2013 read #74: Child of a Rainless Year by Jane Lindskold.

Child of a Rainless Year by Jane Lindskold
400 pages
Published 2005
Read from June 7 to June 11
Rating: ★★★ out of 5

Jane Lindskold is one of those authors of middling fame, prominent enough that I recognize her name from review blurbs on other books, not ubiquitous enough to be consistently available at your lowest common denominator chain bookseller. Child of a Rainless Year also occupies a middling position, halfway between a potentially quite good supernatural fantasy and one of those tediously detailed "local interest" books your Aunt Imogene began churning out after she retired from teaching history at Wapakoneta Junior High. Thrill as the narrator digs her teeth into this dialogue: "I read about the Plaza Hotel in some of the books you loaned me. Weren't the tin-work ceilings covered for a long time, and only recently restored?" Chill as our heroine pores through genealogical records and grills chicken dishes for visiting estate lawyers!

Much (way, way too much) of the book's length is given over to "I woke up, I got dressed in this sassy but sensible outfit with perfect accessories, and then I made a delicious breakfast and went out to learn more about local history" narration. Which is a shame, because despite all that, I think the story itself had promise. I like a good slow burn from time to time, and there were just enough hints of weirdness and memorable characterization and creepy description in the early going to keep me happy. By the middle of the book, though, just as the weird elements were ever so slowly coming to the foreground, I found my interest waning. "Magical realism/urban fantasy set in New Mexico" is right up my alley -- in fact, that's the sole reason I picked up this book -- but I can only grind my way through so much middle class verisimilitude in my fiction. There's a reason I don't pick up more literary fiction about rich white people getting married and moving to Napa Valley to be unhappy together, or rich white kids getting strung out on expensive drugs and having miserable parties with the young urban beautiful, or whatever -- the shit's boring. This may be the first fantasy novel I've ever read that focused more on estate lawyering and home restoration than on anything, well, fantastical. It was less House of Leaves, more afternoon HGTV marathons. I like the occasional low-key fantasy, but the second half of this story was so low-key it was almost muted.

I'm tempted to return the other Lindskold book in my library box unread, but "plucky young heroine vs. treacherous noblewoman in a race to uncover a lost pyramid" sounds too delightful to pass up. Besides, I like Lindskold's prose, and before I give up on her entirely, I'd like to see her apply it to something that isn't so utterly squaresville.