Continue reading »]]> About the Book

Melinda Soto, aged sixty-four, vacationing in Mexico, is murdered by a fellow American tourist.

Back in her hometown of Reno, Nevada, she leaves behind her adopted son, Jeremy, whom she rescued from war-torn Guatamala when he was a toddler—just one of her many causes over the years. And she leaves behind a circle of friends: Veronique, the academic stuck in a teaching job from which she can’t retire; Rosemary, who’s losing her husband to Alzheimer’s and who’s trying to lose herself in volunteer work; Henrietta, the priest at Rosemary’s and Melinda’s church.

Jeremy already had a fraught relationship with his charismatic mother and the people in her orbit. Now her death is tearing him apart, and he can barely stand the rituals of remembrance that ensue among his mother’s friends. Then the police reveal who killed Melinda: a Seattle teenager who flew home to his parents and drowned himself just days later.

It’s too much. Jeremy’s not the only one who can’t deal. Friendships fray. But the unexpected happens: an invitation to them all, from the murderer’s mother, to come to Seattle for his memorial. It’s ridiculous. And yet, somehow, each of them begins to see in it a chance to heal. Aided, in peculiar ways, by Jeremy’s years-long obsession with the comic-book hero Comrade Cosmos, and the immense cult of online commentary it’s spawned.

Shot through with feeling and inventiveness, this is a novel of the odd paths that lead to home

336 page (hardcover)
Published on May 14, 2013
Published by Tor
Author’s webpage

This book was provided for me to review by the publisher.

You can purchase a copy of this book by clicking on the following links: Mending the Moon, Mending the Moon – Kindle

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Mending the Moon wowed me on first glance because of the cover alone. It’s simple, somber and artistic. It automatically drew me. It wasn’t busy, but instead it has an atmosphere about it that sets the stage for the atmosphere of the book itself. As cover art goes, this one is a slam-dunk. Busy isn’t always better, and Mending the Moon proves that with its attractive simplicity.

Mending the Moon isn’t what you expect. In fact, when you first start reading this book you might wonder why Tor published it. It takes a while to realize if there’s any SFF elements in the book at all, and the elements that are there are rather subtle and toe the SFF line. This is actually rather a benefit for the book itself, as I’d have no problem lending it to my mother (who struggles with SFF and anything to do with it) and I know she’d read it and enjoy it. Sometimes books that toe the genre lines are good for that. It allows books like Mending the Moon to appeal to a wider, more varied audience.

Mending the Moon is a somber story dealing with murder, suicide and the effects both acts have on all parties involved. It’s not a happy tale. There is a somewhat golden, hopeful ending, but it’s after a long emotional struggle. The book itself is written in a truly interesting way. First the reader is introduced to one character and his family and friends. Then the reader is introduced to another character and her family. Then, suddenly, there’s a chapter about a bunch of computer science majors who created a superhero comic book-verse. The chapters continue in this vein, and it might take a little while for the reader to understand that the comic book chapters aren’t just thrown in for the hell of it, but they are thrown in to mirror the real-life stories that are tearing two families apart. These comic book chapters are a genius way for readers to connect with a very raw storyline in a way that might not emotionally overtax you.

The interesting thing about Mending the Moon is that everyone, on the surface, is falling apart. Relationships fray, even before the murder, relationships and friendships aren’t what they could be. Then the murder/suicide happens and things get even more tense and frayed. These are real life situations that are usually so hard and uncomfortable to talk about, people usually don’t do so. It takes a brave author not only to talk about relationships in the face of life altering circumstances, but talk about them so candidly, honestly and believably and with such incredible kindness. Hats off to Susan Palwick for braving territory many people (including myself) would be far to afraid to venture into.

Mending the Moon is told on a number of levels. There’s the human level where readers will associate with the characters – the son, wives and friends. Then there’s the academic level, where almost every character is somehow tied to education somehow and it shows in the plot. The plot is smart, and while the story the that surrounds the characters is interesting, it’s truly a plot that has quite a bit of depth and symbolism, from an evergreen tree given to Jeremy at his mother’s service, to Veronique, a professor looking to retire and the books she has her students read. Every part of this story is put there for a reason, and that, coupled with the interesting comic book aspect really makes this book shine.

When it’s said and done, Mending the Moon isn’t a book you read when you want to laugh and have an easy mental vacation. This is a book that makes you think about family and relationships and exactly how these two things work together to create our own little realities. Mending the Moon is a story told on multiple levels. It’s deep, somber, raw and incredibly emotional. This is one of those books that sticks with you long after you finish reading it, and it’ll have you analyzing the people in your life and what they mean to you. This is a story about bonds of family and friendship, and even a bit of hope in a hopeless situation. Plus, it’s light on the fantasy, which makes it appeal to a wider audience. Basically, Mending the Moon isn’t what you’d expect, and despite that (or perhaps because of it) it’s one of the most emotionally charged, unique and well written books I’ve read in a while.

5/5 stars

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Continue reading »]]> About the Book

Reality Bites

Fortitude Scott’s life is a mess. A degree in film theory has left him with zero marketable skills, his job revolves around pouring coffee, his roommate hasn’t paid rent in four months, and he’s also a vampire. Well, sort of. He’s still mostly human.

But when a new vampire comes into his family’s territory and young girls start going missing, Fort can’t ignore his heritage anymore. His mother and his older, stronger siblings think he’s crazy for wanting to get involved. So it’s up to Fort to take action, with the assistance of Suzume Hollis, a dangerous and sexy shape-shifter. Fort is determined to find a way to outsmart the deadly vamp, even if he isn’t quite sure how.

But without having matured into full vampirehood and with Suzume ready to split if things get too risky, Fort’s rescue mission might just kill him.…

320 pages (paperback)
Published on May 7, 2013
Published by Roc
Author’s webpage

This book was sent for me to review by the publisher.

You can purchase a copy of this book by clicking on the following links: Generation V, Generation V – Kindle

—–

Every few weeks I complain about how I’m sick to death of vampires. I’m just sick of them. I’m sick of hearing about them, thinking about them, reading about them. I’m just done. Then, for some reason or another, I end up reading a vampire book. This leads me to believe that, despite all my bravado and gruff talk, I have some sort of a “thing” for vampires that I’d prefer not to admit to. Or something.

Then, occasionally, I run across a book dealing with vampires that doesn’t drive me crazy. It’s not full of mindless tropes and typical “mysterious sexy guy” plot lines. It’s a vampire book with flair. Though this is rare, when it happens, it tends to stick with me. I like these books. I like it when authors dare to do vampires different. I like it even more when these differences make vampires even more believable.

Enter: Generation V

Generation V’s primary character is Fortitude Scott, with a pretty useless degree in film history. Fort himself is more human than vampire, and his rather tense relationship with his family makes him incredibly eager to hold onto as much of his humanity as he possibly can. Once readers are introduced to his (much) older sister and brother, they will likely sympathize with Fort’s desire to stay human and avoid transition.

What makes Generation V stand out from the myriad of other urban fantasy books that discuss the hardships of vampires stuck in a human world is the believability behind it all. Vampires aren’t really created in the sense that most think of, they are born and the process of being born is rather intricate. Brennan isn’t afraid to tell the readers how vampires are born/created and though it can be a little intricate and confusing, it’s a completely unique take on a very tired trope. It’s one of many of the small details that makes Generation V stand out from its urban fantasy peers.

As you’d expect, chaos erupts and Fort, instead of randomly finding himself in the middle of a rather mysterious situation, actually inserts himself into the middle of it despite the wishes of his family. Girls go missing in his mother’s territory, and while his family doesn’t seem to care, Fort is human enough to worry, wonder, and want to bring an end to it. At this point we are introduced to a rather attractive shape shifter. Sexy shape shifters aren’t new, and in an urban fantasy, you really have to expect some tropes. Where Brennan makes the “sexy shape shifter” a bit different is her Japanese lore and heritage that backs her.

Again I must say, it’s the details, background, history that make Generation V pop in a genre that is just exhausted.

While a lot of this novel is a mystery and there is some action thrown in for good measure, there’s also a lot of personal growth. Generation V is also a coming-of-age tale. Fortitude does have a tendency to whine quite a bit. Hey, it’s not my fault he chose to get a pointless degree, but it’s something I ended up reading about ad nauseum. That being said, Fort himself grows from a rather confused, disgruntled young man who really isn’t sure where he fits in the grand scheme of the world. By the end of the book, despite the fact that he still gripes a bit, he is much more confidant and seems like an adult who knows exactly who he is and what he plans to get out of life. It’s a great change to see, and it is a gradual evolution that happens as the plot unfolds.

There is a little bit of romantic tension in the plot, but it’s not overpowering. Instead, the plot is really more focused on the mystery of the disappearing women and Fortitude’s own personal growth and evolution. In my estimation, Brennan should be proud. The author has managed to take an urban fantasy book filled with vampires and shifters, two exhausted tropes, and made it interesting, human and relatable. Generation V isn’t your typical urban fantasy, and that’s what makes it so wonderful. It’s different, unique and fresh.

4/5 stars

Continue reading »]]> About the Author

Yo! I’m Zack, a 33-year-old, quarter-Hungarian, typically shaven-headed male. I’ve lived in Northern Arizona, where the weather is nice and the political decisions are horrifying, since 1990, with occasional forays into the wetter and colder world.

My favorite activities include: listening to 70s-00s punk and post-punk music, cooking and then eating delicious and often unhealthy foods, riding human-powered vehicles of all varieties (though hardly well), talking and/or arguing about religion, watching sitcoms, night-swimming, and jumping on and off stuff.

During my depressingly rare periods of creative productivity, I write science fiction and fantasy. No Return, my first novel, came out in March of 2013 from Night Shade Books. My short stories have appeared in a variety of places, including Asimov’s Science Fiction, Crossed Genres, and Escape Pod.

You can find out more about the author on his website, as well as various ways to stalk him online.

——

“Disability is not a brave struggle or ‘courage in the face of adversity.’ Disability is an art. It’s an ingenious way to live.”

- Neil Marcus

I won’t be shy about it:

The people I admire most in life are those who have to put forth more effort for a similar result. Why? Because effort makes a person wise. It makes a person strong. Knowing the odds (physical, mental, societal) against you and refusing to sell yourself short — that is an admirable mindset, possibly the most admirable mindset.

No, I’m not overly impressed if you have every advantage the world could give you, because most of the people I know who are in that position are uninteresting as hell. They usually lack a sense of humor, because they don’t understand what makes people tick. Not knowing what makes people tick, they often lack compassion.

Of course, I don’t know what it’s like to think of myself as disabled — and to have others label me disabled — and yet I’d like to think that two decades of Obsessive Compulsive-related mental illness has taught me something about what it means to exist under the weight of abnormality. It’s made me question whether or not there even is a normal, but more than that it’s caused me to doubt that normal is a good thing to shoot for.

No, scratch that doubt.

Normal is objectively not a good thing.

Disability, different ability, knowing what you lack — every thing that inspires us to live ingeniously — is something we should all be grateful for. Now, I’m not saying that, given a choice, any of us would choose to be unable to walk, or solve a math problem any 9 out of 10 people could solve, or, hell, listen to the symphony, but…

The world benefits from the perspectives of individuals forced to take the unconventional approach. More than this (so, so, so much more than this), these individuals, often in the face of horrible prejudice, become creatures of rare insight — the kind of insight that approaches the alien to those of us who’ve never had occasion to view the world through such a unique lens.

There is immense value in disability. There is beauty that we should all learn to see.

Of course, it’s easy for me to say this, being abled in a way that resembles normal to the majority of human beings. I can act wise and sympathetic all day, but I don’t really know the challenges on a gut level. I’d crack, bust out in big alligator tears, to experience the pain — physical and emotional — that attends intense disability (whatever we decide that means). I won’t pretend I’m strong in that way, for I’ve never had an occasion to be strong in that way.

But I have eyes, goddammit.

And if I didn’t have eyes, I’d have ears, or some other way to know the world around me.

I’d see the obvious fact that we are a sad species when we view the differently abled as not abled, worthy of pity as opposed to sympathy and unity. We are a sad species when we fail to recognize how stagnant existence would be without long odds.

“Dis”ability defines our best moments far more than we realize. It is written into the very fabric of our existence. Only a fool fails to recognize this fact. Only a fool fails to see that we are a variegated and ungainly mass of imperfect, abnormal humanity, striving forward with missing hands and limbs and organs. Even if the bare fact of this changes — if we achieve a state of bodily “perfection” — we will continue living with the knowledge of our differences, our limitations.

That knowledge will inspire us.

Or it won’t.

If we someday forget that we once drew strength from exceeding our various limitations — if we all become one graceful mass of perfect, normal humanity — then we probably won’t be fit to call ourselves human any longer.

Maybe we’ll become like the women and men of Cordwainer Smith’s Instrumentality, so bleached of any sense of wonder by our deathless existence that we force ourselves to re-introduce imperfection and risk back into the world. Or perhaps we’ll become like the denizens of Iain M. Banks’ The Culture, who live in a galaxy of unlimited resources and therefore recognize how beautiful being unlike your neighbor is.

Now, I’m aware that a great many things I’ve written might come across as — or might in all actuality be — ableist. As I stated previously, I’ve never been put in the position of being thought of as disabled. Though I’ve had to admit on occasion that I have (gasp!) a special need due to my OCD-related issues (which have, now and then, produced anxiety in school settings), I’m likely as blind to my ableism as most people who consider themselves “fully” abled.

But, like I said, I observe the world. Sometimes I write fiction based on these observations. It’s my hope that, now and in my fiction, my admiration for those living with limitations is clear. If I in fact end up fetishizing the fact of someone’s ingenuity in the face of long odds, then I’ll always apologize. I don’t want to displace my own sense of entitlement, or minimize another’s pain by calling it noble, or “courage in the face of adversity.”

Disability, different ability — it simply is. It makes no one automatically a hero.

But, you must admit, it gives one immense potential.

Continue reading »]]> You can find the original post here.

About the author

Mark Lawrence is married with four children, one of whom is severely disabled. His day job is as a research scientist focused on various rather intractable problems in the field of artificial intelligence. He has held secret level clearance with both US and UK governments. At one point he was qualified to say ’this isn’t rocket science … oh wait, it actually is’.

Broken Heroes

(warning, contains A Song of Ice and Fire spoilers, Soldier Son trilogy spoilers, and traces of nuts)

I’m writing this piece because Sarah asked me to on the strength of a tweet about Elspeth Cooper’s guest blog [link]. I’m not sure how I established my credentials in less than 140 characters but Sarah’s hard to say no to, so I took the easy path and said yes.

Historically, there has been a tendency across many cultures and religions to view disability (and illness/misfortune in general) as something visited upon those who deserve it. Although these modes of thought have no root in the core religious texts of either Christianity or Islam, and whilst there may be debate as to their prevalence, they have certainly impacted our literature. The primal cause may be a biological revulsion for the imperfect in case ‘it’s catching’ – a reaction that might have some evolutionary benefit, however unenlightened.

In any event, time and again those with physical impairments are depicted as the ‘baddies’ in our cultural heritage. From Shakespeare’s Richard III, hunch-backed and ‘rudely stamped’ by God, to James Bond’s wheelchair-bound nemesis, Blofeld. Think of Captain Hook and Darth Vader (a multiple amputee) – Tinkerbelle and Peter Pan would never have been offered to us as heroes lacking extremities.

The portrayal of disability is of course not entirely one-sided and somewhere between Dickens’ Smike and 60’s TV series Ironside the disabled wrestled themselves into the occasional heroic role.

But we’re grown now, surely, and those days of prejudice are behind us? Maybe. It’s hard to find a disabled superhero to point at. I mean a superman with one leg … he’d still be pretty awesome, right? Since he can fly he doesn’t actually need legs at all unless he wants to kick someone. In fact the only famous examples I can think of are ones where the superpowers somehow make the disability just part of the character colour because their new abilities overcompensate. Dare Devil is blind… but he can pretty much see really. Professor X is in a wheelchair (and bald with it!) but he can stop time, make you see what he wants you to, and basically do pretty much anything. In fact he could probably float out of his chair and grow dreadlocks should he so desire.

Fantasy fiction then? That great experimental sandbox and domain of the open-minded. Well, here I have to plead ignorance in the main. I’m not that widely read in the genre. But I can cite a few popular examples where talented writers have tackled the business of a healthy person becoming disabled, through injury or illness.

First we have George Martin in the series starting with A Game of Thrones. Bran is paralysed from the waist down almost as soon as we meet him. It’s a bold move to disable a child as your opening gambit and we see a decent portrayal of the psychological consequences, the necessary readjustments of expectations, even the partial compensation of the effects through use of suitable equipment (modified saddle). It’s a portrayal that shies away from the messier side of such a disability, but in the context of the story being told we can perhaps forgive the sweeping under the carpet of incontinence and the reliance on other people to wipe backsides. Secondly from GRRM, and perhaps more boldly, we see someone not only extremely physically capable but also deeply unpleasant become disabled. Jamie Lannister has his hand amputated. Suddenly he is no longer the foremost swordsman of the realm, no longer even a decent swordsman, in fact no longer capable of buttoning his shirt, and his sister stops finding him sexually attractive (generally a good thing, but in this context a symptom of the revulsion physical impairment can engender in some people).

Hobb’s protagonist in Soldier Son styles himself an athletic warrior just waiting for his chance at glory. Magical intervention renders him morbidly obese and this alone reforms his society’s opinion about him, including those of his parents and fiancé.

These are examples of skilled writers taking the trouble to look into aspects of disability and allowing the reader new insights. But I doubt that either Martin or Hobb were doing this out of some dutiful sense of obligation. They weren’t ticking boxes in a representational chart to ensure all minorities had a fair crack of the quill. I rather suspect both were following their story, and lifted by the slow but rising tide of general enlightenment in these areas, in combination no doubt with their own varied experiences, they had realised the potential for adding interest and depth to their work by such inclusion.

My own experience is of a different flavour and two-fold. The first instance is of the slow and creeping debilitation that multiple sclerosis brings. My wife, who I’ve been with for very nearly quarter of a century now, first showed signs of the condition in her early twenties, though we only recognised that when casting hindsight back across a decade or two. It’s not the sudden devastation of Bran’s fall or Jamie’s amputation. There’s nobody to blame, no personification of the guilt, nobody did it to her. It’s an erosion, an additional vulnerability, as if somehow she’s aging faster than I am. She was always the keen cyclist, but now it’s me that cycles ten miles a day to and from work, and she has to use a wheelchair to leave the house. It’s disease, not contagious but mysterious, poorly understood. There’s no romance to it, its effects are invisible and the heights of our technology are required to just see the tiny signs of damage, and yet it devastates. Weakness is the least of it. Pain is what it gives. And pain, day in and out, grinds a person down.

The second instance was that of my daughter, and that really was as sudden as a sword blow or a fall. Almost everything was taken from my youngest daughter just minutes before her first chance to see the world. It’s a dangerous business, this being born. Some babies aren’t put together quite right. Others, like Celyn, are damaged at birth. A lack of oxygen saw her come out grey and limp with a wedge of her brain – the motor cortex mostly – dying as I laid eyes on her. And still more babies emerge in apparent health only to be dragged down by some rare and vicious syndrome as they try to grow.

Celyn’s is eight now. She can’t move any part of her body in a useful way, she can’t roll, lift an arm, sit, use her fingers. She can’t speak, her eyesight is very poor, she’s doubly incontinent, and often in pain. She sleeps for two hours at most before requiring turning, resettling, maybe drugging. All her liquids are fed to her through a tube that goes through her abdomen directly into her stomach.  But it seems that her intelligence is intact. She understands what is said to her, she got 9 out of 10 last week in her maths test on the times tables, she attends a regular school with able-bodied children and her teacher says she is one of the quickest to understand new things. She laughs. A lot. She loves stories, writes stories (with the help of a head switch, a computer listing choices, and an assistant), loves taking part, hates being left out.

This is a whole different kind of disability. The disability of forever. It’s all she has ever known. Her understanding of what has been denied to her is coming to her slowly, piece by piece. She hasn’t lost the ability to walk, to hold things, to speak, she’s never had them. It breaks my heart knowing what she can’t have, but it doesn’t break hers. Some people might say (and have in fact said – to my wife in a radio phone-in) they would rather be dead than be like that, that drowning such children at birth would be a kindness both to the child and to the tax payer. But Celyn loves her life. She has ambitions. She’s an eight year old girl who loves pink, loves princesses, wants her hair done . . . I don’t know where all this will lead us – the doctors doubt it will lead us past 18 – but she deserves her chances and what happiness she can snatch. As do we all.

This disability from birth, especially profound disability, is something I’ve not seen addressed in fantasy. It isn’t something I demand to see represented. I don’t see writing as something subject to demands. It is however something I’m interested to see. The perspective of someone who has never tasted the full array of physical opportunities is unique and hard for an outsider to penetrate. There are insights offered by such privation, insights into what we are, into what makes us people, what we share at the core. That’s the reason I’d like to see such a character in a story. Not to fill a quota, not out of duty, but because it could be fascinating.

I’ve started two books with significant characters who have been profoundly disabled since birth. In one, ‘The Arithmetic of Magpies’, the character is a young woman with severe cerebral palsy (my daughter’s condition) at the heart of a high-tech hacking operation, prized for her particular skills, who finds herself being hunted by Orion – the avatar of the mythological figure – and plunged into a very strange conflict. All largely without stirring from the spot.

In the other, ‘Gunlaw’, a young boy with similar disabilities is strapped to a board in a ‘cripple-shack’ in a pseudo Wild West milieu. In this case rather than technology it is psychic ability that offers additional possibilities to the character, but in both cases I am careful to ensure that the technology or power in no way reduces the disability to a minor inconvenience – the new capability is tangential to the disability, it doesn’t compensate but it offers additional avenues for input to the story. Moreover, I’m trying to make the characters interesting in their own right. A disabled character doesn’t have to be good, or nice, or well intentioned. They can be as wonderful or crappy as the rest of us. The disability isn’t their defining feature – it’s the thing between their defining features and us. It may shape and colour what they have to offer, but ultimately the task of the story is to see past it to the person.

And the final thing I’d like to see in fantasy, just because it’s part of life – at least part of mine – is the carer’s point of view. It’s a unique position. Compared to Joe Public the carer has a raw deal. Their time is taken, their ambitions curbed. I spend almost all my time working or caring for my daughter. I’ve not had a holiday, day off, lie in, etc for eight years. I don’t have time to maintain friendships, raise my other children with the input they need and deserve . . . it’s pretty shit all in all. Compared to the person the carer is supporting their life is often a bed of roses. I can see, talk, run, jump. I’m not in pain. I had thirty plus years of freedom and fun, holidays, lie ins, time wasted doing nothing. It was great. I should shut the fuck up.

There it is in a nutshell. The carer has it much worse than most around them but much better than the person who is really suffering. They’re denied the luxury of complaint. It’s survivor guilt. I feel small for mentioning it here after listing Celyn’s challenges. But it’s a thing. It’s real, and it’s just another dimension of the matter.

My final point is that more than foresight or social conscience or good intentions, it takes skill to bring this subject to the page. There is an exceedingly fine balance to be struck when showing the reader the world through the eyes of a disabled person. Mention the hard facts of their impairment too often and it becomes deeply irritating very quickly. Enough with the leg/arm/missing hand already! Fail to mention the problems enough and you risk sweeping the constant and intrusive core of them away for convenience – because that’s at the heart of disability; it won’t quit, won’t be pushed aside, won’t stay quiet when it’s important. It just won’t.

All of this is part of life, which is why it offers potential for fascinating literature. Throw in some swords, a suit of armour, a dragon, a spell gone wrong . . . and stir until done. Perhaps someone with serious life-long disability can use (or has already used) that particular and peculiar ability of the fantasy genre to make their experience more real and accessible to those of us on the outside. Show us some broken heroes. Only do it well. Do it right.

—–

You can find Mark online here:

Facebook
Webpage
Blog

You can read more about his books on his webpage, or on Goodreads (or numerous other sources, I’m sure. Mark is one VERY talked about author).

Continue reading »]]> About the Book

Welcome to the Metrozone – post-apocalyptic London of the Future, full of homeless refugees, street gangs, crooked cops and mad cults. Enter Samuil Petrovitch: a Russian émigré with a smart mouth, a dodgy heart and a dodgier past. He’s brilliant, selfish, cocky and might just be most unlikely champion a city has ever had. Armed with a genius-level intellect, extensive cybernetic replacements, a built-in AI with god-like capabilities and a plethora of Russian swearwords – he’s saved this city from ruin more than once. He’s also made a few enemies in the process – Reconstruction America being one of them. So when his adopted daughter Lucy goes missing, he’s got a clue who’s responsible. And there’s no way he can let them get away with it.

400 pages (paperback)
Published on March 19, 2013
Published by Orbit
Author’s webpage

This book was sent for me to review by the publisher.

You can purchase a copy of this book by clicking on the following links: The Curve of The Earth, The Curve of The Earth – Kindle

—–

When I first started my blog roughly three years ago, I was a heavy fantasy reader with a flair for epic fantasy and had very little science fiction under my belt. Now, three years later, my tastes have (predictably) changed. Now science fiction captivates me and I have a harder time getting into epic fantasy quite as much as I used to. Science Fiction, in my mind, is almost completely untapped, probably because I’ve read so little of it. But it’s also really interesting to see how authors envision the future, especially when you take into account the events happening around them when they write their futuristic novels.

The Curve of the Earth is a book that flew below the radar. It’s set in a sort of futuristic Earth. Politics and the whole “the earth is flat” thing have effected how people live, communicate, work and understand each other. The world is a different place. Some areas, like the America, are ultra conservative, while others are downtrodden and rather terrifying, ruled by crime bosses. It’s a world where crossing the Atlantic takes a fraction of the time it takes now. In a world like that, the proverbial ripple of a butterfly’s wing can cause massive, sprawling political and ecological impacts world wide in a matter of minutes. It makes today’s digital, satellite, and almost instantaneous world look like a snail’s pace in comparison.

Metrozone, the London of the future, a post-apocalyptic nightmare of street gangs, hoods, crime bosses, and weird cults, is truly a one of a kind place for a story like The Curve of the Earth to take place in. Metrozone is an area that frightens most, but it is basically ruled by Samuil Petrovitch, a Russian émigré. Petrovitch truly is the star of the show, and if I’d been halfway smart about reading this book, I would have realized that there was a Metrozone trilogy that was released before this book. While I don’t think it’s necessary to read said trilogy before you read The Curve of the Earth, reading it first might help sort out some of the problems with details that I found confusing as the book started.

Perhaps it is those details which is the greatest drawback of this book. While things do become easier to understand as the book progresses, at the start it’s hard to understand the political system, the ways people communicate to each other, why Metrozone is such a dark, scary place, and exactly why the name Samuil Petrovitch is at once notorious and feared. As I mentioned, these things iron out as the book progresses, but it can be a bit frustrating and it does occasionally feel like you are in foreign water with no real landmarks by which to navigate.

Petrovitch’s best friend is a genius AI named Michael, who appears on and off throughout the book offering insights and various tidbits of information that will help you piece together what exactly is happening and what has happened to create the world as it currently is. Michael is a wonderful addition to the story, he adds a bit of stability to Petrovitch’s sometimes over-the-top cockiness and eagerness to stir the proverbial pot. Speaking of which, Petrovitch is a little bit of everything. He’s human, political criminal, a ruler and leader of sorts, a sarcastic ass, completely unafraid and a cyborg. He’s larger than life, so it’s somewhat ironic that his AI companion Michael is his balancing factor.

The Curve of the Earth moves at quite a quick pace, which is another reason why I think being somewhat aware of the details of the world before you start the book might be a good idea. Morden is unrepentant. His writing is fluid and often so detailed and lush you can get lost in it, but the intricacies that he weaves into this quick moving tale are truly mind blowing. It’s part adventure, part 1984, and possibly an eerie glimpse into an ominous future. Regardless, the protagonist and his team are an absolute riot to follow. Petrovitch is hilarious, and while he is occasionally hard to believe, it’s his companions, like Michael, that keep him grounded and believable. The Curve of the Earth is an adventure with a deep message hidden at its core and plenty of pulse pumping action.

4/5 stars

Continue reading »]]> About the Author

If you’re unfamiliar with Peter, you’ll find his creative endeavors come in two main thrusts: Writing and Music. Depending on the day, he’ll tell you one or the other is his favorite. Early on, a close third was athletics, baseball in particular. But somewhere along the line he became more a spectator than participant; that was about the time he began to write and make music in earnest.

As a writer, Peter tends to write the stories that occur to him and prove compelling, which means he writes in any number of genres. His published fiction is mostly fantasy and science fiction at this point, but he’s written a couple of thrillers he hopes to find homes for soon. At least one bestselling fiction writer has seen the outline of one of Peter’s unpublished novels—a more mainstream story—and thinks it’s bound to be his bestselling work. That book is on hold for now, though, as Peter ramps up a new fantasy series, THE VAULT OF HEAVEN.

Then as a musician, Peter’s tastes likewise run the gamut. There are few musical genres he doesn’t enjoy. So, while many might find easy stereotypes when they see Peter, those stereotypes are too narrow to accommodate the variety of his musical tastes. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t love rock music—he absolutely does!

Beyond these consuming interests, he currently works at Microsoft in the Interactive Entertainment Business (Xbox), loves the outdoors (with a fondness for the Rocky Mountains that he’ll never lose) and taking his Jeep deep into the back-country, but more than anything enjoys spending time with his family.

You can find out more about Peter, and the various ways to follow and contact him, on his website.

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Seeing with Different Eyes

You hear it sometimes. Writers thanking this person or that for the opportunity to write something. But I have to tell you, when Sarah hit me up with this topic, synapses fired immediately on what I’d say both to her and to anyone who’d read my contribution. To Sarah, I said yes, of course. And here’s what I want to write about: seeing others with different eyes.

I’m going to try not to get up on a soapbox here. That’s not my intention at all. But I understand the risk I run in tackling a topic like this. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Let me start by saying it’s quite likely that you, dear reader, already do this—see others with different eyes, that is. What I mean by it is this: You don’t make value judgments based on what you see. Rather, your feelings and opinions about others are probably engendered by something more substantive than appearance. Still, bear with me.

We’ve all bandied about trite phrases like, “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” “Looks can be deceiving,” and “There’s more to it than meets the eye.” I don’t want to cover that ground. You know it well enough already. Instead, I want to talk about one way I think we can get past the snap judgments, past whatever discomfort seeing someone with special needs might cause us.

And it’s simply this: See them as a father or mother would.

There are flaws with my assertion. First, you may be neither a father nor mother, and so don’t have a frame of reference for my suggestion. But everyone’s got parents, one might argue. Well, even there, it’s possible your own parents weren’t great models of loving-kindness. It’s sad, but true, that some parents don’t feel particularly close to their own children. So, fair enough. I won’t argue these points.

But I’ll go out on a limb and say that parents generally love their kids. Really love them. With a deep connection it’s hard to articulate with mere words. Strictly speaking, it shouldn’t be necessary to apply the lens of parenthood when looking at someone else. The idealist in me shouts that we should treat everyone fairly, show compassion, lend a hand. But, we’re human. That’s not an excuse for bad behavior, just a fact. And humans are flawed. Sometimes deeply so.

It’s why I think it can be helpful to esteem others as a parent would. In broad strokes, every person—whether disabled; or down on their luck; or, hell, even just sad—is the child of someone who loves them. And I think that can inform how we treat one another.

When I hear about a woman being raped, I sometimes wonder to myself, “Would that guy do it if he had a daughter of his own?” It’s not a rational thought. Many rapists have daughters. And I understand that I’m projecting the love I have for my own little girl onto a man committing an act of violence. Still, in my sometimes warped sense of justice, I’ll imagine the bastard having a daughter later in life and becoming tormented by the thought of his crime once he realizes what he’s done to some father’s child.

Again, I realize, it shouldn’t be necessary to shift one’s frame of reference in order to show someone some common decency. But clearly the world has room for improvement in the area of how we treat one another. And I submit that this simple way of seeing others could help.

“Blood is thicker than water,” some will say. Right, but all that means is that you don’t have to work as hard at seeing your own family in the way I’ve described. It comes more naturally. The suggestion I’m making is—if needed—we consider that those who are encumbered with any number of challenges are someone else’s family. They’re loved. And there’s enough that’s common between us to let it soften our hearts to a healthy degree. And by soften, I mean cause our willingness to render aid, compassion, or defense. Yeah, that’s right. Stand up against a goddamn bully when you see him or her taunting another person’s child. Because you’d damn sure want someone to do that for your own kid if you weren’t around.

The world’s not a fair place. Trite statement, that. But we all walk in our own spheres, where we can make it more equitable if we choose to.

“Orullian,” you may be saying, “I didn’t tune in to Sarah’s awesome blog for a philosophical rant.”

No, you didn’t. But I’m not apologizing. Maybe Sarah won’t even run this. I may wind up having to post it on my own blog. Because I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.

You see, I thought I was a fairly even-handed guy until my first child was born. And despite what you might say about it, the very second I saw her head (I was in the delivery room), something in me changed. For the better, I might add. It was one of the most metaphysical moments of my life. I can’t explain it. It’s like a switched was turned on. My capacity for patience and compassion and love . . . well, it kind of multiplied. All that, and a fierce and immediate willingness to defend and protect my child.

I don’t pretend this happens for all dads. Though, many men tell me they’ve had the same experience.

Where does all this leave us? Maybe nowhere. I’ve no delusions that this blog post is more than a drop in an ocean. Still, I’d invite you to try it once. Next time you see someone with special needs, or really anyone who could use some help, think about them as someone’s kid. They could be feeling alone or confused. And consider that if their father or mother could be there, they’d be answering that need. In their absence, pay the needful the kindness someone who loves them would.

And now that I think about it, it wouldn’t hurt my feelings to see more of this in fiction, too. Good writing will show character flaws and failures, but I love reading stories where a character is willing to sacrifice on behalf of someone else. And that sacrifice doesn’t need to be mortal to be meaningful.

To close this out, I’ll reference a couple of songs. If you didn’t know, besides writing fiction, my other abiding passion is music. There are a lot of examples I could use, but a few whose sentiments seem to express what I’m trying to say come from Trans Siberian Orchestra and Dream Theater.

Trans Siberian Orchestra wrote a song entitled, “Old City Bar.” If you don’t know TSO, they’re most famous for their Christmas music. Rock style. Regardless whether you celebrate Christmas or not, I hope we’d align behind seminal Christmas ideas like charity and generosity. If so, then consider these lyrics:

Then the door opened wide
And a child came inside
That no one in the bar
Had seen there before

And he asked did we know
That outside in the snow
That someone was lost
Standing outside our door

Then the bartender gazed
Through the smoke and the haze
Through the window and ice
To a corner streetlight

Where standing alone
By a broken pay phone
Was a girl the child said
Could no longer get home

And the snow it was falling
The neon was calling
The bartender turned
And said, not that I care
But how do you know this?
The child said, I’ve noticed
If one could be home
They’d be already there

Then the bartender came out from behind the bar
And in all of his life he was never that far
Then he did something else that he thought no one saw
When he took all the cash from the register drawer

Then he followed the child to the girl cross the street
And we watched from the bar as they started to speak
Then he called for a cab and he said J.F.K.
Put the girl in the cab and the cab drove away
And we saw in his hand
That the cash was all gone

And from the Dream Theater song “Don’t Look Past Me,” this simple, powerful phrase:

And so love is broken
They’re asking me, “How can you help
When you don’t even know how it feels?”
I don’t need one thousand reasons
When someone starts to cry
When someone says my heart needs lifting
Don’t ask how come, ask how high

I suppose sharing these could make me look a bit maudlin. But I don’t care. I think there’s power in them. Real power. The kind that matters anyway.

Continue reading »]]> About the Author

What can I say about myself? 37 years old, native of Staten Island, New York, living between the coasts in Minnesota (The Great White North!). Roleplayer. Science-geek. Amateur Photographer. Lover of Science Fiction, Fantasy and History. (Avid Reader!) Technical Office Professional.

You can fine Paul on Twitter, Facebook, SF Signal and a slew of other websites. 

Tony Stark Has a Heart

(Note: Contains spoilers and discussion of plot points the first two Iron Man films, The Avengers movie)

Tony Stark. Billionaire playboy. Weapons manufacturer. Global star. Superhero.

And, most importantly for purposes of this discussion, a man who lives under a disability. Readers of the comic, or watchers of the movie know the story. In the attack on him (in Afghanistan in the movie), shards of metal penetrate his chest and threaten to perforate his heart. Only by means of technology is he able to construct a device not only to keep those shards at bay, but to become the power source for a suit of armor, the suit of armor that allows him to become Iron Man.

More importantly, that disability and its omnipresence changes Tony Stark. In fact, I want to argue that the vehicle of his disability is what causes him to become a better person.

In Iron Man, the brush with death, and the continual presence of the shards in his chest changes Tony as a businessman from the get go. Gone is his gung-ho desire to sell weapons to the U.S. military, dreaming instead of much more peaceful applications for his technology. When faced with death at any moment, the prospect of dealing death is far less appealing.

This decision propels the rest of the action of the movie.  Iron Man is a pugnacious, destructive force when in combat, although one will note that repulsors and punches are weapons far less murderous than the missiles and bombs his company used to make. Tony Stark struggles with his new identity, groping toward being a hero.  This development in the story of the film it leads to the final line of the movie, as Tony Stark reveals himself publicly for what he is: Iron Man.

In Iron Man II, the challenge of having to wear the suit and the arc reactor all the time is compounded by the revelation that it is slowly poisoning him. The compounds and drugs he is using is keeping this at bay, but his blood is being slowly and inexorably poisoned. Like a metaphor of terminal cancer, the seeming inexorable nature of his impending death again propels the plot of the movie, leaving him vulnerable to forces that wish to use the Iron Man technology for nefarious purposes. Although the terminal condition of the blood poisoning is indeed resolved with the help of a message from the grave, the underlying problem of the shards in his heart are still an omnipresent danger. And, we see that, far from the pugnacious use of the suit early on in the first Iron Man film, in the crucial final sequence of Iron Man II, Tony’s first concern are the innocents under threat from Crimson Dynamo and Justin Hammer.

The apotheosis in the Marvel Movie continuity for Iron Man’s change of heart is The Avengers. It was pointed out to me that Iron Man, more than any of the other Avengers, has the true hero’s journey as part of his storyline. The Call to Adventure, the reluctance to take up that call, the growth and development as a through line as the movie progresses. And, then, finally, in the climax of the movie, risking his own life to not only stop a nuclear missile from striking New York City, but then redeploying that missile, knowing that it is a suicidal act, to stop the enemy alien fleet pouring out of the portal above Manhattan.

The Tony Stark, before that fateful day in Afghanistan, would never have dreamed of offering his own life as a sacrifice for the world, a city or even another person. After his time within the suit, however, and the omnipresent threat of death by the shards in his chest or the poison allowing him to keep going, Tony Stark is no longer that Tony Stark. He is more human. That is the true legacy of his disability. The shards in  his heart, the ever present possibility of death, has worked a transformation in him.

The fact that, with the aid of the Hulk, he survives this act does not diminish the attempt at heroic sacrifice. He took on the missile with the full knowledge he was going to die. Witness his attempts to call Pepper, and fail, to make one final human connection, showing just how much he has changed as a character.

Tony Stark does, indeed, have a heart.

And, I believe, even if he were somehow cured of the condition (as he has been, on occasion, in the comics), that personality change fostered by his disability is permanent. Tony Stark will always be Iron Man.

Continue reading »]]> About the Book

The Shattered Pillars is the second book of Bear’s The Eternal Sky trilogy and the sequel to Range of Ghosts. Set in a world drawn from our own great Asian Steppes, this saga of magic, politics and war sets Re-Temur, the exiled heir to the great Khagan and his friend Sarmarkar, a Wizard of Tsarepheth, against dark forces determined to conquer all the great Empires along the Celedon Road.

Elizabeth Bear is an astonishing writer, whose prose draws you into strange and wonderful worlds, and makes you care deeply about the people and the stories she tells. The world of The Eternal Sky is broadly and deeply created—her award-nominated novella, “Bone and Jewel Creatures” is also set there.

334 pages (hardcover)
Published on March 19, 2013
Published by Tor
Author’s webpage

This book was sent for me to review by the publisher.

You can purchase this book by clicking on the following links: Shattered Pillars (Eternal Sky), Shattered Pillars (Eternal Sky)

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Before I actually review this book, I should make a note for any potential readers. If you haven’t read Range of Ghosts, or are fuzzy on the details, then you really should put this book on hold until you’ve reacquainted yourself. One of the side effects of my cancer treatment is memory issues. I thought I’d read the first book and remembered enough details, but the cancer monster struck and there were a number of points in the book where I found myself confused and wishing I’d done a re-read before I had continued on with Shattered Pillars.

Everything Bear introduces in Range of Ghosts is expanded upon in Shattered Pillars. The world building is absolutely epic in every sense of the word, and that epic scope just becomes grander in this installment in the series. Everything gains a bit more depth and dimension. Bear is no longer introducing readers to her world; she’s immersing them in it. Readers won’t just marvel over the unique vision that Bear presents them, they will revel in it. The cultures, nuances and small details will creep into your soul until you feel like you are part of her creation. That’s a true gift.

The world isn’t the only thing that is expanded upon. The plot grows along with the world, gaining depth and dimension, as well as some strong emotional appeal. Side plots, which I usually find to be glossed over or lacking in second installments of series, are just as poignant, memorable and compelling as the main storylines. Everything has its place and Bear makes it all fit together neatly, so neatly, in fact, that readers might occasionally forget just how sprawling and massive both the world and the intricate plot really are.

Due to the fact that this second book expands quite a bit on the foundation the first book sets, it’s to be expected that characters will be revisited. However, some of the seemingly secondary characters from Range of Ghosts have more important roles in Shattered Pillars, and readers will spend more time with them, while some primary characters, like Temur, have a bit less time in the limelight. While this was beneficial, in my opinion, as it did help with the overall epic feel to the book itself, I can see where some readers might lament the slight reversal of spotlight time with some characters.

As always, Bear’s fluid prose is worth noting. In fact, her incredible talent with writing is one of the reasons she’s one of my all time favorite authors. However, in Range of Ghosts, as with Shattered Pillars, she never sacrifices pace, plot, or development to show off her literary flair. Somehow she manages to work both together perfectly. She can be incredibly, astoundingly detailed, without derailing the pace in the least and when she needs to reign in to get things going, she’s not afraid to do so. That’s one of the things that makes Bear such an exceptional author. She knows when enough is enough, and isn’t afraid to stomp out what’s unnecessary. This gives her overall storytelling a very measured, appealing feel. Everything happens in its time and proper place.

Shattered Pillars is the second book in a series. Normally second books seem to lack a little something that the first and third books contain. They lack a little “umph,” if you will. Second books have a feel that they are bridging the gap between when two very hardcore things are happening. Rest assured, dear reader, Bear has not let her second book fall into that trap. As with everything else, Bear has measured her plot, timed her events, expanded her world and created an even more epic and sprawling installment that makes Range of Ghosts pale in comparison. This might be the first time I’ve ever actually admitted that this second book in a series is perhaps the best second book in a series I’ve ever read, precisely because it doesn’t feel like a second book in a series.

Elizabeth Bear is one of my all time favorite authors, and I could go on for days about all the qualities in her books that set her apart from everyone else, but I really don’t need to. Bear makes her own case for her grandness with this series. Range of Ghosts will hook you. Shattered Pillars will blow you away. Bear is an author to watch. She redefines genre and blows convention out of the water. Epic truly is epic in her hands and this series is one stunning showcase of incredible, formidable skill.

5/5 stars

Continue reading »]]> You can find the original post here.

About the author

Elspeth Cooper was born and raised in Newcastle upon Tyne in the north-east of England. Her parents read her Ivanhoe as a bedtime story, which was, she says, their first mistake. An inspired primary school teacher introduced her to Beowulf, and by age 11 she’d worked her way through every book in the house, including her Dad’s Penguin Classics editions of The Odyssey and The Iliad. The Lord of the Rings was pretty much a natural progression, and an epic fantasy adventure fan was born.

Elspeth describes herself as a voracious reader, and cites amongst her influences Susan Cooper, Alan Garner, Guy Gavriel Kay, Robert Holdstock and Tad Williams. She currently lives in Northumberland with her husband and cats, in a house full of books.

Songs of the Earth‘ is her first novel, and the first in The Wild Hunt series.

Author’s webpage

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In her review of Songs of the Earth, Sarah picked up on a theme in the book that intrigued her enough to invite me here to discuss it further: most of the principal characters in my debut novel are physically impaired in some way.

This was intentional, but not in the way you might be imagining.

Genre heroes and heroines have a tendency to be clean-limbed and strong. Physical disability rarely gets a look-in, and scars are usually sexy rather than disfiguring, or else they’re lazy-writer-shorthand that a character’s a real badass. Now I didn’t write the book to address this, or even with any kind of disability-awareness agenda in mind. In 1997, when I started writing what eventually became Songs of the Earth, I simply had a story I wanted to tell.

The savage scar on Gair’s hand was a deliberate choice: I wanted him to have an ugly, lasting reminder of his trial at the Motherhouse, and I wanted it to be something that couldn’t always be easily hidden, that through carelessness or inattention could get him into trouble.

Similarly, I gave Ansel, the Preceptor of the Suvaeon Knights, arthritis and a chest complaint. To have risen to that position he needed to be a grizzled veteran, but men of action don’t always age well, so I made him unable to sit, stand or move without pain. This meant he had not just plot-related obstacles to overcome, he also had to contend with the nagging awareness of his own mortality.

Gair’s friend Darin has a chronic illness too: diabetes. It made him especially vulnerable to another character’s manipulation that affected his awareness of the passage of time, when eating regularly was important to his continued health. I rather downplayed the impact of this (you’ve got to make the reader do *some* of the work!) but for me it added a satisfying extra dollop of tragedy to Darin’s arc as a character.

And then there’s Aysha. It made a delicious twist, I thought, to have the hero’s love interest be, not some unattainably perfect virgin princess, but an older woman, and a foul-mouthed, selfish, sensual and crippled one to boot. Of all of the characters, she was the one I identified most closely with. She was me on my best day: confident, independent, and always ready with a snarky comeback of the sort I usually think of only after the argument’s been well and truly lost.

At the time, I didn’t think holistically about what I was doing. I didn’t think any farther afield than each character’s arc, and what felt right for them. Some of the characters just sprang onto the page fully-formed, impairments and all, like Athene from the brow of Zeus. Their genesis happened on an entirely subconscious level, a kind of creative cron job running overnight on the servers in my brain (please forgive the computer analogy – 21 years in IT tends to leave its mark on a girl).

It’s only now, looking back at how the book evolved over the 12 or so years of its gestation, that I can see all this and make sense of it. At the time, it just felt like the right thing to do – I do an awful lot of my writing on feel and gut instinct. I am not a natural planner, and find the idea of writing character summaries on index cards then pinning them to the wall above my desk about as attractive as a root canal.

Anyway, long after these characters were established in early drafts of Songs, and years before I ever dreamed that I might one day find a publisher for it, I became disabled myself: in 2004, I was diagnosed with relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis. I now walk with a cane, and I am unable to stand unsupported for very long. I fatigue easily, which leads to a lot of stumbling and occasional falls.

How strangely prescient of me, then, to have written a novel in which physical impairment is so prevalent, and in which my favourite character resembled a future me more closely than I ever would have imagined. A cosmic joke, perhaps – or a case of life imitating art.

If only I could have predicted the lottery numbers . . .