I know what you’re thinking. Cute dog on the cover, sort of cutesy title, a font that screams, “Hey, I’m a book for women, but not one of those books for women.” But A Hundred Pieces of Me by Lucy Dillon is a damn good book.
It starts with our hero, Gina Bellamy, who discovers her husband is having an affair. Not only is he having an affair, it’s Christmas, her first Christmas in the perfect house they have renovated together, and she’s wondering what will be the next big project to bring them together. Nothing, apparently, as he is sleeping with a younger blonde.
Flash forward, and Gina is in her new apartment, boxes and boxes of stuff from her old life crowding her new one. Overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of things, she decides that she’s going to only keep 100 crucial things. She also nails a sweet new job restoring her dream home, which happens to be inhabited by a very handsome (though married) photographer. And yeah, there’s a dog.
But this book is more than the sum of its parts. (more…)
It’s hard to review Kameron Hurley for a few reasons, not the least of which is that she’s bound to read that review at some point. Criticizing books is easy when you feel like the author won’t ever read what you’re writing, let alone care about some woman shrieking into the abyss of the internet. Hurley, as she points out, has been that shrieking woman, and so the odds of her hearing your wailing are markedly increased.
Pulling punches is not what this blog is about, however. And I genuinely enjoyed The Geek Feminist Revolution, Hurley’s manifesto (or so it’s described) about feminism in fantasy and sci-fi. Hurley is a prolific sci-fi writer with a day job who also happens to be a woman, which means she’s forced to defend herself on a daily basis from the legions of Sad Puppies who think that women shouldn’t write sci-fi. She must be exhausted. Seriously.
Sometimes, I thought she was being a little whiney or self-congratulatory. Why did she have to talk about how hard she works? I wondered. Why go on and on, and then brag about how much she writes and how great her characters are?
Prompted by Hurley’s book itself, I began thinking about how much differently I had just treated On Writing by Stephen King. The books’ goals are disparate: King’s work is half memoir, half instruction manual, while Hurley’s is meant to raise a little hell and push women to action. But both of the authors talk about their personal history of writing and how they came to be where they are. Both worked incredibly hard–both racking up debt, King as he tried to support a family and Hurley as she tried to escape abusive relationships, come to terms with her sexuality, and deal with a chronic illness.
Did I find King’s work a little self-indulgent at times? Sure. Did I ever think of it as whiney or self-congratulatory? No, not even when he’s talking about how he never plots stories out and just “lets the characters take him there.” (God, that’s annoying.)
And that’s where my own flaw in thinking comes in. Because even as I found Hurley’s tone off-putting, I realized that I found it off-putting because 1) I’m not used to hearing a woman express how proud she is of something she created, and 2) I didn’t like hearing that a woman has to work so hard to be successful. (more…)
The first time I stumbled on a piece of creepypasta, I had no idea what it was. A friend had posted a link to it on Facebook, and since this particular friend always posts interesting things, I clicked through and read it.
I can’t even remember what it was about, now. Maybe a dead girlfriend haunting a teenager. It definitely involved doctored photos, and it was written in an unusual style that contributed to my confusion. I’m pretty sure it was on r/No Sleep, a sub Reddit forum where people tell creepy stories and other readers engage actively with the poster. The story evolved over a series of posts, after which the original poster suddenly disappeared, causing an interesting tension with the readers.
Then there was the time I discovered Slenderman. If you’re not familiar, I believe the general understanding is that Slenderman is a made-up character based on a series of doctored photos that show a preternaturally tall, gangly figure in the shadows, luring children into his clutches. The thing is, though Slenderman isn’t real, he is in the minds of at least two teenagers, who said they were inspired by him to perform real-life murders.
These are only two examples of creepypasta, a viral fiction form that lives on the Internet and is inseparable from it. I know this doesn’t sound literary, but hear me out. (more…)
I have finally gotten back to creative writing. Nothing huge, just some fooling around, but the mere act of writing has become so all-encompassing that I can think about little else these days. While copying and pasting at work, I’m working out a plot line in my head. Chatting with friends, I’m bursting with sitcom ideas, some of them good, some of them silly.
And, whenever I can sneak away and write upstairs for a few hours, my husband invariably comes in and asks what I’m doing, occasionally trying to read over my shoulder. I’m sure he totally appreciates me slamming my laptop shut and throwing myself at him, yelling, “STOP LOOKING IF I TELL YOU I’LL NEVER FINISH.”
(Does anyone else find this? That talking about what you’re writing destroys some sort of fragile magic that you’re weaving? Talking about writing doesn’t do it, but talking specifics somehow sucks the life out of everything that I’m doing.)
Anyway, so while I have been reading, the reading I’ve been doing has been so different. (more…)
Rarely have I been as captivated by a mystery as I was by P.B. Ryan’s Still Life with Murder, the first in her Nell Sweeney series. Combining a few tropes familiar to readers of historical fiction with a willful, wonderfully flawed heroine and gorgeous trappings — as well as a tightly-knit plot — this novel is one of the best mysteries I’ve read in quite some time.
The premise is simple: Nell Sweeney, a physician’s assistant, is hired as a governess-cum-nursemaid for the infant Gracie, the daughter of a chambermaid in a Boston Brahmin household. In a move that surprises and shocks Boston society, the matriarch of the family adopts the little girl as her own. The woman has lost two of her four sons to the Civil War, and tells all who will listen that she’s always wanted a daughter, so why pass up this one?
Nell, however, infers that it’s not the whole story. Raised in the Irish-Catholic Boston slums, she knows that when a chambermaid hasn’t seen her husband in a year and a half, the baby she just gave birth to definitely isn’t his. And since the baby was so readily accepted by this high-brow family, Nell knows the baby must be one of the sons’, somehow.
Turns out, she’s right — but that’s not all. The son in question, William Hewitt, was thought to have died during the War, but he is actually alive, addicted to opium and charged with murdering a man in a boarding house known for card games and prostitutes. Amazing. On behalf of her employer, Nell is sent to determine Will’s innocence and somehow keep him from being hanged. (more…)
You guys must think all I read is trash, at this point. Nothing could be further from the truth. I came to Nora Roberts’ The Collector after whipping through Margaret Atwood’s entire ‘MaddAddam’ trilogy within two weeks. I was desperate for a compelling story that I could enjoy without having to think too much about it, and the premise of this one seemed intriguing.
The story starts with Lila Emerson, a professional house-sitter and writer of young adult novels, who is watching a New York City penthouse when she witnesses a murder outside her window. The woman who is pushed out a plate glass window to her death turns out to be a model and the girlfriend of antiquities dealer Oliver Archer, who is also found dead. After giving a statement to the police, Lila encounters Oliver’s brother Ashton, a brooding artist determined to find his brother’s killer. The pair team up to solve the crime, falling in love in the process.
See? Compelling. (more…)
It’s taken me a few days after finishing Jacqueline Carey’s second trilogy to process precisely how I feel about it. On its surface, it’s…fine. It follows the legacy of her original “Kushiel’s Dart” trilogy, and therefore is full of daring deeds, passionate romance, and travels and adventure that fling her characters across her fictional Europe and into the Middle East.
It’s all fascinating, as far as that sort of thing goes. The story is that Imriel de la Courcel, Prince of the Blood and foster-son of the main characters in Kushiel’s Dart, falls in love with the heir to the throne, who also happens to be his cousin (apparently this isn’t relevant, though he does make creepy comments regarding being turned on by their shared eyebrows). The problem is, Imriel has already promised to marry a princess of another realm to solidify some diplomatic ties, and besides, his mother tried to seize the throne in a violent coup about 15 years prior, so the people of this kingdom are pretty doubtful about his motives. The trilogy finds Imriel traveling through this world’s equivalent of England, Ireland, France, Northern Africa, Greece, Italy and even into Germany, Russia and (I think) Scandinavia to win the hand of his beloved.
Imriel is, like many romantic heroes, a man written by a woman for other women to fall in love with. He’s gorgeous, sensitive, damaged and broken, a figure — as his lover somewhat ironically calls him — “of great and terrible romance.” There are scars, brands, emotional damage, induced madness. He’s a valiant swordsman, a pretty impressive spy, practically a pirate, and has this vague twist of sadism that somehow makes him more attractive.
But despite it being crafted almost solely to please women, this trilogy ultimately fails them. (more…)