It's sort of my fall-back here, to talk about the slush when I'm having an intensive week other places and I can't manage to get off my duff and do posts. 

But today has been a crap-shack all the way around and if I started talking about the slush I wouldn't have anything even approaching nice to say. So positive thinking's a thing, right? 

Because that's what happens with this, isn't it? I'm exceedingly lucky that right now my core group of writerly friends can have these kind of discussions without it degenerating into how much we can't believe so-and-so doesn't like X or Y or "Oh My God I can't believe you read that." 

So, in the full understanding of how much I'm about to alienate half the world, here is my list of the 5 best books ever written. It'll be broad, some of them might not actually count as books. They aren't in order because I sat here for five minutes trying to figure out which was #1. You are warned.

Fade by Robert Cormier
Guys. I can't even. My obsession with this book is about the closest to actual obsession I ever get. Someone suggested it to me when I was sixteen and my high school creative writing class was going to meet Cormier and we were supposed to read like six of his books. The best thing I can say about it is that it's almost as strange as American Gods without actually being that weird. It's been *cough cough* years since I read it the first time and I still love it, it still fires my imagination in the same way it always has. It makes the list because even more than anything else, Fade is my mental landscape for life in the late 1930's. It's beautifully crafted (which is not usually a think I pick as favorite) and sometimes creepy and often really freaking inappropriate.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Okay, so I have to preface this with the fact that I've read Pride and Prejudice about four times for every one I've read Jane Eyre. And much as I love me some Austen, she's not on this list. If I listed all the things I deeply, deeply love about Jane Eyre it'd take forever. I'll contain myself to the biggest one. By the tenants of little-r romance (to borrow a phrase from John Green) This book should have been simple and sweet. Unattractive girl with no prospects meets Gentleman of Fortune and Property, he sweeps her off her feet, we're done. Elizabeth Darcy is fiery and passionate and I love her, but I want to be Jane Eyre. I want her internal compass, even when she's maybe not the smartest character ever portrayed. 

Inherit the Wind by Jerome Lawrence and Robert Edwin Lee
Everyone in Freshman English utterly hated this. It was dry and tired, and about crap that happened forever ago, and everybody already knew evolution was a thing, right? Some of you will be remembering right now that I grew up in Kansas and thinking about that statement in light of like...anything from the news involving Kansas and Schools. I probably don't have to explain why this is on the list. The short version is the quiet message I got from this about the evils of zealous, blind belief in pretty much anything. Also, I might be prejudiced because they snuck this in on us the year before we started biology and we voted on which creation/earth-origin stories we wanted to spend the most time on. Yes, you read that right.

A Casual Vacancy by JK Rowling
This is about like Fade. It's grossly inappropriate, and strange, and I love it with every ounce of my tiny, black heart. Also, this is on the list because it takes talent to make me utterly hate everyone in a book, and still keep reading it. The way Rowling strings you along, hoping certain people will get their just desserts, and constantly manages to make you like/dislike/like characters is genius and almost emotionally exhausting. 

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
I have to admit I could only do this one once, and I read it forever ago. I suppose it gets on the list just because I can still, very clearly, remember a specific scene (not one of the bad ones) clear as crystal, and sometimes it sneaks up on me on hot summer days. There's an unutterable power to Angelou's writing I sincerely hope I master before I kick off. 

So there's my list. Come back Friday where I'll manage to pull something out of the ether. And hey, check out my new book Lost and Found if creatures of the night/dysfunctional monster hunters are your thing. 

Because people totes find bears from Darkest Peru just hanging out in train stations in London. 

In all seriousness, Paddington Bear is one of those characters that convinced me London was a strange, magical place, and firmly planted it on my bucket list as a place to go. And I want it to do that for my son, and for countless other kids. Hopefully the movie will help that, right?

Tiny side note, and critique? If you're buying Paddington for someone, the picture books are adorable and fun, but they aren't the same story. A tour of the Amazon Look Inside thing will show you a lot of that. I'm one of those strange people that feel like words matter, and I don't particularly like abridged books. If you think I'm wrong, tell me why down there in the comments, I'm interested to hear what you think.

I wish that was a picture of my cat, but his ears aren't that perfect. 
In any case, I promised you a challenge, didn't I? Because we don't all have more than enough to do, hu? 

Well, you're here now, and since I've presumably gotten you, let's talk. 

It's Well Written Wednesday, and I got to thinking earlier this week that as much as I don't write in a particular genre, I tend to read in a set of them. I love to write science fiction, and watch science fiction movies and things, but I don't read a lot of it. And I should. Everyone talks about how being well written requires being well read too. And I am, I read an awful lot, and it's not like all I read are the same five authors. 

So, what's the challenge, you ask timidly (because you know better, you really do, whatever happens from here on is your own fault).

Every month I'm going to read one Science Fiction or Fantasy novel (because they get blended together a lot for a reason no matter what proponents of either genre say) recommended to me by someone who loves it. Cover to cover. No matter how much or how little I like it. The first Wednesday will be book review day, and I'll announce the next months book. 

Your challenge, should you choose to accept it (like you have a choice) is to do the same thing. It doesn't have to be science fiction. Pick a genre you don't read (it doesn't have to be the same one for the whole year) and read a book a month. And everybody who comes on here the first Wednesday of the month and leaves me a note about what they read, and what they thought about it, gets a prize. Nothing elaborate, but I'll buy you a cup of coffee or send you a post-card or something.

So, who's in? Novembers book is going to be The Peace War by Vernor Vinge. You could always read it with me. 

I'm taking a break from staring with baited breath at the kickstarter --do you see what I did there? Yes, I know I'm shameless--to manage a Well Written Wednesday post about books.

Well, a specific book. 

I've long been a big fan of Midsomer Murders. I'm not quite the fan my mother is--but then few people are. Still, somewhere ages ago I realized the show was based off a series of books written by Caroline Graham and I set about trying to get my hands on one. I don't know if any of you have ever fallen in love with a British writer or series, but the distance between the US and the UK never seems to be worse than when you want a book that's apparently not in print here. (someday I will likely go on a nearly vulgar rant about Emily Brown and the Elephant Emergency)

My parent's managed it long before I did, and suddenly this week, to spite the ridiculous pile of things I should be reading, I started Death of a Hollow Man. 

So. Early reactions. Caroline Graham's command of language makes me feel vaguely bereft. The way she manages the detail through all the different character's eye is wonderful. And while I have an eerie feeling at this point that it might get tiresome later on, for now I still find it invigorating. 

And my strange thought is entirely wrapped up in constantly wondering if it's going to happen exactly the same way as the tv show. And if all the interweavings of the characters are going to stay the same.

Hopefully, again to spite the epic level of other reading I should be doing, I'll have an answer for you next week.

It's Wednesday again, and I'm allowed to spuriously talk about writing (in that I'm usually talking about reading).

I'm sitting at the kitchen table, squeezing in a blog post because I promised I would, listening to the dish-washer whir away, and having a devilishly hard time thinking of the last time I read a book where I really liked the ending. It's entirely possible most of that is because I'm picky. Because I long ago learned the knack for liking something even if parts of it left me wanting.

I just finished John Scalzi's Old Man's War series, and I'd recommend it a hundred times over, but if you asked me for a review nearly everything I told you would be negative. Which makes me sound like some insane keyboard wielding Negative Nancy. Just because he walked away from one tiny little plot string shouldn't ruin an entire series. It doesn't. I just really wanna know what happened.

And right now, thinking about unsatisfying endings all I can think about is Anne Rice. Someone mentioned the other day that she's coming out with a new Lestat book, and this was generally greeted with happy sentiments. By everybody but me. 

I did my Anne Rice phase, and honestly I wish I was still in it some days. I gobbled up The Vampire Lestat, and suffered through Interview with a Vampire both on screen and page. I read the Violin and wondered why I was so sad about a book I didn't even particularly like.

And I read Tales of the Body Thief. 

If there was a sane, straightforward way to tell you of my love for that book, while I was reading it, I'd probably have found it in the last fifteen years or so. I haven't. I savored every page, disappeared into that world with every chance I had, slowly and methodically because I didn't want it to be over. Right until the end. 

After all that love, it's natural to be a little disappointed, right? Because I'd built it up so far there was no possible way to write me a satisfying ending. I can see that, I even accept it. That's not what happened. I wasn't mildly unsatisfied by the ending, I hated it. And if I tell you why I might not stop writing this until sometime Friday. The short answer is I finished the book and felt lied to and manipulated. 

Maybe if I'd read it in my thirties I would have been prepared for that. I've had more than a decade for the world to find new and inventive ways to disappoint me (isn't that a depressing thought) and I'm a little less surprised by it every time it happens. But that one was painful, and it's fundamentally shaped nearly every literary opinion I've had since. 

I feel like there should be a support group for this.

"Hi, my name is Jules."
"Hi Jules," you all offer kindly.
"It's been seventeen years," I tearfully confess. "I'm still not over it." 

“It's that wounded-poet crap, that soul-pain shit, that too-much-of-a-tortured-genius-to-wash bollocks. Brush your teeth, you little bastard. You're not fucking Byron.”
--Robert Galbraith, The Cuckoo's Calling

At this stage, if you have a life on the internet you've probably heard of The Cuckoo's Calling. I've mentioned it before, months ago, and the scandal revolving around the failed attempt at a pen-name was decently explosive. 

It seems sort of fitting that I'm finally managing to post this review when JK's in the news again. 

I won't spoil the book for you. If you haven't read it yet, or you haven't even considered it, you should. Cormoran Strike, our detective, is a deep enough character I can't really lay him out for you, without spoiling part of the narrative of the book. There are other people moving around his universe--supermodels and drug addicts and stars and plucky office assistants--who in general have more agency and purpose than most b-list characters in Mystery. He has a suitably tortured back story you learn in little teases through the course of the book. 

The plot is good, and as usual Rowling isn't afraid of much of anything, subject wise. If you've read A Casual Vacancy you'll be ready for that. And unlike with A Casual Vacancy I didn't spend three quarters of this book hating everyone. Intensely. 

Which all sounds nice and appreciative, I'm sure. And probably makes you wonder why I finished the book nearly two weeks ago and I'm just now writing the review. 

I don't know what to say.


It's a good book, and I absolutely liked it. I like nearly everything she writes so that's not a surprise. It was clever and generally good about not being full of itself and even the parts I wasn't comfortable with, or that are generally instant turn-offs for me (again, I can't tell you what exactly because it's kind of a spoiler) weren't as annoying as they usually are. 

The problem is, it's not a Mystery novel. When I sat down to read The Cuckoo's Calling it'd just come out that it was hers, and everyone was talking about how wonderful it was and how it was the quality that outed her as the author more than anything. Like the whole reading world was crying 'First mystery novels just aren't this good!' And maybe they're not. Much as I love Christie, A Mysterious Affair at Styles isn't her best work. The same of Doyle and A study in Scarlet. 

But...

When I get to the end of a mystery I expect to look back and see all the clues I've missed, the things characters or the narrator said that I just didn't attribute the right weight to, but the protagonist did. I don't get that with The Cuckoo's Calling. It ends like a TV crime drama, where the detective is smarter than us all, even the bad guy. Where the clues are all made up at the end and they don't matter. And that leaves me cold and less connected to the story than I would be, if you gave me a satisfying conclusion. I'm not nearly as interested in the personal melodrama around a detective as I am the case he's trying to solve.

So, given all that, would I still suggest it? Absolutely. Mystery genre issues aside it's arguably one of the best books I've read in the last year. I sincerely hope she keeps going with the series (there's some hope, in multiple places it's billed as 'Cormoran Strike no. 1).

The picture at the top is pilfered (under fair use, and with attribution--just click on it) because I don't like Amazon enough to borrow their cover image and link to them.

And now I'm going to do those things in the reverse order (I'm strange, you'll probably get used to it)

I never wanted to be a writer. No, strike that.  I never wanted to be an author. The list of stories I started and never did anything with would take six years to go through. I always wrote, always imagined. To this day I put myself to sleep at night with some random story that's rattling around in my head. But that's all it was. A way to kill time when I didn't have anything else to entertain me. A way to escape.

I can tell you the exact moment that changed, but it's not when I started writing seriously.

High School Freshmen English was strange. Unlike all the middle school English classes we'd had, our new teacher expected something different out of us. We read books a lot of people say they didn't read until college (Inherit the Wind is still probably my favorite) and learned how to write an essay and understand a poem in iambic pentameter. And then she asked us to write. At least five pages, a real story with a beginning, middle, and end. If we wanted to make it fiction that was fine with her.

Most of the people in my class wrote about the big summer vacation they'd taken with their family when they were six, or last years karate championship, or how they felt when their child-hood dog died. None of that felt big enough for me, and she'd said we could write fiction. So I did, and it was more like ten pages instead of five, and by the end of that ten pages I'd been stranded in a snowbound car in winter all alone (I don't remember where my parents were) and rescued by a fireman I still saw every summer. When she talked to me about my paper she was horrified she'd never heard of this happening--it was a small town and secrets were hard to keep--and I stared at her blankly for a good minute of gushing before I managed a tentative 'you said fiction was alright'. And then somehow I was signed up for her Creative Writing class the next year.

I wasn't exactly a success at it. I didn't write poems that got published, or join the school newspaper. I didn't start attending poetry readings in the nearest city or shift all my life goals. Poetry meant something to me, and books meant something to me, and writing was fun. End of story.

Sometime I'll tell you about the moment I realized I could actually write a book.

So... About that new book. It's not mine, although their is one of those about three-quarters through the first draft that's kicking my butt today. It's The Cuckoos Calling by Robert Galbraith (who, if you happen to own internets and exist on social media you probably know is J K Rowling). I'm not far enough into it I can tell you what I think. It's brilliant so far, and I'm sure given it's her it'll be brilliant all the way through. And all of this despite, if A Casual Vacancy is anything to go by, how much I hate at least one of the characters. 

I'm not sure how I feel about her failed attempt at a pen name. Obviously I see the point. That sort of pressure's got to be spectacularly uncomfortable at the best of times. Like winning an Academy Award for your debut film. Where do you go after that? I can't help wondering certain things though. Did her publisher know? If they did and still didn't try and press the book more I can't imagine what they were thinking, and if they didn't they've got to be annoyed--as much as they can be once they've been handed a golden goose. 

I hope there are more books, and I hope they all turn out to be wonderful. I don't care what name she writes under, but I do sort of feel like I'd have rather found Robert Galbraith all on his own. Because privacy means something, even when it's unrealistic.