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Can’t Talk,Reading

This edition of CTR is courtesy of Stephen King’s 11/22/63.

If you read enough of my blather, you’ll know I’m a die hard King fan. But the truth is, lately, I’ve been lukewarm on King. I didn’t love Cell (I liked it, I didn’t love it.) I liked Lisey’s Story but didn’t love it, either. The real disappointment, though, was Under the Dome.

I couldn’t finish it, people. A King book I can’t finish? Unheard of. But it was… I don’t know. Boring? Predictable, certainly. I felt as though I’d read the entire thing before, and I could predict the  move of each character. By a third of the way through, I gave up caring about any of the characters. I can’t say exactly why, I wish I could pin it down to one thing or another, but the book just bored me. I was very disappointed.

I did love Full Dark, No Stars. King’s short stories are unbelievable. So many people skip them and they are missing out on some of the most amazing writing there is to be read. Amazing, captivating, intense. He tells a tale as skillfully (and as weirdly) as Bradbury, but in the singular King voice. Go. Read. I recommend Everything’s Eventual and Nightmares and Dreamscapes, but any of them will do. My excitement about this novel can wait until you’re finished.

Back? Mind blown? Great. Anyway, the point of all that preamble is that I was nervous approaching 11/22/63. I didn’t preorder it or run out as soon as it was published. I waited to see what other people said. I wasn’t sure I would read it at all. I’m glad I changed my mind.

11/22/63 was fantastic. Character driven spec fic with that tinge of WTF that King has perfected. I’m struggling to write a review without spoilers, but he gives you a take on the early sixties that is rich and full. Diving into the book feels like being there with Jake Epping as he embarks on a mad quest to stop the assassination of JFK. The past, though, doesn’t want to be changed.

King’s skills lie in writing characters you give a fuck about. Even the smallest of side characters, you root for. Or against, depending. This book is no different, with a main character so achingly “every man” that you can easily put yourself in his shoes. His struggles are yours, his questions are yours. You’re there, in his shoes, driving his Sunliner. I jumped into this book and in 14 pages I knew I was going to like it a lot. I did.

Bottom line is, go read this book. And stop bothering me, I’m reading.

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Can’t Talk, Reading

Today’s edition of CTR is brought to you* by Santa Olivia, by Jacqueline Carey.

Carey writes a series of books that I lovingly call the “Kushiel” books, although I’m not sure that’s what they’re actually called. There are nine of them set in the same world, a vast fantasy alt-earth. The most recent installment took us to a fantasy version of Central America that left me very disturbed whenever I pass an ant colony. But I digress. I love these books. They are the first fantasy novels I can recall enjoying since Mercedes Lackey’s Fate series when I was a youngster. There are parts of her world that I believe in so strongly I’ve found myself sending prayers to her gods. That’s good world building.

Santa Olivia has nothing to do with this world, these novels. So I was a bit nervous going in, as you can imagine if you’ve ever had a passion for a series of books.

I was wrong to be worried. Carey is an amazingly talented author. She has a lot of strengths, but her female characters might be at the top of that list. She creates women I want to be, to hang out with, who are realistically flawed and full of depth. Carmen and Loup Garron are no exception to that rule. Strength, grim resolve, powerful emotional resonance but not in the “drama queen” sense at all. Amazing women.

You might have guessed from the name “Loup” that there are wolves in the mix. Werewolves. Kind of. Put the ablicious kind out of your head and consider–if we tampered with human DNA, added… things, what would we get? We get Loup. We get a dystopian future US where some kind of superflu (captain tripps anyone?) has wiped out a lot of folk.  We get a fascinating, believable situation wherein people are hurting and dying but not as much from the flu anymore as from a government with too much power and too many secrets.

I am loving this book. I was reading in the hot tub** and turned into a giant prune yesterday because I couldn’t tear myself away from it. I love the way she takes tired mythology and turns it into something utterly new (in these and the other books she’s written). I love her voices, her worlds. This is a good one, highly recommended!

This reminds me–feel free to friend me on Good Reads. I’d love to see your reviews of Santa Olivia, or other books. I’m always up for a recommendation!

*not with actual money. More like in the Sesame Street style of”brought to you by.”

**world’s tiniest violin, I know. Trust me, the hot tub is a luxury I NEVER take for granted.

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Solace

Today’s edition of can’t talk, reading is brought to you by Megan Hart’s Order of Solace series. I just picked up Selfish is the Heart.

Let’s be honest. There are a lot of crappy novels out there. Somehow, if you add in explicit sex, the number of crappy novels seems to explode. Sex isn’t all I need to dive into a story. This novel is not one like that.

There’s sex, sure, and there’s a very sensual world built up around the idea of service–all forms–as an aspect of faith. It feels genuine and interesting. It’s fun to read, and sexy too.

Hart is a talented author, and I can only hope to approach her level of intricate storytelling and engaging characterization. I highly recommend any of her stories, but I have a particular passion for the Solace novels.

(also, I’ve crossed the 8K line in Worse Things, and the next scene has lots of violence, so that will be fun. Woot!)

Hey! Quit bothering me. I’m reading.

Stories

Several times in the last few days the subject of formative stories has come up around me.

Many of my dearest didn’t have the best childhoods. I seem to collect people who have spotty or downright abusive families. I also seem to collect people who read. Voraciously. It’s a writer’s occupational hazard I suppose.

We all have the same tale. We might not have had the best or most consistent moral compasses to follow, but we all had stories. All of us can point to many books and worlds that shepherded us from damaged or lost children into a whole adulthood (wholeish, anyway). We have memories of the teacher that picked us out of class and handed us a book on the sly, or told us to check in the scifi section of the library, or simply encouraged us to think critically about what we were fed, rather than accepting it without question. Where there was a dearth in our home lives, fiction and storytelling and passion for the written word stepped in to surrogate.

I’m not trying to bag on my own parents, or really any parents. Being a parent is a hard fucking job, and even the best of intentions can go awry when faced with the realities of the daily struggle to nurture and grow tiny people. If anything, my parents encouraged me to read and often provided me with trips to the library and books as gifts. That alone is a blessing.

I can tell you that I had parents of the normal sort, and I had spiritual parents too. Gene Roddenberry, Stephen King, Wendy and Richard Pini, Robert Heinlein, Ray Bradbury, Douglas Adams, Dr. Seuss… All these and more had a hand in my upbringing. Stories to this day govern the way I believe the world should look, how I conduct myself, how I treat others.

With the disappearance of Borders and the defunding of arts and libraries everywhere, I’m afraid for the lost children of the generations to come. I can only hope that they will find stories of their own to fill in their missing pieces. I’m a child of the digital age, and I don’t begrudge the shift toward ethings (I love my Kindle. Srsly.) I just hope that we remember to provide access to those who might not be able to afford high speed internet and an ereader. Because the lost children need stories–they need someone to help them find their way.

Today’s version of Can’t Talk, Reading is brought to you by The Book of Lost Things, by John Connolly. About a 12 year old boy on the cusp of adulthood, his tragedies, and the fairy tales that form his moral compass and guide him through. (I told you this keeps coming up for me! Total coincidence, I had this post half written when I bought the book. I think the universe is trying to tell me something.) Great read, just picks you up and carries you along until the end. I recommend it if you are waxing nostalgic about your own storied upbringing.