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Dreadnought

4/5. Danny is fifteen and trans and very, very closeted. She happens to be present for the death of a superhero, and when his mantle passes to her, it transitions her.

A lot of this is great. Though in the case of Danny’s deteriorating relationship with her parents, “great” also means scary and infuriating. See also: the greatest transphobic threat to Danny’s safety and happiness in this book is arguably from someone who is supposed to be on her side and who claims the banner of feminism, which is painfully spot on.

I kind of wish this wasn’t a superhero book though? Which is not relevant, I realize, since this book is really just what you’d get if you reimagined a Marvel superhero’s origin story to include transness and queerness then wrote it in prose. That’s not a bad thing! But I am 0% interested in the extended – seriously, lengthy – descriptions of all the punching and kicking nonsense. And only minimally interested in superhero tech. And only a touch more interested in the ethics of superpowers conversation. Been there, done that.

So I guess what I’m saying is that this is a great book from a purely representational perspective – yay straight-faced superhero origin story about a transgirl – but I am not interested in straight-faced superhero origin stories these days.
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Elysium

3/5. How to describe this? A string of vignettes setting personal concerns – illness, disputes, romance -- against glimpses of an alien invasion of Earth and its aftermath. Except each vignette reshuffles the constellation of main characters, changing genders and interrelationships and sociological settings. The main two are sometimes men, sometimes women, sometimes lovers, sometimes siblings, sometimes something else.

This is strange and slippery and very accomplished, on a technical level. The shape of an actual novel doesn’t emerge until the last quarter or so; before that it’s all in the art of the iterative vignettes that circle the same stories from different angles. There’s a lot to unpack here, and a lot of it remains inexplicable to me (WTF with the owl, I ask you?). The parts I do get are playing interesting rhetorical games with science fictional tropes and gender, which I dig.

So I found this rewarding. But it’s also just that little bit not my thing, and I suspect someone whose more interested in metafiction would get more out of this.
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Roses and Rot

3/5. Two sisters, a writer and a dancer, are accepted to an exclusive artist’s fellowship. They want to work on their art and they want to escape memories of their abusive mother, but things get complicated when it emerges that the fellowship has entanglements with the fae.

So life is very very complicated right now, and the things I’m reading only ever get a sliver of my attention. But really, how did I not realize until halfway through this book that it’s a Tam Lin story? Good lord.

Other revelations: I am tired of Tam Lin stories. Which is to say my limited interest in them has been satisfied by reading, like, three in the course of my life and now I’m good.

If you are not tired of Tam Lin stories, this is a pretty good one. It has a lot of first novel problems, but there’s a very human messiness at the heart of this book that works. Something that doesn’t work? Having the protagonist be a writer who writes supposedly good stuff, and sticking passages of her extremely on-the-nose Kat-Valente-without-most-of-the-talent stories in the book. I swear, writing about writers and their Art is so treacherous, I don’t know why anyone does it.
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Europe in Autumn

3/5. In a post EU-collapse Europe, an Estonian chef is recruited into a shadowy currier organization whose expertise is moving things and people across Europe’s ever-shifting borders.

This book got a huge amount of praise when it first came out, and honestly, for the first 2/3 of it, I really didn’t get it? I mean, it was fine, but also slow and pretty aimless. And I particularly didn’t get why so many scifi fans were into this and classified it as one of theirs. I mean, yeah, it had throwaway references to near future technology, and there’s the political speculation, but otherwise it was just a string of spy vignettes.

And then the genre jerked sharply to the left around the 83% mark. I sensed something coming, but totally did not guess what, until it landed and I said “oh! Why didn’t you say that 150 pages ago!”

So. It’s a book about borders. And securing them. And slipping through them. And drawing them and redrawing them and the contours they carve into the societies that straddle them. It’s really quite interesting, in retrospect, and excellent setup for a series. Unfortunately, I don’t have access to audio of that series, so I’m left with a book that didn’t get to the fucking point until the very end and then wandered off leaving me unsatisfied.
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The Underground Railroad

5/5. Cora escapes enslavement and flees to the underground railroad. Which is an actual railroad, actually underground. That takes her on a strange, terrifying trip through several faces of American racism as it deposits her in different eras and different not-quite-true-to-history moments.

This is extraordinary. And brutal. And mesmerizing. And so complex and rewarding that I’ve been thinking about it for a month, and yet seem to have nothing of great weight to say here. Some bullet points:
• The bent history of this is doing something brilliant, but I can’t articulate all of it. Cora goes from antebellum Georgia to South Carolina during an event like the Tuskeegee experiments (which actually happened in Alabama, in a different century), to North Carolina in the grip of extreme racial violence that never quite occurred on that scale. Time doesn’t work right in this book, and the details don’t line up, and I can’t explain it, but that makes this recount of not history more potent a recounting of our real history. How? I don’t know. It does.
• This book is only genre by courtesy. There is a genre conceit to it – the railroad – but the book is generally uninterested in the bend of reality at its heart. Cora thinks once, in passing, that the railroad is a secret so profound she never wants to speak of it. The whole book keeps that silence. It’s metafiction more than genre, is what I think I’m saying.
• Cora had to be a woman. There’s something in her furious, scared, scarred survival that just . . . required it.
• The first fith of this book is set on the plantation before Cora flees, and it shocked me in that I’d never read anything like it before. To be fair, I don’t read historical fiction much at all, but. Somehow I was culturally aware of plantations as organized white supremacy concentration camps where torture and terror ruled – what else could they be – but had never actually been presented with that in fiction. Ever. How is that possible?
• * I also don’t know how this is possible, but this book is not utterly and nihilistically horrid. Racial violence is at Cora’s heels from beginning to end, and it intrudes, eventually, into every space where she thinks she might at last be a little bit safe. The book is a recounting of modes of racism and modes of living with it, and all of them . . . end badly. And yet. And yet. It’s not that it retains a grain of hope. This isn’t quite a pandora’s box book. It’s just . . . she survives. She keeps moving.
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Heroine Complex

3/5. A cute entry in the flourishing subgenre of reimagined superhero stories, this one featuring the lady sidekick to San Francisco’s lady superhero who is her boss and her childhood best friend, and there are demon cupcakes and bloggers and Asian-American cultural issues and karaoke and lesbians and a lot of fashion.

By “cute” up there I met aggressively cute. Take no prisoners cute. So cute it verges on over-engineered.

This is good if you like this sort of thing, but want more women in your superheroes. I like that sort of thing . . . ish, but wasn’t wholly taken in by this. It has that sprint pacing of a story that is prose but really a comic at heart, and like a lot of comics it has that . . . this is going to offend people, but here goes. It has that comics sort of character work where everyone’s feelings go to 11 at all times over all things and everyone is fundamentally irrational. I find that exhausting, and not particularly interesting, so.
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The Lawrence Browne Affair

3/5. He is a reclusive nobleman scientist who is probably on the autistic spectrum; he is a new manservant come to hide from his criminal past.

Nicely executed but not something that will stick with me. It’s not a fair comparison because the two books are about entirely different things, but K.J. Charles’s master/servant is far more complex, painful, and electric. This book isn’t intended to be painful, and its complexity is unobtrusive, undemanding. Which is a feature, not a bug, in a lot of circumstances, so there’s that.
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The Core of the Sun

3/5. Translation from the Finish. A weird (that's a genre designation, to be clear) specfic alternate history where women have been "domesticated" – i.e. genetically and socially altered to be stupid, docile, and of a specific blonde stacked phenotype. I assume it serves as sufficient content notes to say that this is a society where depriving a man of heterosexual sex is considered a violation of his human rights. Our protagonist was born with the right look, but the wrong mind. She can pass as an "eloi," but she's actually a morlock, or one of the women too smart to be allowed to reproduce (yes, that's an HG Wells reference). Anyway, all of that is backdrop to an exceedingly strange story about her addiction to capsaicin and the synesthetic, transcendental high she can get from it.

So let's talk about the omegaverse, since I spent most of this book thinking about it. The thing is. The thing is. I have always been dubious of the omegaverse, occasionally entertained by it, occasionally impressed by it. And this book made me think about it a lot because it's another universe where a gender's sociopolitical inferiority – and its status as sexual and reproductive slaves in all but name – is specifically rooted in biology. In actual biology, I mean, not in the largely illusory things that are supposed to define the difference between men and women in our world. Women in this book are genuinely unintelligent and genuinely unable to care for themselves; it's lack of schooling, yes, but it's also physiological. Omegas in a lot of "traditional" omegaverse are physiologically programmed for social and sexual submissiveness and passivity to the point where consent and autonomy no longer have any meaning.

And I just. I have come to be pretty certain that a universe in which rape culture is coded into biology isn't going to be telling me anything particularly new or interesting or insightful about our universe, in which rape culture is encoded into . . . culture.

This book didn't (though it was doing a number of other interesting things . . . did I mention the capsaicin addiction? And our protagonist's missing sister, and a last-minute turn to the . . . weirdly fantastical?). And very, very, very few omegaverse stories ever have, either, though many of them explicitly claim to be doing so. Which is not a huge surprise, but it was nice that this book worked me through my thought process on it.
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Whistlestop: My Favorite Stories from Presidential Campaign History

4/5. What it sounds like. Yeah yeah, I'm a nerd, don't I get enough of this stuff already, blah blah blah.

But let me explain something about John Dickerson, journalist, pundit, historian. He's an extremely successful history nerd who has the air of someone from a different era, and his sense of humor is – I mean, he's a walking dad joke. But here's what I actually like about him.

He quotes women.

Not just about women's suffrage or "women's issues." Not occasionally. But all the time. In every context. Talking about politics. Rendering their political opinions. Being involved in power. He quotes women senators from seventy years ago and women convention floor bosses. He just . . . quotes women. Like they're a part of history. I had no idea how extraordinary this was until I read it, and was astonished.

I could get all psychological here and theorize that it's because of Dickerson's mother, who is a legend in her own right, and who had an extraordinary impact on him. He wrote a book about her, in fact, so clearly he is used to the idea of women being movers in history. But the truth is, I don't care why he does it, I'm just glad he does.
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Winter Tide

4/5. How to explain this? It's Lovecraft mythos transformative work. Aphra's people spend some years on land when they're young before living out their long lives in the sea. Until the U.S. government raided their town in 1928 and interned them all. Decades later, Aphra and her brother are the only survivors of the camps, and they go home in the company of an FBI agent to reluctantly do work for the government that destroyed their world.

You need zero fingers to count the number of fucks I give about Lovecraft. Never read it, never going to, don't care, don't care, don't care. Also, I had not read the free online novelette that is the prequel to this book; I didn't even know it existed until I started going wait a minute…this is assuming I've read something that I haven't. Something other than Lovecraft, even.

So this book had a hard uphill climb, is what I'm saying. And yet . . . and yet . . .

It's strange and a little chilly and extremely conscious of who its monsters are. Hint: they aren't the Lovecraftian horrors from the deep, they're us. There's a lot of time in libraries in this book, and time performing magic in groups; lots of still scenes while people rub complexly and uncomfortably against each other. This is roughly 80% character work by volume, and an indeterminate amount Lovecraft stuff. I don't even know enough about Lovecraft to more than guess what is canon and what is invention. Except I'm pretty sure Lovecraft's work wasn't a sustained, pained meditation on the complex faces of privilege and oppression and monstrousness.

Which is why I'm not reading that, but did read this.
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The Girl Who Drank the Moon by Kelly Barnhill

4/5. Middle grade. Every year the townspeople leave a baby to die in the forest to appease the evil witch. The evil witch, who has no idea why they keep doing this terrible thing, finds the babies new and happy homes in other lands. Until the one baby that she accidentally enmagics…and keeps.

A lovely, sad, charming book. It's all miniature dragon who thinks he's absolutely enormous! Sweet-tempered swamp monster named Glerk! Found family! Oh also women imprisoned for their madness grief and predators who consume sorrow and centuries of oppression coming to a head.

A little bit Patricia Mckillip and a little bit Kat Valente, and a lot about being . . . oppressed is not quite the right word. Crystallized in time. Held back by parents who think they know best, or by actual oppressors. And the sometimes explosive escape.
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Amatka

4/5. My vacation* book. A woman goes to a neighboring colony for work, gets involved with her (lady) housemate, and discovers that there is something very, very wrong with their world. Oh, and by the way, this is on a planet(?) where objects only hold their shape/meaning if they are properly and repeatedly labeled with the right word. Trust me, it makes more sense in context. Well . . . it makes more thematic sense.

This is weird and wonderful and requires a lot of work. It's in translation (from Swedish), but it's a very skillful one, as far as I can tell. Which is necessary for a slim, intense, calculated book like this, where words really count. I keep thinking about this book – about how it intersects language and oppression, and about its explicable-if-you-work-hard ending. And the worldbuilding – it's spare but sharp as a knife, as the contours of this authoritarian democracy come into relief. For example, there's a wonderful detail that seemed to open up the whole book for me, about how poetry serves an entirely different function in this world than it does in ours.

And I really like the protagonist's slide into disobedience. Her inability to play along anymore is part old personal history, part recent stress and it makes sense. But not in a paint-by-numbers tragedy-happens-to-a-plucky-person way. More like . . . yes. That is how you slide a tiny bit out of step with your community, then a tiny bit more, and a tiny bit more, and suddenly, bam. You're in a different world.

Content notes: Discussion of reproductive coercion, some forced medical stuff by the authorities, etc.

*Vacation: in which we went to see my dying father and I don't know if I'll ever see him again, and also I retired my dog and settled her with her puppyraisers and I don't know if we'll ever see her again, and then we did some hiking. Do I know how to decompress from work or what?
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Carpe Demon

3/5. Demon-fighting soccer mom.

There is a running joke in my household about my TBR pile. I was trying to find something to read towards the end of June [N.B.: I billed more hours in June 2017 than in any other month of my career] and my TBR was . . . dire. I was scrolling, and it was, "apocalypse . . . apocalypse with zombies . . . reproductive dystopia . . . ooh I think teenagers burn to death in that one." Yeah.

So I read this instead! Which is an extremely fluffy, comfy book about a suburban SAHM dealing with demons. She has a great best friend and a cute teenager and a dark past demon hunting for the church. Like you do. This goes the expected places – it's subliminally about the ways homemaking and running a family are like preventing the apocalypse – but it's also breezy and fun. And would make a great TV show, actually. Would watch. While collapsed half-dead with a glass of wine at the end of the week.
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For Real

DNF. M/M romance about the uptight emergency services doctor who sort of accidentally picks up a nineteen-year-old top at a kink mixer.

I should have liked this. It's well-observed and thoughtful and unashamed of its kinks, of which it has many. And it's playing with tropes in a way I appreciate – the financial and class and experiential power in this relationship is all with the sub, which is frankly refreshing. But it also hit a lot of my hard cringe embarrassment squicks. There's the classic 'mistaken for father and son,' for one thing.

The thing is, though, that I'm having one of those years where I don't seem to like half the things I'm reading, and I have no idea if that has anything to do with the actual books. Instead of just being an artifact of the year I'm having. As an example, June is on pace to be the month with the highest billable hours in my entire career, and my father is about to die, and my dog is retiring. So what the fuck do I know at this point? Not much.
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The Whitefire Crossing

2/5. Fantasy about the smuggler hired to get a runaway mage across the mountains to the sort of rival magical city.

Meh. It's not just that this book alternates between first person and close third, which is one of those things you can totally do . . . if you have a reason for it. There is no reason here.

It's not just that. It's mostly that there's a pattern to the women in this book, such as they are. They're either tortured and murdered to fuel male angst . . . or kept as an unwitting hostage by one man to control another . . . or lied to and shuffled offstage the moment the plot starts happening to keep them safe or . . . actually, I think I've run out of women.
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Six Wakes

3/5. Locked spaceship mystery in which six clones wake up with missing memories on a generation ship lightyears from earth in the bloody wreckage of their prior deaths.

When I say that this book is "fun" and "a palate-cleanser" it should be understood that includes stabbings. Lots of stabbings. And six cagey, pissed off people running around an enclosed space alternately feeding and attempting to kill each other. There's this vague philosophical underbelly going on about the things you might expect – immortality and the ways it changes you – but let's be real, I was here for stabbings and plot twists and revenge schemes.

But I mostly wanted to talk about the fact that the author reads the commercial audio. This is a thing that is happening more often, and I get why it seems like a good idea. But you know what? Audio narration is a skill, and it takes practice, and probably also some innate talent. Mary Robinette Kowal has been doing it for a while, and she was pretty good reading her own stuff. Same with Emma Newman, who has extensive experience and who really knocked her own Planetfall out of the park (and who has the advantage of a lovely voice to work with). Lafferty does podcasts, but that really isn't the same thing as performative reading, and well. She's just not that good. She's also not bad, but she's a little affectless, a little forced. And this is how she'll get better, I guess, but it really pointed out how a mediocre narrator can make awkward writing truly thud. The dialogue in this book is, well. How do I put this? A really good, seasoned performer probably could have saved a lot of it with effort. Lafferty could not.
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When the Moon Was Ours

2/5. A girl with a complicated past grows roses from a wound in her wrist; the local "witch" girls want the roses for their own ends.

Well, on the plus side, this is a great example of a book where representation works so much better when it's not done on the 'one and only' model. There are two trans characters in this book who are in very different places in re their identities, their bodies, and their transitions. And because there are two of them, it is so much easier to take each of them where they are, as a person, rather than – unfairly but inevitably – as some sort of comment on trans people in general, or transition in general, or or or.

On the other hand, this book is 70% symbolism by volume, with a plot tossed over top. These are not the proportions I like my fiction to have. I spent this whole book like, "Wait, that wasn't a metaphor, the pumpkin literally turned to glass? Oh-kay . . . what does that mean? What do the paper moons mean? What about the – oh, for fuck's sake."

Either this novel really ought to have been novelette length, at most, or it is so so so so not for me. Or both.
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The Iron Hunt

3/5. Urban fantasy about the loner woman with demons who live in her tattoos trying to slot herself into a life with a partner and friends while the potential apocalypse comes.

Yeah, so, most people probably know Liu now through her comics, but I knew her from a long-ago series of recs from several different people that left me with the strong impression that she writes delightfully batshit stuff with, like, hot gargoyle-on-lady action. So I finally grabbed this book – being one of the few options available in audio – and. I am saddened to report there is no hot gargoyle-on-lady action here. I mean, it's nice? There's lots of plot and cool worldbuilding and oodles of backstory barely hinted at. And a central relationship that is established and quietly awesome (he's so respectful of her, it's actually confusing!)

So I went and looked at Liu's website and it turns out this series is listed as "urban fantasy," and she has another series listed as "paranormal romance" which I suspect is what was recced to me.

And here's my question: why oh why oh why can't I have lots of plot and worldbuilding and interesting backstory and hot gargoyle-on-lady action? This does not seem so hard!*

And yet. Genre rules, kids.

*Aside from the gargoyle dick.
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Amberlough

4/5. Alt universe that I'm calling fantasy for lack of a better label. A queer intelligence operative reluctantly turns traitor against his government and supports the rise of a conservative coup, partly in an attempt to get a way out for himself and his not-really-ex, the burlesque-dancing drug smuggler.

Oof, this is good. It has the ugly brutality of a really good spy novel (the only sort of spy novel I can generally stomach). And, well. It miiiiiight not have been my best idea to read this book – about the things freaks and queers do to survive the fall of democracy and the rise of fascism – on the train every morning on my way to work. But I did, and in the end I'm not sorry.

This is sad and angry, and it has a big dose of if only they'd talk to each other, and I have complicated feelings about the ending, which is spoiler ). But I'm not mad about it because it turns out this will be a trilogy, and also it was . . . earned. In several different senses.

One of the smartest things this book does is introduce Cordelia – the desperately poor former prostitute – as a POV character. She's brought in as a beard at one point, and in most spy stories she'd be disposable. In this one her arc is towards increasing agency, increasing anger, increasing righteousness, increasing courage. She brings a really good angle to this book, which would otherwise be far too much about well-connected, very rich men moving chess pieces around a board.

Recommended. Not for the faint of heart.

Content notes: Torture. Written in a style that, were it filmed, would manage to be disturbing without actually showing you much.
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Beyond the Grave: the Right Way and the Wrong Way of Leaving Money to Your Children and Others

3/5. A quick, plain language review of all the major estate topics – how to think about division, trusts, property, pets, second marriages, estrangement, etc. with an emphasis on the interpersonal and familial aspects of inheritance planning. I never took trusts and estates in law school, which I have come to regret. Particularly now that I'm probably going to need a living trust in the next couple years. Adulthood, what the fuck?

Yes yes, I realize that I actually read this book because my father Is dying and it was this weird free association sideways think way of coping with that, what of it.

Anyway, this is genuinely useful, if deeply heteronormative. And also just . . . weird? I mean, I shouldn't be surprised to discover just how tied up the notion of traditional family – and specifically blood relation – is with the passing of money. But boy. There are very few of the many, many anecdotes in this book that aren't about someone believing as a law of the universe that marriage and sharing DNA entail the intergenerational transfer of money, and any other arrangement is morally wrong. The intensity of this belief, the unthinkingness of it, it's just . . . weird to me.

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