Reading Well: Black Water Sister by Zen Cho

Posted on July 18, 2023 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Zen Cho‘s Black Water Sister (2021) does three things exceptionally well.

First, it captures a contemporary young, female protagonist with care, detail, and empathy. Born in Malaysia, but raised in the United States, she has now returned to Malaysia with her parents, and is a bit lost, both in ways somewhat generic to people in their early 20’s facing the overwhelming challenge of answering the question what will I do with my life? and in ways related to returning to a culture that is familiar and foreign at the same time.

Second, there is Malaysia itself. This is not a novel where you’ll learn about the country’s history or the complicated weave of its current politics. But it is full of small details–language, landscapes, lingo, and the like–that thoroughly ground the narrative in a thickly realized setting.

Finally, it does all this in the context of a good old-fashioned possession/ ghost story spanning multiple generations of a family. The first two points impact this as well–the protagonist is skeptical in a nicely modern way, and the “ghost” is decidedly Malaysian.

The 21st century is a particularly challenging setting for novels: incorporating the ubiquitous nature of technology while maintaining narrative momentum and interest is difficult, and Cho does an excellent job at navigating this: there is a long-distance relationship mediated over Facetime, the constant use of Google to answer questions about what is really happening, etc., all done without allowing the writing to slip into a series of text exchanges or search results.

Overall, the novel is engaging and entertaining. Recommended, especially if you are interested in a small dose of insight into what contemporary Malaysia might be like.

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Reading Well: The Witch’s Heart by Genevieve Gornichec

Posted on April 25, 2023 by Daniel (@MKNN)

The Norse myths are a rich source of inspiration, so much so that they have been done poorly far more often than they have been done well (see Neil Gaiman’s Norse Mythology for an example of a deeply faithful example of the latter).

So I picked up Genevieve Gornichec‘s The Witch’s Heart (2021) with some trepidation.

Happily, the book delivers. It focuses on Angrboða, who appears in the Norse canon as the wife of Loki and the mother of three figures tightly entwined with the apocalyptical happening of Ragnarök (the wolf Fenrir, the serpent Jörgmungandr, and Hel, who becomes the ruler of the underworld). Angrboða is a Jötunn, belonging to the category of beings that are neither human nor gods and her story is closely entwined with the familiar stories from the source material which, for the most part, happen off-screen.

Instead, The Witch’s Heart is centered on Angrboða’s friendship and loves, and the mixing of the two. Most successfully, it depicts the two primary love affair of Angrboða’s life–Loki, with whom anyone who has glanced at the Norse material is familiar, and Skaði, who may be new to many. Each is presented with great emotional care and compassion–quite the challenge in Loki’s case, given his consistently … selfish? self-centered? self-serving? take your pick … outlook on the world.

But Gornichec manages to make Angrboða’s love for the trickster God to resonate as honest and true, and the journey from friendship to more-than with Skaði is equally moving. All of this is done without losing an essential Norse quality–a disregard for suffering, a welcoming of a glorious death, a recognition that prophesy has decreed a looming end-times (in this case, one in which your offspring and your lovers all play vital roles).

This is not a romantic fairy tale, however: the title refers to Angrboða’s relationships, but also to her actual heart, which spends a fair bit of time outside of her body, and plays a key role in the resolution of the narrative. There are battles and blood and witchery a-plenty; but there is also a mother mourning being rejected by her daughter, and railing against the impudence with which the (mostly, but not exclusively, male) Gods do as they will, ignoring the consequences.

If that mixture of mythic source and love story sounds intriguing, The Witch’s Heart is highly recommended.

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Reading Well: Piranesi by Susanna Clarke

Posted on April 18, 2023 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Susanna Clarke‘s Piranesi (2020) is a quirky, engaging novel.

Part whodunnit, part meditation on mental health, the novel follows its protagonist through an alternate space, a massive mansion containing a nearly infinite network of rooms, situated by a shattered seaside.

The protagonist discovers many of the twists and turns of the whodunnit along with the reader, making it harder to summarize without giving much away. There is a gateway between this alternate space and “the real world,” and the heart of the novel beats around who passes between and what their motivations are.

It is a testament to Clarke’s skill that the narrative perspective succeeds: the protagonist is clearly troubled, if not damaged, and Clarke does a fantastic job balancing what they know and don’t know with information only privy to the reader. It’s a fine line–reveal too little and the reader is frustrated; reveal too much and the dramatic tension wavers.

I think your tolerance for mystery will determine a lot of your enjoyment of the book: I found figuring it out quite engaging, and the final turns–which may strike some as overly optimistic–instead struck me as a sweet solution to the story, placing the book firmly in the camp that argues that there is, indeed, a way back from very dark times.

If Clarke’s name rings a bell, her earlier, hugely successful novel, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, was a decently converted Netflix series a few years ago. To her credit, while equally inventive, Piranesi is a strikingly different book, in tone, outlook, and content.

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Reading Well: White is for Witching by Helen Oyeyemi

Posted on April 11, 2023 by Daniel (@MKNN)

We’re back with some more Helen Oyeyemi (see Boy, Snow, Bird and Ginger Bread) with 2009’s White is for Witching as I move throug the rest of her output (some of which I read before I started these little web entries).

Oyeyemi is, in my opinion, at her best when she is leaning into creepy … and, boy, does White is for Witching lean that way. The evil in the story is a literal house; the protagonists are its inhabitants, most significantly the third generation of a haunted family.

It is a lovely, strikingly haunting, eerie novel full of scenes that may, if you’re unlucky, revisit you in your dreams. Themes that wind through a lot of Oyeyemi’s work–race and how it manifests in diverse ways; sexuality and its repression; how gender shapes social interaction–are present here, and ultimately your enjoyment of the novel will depend on how successfully you think she balances the horror narrative and those other interests.

For me, it is easily one of her finer achievements, a book that will remain with you long after you hit the last page.

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Reading Well: Jade City by Fonda Lee

Posted on February 24, 2023 by Daniel (@MKNN)

One of the beautiful and frustrating things about genre writing is that a single magnificent idea can carry an entire work.

For me, such is the case with Jade City (2017) by Fonda Lee. The setting is a pseudo-Asian metropolis, and the idea revolves around the natives’ relationship with jade, which confers super-human powers upon them. Or, most of them–there are some people immune to jade’s effects, others that are overly sensitive to it and must protect themselves from exposure. But for those trained in it, jade, worn in jewelry of all types, embedded in weapons and in skin, and prominently displayed to show status, is the ultimate indicator of power, and enables a set of powers that translate to a level of otherwise unattainable physical prowess.

It’s a great idea–the city is controlled by an uneasy peace between family clans which, of course, breaks down, pitting the jade-enhanced warriors against each other in both political and physical conflicts.

From there, your mileage may vary. I enjoyed Jade City, found the core characters well drawn and the setting intriguing. Lee has a nice eye for action, and the scenes of hand-to-hand combat–which is really hard to write, actually–are very well done. At the same time, other than the notion of jade itself, there is little new here: we have inter-generational conflicts, we have a prodigal daughter, we have a well-executed final gambit to reverse the course of the conflict, and we have a clear setup for following novels.

I enjoyed it, in a page-turning way, and in admiration of how compelling the notion of jade itself is throughout the book.

Intentionally or not, the whole thing is superbly cinematic and would translate very well to screens, big or little.

Jade City is the opening novel of a trilogy that I may finish at some point.

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Reading Well: A Stranger in Olondria by Sofia Samatar

Posted on February 17, 2023 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Sofia Samatar‘s A Stranger in Olondria (2013) stands out most of all for its literaryness, it you’ll allow the word.

This is a fantasy novel that reads more like historical fiction, like a finely detailed account of lives lived a few centuries ago. But, with light touches of fantasy/magic sprinkled throughout. The general form of the narrative–a journey from the isolated hinterlands to the thriving capital, and beyond–is well-traveled, but the world Samatar creates is very thick, in the best sense of that word, and the attention to detail–to the sights and smells, to the professions and social structures, and to the lived experience of the lives of her characters–stands out.

Your enjoyment of the novel will depend, at least partially, on your addiction to pace: a lot happens, but nothing happens terribly quickly. This is a novel to savor and enjoy–and to some, that screams boredom, but I would argue that, in a genre so dominated by page-turners with little to remember about the specificity of their settings, it’s a rare pleasure.

A Stranger in Olondria is followed by 2017’s The Winged Histories, which I hope to get to sometime this year.

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Reading Well: Children of Blood and Bone by Tomi Adeyemi

Posted on February 10, 2023 by Daniel (@MKNN)

{I’m always in a bit of a quandary on what to do with books in a series. I’ve sort of settled on reviewing the first book, then waiting and completing the rest of the series as a group. But I’m not making a hard and fast rule here, so we’ll see how it plays out.}

Tomi Adeyemi‘s Children of Blood and Bone (2018) has received a ton of adulation and attention, much of which is very well deserved. It feels like (and I’m sure for those that pay more attention to publishing this is very, very old hat) there has been a clear separation from the YA market to a more-mature-but-not-fully-grown-up market. Children of Blood and Bone belongs to the latter, although perhaps not as much as, say, The Magicians series.

The world of the novel is very grounded in West African traditions, and that forms a large part of the appeal. These are mythologies and stories that are woefully underrepresented in the genre, and so that, alone, would make Adeyemi’s novel worth supporting.

Luckily, it’s also good, with young protagonists that are simultaneously coming into their own (including the requisite magical/extraordinary powers) and trying to save each other and, you know, the world. The locations are memorable, moving between different geographies and micro-cultures with ease, while never losing a sense of character-based continuity.

It is followed by 2019’s Children of Virtue and Vengeance, and a final entry in the trilogy is promised (and rumors of various adaptations are rife).

Highly recommended for fans of the genre.

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Reading Well: Burntcoat by Sarah Hall

Posted on February 3, 2023 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Y’all know I love me some Sarah Hall (see my writeups of Daughters of the North, The Electric Michelangelo, The Wolf Border, and her short story collection, Madame Zero). 2021’s Burntcoat is no exception for me.

This book is likely to be a bit divisive: it is sexually graphic, describes some forms of emotional abuse, includes a few somewhat grisly moments, refers quite often to an undefined you (an authorial choice that may drive some away) and, perhaps most of all, is clearly a meditation on the pandemic, to which some may cry, Too soon! Too soon!

We are going to be flooded with plagueArt over the next decade–it’s already happening over on HBO with The Last of Us (I discount their adaptation of Station Eleven, as it was well in the works pre-2020–anxiety about the plague far predates the pandemic).

Burntcoat is a story about love and art: the protagonist is a large-installation sculptor living (like many of Hall’s characters) in the English/Scottish borderlands. Her artistic sensibilities are her own, but are also deeply entwined in a complicated relationship with her mother. There is a love affair, the plague (far worse than the COVID pandemic) hits, and things go from there.

Often, geography works as an additional character in Hall’s writing. Here, there is less of that, although the title refers to the massive studio that is the setting of much of what happens. Hall’s prose remains taut throughout, with a directness that is often striking.

The book is incendiary, insightful, and powerful. As long as the subject matter doesn’t shut you down, very highly recommended.

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Reading Well: The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison

Posted on January 27, 2023 by Daniel (@MKNN)

There are so many sub-genres out there …

The Goblin Emperor (2014) by Katherine Addison is clear fantasy, set in a world of elves, goblins, and mixed offspring of the two. But it is what might be called something like “high court fantasy,” focused on the unexpected elevation of a 4th son (meaning, fourth in line for the throne), a half-breed to boot, to the role of Emperor of the Elven kingdom.

I thoroughly enjoyed it, but the recommendation comes with some caveats. First, most, if your taste runs to the swashbuckling, action/adventure side, this may not be a great match. This book is about rumors and intrigue, court politics, sabotage, and a murder mystery. A lot happens, but there isn’t a lot of physical action.

Perhaps more importantly, it’s not a particularly nuanced book. The society discussed is frightfully patriarchal, and other than that being explicitly recognized, there’s not a lot of attention paid to alternate strategies of agency or to female resistance (there’s some, don’t get me wrong, but it’s all very recognizable from contemporary portrayals of female agency in the 18th (ish) century). More problematically, the notion of race is both ubiquitous and under-developed: what it means to be mixed race is central to the story, but also treated somewhat superficially.

Still, the world is nicely built, and Addison does a great job creating empathy for the protagonist, doing so both by describing how lost and unprepared they are for their role and by never losing sight of some of their central competencies and their moral compass. You root for them to succeed, and you genuinely feel the risk of their failure.

There are some other books written in this world, but The Goblin Emperor stands alone as a novel (as such, I’ve written it up here, instead of waiting until I’ve completed a trilogy or whatever). I do plan to read at least one of the others, although it may be a while (the pile is deep at the moment).

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Reading Well: The House in the Cerulean Sea by T.J. Klune

Posted on January 13, 2023 by Daniel (@MKNN)

T.J. Klune‘s The House in the Cerulean Sea is, through and through, a very sweet novel.

That’s not an adjective often used in fantasy writing, and even less so as you move out of the explicitly YA entries. So it’s a nice diversion at the very least.

The central plot of the novel focuses on a social worker (yes, really) in an overly bureaucratic alternate universe. His job is making sure that magical youth are treated appropriately in their state-run orphanages / care centers / youth homes. He is sent to one that is seen as highly unusual, to the point that it is in danger of being shut down due to the unorthodox methods of its caretaker. The children are also, to say the least, quite unusual, ranging from a button-hoarding wyvern to an amorphous blob that dreams of being a bellhop to, literally, a 6-year old Lucifer.

The novel dances carefully on the edge of being overly pedantic, but even when it slips, the message is worthwhile, focusing on self-acceptance and the importance of being true to yourself, even in moments of adversity. There are various LGBTQ+ relationships, both explicit and not, something quite refreshing in the overall genre.

If you’re still reading after that summary, you’ll probably enjoy the novel.

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