and Rossum (and the brilliant supporting cast - Minnie Driver is incomparable as Carlotta) that keeps their representation of the tragic story relevant and relatable.
This is the love which led me to RoseBlood. And then RoseBlood broke my heart.
Let's start with our heroine. (Believe me, I'm using the term very loosely here.) She's the most Mary Sue Mary Sue that ever Mary Sued. She is (of course) beautiful. And she is (of course) monumentally talented (though her talent drains her). She (of course) has a tragic past she has to overcome. And she is (of course) kind and generous and friendly and selfless and misunderstood by the mean girls. And she is (gasp!) cursed by gypsies! (Insert eye roll here.) There is no - not one - instance in this book in which I liked, or even cared about Rune Germain. (Let's digress here for a moment - Rune brings to mind Celtic and Scandinavian mysteries, not French ones, so for me, "Rune" was a distracting misnomer. Yes, I suppose it has something to do with her gypsy [again, eye roll] heritage, but just dislike.) And, in my opinion, she's ignorant. Not in a book-learnin' way, but in a way-of-the-world way. A *mysterious* stranger tells her that she is his soulmate, destined to be his lover, and she's just like, oh, ok, sweet. That explains everything. Whaaaa? She's obviously never heard of stranger danger.
Now, I am a sucker for a good gothic mystery. What I am not a sucker for is the most gothic of gothicy gothicness wrapped in gothicity. This book has potentially the coolest setting imaginable - a boarding school in an old opera house situated way out in the French countryside. There's a graveyard; there's a chapel; there's an aviary. I mean, seriously cool. But its extreme coolness is dulled by the fact that EVERY SINGLE element of EVERYTHING, right down to the motes of dust dancing the waltz in shafts of golden, iridescent light, is described in painful detail, which removes any opportunity I have as a reader to use my imagination. It's as if Howard doesn't trust her readers to grasp how awesome this place is, and so she takes it upon herself to make sure the readers understand. As a reader, I hate it when authors do this. I like to think the author assumes I have some level of intelligence, and can reach certain conclusions on my own, without being led there every step. The result here is pure and unadulterated tedium.
"There has to be some redeeming quality in this book," you say. "How about the hero? Is he dreamy?" No. He's not. Oh, he's gorgeous, because in this book everything is (and the author will tell you so, multiple times, and over and over and over ad infinitum). But Thorn exists as a tortured soul (and a thorn in the side of this book), and the pseudo-step-son of Erik, the original Phantom. Potential! Wasted. Because you know what's even worse than blood-sucking vampires? Psychic energy-sucking vampires. Because apparently that's a thing. Buh-bye - I'm out.
Though touted as a Phantom of the Opera retelling, it's more of a continuation of Leroux's original narrative; it picks up Erik's story (though he's not the main character here) years in the future (and for those of you who like math, you'll notice how many years...) where he is creeping around making Thorn do his nefarious deeds for him. He leaves notes signed OG, which definitely doesn't stand for Original Gangsta', but for Opera Ghost (I just rolled my eyes so hard I saw my brain). The turn Howard has made him take is disturbing, and the fact that he owns a rave (yes, you read that correctly - Phantom of the Rave, because dub-step is so much cooler than opera) is just this side of completely ridiculous. And his ultimate plan something seventh level of creepy hell.
In short, don't waste your time. This was a complete swing and a miss for me. I wish Howard the best of luck with her next project, because I really think she has talent and imagination, but IMO, she tried way too hard on this one.
My next review will be of A Study in Charlotte, and will be decidedly more flattering to both book and author.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
How Much is Reading Worth?
To me: $1/book.
"What?" you say, "that's crazy. You can't put a monetary value on the experience of reading a book!"
Sure I can. Because in the reading contest my sister and I are having in 2017, that's what each book is worth. $1.
I like to say I was born a reader. Now, obviously I don't mean that literally, because that would be just silly. What I mean is I was born with something inherent that compels me to read. Throughout my life, I've read books from every genre (except horror. Well, bloody horror, anyway. Because I don't care if you are a big 'fraidy cat, you still have to read Stephen King), and count books from each of them among my "most very favorite books of all time forever and ever". So there is no shortage of books in the world to hold my interest. Sure, I have my preferred types of books (see this blog post) and I read extensively in that genre, but that's not to say I'm not up for a good western, either. And though non-fiction isn't really my cup of tea per se, I'm not above picking one up every now and then. All this to say: I consider myself fairly well-read.
My sister came to her love of reading later in life. My childhood memories of her reading don't extend past The Berenstain Bears or The Babysitters Club: Little Sister. I don't really know what she wasted her childhood on, but it certainly wasn't reading. Barely able to contain the excitement generated by the most recent Black Stallion book I had finished, or by The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew (the Super Mysteries were *literally* the best of both worlds - Nancy and Frank totally had a thing), I would try to get her to read some of my books so I could talk to her about them. Sigh. It never happened. Until... she found herself married to a man whose job required them to move frequently and all over the country, making it very hard for her to maintain a job or friendships. That is to say, SHE GOT BORED. I still remember the phone call: "Hey, I need something to do, and I'm thinking about reading a book. Can you tell me a good one?" ONE? Try a hundred. It was like Christmas and my birthday got jiggy wit' it and had a love child. I can't actually recall which book I initially suggested she read, but it must have been a good one, because she hasn't stopped reading since (she claims it was Lauren Kate's Fallen, but you'll have to take her word on that one). It's been about three years now since my sister became "a reader", and though she will never catch me in the number of books she's read (to be fair, I did have, like, a 30-or-so-year head start), she's making a valiant effort.
So, back to my claim that a book is worth $1. At the beginning of 2016, I started the year determined to fulfill a reading resolution challenge (see this blog post). Though I read continuously through the year, the challenge fell by the wayside. I just didn't have anything invested in it to keep me going. I ended up the year having read a lot, but I couldn't tell you how many books, or which ones. This year, I wanted to do something different. I wanted to be able to look back and see which books I read, and how many books I read, in 2017. I saw this cool thing on Facebook one day about putting a dollar in a jar every time you finish reading a book, and then at the end of the year taking those dollars to the bookstore to buy new books. Brilliant! And now that my sister reads, and we recommend books back and forth, I thought it may be fun to include her. But, you know, sisters, so it had to, in some way, become a contest. So the end result was this: Each of us would a) write down the title and author of each book we finish reading in 2017, and b) put a dollar in a jar for each finished title. Then, at the end of the year (Christmastime, to be exact), we will count the dollars to see who has more. Whoever loses (it WILL NOT BE ME!) has to buy the winner the book of her choice. So, not only will I get to buy a million dollars worth of books, but she also has to buy me one! Bwahahahahaha!
13 weeks into 2017, I have a tidy little sum of $18 in my book jar (so much more fun than a swear jar!). That's like a book every, uh, I don't know because math, but it's pretty darn good. Not too shabby a clip, if I do say so myself. As I finish books I particularly like, I'll post reviews and recommendations in an attempt to get back into regularly blogging. I recently finished A Study in Charlotte by Brittany Cavallaro, and I'm itching to talk about it before I begin book 2 of the Charlotte Holmes series, The Last of August, so keep an eye open for that (probably early next week).
And all jest aside, don't ever give up hope on something you believe may never happen. I never in a million years believed my sister would one day share my love of reading. I've never been so happy to be wrong about anything in my life. But I'm still going to whip her in this reading contest.
"What?" you say, "that's crazy. You can't put a monetary value on the experience of reading a book!"
Sure I can. Because in the reading contest my sister and I are having in 2017, that's what each book is worth. $1.
I like to say I was born a reader. Now, obviously I don't mean that literally, because that would be just silly. What I mean is I was born with something inherent that compels me to read. Throughout my life, I've read books from every genre (except horror. Well, bloody horror, anyway. Because I don't care if you are a big 'fraidy cat, you still have to read Stephen King), and count books from each of them among my "most very favorite books of all time forever and ever". So there is no shortage of books in the world to hold my interest. Sure, I have my preferred types of books (see this blog post) and I read extensively in that genre, but that's not to say I'm not up for a good western, either. And though non-fiction isn't really my cup of tea per se, I'm not above picking one up every now and then. All this to say: I consider myself fairly well-read.
My sister came to her love of reading later in life. My childhood memories of her reading don't extend past The Berenstain Bears or The Babysitters Club: Little Sister. I don't really know what she wasted her childhood on, but it certainly wasn't reading. Barely able to contain the excitement generated by the most recent Black Stallion book I had finished, or by The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew (the Super Mysteries were *literally* the best of both worlds - Nancy and Frank totally had a thing), I would try to get her to read some of my books so I could talk to her about them. Sigh. It never happened. Until... she found herself married to a man whose job required them to move frequently and all over the country, making it very hard for her to maintain a job or friendships. That is to say, SHE GOT BORED. I still remember the phone call: "Hey, I need something to do, and I'm thinking about reading a book. Can you tell me a good one?" ONE? Try a hundred. It was like Christmas and my birthday got jiggy wit' it and had a love child. I can't actually recall which book I initially suggested she read, but it must have been a good one, because she hasn't stopped reading since (she claims it was Lauren Kate's Fallen, but you'll have to take her word on that one). It's been about three years now since my sister became "a reader", and though she will never catch me in the number of books she's read (to be fair, I did have, like, a 30-or-so-year head start), she's making a valiant effort.
So, back to my claim that a book is worth $1. At the beginning of 2016, I started the year determined to fulfill a reading resolution challenge (see this blog post). Though I read continuously through the year, the challenge fell by the wayside. I just didn't have anything invested in it to keep me going. I ended up the year having read a lot, but I couldn't tell you how many books, or which ones. This year, I wanted to do something different. I wanted to be able to look back and see which books I read, and how many books I read, in 2017. I saw this cool thing on Facebook one day about putting a dollar in a jar every time you finish reading a book, and then at the end of the year taking those dollars to the bookstore to buy new books. Brilliant! And now that my sister reads, and we recommend books back and forth, I thought it may be fun to include her. But, you know, sisters, so it had to, in some way, become a contest. So the end result was this: Each of us would a) write down the title and author of each book we finish reading in 2017, and b) put a dollar in a jar for each finished title. Then, at the end of the year (Christmastime, to be exact), we will count the dollars to see who has more. Whoever loses (it WILL NOT BE ME!) has to buy the winner the book of her choice. So, not only will I get to buy a million dollars worth of books, but she also has to buy me one! Bwahahahahaha!
13 weeks into 2017, I have a tidy little sum of $18 in my book jar (so much more fun than a swear jar!). That's like a book every, uh, I don't know because math, but it's pretty darn good. Not too shabby a clip, if I do say so myself. As I finish books I particularly like, I'll post reviews and recommendations in an attempt to get back into regularly blogging. I recently finished A Study in Charlotte by Brittany Cavallaro, and I'm itching to talk about it before I begin book 2 of the Charlotte Holmes series, The Last of August, so keep an eye open for that (probably early next week).
And all jest aside, don't ever give up hope on something you believe may never happen. I never in a million years believed my sister would one day share my love of reading. I've never been so happy to be wrong about anything in my life. But I'm still going to whip her in this reading contest.
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Strike One
So, police procedurals aren't really my cup of tea. I'm not a big fan of them on TV (aside from Elementary and Hawaii Five - 0, which I love), and I'm even less of a fan of them in books. BUT, that said, I will make an exception every now and then. This is one of those times.
I was in college when the Harry Potter books were released. I read them, I loved them. I still reread them. Harry Potter represented a paradigm shift in children's literature; it blurred the lines between fact and fiction, between the real world and the supernatural world, and between children's fiction and adult fiction. Two of these things were noteworthy, one was earth-shattering. Suddenly, it was OK for adults to be caught reading kids' books. And that still persists today. J.K. Rowling achieved something great with her Harry Potter books, and they remain some of my favorites, even now, years later. So when the Cormoran Strike series came into being, of course I had to read them. Now, I did not wait in line for The Cuckoo's Calling to get it on release day. I didn't even read it within the first week it was available. It was a while. I knew I was going to read it, it was just one of those things I didn't quite get around to. It wasn't until The Silkworm was released that I actually even read The Cuckoo's Calling. But then I read it in two days. I loved it. So I immediately ran out and bought The Silkworm.
"Wait," you say. "This book cover shows The Silkworm was written by some dude called Robert Galbraith. What does that have to do with J.K. Rowling?" After the harsh criticism she took over her first post-Potter book The Casual Vacancy, Rowling decided to distance herself (in name, anyway) from her very public name in an effort to give her new books a chance to be judged on their own merit, rather than on the fame of her name. Which means: Robert Galbraith = J.K. Rowling in disguise.
Now, I knew going in that Rowling was the author of these books (by then, it wasn't a secret any longer), but I did my best not to let my expectations for one of my favorite authors color my opinion of the Strike books. I was not disappointed. Here's the blurb, ripped from Goodreads:
When novelist Owen Quine goes missing, his wife calls in private detective Cormoran Strike. At first, Mrs. Quine just thinks her husband has gone off by himself for a few days—as he has done before—and she wants Strike to find him and bring him home.
But as Strike investigates, it becomes clear that there is more to Quine's disappearance than his wife realizes. The novelist has just completed a manuscript featuring poisonous pen-portraits of almost everyone he knows. If the novel were to be published, it would ruin lives—meaning that there are a lot of people who might want him silenced.
When Quine is found brutally murdered under bizarre circumstances, it becomes a race against time to understand the motivation of a ruthless killer, a killer unlike any Strike has encountered before...
Rowling's (or, to be technically correct, Galbraith's) hero, Cormoran Strike, is ex-British military, a big, rough-looking man who suffered a debilitating injury in the course of service. He isn't a traditional hero; he's a quiet, broody, chain-smoking, semi-alcoholic with one leg. Not really "be still, my beating heart" material. But, I think, that's the point. It isn't about what he looks like; it's about who he is. Strike is a world-weary, experience-wise detective whose outlook on the world gives him a unique perspective on things. I like this about him. He is flawed and damaged, which makes him relatable and real.
The other main character in the book, Strike's assistant Robin, is as equally relatable. Though beautiful in her way, and though she has a handsome, successful fiance, Robin's life is not all rainbows and unicorns. Said handsome fiance, Matthew, is a serious douche bag. He isn't at all supportive of Robin's chosen career, and revels in belittling her and her job at every opportunity. He cares too much about money, and not enough about people. So, though it seems on the surface as if Robin has it all, her life is endlessly frustrating. She does, however, present a perfect foil for Strike as she is refined and calm and well-mannered.
Their partnership is an entertaining as the plot of the book itself. Strike and Robin work together with respect and teamwork, each with their own strengths and weaknesses. Where Strike prefers to be out on the streets, beating the pavement for answers and information, Robin has a knack for tracking down information digitally, over the phone, and through interviews. Strike teaches Robin about being a detective, and Robin keeps Strike connected to humanity, when he would otherwise withdraw into himself. The characters, these two, are what drives the plot. It wouldn't be the same without either Strike or Robin, and the things that both of them bring to the story.
As for the plot, it is well done. Galbraith sets up a mystery that could have many solutions, and at different points, I was willing to consider them all. Strike treads through all the strides of detective work - the exciting and the mundane - and readers go along on this journey with him. There is blood, there is betrayal, there is danger. And when all is finally revealed, it made me want to go back and reread the entire book to see how I could have possibly missed the clues. It was a satisfying conclusion worthy of the best mystery novel.
I would recommend this book to readers who are mystery fans. It adheres to all the conventions, and presents an intricate thriller that keeps readers guessing until the end. It is multi-layered, with a depth that indicates careful thought and planning on the part of the author. Not for the faint of heart, though, as there are a couple of rather gruesome scenes.
Readers who like The Silkworm may also like:
Death of a Reader by Michael Collins
One Good Turn by Kate Atkinson
Original Sin by P.D. James
Continuing with my Reading Resolution, I will be reviewing a juvenile title next - Book Scavenger by Jennifer Chambliss Bertman. This was a really fun read, so check back soon!
I was in college when the Harry Potter books were released. I read them, I loved them. I still reread them. Harry Potter represented a paradigm shift in children's literature; it blurred the lines between fact and fiction, between the real world and the supernatural world, and between children's fiction and adult fiction. Two of these things were noteworthy, one was earth-shattering. Suddenly, it was OK for adults to be caught reading kids' books. And that still persists today. J.K. Rowling achieved something great with her Harry Potter books, and they remain some of my favorites, even now, years later. So when the Cormoran Strike series came into being, of course I had to read them. Now, I did not wait in line for The Cuckoo's Calling to get it on release day. I didn't even read it within the first week it was available. It was a while. I knew I was going to read it, it was just one of those things I didn't quite get around to. It wasn't until The Silkworm was released that I actually even read The Cuckoo's Calling. But then I read it in two days. I loved it. So I immediately ran out and bought The Silkworm.
Now, I knew going in that Rowling was the author of these books (by then, it wasn't a secret any longer), but I did my best not to let my expectations for one of my favorite authors color my opinion of the Strike books. I was not disappointed. Here's the blurb, ripped from Goodreads:
When novelist Owen Quine goes missing, his wife calls in private detective Cormoran Strike. At first, Mrs. Quine just thinks her husband has gone off by himself for a few days—as he has done before—and she wants Strike to find him and bring him home.
But as Strike investigates, it becomes clear that there is more to Quine's disappearance than his wife realizes. The novelist has just completed a manuscript featuring poisonous pen-portraits of almost everyone he knows. If the novel were to be published, it would ruin lives—meaning that there are a lot of people who might want him silenced.
When Quine is found brutally murdered under bizarre circumstances, it becomes a race against time to understand the motivation of a ruthless killer, a killer unlike any Strike has encountered before...
Rowling's (or, to be technically correct, Galbraith's) hero, Cormoran Strike, is ex-British military, a big, rough-looking man who suffered a debilitating injury in the course of service. He isn't a traditional hero; he's a quiet, broody, chain-smoking, semi-alcoholic with one leg. Not really "be still, my beating heart" material. But, I think, that's the point. It isn't about what he looks like; it's about who he is. Strike is a world-weary, experience-wise detective whose outlook on the world gives him a unique perspective on things. I like this about him. He is flawed and damaged, which makes him relatable and real.
The other main character in the book, Strike's assistant Robin, is as equally relatable. Though beautiful in her way, and though she has a handsome, successful fiance, Robin's life is not all rainbows and unicorns. Said handsome fiance, Matthew, is a serious douche bag. He isn't at all supportive of Robin's chosen career, and revels in belittling her and her job at every opportunity. He cares too much about money, and not enough about people. So, though it seems on the surface as if Robin has it all, her life is endlessly frustrating. She does, however, present a perfect foil for Strike as she is refined and calm and well-mannered.
Their partnership is an entertaining as the plot of the book itself. Strike and Robin work together with respect and teamwork, each with their own strengths and weaknesses. Where Strike prefers to be out on the streets, beating the pavement for answers and information, Robin has a knack for tracking down information digitally, over the phone, and through interviews. Strike teaches Robin about being a detective, and Robin keeps Strike connected to humanity, when he would otherwise withdraw into himself. The characters, these two, are what drives the plot. It wouldn't be the same without either Strike or Robin, and the things that both of them bring to the story.
As for the plot, it is well done. Galbraith sets up a mystery that could have many solutions, and at different points, I was willing to consider them all. Strike treads through all the strides of detective work - the exciting and the mundane - and readers go along on this journey with him. There is blood, there is betrayal, there is danger. And when all is finally revealed, it made me want to go back and reread the entire book to see how I could have possibly missed the clues. It was a satisfying conclusion worthy of the best mystery novel.
I would recommend this book to readers who are mystery fans. It adheres to all the conventions, and presents an intricate thriller that keeps readers guessing until the end. It is multi-layered, with a depth that indicates careful thought and planning on the part of the author. Not for the faint of heart, though, as there are a couple of rather gruesome scenes.
Readers who like The Silkworm may also like:
Death of a Reader by Michael Collins
One Good Turn by Kate Atkinson
Original Sin by P.D. James
Continuing with my Reading Resolution, I will be reviewing a juvenile title next - Book Scavenger by Jennifer Chambliss Bertman. This was a really fun read, so check back soon!
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Long Live the King
I have met my goal of three teen titles for my Reading Resolution, and herein is the review for the first title, The Raven King by Maggie Stiefvater. This is the final book in the Raven Cycle quartet, and I found it to be well worth the wait. Maggie Stiefvater is, in my opinion, a brilliant author. She had been well-received and reviewed, and people love her books. Her first series, the Wolves of Mercy Falls quartet was a miss for me, because it highlighted - you got it - both werewolves and love triangles. Just wasn't my thing. But then I read The Scorpio Races, and thought it was brilliant. So, when the first book of her newest series came out, I strapped in for a wild ride with the Raven Boys and their Blue. I found the series completely unique, creepy, and mesmerizing. From the character development to the world building to the gorgeous way Stiefvater writes, I was hooked. This was a five-year investment, but never a waste of time. This series is something akin to Edgar Allan Poe meets Dead Poets Society - mystery and darkness mixed with privilege and antique. So, then, without further adieu, The Raven King.
So, a little background- because there are three books that have come before this one. There are five main characters - Blue, Gansey, Ronan, Adam, and Noah, and each of them has something, well, odd about them. It is their differences that set them apart from everyone around them, and bind them together. The overarching mystery of the series is their search for the long-sleeping Glendower, a mythical Welch king with centuries-old magic. As for each of them - Blue is a seer, Gansey is a scholar, Ronan is a dream thief, Adam is a magical conduit, and Noah... well, spoilers.
What I liked about The Raven King:
*The low-hanging sense of mystery that never really goes away. Oft times with books (or a series) like this, at the end, the mystery is solved, and everyone goes about their merry ways. Not so, here. Our adventurers are left with a bit of disappointment, but also with hope in a bittersweet non-so-resolved resolution. There are definite loose ends - but that's ok with me. It makes me feel like Stiefvater trusts me enough as a reader to get it.
*The characters. The characters. The characters. Oh, and the characters. I cannot say enough about the individual personalities that Stiefvater created for this series. They develop slowly, their unique traits and talents being revealed only when needed, and not before. Just when I started to get frustrated because I was feeling like I didn't know what was going on, Stiefvater revealed the perfect amount of information to both alleviate my frustration, and bring me back into her confidence.
*The setting. So well does Stiefvater integrate details, that I (feel like I) know exactly what this world looks like from Gansy's factory loft to Blue's rambling house, to the town, to the mystical Cabeswater. And she does all this without "telling". Rather, she allows her characters to do her talking for her, so we see these locations through their eyes, rather than through the author's.
What I didn't like about The Raven King:
*I'm hard-pressed to think of anything at all. I had this finale so built up in my head that it would have been easy for it not to measure up to my expectations, but it certainly did. If I have one complaint, it may be that the ending seemed a little rushed after such a long build-up. But honestly, I don't know if there is any way this series could have ended differently.
So, that said, I would recommend this book for teens and adult alike who like moody mysteries tinged with a little bit of magic. Don't be fooled - it's a four-book investment. But definitely worth it if this type of read is your cup of tea. Those who also like strong characters (particularly female ones) will not be disappointed.
If you liked the Raven Cycle books, you might try:
* Daughter of Smoke and Bone trilogy by Laini Taylor - These books are atmospheric and compelling and, though they are a bit more imaginative, they also feature strong characters (particularly female) with some unnatural abilities.
* Fallen series by Lauren Kate - These are definitely dark and moody books, but they feature an interesting cast of characters who are working together - though they may not really like it - to solve an ages-old mystery.
* Goddess War series by Kendare Blake - Though a little more action-forward than the Raven Cycle, these books also bring mythology into reality and integrate the historic with the contemporary, while also featuring a romantic element.
In my next review, I will be featuring the second book in a series I've become completely obsessed with, so standby for The Silkworm by Robert Galbraith.
Thursday, June 23, 2016
All Aboard for... Muuuuurder.
I have a confession to make. For all my years of reading, and the vast collection of books I have in my private collection, Murder on the Orient Express is the very first book I've read penned by the Queen of Crime. But, since I finished it (hmm, a month ago, maybe?) I've read four others. Agatha. Christie. Is. Brilliant. She has such a way with words, with making the solution to the mystery so simple one wonders how on earth one could have missed deducing who the killer was.
I like mysteries. Not particularly bloody, gory, gross mysteries, but ones especially that are period-set and feature a colorful cast of characters are on top of my "to be enjoyed" list. And MotOE fit in with my interests perfectly. It is set in the 1930s, takes place in an interesting, foreign location, and contains many interesting characters, including Christie's famous Belgian detective Hercule Poirot.
For the sake of time and space, and to curb my clumsy attempts at characterizing such an intricate plot, here is the blurb from Goodreads:
I like mysteries. Not particularly bloody, gory, gross mysteries, but ones especially that are period-set and feature a colorful cast of characters are on top of my "to be enjoyed" list. And MotOE fit in with my interests perfectly. It is set in the 1930s, takes place in an interesting, foreign location, and contains many interesting characters, including Christie's famous Belgian detective Hercule Poirot.
For the sake of time and space, and to curb my clumsy attempts at characterizing such an intricate plot, here is the blurb from Goodreads:
Just after midnight, a
snowdrift stopped the Orient Express in its tracks. The luxurious train
was surprisingly full for the time of the year. But by the morning there
was one passenger fewer.
A passenger lay dead in his compartment,
stabbed a dozen times, his door locked from the inside.
Sounds great, right? IT IS! Locked door mysteries are always interesting, and the dickens to solve, if the author does it right. Which, of course, Christie does.
One interesting thing about this book is that it takes place (mostly) in a static setting. It is tricky business to pull off a book that takes place all in one location, but here, it works. There are enough characters, and the writing is snappy enough that the location doesn't really matter. Additionally, there is a lot of mental motion in this book, and Christie assumes her readers are intelligent enough to follow the movement.
I do not particularly care for Poirot as a character. He's stuffy and patronizing, and I find him too hoity-toity for my taste. (Incidentally, it's rumored that Christie herself felt the same way.) However, I can't argue with his brilliant powers of reason. (I can't say his powers of deduction, because, well, you know...) The mystery in this book is one that could only be solved by someone with an excellent memory and ability to connect faded dots - which Poirot has. One must appreciate a little man who can "No, no, cherie" his way through an interview while actually listing all the reasons the dear lady could be the murderer.
Overall, this way a very satisfying book. The mystery itself was compelling, the suspect list varied and colorful, and the resolution surprising. This read was enough to, as I said, make me want to delve deeply into the pool of other Christie offerings. Mystery fans won't be disappointed.
I do not particularly care for Poirot as a character. He's stuffy and patronizing, and I find him too hoity-toity for my taste. (Incidentally, it's rumored that Christie herself felt the same way.) However, I can't argue with his brilliant powers of reason. (I can't say his powers of deduction, because, well, you know...) The mystery in this book is one that could only be solved by someone with an excellent memory and ability to connect faded dots - which Poirot has. One must appreciate a little man who can "No, no, cherie" his way through an interview while actually listing all the reasons the dear lady could be the murderer.
Overall, this way a very satisfying book. The mystery itself was compelling, the suspect list varied and colorful, and the resolution surprising. This read was enough to, as I said, make me want to delve deeply into the pool of other Christie offerings. Mystery fans won't be disappointed.
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