| Miss Juju Rex ( @ 2007-12-31 02:28:00 |
Look! I am not dead, nor have I been spirited away by a rakish prince to be a slave girl on his barge, only to make him fall madly in love with me and take me to be his wife. No, instead I have spent the last couple of months dedicating myself wholly to literature; during November, I participated in NaNoWriMo (because I am a NaNoWriMasochist), and consequently did not read a word that was not my own. Naturally, I’ve spent December making up for lost time. Most days, one can find me locked up in my room, slopping tea all over the couch and yelling unintelligible things at the pages. Now and then my parents will summon me to dinner, and I will reply in my best icy Garbo fashion, “I vant to be alone.” Then I ruin it all by adding, “With my books! I require no other sustenance!” and giggling happily.
My behaviour is perfectly understandable when you consider how I was deprived during November, which was spent trying to write a book rather than reading one. So as to avoid temptation, I strictly forbid myself to go near any bookstores, and this made me unhappy and on edge. Finally I thought that, if I could not have books, then I would at least have book talk. What was a desperate woman to do? I summoned the school’s book club and demanded discussions.
Don’t tell me you’re surprised – of course I’ve started a book club! We meet whenever we care to, which is about once a month, and drink tea and eat scones. Now and then, we chat about books and sexy communists and books about sexy communists. Unsurprisingly, I love my book club and secretly refer to us as the Bluestockings. (Secretly, because once I said it out loud and was cruelly laughed at.)

Comforted by the discussions, I told myself that once NaNoWriMo was over, I was free to hurry to the bookstore and shop like a wealthy librarian on speed. (Do tell me if you want to see the list of their recommendations, by the way, because it is in my possession! You see, due to a freak accident involving strawberry jam and a complete lack of common sense, I became last meeting’s secretary. Needless to say, this caused unnecessary confusion and anxiety). I deserved a reward for, er, voluntarily writing fifty thousand words in the middle of a writer’s block, does this, it doesn’t sound flawed at all, my reasoning, does it? Good, because I needed those books.
But first I desperately needed a pen shaped like a reindeer. I bought one and named him Mr Deercy, for that is my way, and he stood by me during those last two days. Mr Deercy was a shoulder to lean on! Not that he has much in the way of shoulders, of course, but he wrote encouraging remarks in my notebook, let me use his Amazing Reindeer Powers and, when I was bored to tears with my story and just wanted to go to bed now please, he performed an interpretive dance set to the music of his homeland.

Paul McCartney, you were wrong. Money can buy you love!
So when the month was over, Mr Deercy and I went to the bookstore, where we made a spectacle of ourselves. There were so many titles that I didn’t know where to begin! I was in agony and Mr Deercy was for once not helpful, seeing as he was dozing in my handbag. Finally, I thought to myself, “Baby, what about urban fantasy? It’s what you’ve been writing for a month. In fact, it’s what you usually write.”
Surprised, I realised that I was having An Insight. Something about cities fascinate me endlessly – maybe it’s because they are familiar; maybe it’s because they are full of people and possibilities; maybe it’s because they have a tendency to develop personalities of their own. I’m not sure. All I know is that I thought Ulysses was a gripping read and that last time I tried to write a lovely subversive fantasy story set in the highlands, it did not go well.
Most of the story was planned out by the time I’d decided to start writing. I was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor with a list of my main characters and a friend was at the computer, typing. All that was left was getting into the mood, so I put on a record of lively (yet tragic!) folk music, lit some incense and commenced the Journey Into My Mind.
My mind is a disappointing place. Though I managed to find a deep lake and a pink sky, the rest of the landscape completely evaded me. When my hero was about to feel awed by the majesty of nature, I blinked my eyes open only to become aware of the fact that my tea was cold, and also that my friend had emerged from the depths of my dimly lit chambers to give me nervous looks and say, “I’m, I am going to get coffee now. From the coffee pot? Which is, it’s behind you. So… please don’t bite my ankles when I pass by, it could be catching.” After that, I ditched my story in favour of undines in the water tank. In conclusion, I love nature and I love reading and writing about nature – but I am a city girl at heart.
“So, urban fantasy it is,” I said to myself, and began an exciting search to the tune of that Mission Impossible theme song.
Twenty minutes of scanning the bookshelves later, some things were brought to my attention. Did you know that there are practically no faeries in
Answer: “Please take all my money.”
Nightlife by Rob Thurman
Caliban Leandros’ father is a monster. By monster I don’t mean a strangely alluring creature of the night, but a frightening, perfectly inhuman thing who would never even dream of taking the kids on a fishing trip. Caliban’s father is not remotely attractive, unless of course you like your men with razor-sharp claws, shining red eyes, huge fangs and an unholy thirst for death and mayhem. (In which case I do not judge, but will sit and worry about you from afar.) He paid Caliban’s mother, fake psychic and raving alcoholic Sofia, a large sum of money to impregnate her (because, let’s face it, if it’s really the inside that counts, he’s in great trouble) and for obvious reasons, mummy and daddy separated after that brief and terrible liaison. (Imagine what family life would be like with a murderous monster, she’d never get the bloodstains out of the carpet, and what would she tell the neighbours when he disembowelled the children’s softball team, it would be enough to drive anyone to drink even more.) So Cal and his half-brother Niko live with
When we encounter the brothers, they are hiding in
First, allow me to say this: I actually liked this book. I need to mention this now, because I have a history of being tragically misunderstood. And I know that this is so because I have had many conversations in which Person A has said to me, “Oh Juju, but you hated that book/film/thing with tentacles that made a noise when you squeezed its tummy!”, and I’ve been like, “No, you’ve got it all wrong, I liked that book/film, and I own one of those squeezy tentacle things!” And then Person B has shown up and said, “Is there any food?”
The problem is that I want to love everything. When I pick up a book or watch a film or try something new, I’m fully expecting to give away half the kingdom and all of my heart, and when I love or really like something, I want to share it with the world. I do the whole thing with the reverent tones and the singing of praises and the bulging eyes, and people react differently to this. Some find it off-putting. Others are vaguely entertained. Very many say, in tones of deep disgust, “You just got spittle on my arm.” But when I just like something, I need to find out why exactly I didn’t love it, and then I talk about flaws and weaknesses and Things that Could Have Been until I sound as if I have a dark and shrivelled soul and torture baby animals in the basement. Only this week, I’ve had to carefully explain my views on two very different topics (“I thought Special Topics in Calamity Physics was a fun read and I do not hate white wine, calumny all!”). For that reason, I thought I should begin by listing all the things I liked about Nightlife! And there were many.
The story is told in the first person, from the point of view of teenager and half-monster, Cal. Cal is tough, smart and frequently laugh-out-loud funny, and Nightlife as a book is fast-paced and exciting. I also happen to be of the firm opinion that secondary character Robin Goodfellow should win some sort of award. (Apparently, Homer could drink anyone under the table, and Sappho? Could party like it was AD 99. I am not surprised.) At the same time, the author deals with issues like identity and family, and the relationship between Cal and Niko is touching and believable.
Another plus is that the monsters are genuinely scary. Cal and Niko refer to them as Grendels, though actually they are elves or Fae, usually referred to as Auphe in the books. Universally feared, the Auphe revel in murder and destruction, live in a cold hell and speak a language that sounds like consonants being put through a meat grinder. You are not likely to find these merry fellows traipsing across a meadow, because they will be too busy chewing merrily on your entrails. Thurman has reinvented the traditional fantasy elf by giving Legolas fangs, anorexia, a bad hair day and some serious attitude problems.
That having been said, there were some things that made me like rather than love this book.
This is a debut novel, I think, and it shows partly in that the writing is a bit uneven. It’s a matter of taste, I know, but personally I’m always wary of things like “his eyes were frozen grey lakes of mistrust” or “I went out into a night as black as my soul”. Also, for reasons I will not enter into for the sake of the plot, the second half of the book is rather repetitive. There are only so many times you can do the whole “I should know about monsters – I AM ONE” and “I will tell you about the MASTER PLAN AHAHA!”
Characters such as adorable red-headed psychic
Finally, while I liked this book, I put it away feeling slightly disappointed. But this was not Nightlife’s fault! Nightlife and I had a good time. We shared a banana split and did each other’s hair! No, it was because my expectations, they were like the
Answer: “I don’t think you’ve taken all my money yet. Here is the rest!”
The Faery Reel, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling
Some anthologies can be a bit uneven, but that was not a problem here. In fact, if I have a problem with The Faery Reel, it’s that I can’t list all my favourite stories, because I loved nearly all of them. With spittle! The Faery Reel is a wonderful collection of stories, songs and poems, with a wonderfully consistent high quality. It features works such as Neil Gaiman’s lovely poem The Faery Reel, Patricia McKillip’s Undine (in which a seductress of the sea becomes an environmental activist) and Kelly Link’s The Faery Handbag (in which it is proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that a handbag is a woman’s best friend). While the general subject is faeries, the authors have chosen to look at different myths and legends, and tackle different themes.
There is also a geographical spread: here you’ll find stories set in
I had a great time reading this anthology and at the moment it is lying on my bedroom table, where it does not rest easily. I do, though, especially after having picked it up again and reread a story. Why not do the same? Maybe you will start seeing faeries. They’re notoriously difficult to get rid of, but I wouldn’t worry too much. You won’t want to get rid of these faeries.
The Faery Reel, a couple of pies and some birthdays later, I realised, aghast, that I had no money left. This was a blow to me. More reading had to be done! After all, I had missed out on an entire month of it. Mr Deercy agreed with me. “But darling,” I told him, “if I buy more books, you and I will have to go begging on the streets. I shall be forced to work as a call girl and you’ll be a, a rent…rentdeer? Why, the mere thought is unbearable!”
It was at this point I imagine Mr Deercy must have rolled his eyes and said, “I am made of plastic, and still I’m the brains in the gang. Go to the library!” Being the muscle in the gang, I did as I was told.
Not that I had any idea what kind of book I was after, exactly. After a while, I just grabbed a couple of classics and some plays, shoved them into a friend’s arms and said, “Just one more…”
You know how sometimes a certain book seems to beckon to you? The title catches your eye, the cover shines with a pure light, the artistically ripped pages seem to whisper your name. This was what happened to me. “Dear me,” I said, “what a long title! And what a nice cover. Those artistically ripped pages almost seem to, to whisper…” I placed The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation, on the top of the tottering pile of books.
Picking up Octavian Nothing, I had no idea what to expect; the summary on the back was vague, I didn’t know which genre it was, and I had never even heard of the author before. Luckily, I was pleasantly surprised. In fact, I lost my heart, half the kingdom and the ceremonial headgear to this book, and I learned a valuable lesson in the process.
Sometimes, it’s all right to judge a book by its cover.
The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation, Vol. 1: The Pox Party by M.T. Anderson
In a gaunt old house isolated from the rest of the town, live the young boy Octavian and his mother, the exiled princess Cassiopeia. They are surrounded by scientists and scholars who provide Octavian with everything from fine clothes to an excellent education, but gradually he begins to question his role in their experiments. And he comes to a chilling realisation.
Descriptions like “stunningly original” and “gorgeous writing” are overused, I know, (in the context of “my, but this daring sculpture of a canary balancing a cactus on its head is stunningly original!” rather than “gosh, Juju, this essay of yours is stunningly original and gorgeously written!”). However, I can safely say that Octavian Nothing really is stunningly original – and the writing is gorgeous. I’ve certainly never encountered anything like it before, and I often felt I had to reread a page or a passage because of the pretty words. At times, however, this was impossible, because I was too busy biting my nails and crying, “Octavian my darling, everything will be all right!”
In the beginning, the author deliberately makes it unclear where and when the story takes place, so that as Octavian unravels the secret of his identity and purpose, so do we, the readers. Not that this is a mystery story, mind you; I am sure it’s just as enjoyable if you read it knowing perfectly well what will happen. Octavian’s story will shock and horrify you, and make you sniffle into your sleeve! I know I did. As I put this book away, my sleeve had a noticeable wet dark patch.
By the way, I have begun hunting for some of your recommendations! Yes, hunting. Please imagine me fully armed and clad in camouflage, creeping stealthily through the bookshop with a pair of binoculars at the ready. A gang of policemen is standing outside, yelling at me through a megaphone to come to my senses and not do anything drastic. “I’m coming,” I reply anxiously. “I just have to find Temeraire by Naomi Novik, Sir Apropos of Nothing by Peter David, Vile Bodies by Evelyn Waugh, Tigana by Guy Gavriel Kay and something by Patricia McKillip!”
At this point, the policemen decide they can’t bother to wait around anymore and go to a nearby café for lattes and pies.
Sweet pies, in case anyone was wondering.