Ordinary Day

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

When I read Sharon Shinn’s first book in her Twelve Houses series, I found it a bit shaky in its initial chapters, at least till it got its feet under it. I was very pleased to discover that I had no such problem with Book 2, The Thirteenth House.

This book continues the adventures of the overall cast of characters established in Mystic and Rider as they pursue the greater plot arc of anti-magic sentiment sweeping their kingdom and threatening to plunge them all into outright war. However, the focus shifts now from Senneth and Tayse over to the shapeshifter Kirra, whose participation in the rescue of their king’s kidnapped regent, Lord Romar, leads to a stormy affair with said regent. The catch: Romar is married, and Kirra is impersonating her own half-sister. Between that and Kirra’s need to keep her true identify and her talents secret, the affair is perilous to them both. Kirra’s soon swamped in intrigue–and comes under the threat of the ringleaders of the growing potential rebellion.

Overall I liked this book quite a bit, despite the fact that as a character, Kirra is definitely more flawed than Senneth. She’s impulsive to a fault, and at first this is frustrating. Yet she did well riding the line between “I want to smack her for her choices” and “I am nonetheless sympathizing with her”, and she shows some admirable development when faced with the consequences of her actions. (Even as she’s ultimately forced into a difficult and ethically shady choice indeed, about which I shall not elaborate, because spoilers.)

I did also like Romar, and was relieved to see that Shinn did not go the too-easy route of making his wife unlikeable. Some readers may find the fact that Kirra’s carrying on with a married man ethically shady all by itself; if you’re one of those readers, this book won’t be for you. But for what it’s worth, I did appreciate that Shinn didn’t make it easy on either character.

On the bigger level of the overall story arc, I liked the advancements in this one quite a bit. After I finished this one off as a library checkout, I went ahead and committed to buying the series, and I’ll look forward to finishing them off. For this one, four stars.

Mirrored from annathepiper.org.

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Die in Plain Sight is a bit of an odd duck in the run of Elizabeth Lowell novels, straddling as it does the line between her Donovan series and her Rarities Unlimited ones. Goodreads classifies it as a Rarities book, but the two series are set in the same universe–and since it provides major camera time to Susa Donovan, the matriarch of the Donovan clan, it’s hard not to call this a Donovan book.

Nonetheless the question is, how does this particular book stack up against either series? Our heroine is Lacey Quinn, granddaughter of a famous artist, who’s determined to find out whether the previously unknown works of his she has inherited are proof of murder. And our hero is Ian Lapstrake, employed by Rarities, and of whom we get brief glimpses in Moving Target and Running Scared. They’re both pretty standard, likeable lead characters. In Ian’s case, I didn’t necessarily find him as intense or as charismatic as some of the Donovans, but on the other hand, that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; it also meant that there was a refreshing lack of what Romancelandia calls alphole-ness on his part.

As for Lacey, I rather liked her better. She’s an artist and therefore a creative type, and even if painting isn’t my particular art, I definitely sympathized with her attempts to pursue it and especially with her interactions with Susa, whose work she revered. In fact, in many ways I enjoyed the scenes with Lacey and Susa almost more than the ones with Lacey and Ian, just because the two women had strong chemistry as fellow artists pursuing art together. Susa is a lovely character, and it’s great to see this woman get serious camera time, since it helps flesh out the history of the Donovan family and shows where her children get a lot of the awesomeness.

Antagonist-wise, we’ve also got a fairly Lowell-typical screwed up rich family, across whose secrets our heroine has inadvertantly stumbled and who will do anything to keep those secrets secret. There aren’t any real deviations from the standard plot track there, though on the other hand, Lowell doesn’t get too over the top with the antagonists as she’s sometimes done in other books.

So all in all I’ll give this one a good strong three stars, on the strength of Susa.

Mirrored from annathepiper.org.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

(Note: I’m posting this review out of order because my next 2012 Book Log post is book 2 of this same series–and I didn’t want to post the review of the second before I posted the review of the first!)

I come to Courtney Milan courtesy of the fine ladies of Smart Bitches Trashy Books, and while I’m not always aligned with their tastes, I have got to back ‘em up on Milan’s Turner series. Here’s the thing about my reading romance novels–there are certain tropes in them that drive me spare, and are among the main reasons I steer clear of most contemporaries. I favor historicals and romantic suspense, on the grounds that they’re less likely to display the tropes that drive me most spare, even as I’m very aware that those particular romance subgenres also have their own issues.

I’m not a history geek, so I couldn’t dissect for you whether Milan’s depiction of her chosen period is historically accurate. But I can tell you that she pulled off a story that, for me, beautifully balanced a historically accurate feel with character sensibilities more appealing to modern readers. In my reading experience to date, that’s hard. Better yet, she skillfully subverted two of the biggest tropes I hate in many romances: having such a huge deal made over the heroine being a virgin, and the Big Misunderstanding that far too often provides “conflict” between the leads, the sort of conflict that can be solved in five minutes if they just talk to each other like adults.

And happily, she does all this in a tasty little scenario of political and familial intrigue. Ash Turner, our hero, has proven that the Duke of Parford is a bigamist, therefore destroying the legitimacy of his heirs, and opening the way for himself to take over as the rightful heir to the dukedom. But the Duke and his sons are having NONE OF THIS, and they’ve set the ailing Duke’s daughter Margaret up to masquerade as his nurse–putting her into an excellent position to spy on the incoming new Duke and find anything, any flaw in his character or vulnerability in his history, that can ruin him in the eyes of Parliament so that they can take back their estate.

Naturally, our heroine finds Ash Turner dangerously appealing. And has to soon choose between him and her own family.

Margaret was awesome, and it is through her that Milan subverted those aforementioned tropes so beautifully. I’m not going to spell out how, so that I can avoid spoilers, but suffice to say that as aspects of her history were explored and Ash’s responses to them were shown, I liked both characters immensely.

Mad, mad props as well to the inevitable vulnerability that Margaret discovers in Ash, another thing I won’t spell out so as to avoid spoilers. But I will say that it’s an aspect of him that is a source of genuine past strife between him and his brothers, and which genuinely made my heart go out to the poor guy.

Last but not least, how the eventual resolution of Margaret having to choose between Ash and her father and brothers–and how Ash must choose between Margaret and his own desire for revenge against her father–worked out beautifully.

All in all, great fun. I had some minor questions of plausibility here and there, but nothing serious to get in the way of enjoying the story. Four stars.

Mirrored from annathepiper.org.

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

The Secret Sister, published under the name of Elizabeth Lowell, is a reworked version of a novel called The Secret Sisters, published under the name of Ann Maxwell. I haven’t read the original version, but I can safely say that the Lowell version is an acceptable little romantic suspense novel.

Our heroine du jour is Christy McKenna, a fashion writer, going about her fashion writer business in New York until she gets a call from her long-estranged sister Jo. Jo needs her help, and Christy wants absolutely none of this–until an assignment from her editor forces Christy to head west anyway. Her sister’s disappearance shoves her onto the trail of not only Jo, but a hidden cache of ancient Native American artifacts as well. And our obligatory brooding hero is Aaron Cain, an outlaw archaeologist, who’s a bit unusual for a Lowell hero in that he’s actually a convicted felon. (Yet, as he is in fact the Obligatory Brooding Hero, he was convicted for assault of an Obligatory Unsavory Person Who Actually Deserved It.)

As Lowell novels go this was perfectly readable, if not outstanding or unusual. The main things that appealed to me about it were the atmospheric descriptions of the Colorado terrain and Lowell’s general competence at chemistry between her lead characters, the latter of which is why I keep reading her. Three stars.

Mirrored from annathepiper.org.

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I’ve posted before about my affection for Elizabeth Lowell’s books, formulaic though they are. Whirlpool is no exception, though it’s an earlier example of a formula she’s used to better effect in more recent books: i.e., an independently operating agency out to recover a Valuable Shiny Thing, a hero who’s a Reluctant Operative of the Agency and who is assigned over his protests to look out for the heroine, and of course a Heroine Who Has the Shiny Thing, and who must be protected from the Bad Guys Who Want the Shiny Thing. In this particular case, the Agency is Risk Limited; the hero, Cruz Rowan; the heroine, Laurel Swann; and the Shiny Thing, a Faberge egg that her father has foisted off on Laurel, an egg with a priceless treasure hidden inside of it. A treasure which, naturally, the Bad Guys are desperate to get hold of.

Here, however, is where the book falls down for me. I had to specifically remind myself of what this book was about, as I remembered very little of it except for the overuse of a particularly annoying trope: i.e., the Bad Guys being signified as the Bad Guys because they’re the ones having lots of kinky sex. This is emphasized almost more than the primary bad guy being obsessed with medical treatments keeping him looking far younger than his actual age, though that was played up a lot too. Overall, though, it was annoying. And there wasn’t much substance in the characterization of the Home Team to balance these problems out.

Lowell’s done better, so if you’d like to see her in better form, there are plenty of other options. For this one, two stars.

Mirrored from annathepiper.org.

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

With all of the fuss I’ve seen made over Lev Grossman’s The Magicians, I feel like I rather missed something–because I outright loathed this book. And it takes a lot to make me loathe a book.

First of all, I kept seeing it get pitched over and over as “Harry Potter for grownups”, which came across to me as completely ignoring the fact that grownups all over the world have been cheerfully reading Harry Potter right alongside the children that are its primary target audience. Part and parcel with this was the corollary that The Magicians is a more grownup, nuanced, mature world, presumably because it’s darker or grittier or something, since the last couple of Harry Potters were of course all sunlight and rainbows and ponies. (Except, oh, wait a minute, no they weren’t.) I take issue in general with the idea that a book “for grownups” by definition has to be darker or grittier. Some grownups like to read stuff that isn’t unremittingly grim, and I happen to be one of them.

Second, if I’m going to have a book try to make a point to me about how very much it’s Not Being Harry Potter, you know what the last thing is that that book ought to be doing in order to keep me engaged as a reader? Reference Harry Potter repeatedly within the actual narrative, to drive home points like how our protagonists can’t just fix their teeth like Hermione Granger to make everything better. This happened at least twice that I can remember off the top of my head, and all it did for me was make the book come across as if it were jumping up and down yelling in my face, “HEY! I’M NOT BEING HARRY POTTER! LOOK HOW MUCH I’M NOT BEING HARRY POTTER! YOU KNOW WHY I’M NOT HARRY POTTER? BECAUSE LOOK HOW THE HARRY POTTER BOOKS ACTUALLY EXIST IN THIS UNIVERSE AND HOW I AM CLEVERLY REFERENCING THEM!”

And yes, the all-caps are pretty much how I felt about it, because it felt like the book was trying to drive that point home with a railroad spike into my skull, and pounding on it with a sledgehammer.

But third and most importantly, the main problem I had with this book was that I wanted to climb into its pages and punch each and every single person in the cast. All of them. I found absolutely no one in this story engaging, and I don’t care how realistic Grossman’s scenario of “in the real world, a school of magic would just generate a bunch of self-absorbed pricks with magical powers” might actually be. You know what you get in this scenario? You get a bunch of self-absorbed pricks, and the fact that they have magical powers does not in any way, shape, or form lessen their massive self-absorbed prickery.

And I don’t want to read about people like that. Especially our so-called hero Quentin, who spent the entire book being an emo little whiner and who showed no redeeming characteristics whatsoever. If he’d gained even a shred of nobility by the end, I might have thought differently about this book, but no.

To be fair, the first chunk of the story when our protagonists were going through all of their classes–despite the heavyhanded LOOK HOW MUCH I’M NOT BEING HARRY POTTER! screaming the book kept doing–was interesting. But once they graduated and we got into the sequence full of nothing but relationship angst, my urge to punch the lot of them rose dramatically. And by the time we got the big reveal of Fillory’s reality (which I can safely mention since that’s not a spoiler), I was so thoroughly disenchanted with these people that all that kept me reading to the end was a wisp of an acknowledgement that the author did have a compelling enough command of the language to keep my attention.

It’s just that no matter how well Grossman wrote, he was writing about thoroughly reprehensible characters in a setting that was unremittingly bleak. And I don’t need that in my life. The real world is bleak enough without subjecting myself to it in my reading. One star.

Mirrored from annathepiper.org.

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I’ve just written in my review of Clementine that given how much I loved Boneshaker, the first book in that series, it’d be extremely difficult for any followup book in the series to measure up. Happily, Dreadnought, Book 3 of Cherie Priest’s Clockwork Century series, has done just that.

As with Clementine, this is a sequel to Boneshaker mostly in the sense that it’s set in the same universe. But unlike with Clementine, Dreadnought has a character in it directly related to one of the Boneshaker cast–in this case, the nurse Mercy Lynch, who is the daughter of Jeremiah Swakhammer. Mercy learns of the death of her husband in battle and of her estranged father’s being gravely injured and ill in a one-two punch at the beginning of the book. And, with great reluctance, she sets off across the country to fulfill her father’s wish to see her.

And make no mistake, this is a rollicking adventure of the first order, especially once Mercy makes it to the titular train, the Dreadnought, which will be her mode of transport for most of her journey. It’s on the Dreadnought that she’s embroiled in intrigue between the Union, the Confederacy, and the independent republic of Texas–this last embodied by the Texian Ranger Horatio Korman, with whom she joins forces when it becomes increasingly clear that the mysterious cargo in the train’s final car may be putting all their lives at stake.

If you’ve read Boneshaker, it won’t be any stretch at all to imagine what’s in that car.

The trip builds excellently, up until the reveal of what exactly happened to a missing regiment, and how that regiment eventually reaches the train. Great, great fun all around. Five stars.

Mirrored from annathepiper.org.

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I’m a sucker for zombie novels, as y’all know. I’ll take them in all stripes: hardcore creep factor like Sarah Langan, spectacular worldbuilding like Mira Grant, or over the top steampunky goodness like Cherie Priest. I’ll also happily read any zombie novel that aims for funny and/or lighthearted, and I was pleased to see that Jesse Petersen’s Married With Zombies filled that bill nicely.

Our protagonists, Sarah and David, are in the middle of couples counseling when the zombie apocalypse hits–as they discover when they show up for a therapy appointment to find their therapist eating a previous client. Oops. From there, they quickly discover that a zombie outbreak has completely overrun Seattle, and that they are going to have to figure out fast how to not only survive the situation, but put aside their own marital issues while they’re doing it. This is an excellent setup, and it didn’t hurt either that the action started in Seattle, since I’m always a sucker for books set here. (Especially ones involving zombies.) We soon go into a general road trip, though, as Sarah is desperate to find out what happened to her family, and she and David meet the obligatory other parties along the way, all of whom are also struggling to deal with the outbreak–some effectively, some with outright fail, some with genuinely creepy fanaticism.

The book hits all the high points you want in a good ol’ fashioned zombie adventure, though I could have liked a bit more character development for our protagonists–I never got any real feel for why they were having issues to begin with. But then, given that this is pretty much a romantic comedy with zombies, you don’t really need much more than what you get, and I certainly liked this well enough that I’ll be reading more in the series. Three stars.

Mirrored from annathepiper.org.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again–if you like old-school romantic suspense, then Mary Stewart is the author for you. And out of all her various novels I’ve read, Nine Coaches Waiting stands out as one of the most solid. I’ve often found Stewart’s work to be almost more about the scenery than about the actual plot, but not so here. Her prose is as lush in this work as it is in any other, and happily, there’s an excellent little plot to give it heft.

Linda Martin is a young Englishwoman taking on the position of governess to a nine-year-old French count. As with any good Gothic suspense novel, this means we’ve got the obligatory remote setting along with the governess in question, as well as the obligatory cast of potential threats to our heroine’s life as well as that of her young charge. We have the young count’s charismatic uncle, confined to a wheelchair. We have the uncle’s son Raoul, who serves the role of the obligatory love interest. And, we have the obligatory mysterious attacks on the young Count Philippe–and ultimately, how Linda must choose to handle them.

You might think this is a historical novel with Linda being a governess. Don’t. The name “Linda” is certainly a giveaway that this novel is set in a timeframe contemporary to the author’s own lifetime, as is the presence of cars and other modern-at-the-time technology. But that said, it’s historical in the sense of being over 50 years ago; the book was, after all, first published in 1958. This might make it feel dated to some readers, yet, what with the classic Gothic elements in the plot, I found it all strangely and pleasantly timeless.

As with most other Stewart novels, the pacing here is not terribly intense, but that’s quite alright. I found the increasing urgency about the life of young Philippe fraught with tension, eventually overshadowing Linda’s initial concern about hiding her own childhood in France. Philippe’s uncle Leon is compelling, all the more so for the force of his personality being constrained by his physical limitations. My only real beef with the book at all is that I found the chemistry between Linda and Raoul almost perfunctory, as well as the brief appearance of another male character who, in a more modern novel, might have served as a rival love interest. Yet, even that was ultimately fine and contributed to the novel’s overall timeless feel.

All in all, check this out if you get a chance. It’s a nice switch from a lot of more modern novels, indeed. Four stars.

Mirrored from annathepiper.org.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Prismatica is the other of Elizabeth Barrette’s poetry collections I’ve read this year, and of the two, this is the one I prefer. Since I’m not a regular reader of poetry, this collection’s being SF-themed made it quite a bit more accessible to me than the other collection, From Nature’s Patient Hands.

As with the other collection, I found in general that Ms. Barrette had a lovely way with a word. Several of the poems in this collection stood out for me as examples of what I always want a poem to do–i.e., take a concept and coalesce it into a few short lines of verse. Moreover, the concepts in question were excellent SF-themed ones.

There are too many poems here for me to talk about them all, but some of my favorites included:

“One Ship Tall” – The opening poem in the collection, about FTL flight

“Star Orphan” – About the finding of a single young survivor on the ruin of an alien planet

“Resolutions” – About the path of a woman’s lifelong determination to reach the stars

“lush rain” – About a rainstorm not quite what you might expect

“From ‘Aliens’ to ‘Zooming’” – An alphabetical exploration of a clever alien emissary to Earth

“Crib Notes” – A pithy little suggestion about why, exactly, we haven’t had any confirmed alien visits to Earth yet

So all in all, not my normal reading, but nice to have explored nonetheless. If you like SF-themed poetry, you should check this out. Four stars.

Mirrored from annathepiper.org.