Thursday, March 31, 2022

2022 read #9: The Evolution of Claire by Tess Sharpe.

The Evolution of Claire by Tess Sharpe
392 pages
Published 2018
Read from March 29 to March 31
Rating: 1.5 out of 5

I came of age as a reader in the aftermath of Jurassic Park. It was the second "grownup" book I ever read. Picture me getting my hands on a fresh paperback copy -- a rarity in my impoverished childhood -- as a dinosaur-obsessed 10 year old in the months before the movie's release. As soon as I finished reading it, I would flip back to the start and begin it all over again. Jurassic Park was my favorite book for an embarrassingly long time.

The countless imitators and cash-ins it spawned, both nonfiction pop-science and hastily thrown-together novels, filled my tween and teen reading. At one point in my teens I made an effort to read every dinosaur novel I could get my hands on. There were classics, like Arthur Conan Doyle's horribly racist The Lost World. There was Crichton's own follow-up The Lost World. There were books I thoroughly enjoyed at the time, such as Greg Bear's Dinosaur Summer, George Gaylord Simpson's iconic The Dechronization of Sam Magruder, and Robert T. Bakker's unwitting furry-bait Raptor Red. There were lesser-known clunkers like James F. David's Footprints of Thunder; books that promised dinosaurs but segued into something else entirely, such as Robert J. Sawyer's End of an Era; and books that are all-but-forgotten now, like Kurt R. A. Giambastiani's The Year the Cloud Fell.

This endeavor continued into my early twenties, when I finally got my hands on the Dinotopia series and Michael Swanwick's Bones of the Earth, and I still picked up the occasional mediocre latecomer, like Lisa M. Graziano and Michael S. A. Graziano's Cretaceous Dawn. But there's a problem with dinosaur novels: the vast majority of them aren't any good. Most writers just don't know how to make dinosaurs interesting in a fictional setting. After the 1990s explosion of dinomania, perhaps dinosaur books were seen as passé, déclassé, a low-brow cash-in. The only high-profile dinosaur novels in recent years were penned by some right-wing hack, and I refuse to read them.

I miss dinosaur books, though. I've spent much of my life writing them, scrapping them, planning to write more. And sometimes I feel the urge to go back to my roots, to dig up and read all the dinosaur novels in the English language, no matter how terrible they might be.

The Evolution of Claire is a corporate YA tie-in novel of the sort that has become de rigueur in the last decade. I can't imagine who, aside from the Universal flunkeys who placed the order for this tie-in, would have clamored for a Jurassic World prequel. Jurassic World itself is so bland, so designed by focus-group, that I wouldn't have been able to tell you the names of any of its characters, even though I just rewatched it last summer. Telling the story of Claire Dearing's summer internship makes as much sense as anything else, I suppose. I certainly never would have picked up a book about whatever character was played by The Worst Chris, and I'm not fully convinced any of the other characters on-screen were given names, or personalities, or anything of the sort.

This book, already a soulless exercise in corporate synergy, is infused with corporate Girl Boss feminism, the sort of suburban white woman's empowerment that celebrates whenever a woman becomes a CEO rather than demanding capitalism's destruction. Claire is our viewpoint, and none of the other characters become anything other than placeholders for plot developments. Said plot covers ground remarkably similar to the first couple seasons of Netflix's Camp Cretaceous, a kids' cartoon that handles the whole "I committed corporate espionage because I was blackmailed into saving my family!" storyline with considerably more verve and characterization.

This book's worst sin: there isn't even that much focus on the dinosaurs. You better believe that if I were contracted to write Jurassic fanfic, I'd devote as much time to actual dinosaurs as to the ins and outs of the internship. No such luck here.

I will say one positive thing: The Evolution of Claire makes me want to write my own stories in the Jurassic universe. Or, perhaps, in a similar setting with all trademarked names filed off. I hate to say it, but there's potential in the idea of Jurassic prequels and follow-ups, just not in the direction that Universal has taken the franchise.

Tuesday, March 29, 2022

2022 read #8: The Summer Book by Tove Jansson.

The Summer Book by Tove Jansson
Translated by Thomas Teal
Introduction by Kathryn Davis
176 pages
Published 1972
Read from March 28 to March 29
Rating: 4.5 out of 5

I introduced my ex to Moomintroll. Long before he turned emotionally and financially abusive, long before he gaslit me for months and put me through the most painful breakup of my life, we collected Moomin family figurines and spent the last weeks of pre-pandemic normalcy putting together a vast Moomin Valley puzzle on cozy nights. I bought him one of Tove Jansson's prose books that last Christmas together. I've been trying to reclaim Moomin, to separate Jansson's sad and sweet oeuvre from my ex's memory, but like with so much else in the 2020s, it hasn't been easy.

But it has been worth it.

I first learned of Jansson through Moomintroll, in particular via the newspaper comic strips now sequenced on archival websites. Jansson's artistic and storytelling sensibilities are there in the sharply observed small details of life and nature, the sunny cottagecore whimsy rooted in bedrock-deep loneliness and pathos. But Jansson's deft comic strip work didn't prepare me for the sparse beauty and lingering heartache of her prose work.

The Summer Book is a sequence of vignettes surrounding an aging Grandmother, mourning her own approaching mortality and her narrowing horizons, and her granddaughter Sophie, newly motherless and struggling to process emotions too big for her world. The vignettes hint and skirt around these topics, revealing lonely truths in the negative spaces between the words. Few authors that I've encountered have so perfectly understood the irrational logic and helpless anger of an isolated childhood quite so well as Jansson portrays it here. The thematic union with the Grandmother's fading summers is breathtaking, wounding and healing and deepening under the northern moonlight.

I'm eager to read more Jansson. I'm not sure when my heart will be able to take it, though.

Monday, March 28, 2022

2022 read #7: The City of Brass by S. A. Chakraborty.

The City of Brass by S. A. Chakraborty
535 pages
Published 2017
Read from March 13 to March 27
Rating: 4 out of 5

It's been a long time since I read a novel this lengthy. The Lord of the Rings doesn't count; I'd read that one several times before, so it was a fond revisit rather than a fresh read. Turns out the last book I read approaching this one in wordcount was Lauren Owen's The Quick, all the way back in October 2019, several tumultuous lifetimes ago.

For a while now, I've been reading and writing mostly short form pieces: short stories, flash, quite a bit of poetry. Concurrently, my ADHD (and my attention span in general) has been more of a struggle than it used to be. I've been trying to get back into reading novels, but have been intimidated by the proverbial fantasy doorstops that I used to enjoy. It's difficult to maintain any reasonable reading pace when the 50 or so pages I can manage on an average day barely make a dent in the page-count.

I'm having to refamiliarize myself with the pacing of longer books. On one hand, it's luxurious when a book has room to indulge in detailed worldbuilding and scene-setting, spending time with mood and vibes rather than rushing between plot points. On the other, The City of Brass spends much of its bulk establishing a norm for its characters and the titular city's political machinations, only to scuttle it in the last couple chapters. At times I felt a bit of the sprawl could've been trimmed without losing much in the way of character detail or sense of place.

That said, the sense of place in this book is astounding. Daevabad, and the world of elemental magic and beings swirling around it, feels as fully-realized as any fantasy setting I've encountered. 

Saturday, March 12, 2022

2022 read #6: Patience & Esther by S.W. Searle.

Patience & Esther: An Edwardian Romance by S.W. Searle
327 pages
Published 2020
Read March 12
Rating: 4 out of 5

Much like The Prince and the Dressmaker, this is a delightful historical romance that treats its queer leads with gentleness. It's a sweet and touching narrative full of loving sex, beautifully-rendered romance, and open communication. A sapphic tale without significant setbacks or dangers is such a breath of clean air. 

2022 read #5: Legends & Lattes by Travis Baldree.

Legends & Lattes by Travis Baldree
308 pages
Published 2022
Read from March 10 to March 12
Rating: 3.5 out of 5

Small-press publication is such an unpredictable beast. A couple weeks ago my Twitter feed -- almost entirely composed of small-press and indie writers -- exploded over Legends & Lattes, a queer cottagecore fantasy romance set in a D&D-adjacent world. It has hundreds of five-star reviews on Amazon and has presumably sold many more copies than that. Meanwhile, a couple months back I edited and published Queer Blades: An Anthology of LGBTQIA2+ Adventure Fantasy, which contains nine excellent short stories and novelettes of queer fantasy romance (one of them cottagecore!) from a delightful assortment of rising genre stars. It has, as of this writing, sold three copies and received zero reviews of any sort. I'm slightly biased toward the book I edited, naturally, so while I won't say that Queer Blades is necessarily better than Legends & Lattes, I do think it deserved somewhat more than three copies sold.

I'm somewhat embittered by that fact. I'm happy Legends & Lattes has found success! But sales are a result of marketing more than anything else, and I'm super not good at the marketing side of running a small press.

All of that is an unnecessary and somewhat petulant prelude. Legends & Lattes itself is a warm and frothy confection, an avowedly low-stakes high fantasy about an orc adventurer who retires from the blood-money lifestyle to establish the coffeehouse of her dreams. The book does exactly what it says on the cover, and it does so with a minimum of flourish but a whole lot of heart.

I will mention one small but glaring detail: almost every secondary, tertiary, and incidental character beyond the two leads is male. Whenever a random guard, organized crime enforcer, or city worker is introduced, they're almost invariably a dude. I'd say it reminds me of 1990s fantasy novels in that regard, except even in the 1990s Robin Hobb had already addressed that problem

Thursday, March 10, 2022

2022 read #4: Alphabet of Thorn by Patricia A. McKillip.

Alphabet of Thorn by Patricia A. McKillip
314 pages
Published 2004
Read from March 1 to Match 10
Rating: 4 out of 5

I had hoped to read at least one book each calendar month this year, a feat I haven't managed since 2016, but alas. Life and mental health got in the way again. I had opportunities to read during February, but my ADHD insisted that none of the books I had -- not even the new ones I got for Christmas and my birthday -- sounded just right. I wasn't able to read more than a couple pages of anything all month.

I had enjoyed McKillip's Winter Rose last fall, so I figured this book would finally do the trick and pull me in. McKillip's prose is aesthetically deft and beguiling, though perhaps not so gorgeous as it was in Winter Rose. The plot incorporates language, romance, political tensions, magic, and time travel, but the narrative feels breezy and is well-paced.

The book shows its age in its early 2000s approach to female agency and empowerment. Spoilers ahead:

The most powerful sorceress in all of history erases her name and her very identity in order to be a magical helpmeet for her cousin-turned-lover, an Alexander-esque conqueror. All she asks for in return is to bear him a child. The sorceress travels across space and time and realizes that she cannot raise her child and be with her cousin-lover at the same time, so she abandons the baby girl at a library 3000 years in the future. But the baby isn't fully abandoned, oh no. The sorceress entrusts to a convoluted magic scheme involving a book written in the titular alphabet to unlock the magical ways through time when her daughter comes of age, permitting the sorceress and the conqueror to come to the child's time and conquer the world to be the youth's own queendom. When the girl rejects this plan at the end, the sorceress realizes she must choose between her cousin-love and her child, and chooses the girl.

Again, the most powerful magic-user in all of history erases herself in order to please a man, and only reasserts her identity when she realizes it's what her child would prefer. At no point does this sorceress exercise any agency for herself. She doesn't even really have any interest in her cousin-lover's conquests; she enables him because it's what he wants, conquering kingdoms across thousands of years because she's just that besotted with him.

I can't bring myself to dislike this book. McKillip's prose, settings, and characters (the ancient cousin pair aside) are too well-rendered for that. But it's fascinating how much more dated this feels than Winter Rose, a book published eight years prior.