Tag: Fantasy

Review: The Blacktongue Thief

Published by Simeon on May 15, 2021

I think I am rare as a writer, in that I approach storytelling world-first. Whatever processes occur in my brain to create ideas, those usually begin with a setting. The characters come from there, and soon the story follows. As such, I thoroughly enjoy it when I encounter a secondary world that lives and breathes on the page.

Such was the case with Christopher Buehlman’s upcoming fantasy, The Blacktongue Thief. I was unfamiliar with the author when I received the galley. But I could tell that Tor was really pushing it, and there was already some decent buzz even months out. So I decided to give it a whirl. And I am incredibly happy that I did!

Kinch Na Shannack is a thief. A fairly competent one, taught in a school of the Takers Guild. He knows all the tricks, and some minor magics besides. But he also owes the guild for his education, and he has run behind on his debts. For someone in his situation, the outcomes may vary, but they are rarely pleasant. But then the guild offers him a solution. A mission to accompany Galva — a knight from the brutal goblin wars, handmaiden to the goddess of death, and all-around badass — on a journey to a distant land invaded by giants. Kinch jumps at the opportunity to clear up his debt, even if his companion is less than thrilled. However, they both soon discover there is more to the mission — and the Takers Guild — than meets the eye.

The Blacktongue Thief just oozes atmosphere. The worldbuilding is incredibly dense, brimming with different countries, peoples, customs, dialects, religions, music, and customs. It all lives and breathes, yet somehow never overwhelms the story. Or the voice of the quippy rascal that is Kinch. He easily makes it into the pantheon of rogues turned into unlikely heroes, and his awful sense of humor and klepto instincts are a constant delight. As an aside, the author himself reads the audio version, and the Irish accent only adds more flavor to the mix.

The structure of the book is old school adventure fantasy. Kinch and Galva’s journey is told through episodic adventures, each adding to the world and moving the story forward. It allows the reader to explore the lands of The Blacktongue Thief, and the weirdos that inhabit them. Of course, this also means that some of the stakes feel a bit small. Characters are introduced and deftly developed in a few short paragraphs, only to disappear in the next 50 pages. But while I would have enjoyed some more time with some of them, the ones who matter get more than their fair share of screen time.

There is a brash energy to The Blacktongue Thief that I did not know I was missing from my recent fantasy reading. While it touches on the traditions of books like The Lies of Locke Lamora, it does so with an abandon that makes it feel truly unique. That energy seeps into the worldbuilding as well. The lands of “kin” (humans) are surrounded by the terrifying goblins and the threatening giants. Magic infuses everything, and it can be both commonplace cantrips, or high spells granting mastery over life, death, and time. Everyone has some enchanted weapon or tattoo, or knows where to go pay for some. In a way, it feels almost a little Dungeons and Dragons, but the book never goes into RPG territory.

All in all, The Blacktongue Thief is the fantasy I did not know I needed, but can’t wait to read more of. Even though it is first in a series, the book has a complete arc that opens the world to more adventures to come. And I am excited to read more of Christopher Buehlman, now that he has tattooed his voice in my imagination.

Review: Black Sun

Published by Simeon on May 5, 2021

Award season is upon us, even if the award ceremonies themselves have been pushed back. But with more time to catch up on the nominees, I am trying to execute my plan of reading every novel and novella, nominated for the Hugo, Nebula, and Locus awards. As it turns out, I had already gone through over half of them before they were even up for any awards, which only made my job easier. But some I had to go out of my way to check out.

One such title is Rebecca Roanhorse’s Black Sun.

I haven’t had much luck with this author so far. Having never read her original work, my first introduction to her was through the utterly dismal Star Wars: Resistance Reborn. Ostensibly meant to bridge the controversial The Last Jedi to the catastrophically bad The Rise of Skywalker, that book did… nothing. It had no coherent plot, no actual connection to what came after, and overall — no observable reason to exist. At the time, I was angry on the author’s behalf. It was obvious that when it came to what story she could tell, her hands had been tied behind her back, broken, amputated, then waved at her in mockery by Disney.

But a bad first impression is a bad first impression. As much as I hate the modern Star Wars canon and the no-risk approach Disney has taken to it, it’s impossible not to attach the author to a mediocre work in my mind.

Enter Black Sun. A novel nominated for virtually every award you can name off the top of your head. A “pre-Columbian American” inspired secondary world certainly sounds fresh, and the Hugo and Nebula rarely go for epic fantasy. All signs of something special. Despite the bad taste Resistance Reborn left in my mouth, I was excited.

Black Sun is not something special.

In fact, I’d argue that if one fails to read any promotional material or the back blurb, and just jumps straight into the novel, they will have a hard time recognizing the pre-Columbian inspiration at all. It’s not that the book is bad, it is just… somewhat generic.

The story takes us to the continent of Meridian, where three great cities rule the land in an uneasy alliance. The city of Tova is the religious heart of the land, and a generation ago, a great massacre rooted out most of the followers of the Raven god. However, in a distant land, the thirst for vengeance survived. And now Serapio — a young man molded into an avatar of the God — comes back to bring retribution to the Sun Priest whose predecessor laid waste to his mother’s ancient cult.

Black Sun follows three main points of view. Two of those are Serapio and Xiala — a disgraced member of a reclusive people with a mystical connection to the ocean, who now captains a small trade ship. She is hired to bring Serapio to Tova, and their destinies become intertwined. In Tova itself, the new Sun Priest is a young woman named Naranpa. Originating from the poorest class of the city, she struggles for acceptance among the backstabbing politics of the priesthood.

Or… so we are told. Black Sun commits several major sins of the epic fantasy genre all at once. For one thing, it is not terribly epic. The entire book is a setup, leading to an extremely rushed “blink and you’ll miss it” climax. What’s more, entire storylines are simply pointless. Naranpa had the potential to be an interesting character in the heart of political intrigue. Instead, she is completely passive or inefficient, perpetually surprised by obvious plot turns and doing nothing to avoid them. Serapio himself is an interesting idea — a “chosen one” who has been born for one purpose and fully accepts that. So far great, except that purpose is muddied and unclear, morally confused and ultimately boring. Which leaves us with Xiala. She is a wise-cracking rogue with a troubled past. The end.

I don’t want to unduly hate on Black Sun, but I genuinely experienced nothing about it worth the praise it’s been getting. Yes, it is very inclusive. Kudos. So are a ton of other books these days. It has a unique setting… Except it doesn’t, not really. It has a generic bronze-age fantasy setting with some vaguely non-European themes. Nothing like the thick and all-encompassing South African vibes of a book like Evan Winter’s A Rage of Dragons for example.

The book certainly has its moments. The opening scene is truly impressive. The depictions of magic are often beautiful. But that is not enough. The worldbuilding is poor, the characterization is barely there, and the plotting requires you to probably go through two more of these bricks before paying off. All in all, I do not know what Black Sun is doing among some of the other nominees for major awards this year. And while I will likely force myself to read the sequel, I would really need a significant improvement in it to get me to pick up book 3.

My Top Five Favorite Books of the Year

Published by Simeon on October 23, 2020

For the holiday season, the bookstore I work at is making a display of all the employees’ favorite books of 2020. Each of us had to pick 5 favorite to put on there. My own list was pretty extensive, so choices had to be made. In the process of deciding what to choose, I left out sequels such as Harrow the Ninth, or massive cultural successes that obviously didn’t need my help to sell, such as Isabel Wilkerson’s Caste.

With that in mind, I am very happy with the end result. It unintentionally ends up promoting small press, debut authors, and queer identities, and this feels like the little bit that I can do to help this year suck a tiny bit less.

To clarify, this is not a ranked list. I love each of those five titles for different reasons, and I am not looking to pit them against one another. Feel free to click on each title to read my review.

Anyway, without further ado…

Simeon’s Top 5 Books of 2020:

Docile, by K.M. Szpara

Mexican Gothic, by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

The Only Good Indians, by Stephen Graham Jones

The First Sister, by Linden A. Lewis

Surrender Your Sons, by Adam Sass

Review: Piranesi

Published by Simeon on September 14, 2020

There is something to be said about artists who only want to tell a few select stories, and take their time crafting them. Something profoundly Not-of-This-Time. Dare I say, something fey. Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell took over a decade to create. It inevitably became a literary phenomenon when it came out. A lush, meticulously crafted Regency epic, mimicking the language and sensibilities of the time, while adding a dose of Faerie magic to the Napoleonic Wars, it was one of the great novels of its decade.

That it should take Clarke 16 more years before she gave us a new book, feels almost correct. But Piranesi is nothing like what I personally expected that book to be.

The House is the world. Or perhaps the world is encompassed by the House. Its endless Halls and Vestibules span for thousands of miles. The highest floors are obscured by clouds, while the lowest drown in oceans. Only celestial bodies can be seen through its windows. Grand, empty atriums sprawl eternal, populated with countless statues.

There are only fifteen humans that have ever lived in the world, and only two of them live still. One is Piranesi, though that is not his name. He is an explorer and an acolyte of the House. He has learned the arcane calendar of its oceanic tides, and the meaning of its many statues. He has walked hundreds of Halls in each direction, and knows their geography intimately. The House speaks to him through symbolism and circumstance. It feeds and loves him.

The Other is a scientist. He is Piranesi’s only friend, though he is seldom seen, and where he goes when they are apart, no one knows. The rest of the humans of the world are but skeletons. Piranesi takes care of them for the House, has named them, and loves them as if they were alive.

Then there is the sixteenth person. The invisible reader for whom Piranesi keeps his journals. And if the numbers on these journals make no sense, or feature entries he does not recall writing, on subjects he does not recall knowing, well the sixteenth will have to do deal with that.

Piranesi is a melancholic and introspective mythology of loneliness. In a strange and — I am certain — unintended way, it is almost commentary on the times we live in. As its titular character roams the empty Halls and interprets the House’s will and meaning through signs that mean nothing to anyone else, the reader is hypnotized by the near-religious irrationality of the narrative. There is infinite kindness and innocence in the way Piranesi sees the world, and even as we try to understand the mystical rules of the House, we are tempted to accept his childlike interpretation of them.

This is a book about magic, but in no way remotely similar to Clarke’s previous epic. For one thing, it is barely a quarter of the size, but that is only the beginning. Where Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell was plot-driven, Piranesi is an intimate exploration of one man’s inner world. Even if much of what transpires in the story is real, it still symbolizes the intangible universe within a lonely yet endlessly optimistic individual. The quiet serenity of the House is a search for meaning where none might exist. But for Piranesi it is the search that creates that meaning. And for the reader, it is going through this journey with him that makes the book a masterpiece.

Review: Middlegame

Published by Simeon on July 28, 2020

As part of my Hugo 2020 marathon, I finally got through Seanan McGuire’s massive epic Middlegame. It’s not that I didn’t want to, honestly. But I only recently got acquainted with McGuire’s work, and I feared that I might be oversaturated with it. I am happy to report that I was wrong to worry.

Middlegame is massive. Not just in page-count, but in scope, and in a way I genuinely like. The story begins decades ago (but really, over a century ago), with the creation of two unique children. In a world where centuries-old alchemists practice their miracles in secret, a brilliant and monstrous genius — himself the creation of another — seeks to achieve what even the mistress he killed could not: embody a guiding principle of the universe in human form. Twins Roger and Dodger are the two halves of the Doctrine of Ethos. Placed in adoptive families under surveillance, they are meant to grow apart from each other. This way, by the time their powers manifest, they would be easier to control.

Except, they find each other in the space between their minds.

Middlegame follows Roger and Dodger from their 7th year until present day, when they’re in their late 20s. The narrative is omniscient, jumping perspectives between the two protagonists, as well as the villains trying to control their destinies. McGuire is amazing at this type of storytelling. She often flat out tells the reader of tragedies still to come, only to deliver them later in unexpected ways.

The story goes to some genuinely dark places, and while I am not one for content warnings, it’s important to know what you’re getting yourself into. There is a whole lot of fairly gruesome murder, and a particularly grueling scene of self-harm. The author doesn’t do this lightly, or for shock value, but still, it’s important to know in advance that this is not a YA adventure.

The violence and tragedy underline another theme of the book, which is alternate timelines. McGuire deftly spreads out signs that the twins are on a path that has led them to failure and death many times. And they have rewritten their fate over and over, trying to retain even a fraction of knowledge that might save them next time. The more they mature, the more their story focuses on the power that they embody. Middlegame begins as a tale of two children learning how to be what they are without hurting each other. But by the end, the magical aspects of the world are driving the vehicle full speed. And for the longest time it seems like they’re driving it into a concrete wall.

Roger and Dodger are wonderful characters, particularly Dodger. She is a math prodigy, and while not explicitly labeled as such, certain aspects of her are coded as autistic. McGuire develops her brilliantly, both as herself, and in the context of her sometimes-toxic, but always loving relationship with her more mundane brother. Roger himself is more subtle, more relatably flawed, at least at first. But the story also follows him more closely than it does his sister, and so we get to see how divinity impacts them on a deeply human level.

I have seen people criticizing the book for its length. The way I see it, this story could either be a very short action adventure, or the sprawling coming of age saga that it is, with no middle ground. As I thoroughly love McGuire’s writing and characterization, I didn’t mind the sprawling coming of age saga version, but I can see how others might be more focused on story. Even so, the book ultimately delivers on that as well. It just asks you to stick with it. And in its defense, it never drags its heels. As the twins grow, their lives never cease to be compelling.

All in all, I really loved Middlegame. It makes grand promises, and then surprises you by actually delivering on them. It does so in a single volume too, raising the stakes to a point where sequels would be impossible. And even if I love a good series, there is a lot to be said about solid stand-alone storytelling. Definitely recommended reading, with some content warnings.

P.S. The audiobook is read by Amber Benson, a.k.a. Tara from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Not that this is terribly relevant, but it was an added plus for me.

Reading Update 07/22/20 – Catching the Late Hugo Train

Published by Simeon on July 22, 2020

It occurred to me, out of nowhere, that I have never actually managed to read all Hugo Award nominees in time for the ceremony. And of course, ten days out is exactly when one should decide to catch up. But I am not letting things like the objective passage of time stop me! By necessity, I am only limiting myself to novels, though I have already read some of the novella nominees as well.

The nominees for best novel are:

The City in the Middle of the Night, by Charlie Jane Anders

Gideon the Ninth, by Tamsyn Muir

The Light Brigade, by Kameron Hurley

A Memory Called Empire, by Arkady Martine

Middlegame, by Seanan McGuire

The Ten Thousand Doors of January, by Alix E. Harrow

As of right now, I have read Gideon the Ninth and A Memory Called Empire. Currently, I am halfway through The City in the Middle of the Night, and then I think I will try The Light Brigade, since I have been meaning to read it for a while now. Hopefully I will be able to get to at least 4/6 before the awards are announced.

You Will (Almost) Certainly Disappoint Everyone With Your Prequel

Published by Simeon on July 17, 2020

Recently, I reviewed Suzanne Collins’ The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes. It was a Hunger Games novel, so I wasn’t going to miss it. I ended up quite enjoying it, because it was focusing on a character, rather than events. But back when I first heard about it, my reaction was an exasperated sigh.

I hate prequels. I hate them with a fiery passion. I respect the fact that not everyone feels as I do, and for some people returning to a beloved world is enough to be happy. But I am not wired this way. I enjoy that, to be sure, but my main drug is story. And here is the thing about prequels: I know what happens next.

There is a pretty solid argument to be made that the very concept of a prequel is messing with the dramatic rhythm of a work. The emotional punchline is by default muted. Sure, we are invested (smirk) in the trade disputes around the blockade of the planet Naboo in The Phantom Menace. Or the mystery of the clone army in Attack of the Clones. Or even Sidious’ machinations in Revenge of the Sith. But really, what we want to see, is the rise of the Empire and Anakin turning evil.

Except, we already know those things will happen. The Empire will rise. Anakin will become Darth Vader. And then Sidious will be killed by his apprentice, who will die saving his son. Thus apparently redeeming himself for being the galaxy’s shittiest parent.

This makes any potential emotional punch of the Star Wars prequels – even were they better written – immediately lessened. And what’s worse, we now have the bad taste of those not-awesome movies that mars our experience of the original trilogy. And this applies to any work of art. Often the prequel will create context that damages the original story in some way, and for what? I don’t want to sympathize with the villain. I don’t need to know how many adventures the protagonist’s now-dead parents had. It only makes me annoyed that they died so easily before the story even began.

I think it is likely easier to write a prequel than a sequel. You are working with a pre-existing world, and leaning on a completed story that demands a certain direction. Furthermore, publishers LOVE prequels. For established works they are certain cash cows, and even for less successful stories, they are, by definition, low-risk.

But here is the thing. Even when people like a story enough that they are willing to read anything related to it, they would still never truly love your prequel. And they will especially fail to love the diminishing returns of your prequel series. We know what comes after. Sooner or later we are just looking at our watches and waiting for it to just happen.

I did a little mental inventory to see if there have been any prequels I have genuinely loved. Weirdly enough, the most recent example I started this post with, is actually among the successful ones. The Star Wars sequel trilogy was far more exciting to me than the prequel one. It had never occurred to me to even try and read anything about James Potter, even before Joanne turned full TERF evil. But I did enjoy the flawed Cursed Child. The Dune prequels were… not awesome. The Wheel of Time’s New Spring left me gasping from boredom.

Our entertainment culture is driven more and more by profit, and seems to be increasingly terrified of taking risks. Literature, luckily, is low-stakes enough, and by its very nature can’t survive without new voices. But the moment something becomes successful, it is expected to keep proliferating. And hey, if they are offering you bags of money to write prequels, you should absolutely take their bags of money! The easiest way to do so is to look back. ‘How did we get here?’

But here is the thing. You already told us how. In the original story. If we needed to know more in order to understand it, you’d have told us then. And this is before considering that adding more (and rarely necessary) details only has the potential to mar the impression of the source material.

In most cases, prequels add nothing but disappointment and diminishing returns to my experience. I accept that this is not the case for everyone, but I dare you to show me a single work where a prequel was better or more exciting than the sequels. In the meantime, I will continue hoping that Collins takes us further into the future of Panem and the inevitable collapse of its inept people’s government.

Reckoning

Published by Simeon on June 26, 2020

I have been thinking about how to approach the torrent of revelations coming out of Twitter in recent days. Not because I am in any way close to any of the people involved, but rather because I felt I needed to. And I fully recognize that this situation is not about me, and my thoughts are unlikely to enrich it. But this blog is part therapy, and I hope I also don’t cause harm by speaking on the subject.

Several notable authors of Science Fiction and Fantasy have been dragged out for various forms of harassment of women, non-binary folks, and queer people they perceived as vulnerable. Those include Myke Cole, Sam Sykes, Mark Lawrence, Max Temkin, and Warren Ellis. Some of them I’ve met in person, others I know only through their writing or reputation. None has made any overtly bad impression on me.

And I don’t for a second struggle believing the accusations leveled against them.

It’s not even about believing the accusers in this case. Most of these men have freely admitted to their actions, with varying degrees of accepting responsibility. Some have ran away from Twitter, preferring to act like victims. Others are so far standing firm and accepting their punishment, whatever that’s worth to anyone.

It made me consider my own behavior. As a pretty firmly established gay man who hasn’t been on any kind of “prowl” in quite a few years now, I have never considered myself any kind of threat to women. More than that, in my few and limited interactions with female and queer authors, I’ve made it a point to be respectful and considerate.

But I have no way of knowing how successful I have been. I have witnessed autograph tables of accomplished, wonderfully talented women stay empty. Meanwhile, one lane over, a male author would have several lines struggling to fit into the allotted space. I have been in some of those big lines, rather than the empty ones. Of course, sometimes the reason was the particular names involved, rather than gender.

But this raises another question — if a not-inconsiderable number of the most successful writers in the field are men, do they not have an even bigger responsibility to make our shared spaces feel safer and more nurturing for women and queer folks? And what message does it send to these people, when they come to conventions and conferences, only to be met by crude jokes, belittling behavior, and other forms of often overt harassment? Because let me tell you, a super buff dude grabbing me in his lap while telling me he wants to pee on me, would NOT make me want to return to that space.

We are all capable of calling this out. And I believe we are responsible to do so. As fans, as hopeful writers — scary though that might be to our proto-careers — and as people who believe in human dignity and every person’s right to feel safe in any public space they enter. We can uplift underrepresented voices, so that these public spaces are not ran by drunken cops or writer dynasty legacies.

And in the mean time, it takes more than a Twitter repentance. Many of these dudes are fairly successful in their careers. So, put your money where your apologies are. Make meaningful steps to help women, POC, and queer authors. If you need an apology tour, go donate to a charity, or check yourself into rehab. It is high time that “taking responsibility” means more than 240 symbols on a social network.

Reading Update 06/24/20 – Trans Authors, And Where to Find Them

Published by Simeon on June 24, 2020

As I have already written here, I was less than happy with J.K. Rowling’s continuing quest to invalidate trans people. Of course, Rowling is in a tax bracket where nothing mortal can really impact her, but the same is not true of the people she is putting in danger through her willful ignorance.

There is very little I can do to help, other than be an ally myself, but I found a nice way to express my feelings.

Recently, I started work at my local indie bookstore (“Unabridged Books” in Chicago). It is smack in the middle of our gay neighborhood Boystown, so I convinced them to set up a display of trans and non-binary authors of fantasy and science fiction. So far the support has been overwhelming, and we are ordering other titles that we didn’t have in stock at the time.

If you too feel grossed out by Rowling’s transphobia, and wonder what you can do, supporting a SFF trans or non-binary author is a great first step.

Working on the Craft: Letters From Inside the Story

Published by Simeon on June 22, 2020

This exercise asks the writer to take a story they are working on, then write a letter from one of its characters to another. The letter is never to be sent, so it needs to be deeply personal. It is never to become part of the actual story, so it’s more an exploration of the characters than anything else. I went full sap, while also trying to keep things ambiguous. Wouldn’t want to spoil my future NYT bestseller, yunno!

I marvel at my own capacity to write these words without breaking down. I have to face the truth of what is about to happen to you, and I find that I cannot.

I lost you once, all those years ago, and…

No, this is untrue. I have to start being honest with myself, even if it’s far too late for that.

I lost you for the first time all those years ago. And then I kept losing you over and over again, every second that you stood beside me. Beautiful. Kind. Unwitting. Broken. I could not tell you what had happened to you, for that would have been a loss far more final than all the rest combined. I could not give you the truth. So I had to watch you stumble in confusion, through a life you were no longer fit for.

He broke you, back then. I try reminding myself of that, and it rings hollow.

I told myself this lie over and over, even as I knew that it was a lie. Perhaps I accepted it for so long, because I took my cues from you. Your entire existence is a lie, after all, yet in the moments of lucidity you scrounge from the shattered mess of your mind, you seem happy. Content. You are incomplete, and it ruins my heart every time I see the knowledge of it on your face. But you are also content. Content to be with me.

I was not content. I never could be, with what was left of you. So I blamed him. Over and over, until my hatred of what he did to you seemed all that sustained me. But it is the end now, and I am about to lose you for the last time. There is no more point in lying to myself. He did not break you. He saved what could be saved of you. He did it in a rash, stupid, harmful way, but he had no choice. We all had left him no choice.

But now what happened to you back then is about to happen again. And I find that I no longer know if I have it in me to survive this. There is still a chance, maybe. He says there is. I have spent so long hating him, that I don’t know how to trust him. And I have seen this before. I have seen you before. What you become. How you have to be stopped.

It sounds stupid, and empty, and cheap now, because it is so very late. I should have said the words before. I should have told you the truth and given you the strength you needed to accept it. I should have…

These are the words then. I love you. I did then, and I have every moment since, even if you no longer knew it. A part of me hopes you still did. Another part knows that it doesn’t matter. Loving you was the one thing that made me feel capable of kindness. Loving you was the one thing that made me human. And even though I railed and raged when you were taken from me, I never lost loving you.

And until all hope is dead, I will continue to believe that you might know me again.