Book Review: What Moves the Dead

 

Book Review: What Moves the Dead by T Kingfisher 

Goodreads Description: When Alex Easton, a retired soldier, receives word that their childhood friend Madeline Usher is dying, they race to the ancestral home of the Ushers in the remote countryside of Ruravia.

What they find there is a nightmare of fungal growths and possessed wildlife, surrounding a dark, pulsing lake. Madeline sleepwalks and speaks in strange voices at night, and her brother Roderick is consumed with a mysterious malady of the nerves.

Aided by a redoubtable British mycologist and a baffled American doctor, Alex must unravel the secret of the House of Usher before it consumes them all.

My Review: What a creepy, atmospheric read! Kingfisher reimagines Edgar Allen Poe's The Fall of the House of Usher with a fantastical twist: the rotting house of Usher, both the building and the family itself, have been infested with a fungus that makes the dead walk. The thematic rotting of the Usher House is made literal through Kingfisher's fungi, which behaves similarly to the real family of cordyceps mushrooms that make zombies out of their living hosts. This omnipresent infestation creates a tense and claustrophobic atmosphere that is so tangible it's almost another character. Even before readers know exactly what it is, there's a sense that the characters are constantly being watched by a predator waiting for its moment to strike. What Moves the Dead follows Poe's original story quite faithfully, with the added elements only serving to flesh out (heh) the original story. 

While Poe's story was not particularly queer, Kingfisher changes that up by playing with gender identity and neo-pronouns in her retelling. The novel features the made-up country of Gallacia, where gender and pronoun use differ from the rest of Europe. They draw from an expanded set of personal pronouns with individual pronouns for God, minors, and soldiers. The main character, Alex Easton, is also a transgender man or trans-masculine nonbinary, which was really cool to see representation-wise. Since Alex is a soldier, the book explores the 'soldier' gender category and how it manifests differently from masculinity. While the 'soldier' gender is presented as masculine, the way it is expressed is tied more closely to the role of a warrior than the typical 'male' role, i.e., more concerned with duty than domination. I really enjoyed how Kingfisher wove these ideas into the overall plot. While gender and pronoun use do have a role to play in the plot, it's not Alex's gender that comes under the microscope. It's refreshing to see gender feature as a main plot point without focusing on bigotry, coming out, or a crisis of identity. 

All in all, this was such a delightful read. The writing was gorgeously haunting. Kingfisher's ability to blend modern slang with the formal language of Poe's era added a musicality to her text that made it a true joy to read. Plus, at less than 200 pages, this novella reads quick but leaves a lasting impression. 

TL;DR: 5/5 stars. Freaky fungi, some queering of gender, and a whole lot of atmosphere. 

Book Review: Romance in Marseille

 

Book Review: Romance in Marseille by Claude McKay 

Goodreads Description: Buried in the archive for almost ninety years, Claude McKay's Romance in Marseille traces the adventures of a rowdy troupe of dockworkers, prostitutes, and political organizers--collectively straight and queer, disabled and able-bodied, African, European, Caribbean, and American. Set largely in the culture-blending Vieux Port of Marseille at the height of the Jazz Age, the novel takes flight along with Lafala, an acutely disabled but abruptly wealthy West African sailor. While stowing away on a transatlantic freighter, Lafala is discovered and locked in a frigid closet. Badly frostbitten by the time the boat docks, the once-nimble dancer loses both of his lower legs, emerging from life-saving surgery as what he terms "an amputated man." Thanks to an improbably successful lawsuit against the shipping line, however, Lafala scores big in the litigious United States. Feeling flush after his legal payout, Lafala doubles back to Marseille and resumes his trans-African affair with Aslima, a Moroccan courtesan. With its scenes of black bodies fighting for pleasure and liberty even when stolen, shipped, and sold for parts, McKay's novel explores the heritage of slavery amid an unforgiving modern economy. This first-ever edition of Romance in Marseille includes an introduction by McKay scholars Gary Edward Holcomb and William J. Maxwell that places the novel within both the "stowaway era" of black cultural politics and McKay's challenging career as a star and skeptic of the Harlem Renaissance.

My Review: If I had to sum up Claude McKay’s Romance in Marseille in three words, it’d be: queer, punny, and unsatisfying. There’s a lot of elements to like: disability rep, a black man’s success against white society, gender play and fluid openness to sexuality, but the ending undermined a lot of the positives and left a bad taste in my mouth. 

Lafala is a young sailor who travels the world guided by his wit and whimsy, but while stowed away on an American ship, he ends up with frostbite that requires him to amputate both feet. In a twist of fate, Lafala meets a white lawyer while lying in recovery who helps him sue the shipping company for damages. After winning his case, Lafala skips town before the lawyer is able to scam him out of his share and returns to the port town Marseille to reconnect with old friends. Now a rich man, the people of Marseille clamor for Lafala's attention-- and his money-- but Lafala manages to stay one step ahead of his potential scammers at every turn. In this way, the novel is great. It's the story of a black man who, despite his hardships, outsmarts scammers and white oppressors to escape to paradise. Unfortunately, this feels muddied at the end, as his found family are also the people attempting to scam him, confusing their motivations and allegiances. This is what makes the book interesting to some, as they can analyze the characters from multiple perspectives, but to me it reads like a tragedy wherein greed wins over love, loyalty or friendship. The found family that’s established is sacrificed so Lafala remains the smartest man in the room, and the payoff doesn’t feel worth the sacrifice. 

The representation in this book is wonderful. While there’s not a lot of outwardly queer characters, there is heavy implication that certain characters are gay. Characters also question and play with gender, whether through clothing, joking around, or debating the nature of gender roles. As well, Lafala spends the entire book without legs and is never defined by his disability. There’s a nice balance between how it affects his life/mental health and how it doesn't make him less of a person. McKay’s writing is also delightfully punny. He plays with metaphor and symbols, twists language to suit his needs, and utilizes sharp-witted wordplay that is both funny and thought provoking. 

TL;DR: 3/5 stars. A sharp-witted queer tale with excellent disability rep and an unsatisfying finish. 

Book Review: The Prairie Chicken Dance Tour

Book Review: The Prairie Chicken Dance Tour by Dawn Dumont

Goodreads Description: 'The Prairie Chicken Dance Tour' is loosely based - like, hospital-gown loose - on the true story of a group of Indigenous dancers who left Saskatchewan and toured through Europe in the 1970s. Dawn Dumont brings her signature razor-sharp wit and impeccable comedic timing to this hilarious, warm, and wildly entertaining novel.

My Review: When the usual dance troupe gets food poisoning. John Greyeyes is tasked with leading a replacement troupe through a series of powwows across Europe -- except the replacement dancers can't dance, and John only has a few days to whip them into shape. Along the tour, the crew stumbles into a series of wacky adventures, including a plane hijacking, an FBI smuggling investigation, identity theft, and a break and enter at the Vatican that lands one of the dancers in jail. Dawn Dumont has crafted a riot of a book that is both utterly ridiculous and grounds readers with solid, heartfelt moments. 

While Prairie Chicken is a wild ride shot through with humour, it does address topics like racism, residential schools, and homophobia with the seriousness that they deserve. It doesn't linger on these topics, but they surface as important aspects to character arcs. Due to trauma, several characters are closed off to love, but over the course of the novel, they begin to heal their trauma and open themselves up to love again (including self-love). Watching these silly little characters grow and learn to love themselves despite their flaws was truly endearing. It's hard not to fall in love these characters, even if we don't spend much time directly in their heads. 

The narrative has next to no introspection -- the prose is entirely focused on the action of the scene. And holy, there is a lot. The book features a large cast of main characters and they all take part in almost every scene, which makes things busy. The book also doesn't linger on moments and keeps the action moving as much as possible. While some might find the busyness overwhelming, the writing is balanced and scenes flow so the reader doesn't lose the thread of the narrative. Coupled with it's style of humour, the book feels like a Benny Hill sketch, in a good way. 

At the end of the day, The Prairie Chicken Dance Tour is pure, heartwarming fun. I laughed so much while reading it and it still brightens my day to think of this ridiculous story. Plus it's got a gay Indigenous cowboy who is Done With Everyone's Shit™, so it's got a special place in my heart. 

TL;DR: 5/5 stars. A hilarious and heartfelt story of a ragtag crew that crosses Europe to find themselves.

Book Review: Passing

Book Review: Passing by Nella Larsen 

Goodreads Description: Irene Redfield is a Black woman living an affluent, comfortable life with her husband and children in the thriving neighborhood of Harlem in the 1920s. When she reconnects with her childhood friend Clare Kendry, who is similarly light-skinned, Irene discovers that Clare has been passing for a white woman after severing ties to her past--even hiding the truth from her racist husband.

Clare finds herself drawn to Irene's sense of ease and security with her Black identity and longs for the community (and, increasingly, the woman) she lost. Irene is both riveted and repulsed by Clare and her dangerous secret, as Clare begins to insert herself--and her deception--into every part of Irene's stable existence. First published in 1929, Larsen's brilliant examination of the various ways in which we all seek to "pass," is as timely as ever. 

My Review: "It's funny about 'passing.' We disapprove of it and at the same time condone it. It excites our contempt and yet we rather admire it. We shy away from it with an odd kind of revulsion, but we protect it." 

Nella Larsen's Passing is a tour-de-force of character study and political commentary. As the title implies, it takes a closer look at the act of passing, where a minoritized person is able to pass as a member of the dominant group, and the resulting effects on one's psyche. 

The story follows Irene, a light-skinned black woman who has spent her life doing everything she's supposed to - she's a good wife and mother, a law-abiding citizen, and an upstanding member of "the race." Yet within the first few pages, we can see Irene's repressed desires lurking just below the surface. She wants to be a good representative of "the race," yet she wants freedom from that responsibility. She wants her husband to want her, yet she's so enamored with her beautiful friend, Claire, that it borders on homoerotic. Claire is a light-skinned black woman who has been living her life as a white person, passing even to her racist white husband. For some reason, Claire can have it all - life as a white person and confidence in her black identity, and it drives Irene mad. Envy becomes obsession, until Irene starts to feel threatened by Claire's challenge to her worldview, and decides she must defend herself. Though the book is a character study on the psychological effects of repression and racism on identity, Larsen never lets us get too close to Irene's thoughts, inviting an air of mystery. Does Irene hate Claire because she passes as white? Is she jealous? Does Claire actually threaten Irene's marriage, or was it all in her head? 

This book has so much longing slammed in its less than 100 pages - desire to be someone else, desire to be free, desire for a better life, desire to return home to your people, desire for queer love - and it's contrasted against intense repression and restraints - racism, segregation, heteronormativity, doing what's expected - making it a masterwork of tension. Irene wants so much, but the major thing holding her back is herself, which becomes very obvious once Claire re-enters her life. She is both victim and oppressor, having internalized society's messages about what she's expected to do to the point where she's sacrificed her own wants and happiness in exchange for security. This book is not a queer story, but it is heavily queer coded. Irene is very focused on Claire's beauty and irresistibility throughout the text. She insists to herself that she wants nothing to do with Claire, but as soon as Claire makes contact, Irene falls over herself to see her. She also expresses that she's powerless against Claire's influence, which gives the impression of a queer person struggling with their attraction. Irene's eventual vilification of Claire also speaks to Irene's attempt to distance herself from those feelings in order to retain the stability and safety that comes from her straight marriage. 

I really loved this book. As someone who can relate to the act of passing, it offers an incredibly interesting perspective on the practice. I also love diving into the minds of unreliable, flawed narrators, especially when they make you doubt if you're really getting the whole story. 

TL;DR: All in all, 5/5 stars. A high tension, psychological character study exploring the nuances of passing, deception, and repression. 

Book Review: Peter Darling

Book Review: Peter Darling by Austin Chant 

Goodreads Description: The Lost Boys say that Peter Pan went back to England because of Wendy Darling, but Wendy is just an old life he left behind. Neverland is his real home. So when Peter returns to it after ten years in the real world, he’s surprised to find a Neverland that no longer seems to need him.

The only person who truly missed Peter is Captain James Hook, who is delighted to have his old rival back. But when a new war ignites between the Lost Boys and Hook’s pirates, the ensuing bloodshed becomes all too real – and Peter’s rivalry with Hook starts to blur into something far more complicated, sensual, and deadly.

My Review: This review contains minor spoilers. 

Peter Darling is an interesting blend of contradictions. I first stumbled across the book while killing time on trans subreddits, where fans were raving about its trans and mlm representation. The book has apparently found its online niche-- its Goodreads page has over 8k ratings and 2k reviews, with over 70% of those ratings at either 4 or 5 stars, and fans are singing its praises across online networks. If this book had come to me about 15 years ago, I'd likely be another diehard fan hailing it as a triumph, because the book does have some solid emotionally-resonate moments of representation. Yet on the whole, it fails to achieve a cohesive narrative due to inconsistent character motivations, poor characterization, and enough head-hopping to make someone motion sick. 

Let's start with the positives. This book won the 2017 Rainbow Award for Best Cover, Best Debut Transgender Book, and Best Transgender Sci-fi/Fantasy, and was a runner up for Best Transgender Book, mainly for its female-to-male trans representation. I can see why this book was on the radar, as it does more than present a trans man's circumstances -- rather it pierces right into the heart of what it feels like to be a trans man. Capturing some of the emotionality of what it means to be trans is what gives this book its power. As well, Chant builds solid tension through the slow reveal of Peter's "secret" by blending it into Neverland lore - why did Peter disappear to for so long? Why did he come back? And who really is Peter 'Pan', anyway? This evolving tension connects well with the setting (Neverland as an escapist fantasy from a transphobic world), the themes of the text (forging identity through story), and Peter and James' struggles to assert themselves against the world. 

Most of the book is the 'trapped together' trope, which may not be to everyone's taste, but for those who do enjoy it, the story fully embraces the trope without edging too far into sappy territory. Chant's writing is also quite beautiful at times. There were many lines that I highlighted for their lyrical composition as well as their wisdom. As demonstrated in the prologue, Chant can set a decent atmosphere that draws in reader interest, but sadly underutilizes atmosphere and scene-setting throughout the rest of the book. 

The author is obviously familiar with JM Barrie's original Peter and Wendy novel, as many characters and references from Barrie's text pop up in Peter Darling. While these references were a great addition to fill out Chant's story, they also draw a direct connection to Barrie's work, which made the shortcomings of Peter Darling all the more obvious. Barrie's original text idealized childhood as a time of wonder and wildness, as different but on equal footing with adult experiences. Through Peter Pan, Barrie represents childhood as a Romantic would nature - beautiful, powerful, chaotic, illogical, yet also whole, idyllic, life-giving, unknowable, and awe-inspiring. Barrie represented children as holding a unique perspective and wisdom towards the world that is lost once we transition to adulthood. Chant's text doesn't engage with this conception of childhood and instead reduces Peter's violence and illogical reasoning to something 'childish' that is lesser than the 'adult' treaties and peace negotiations that have taken place across Neverland since his departure. Chant even differentiates adult and child war, implying that people die in adult wars and thus they are far more serious, something Barrie never did. It strikes me as strange for Chant to disregard childhood as somehow lesser when Barrie went out of his way to idealize childhood - warts and all - and put it on equal footing with adult experiences, which is what made the untamable image of Peter Pan so enticing. 

Overall, my main struggles with Peter Darling were the inconsistent characterizations and motivations that made it difficult to understand why anyone did anything. Peter begins the book with a vague, ill-defined memory loss that is never explained. He quickly regains his memories, but his morals and perspective are so unclear that his actions often come across as contradictory. It's clear that Peter is supposed to act more like Barrie's iteration in the beginning - irrational, violent, uncaring of people around him - slowly realize his 'childish' ways are selfish and hurting people, and ultimately grow up into a more compassionate individual. However, Peter's motivation before and after the change are not clearly communicated, so it's hard to understand why he makes those changes, or why he was attached to his original perspective in the first place. Even when these changes happen, they're half-assed in a way that makes it unclear if any change has actually occurred. Even after Peter sees the Lost Boys as more than just disposable soldiers, the narrative undermines this by revealing that everyone except himself and Hook are imaginary, and thus not worth caring about as 'real' people. This gives Peter permission to go back to being a compassionless jerk and ignore the found family he was trying to build relationships with so he can focus on his own selfish romantic pursuits. This inconsistent motivation translated to other characters - mostly Hook, as he's the only other 'real' character for much of the book. Hook's motivation for pirating and being Captain Hook are largely unexplored outside of his drive for treasure. We could assume he doesn't need motivation for being a pirate outside of treasure and joy for the lifestyle, yet when Peter returns and challenges him to war games (as they had done before his disappearance), Hook rejects him and then chides Peter for his childish desire for violence. Because of that, it's hard to understand how this Captain Hook is the same one from Barrie's story, who reveled in violence and piracy, yet we also get no explanation for why he's changed. Chant appears to want his cake and eat it too -- he flip flops between honouring Barrie's characters and criticizing them without any clear statement or conclusion, leading to a jumbled mess of characterization. 

It's a real shame, because there's a lot to like about this book. If you're looking for a simple mlm romance with great trans representation that builds off long-loved fanfiction tropes, then this is the book for you. However, the inconsistent motivations did disrupt my enjoyment on even that factor, so if you do choose to dive in, make sure to turn your brain all the way off for full enjoyment. 

TL;DR: 2/5 stars. A trans retelling of Peter Pan with great prose but aggravating characterization. 

Book Review: Far From You

Book Review: Far From You by Tess Sharpe 

Goodreads Description: Sophie Winters nearly died. Twice. The first time, she's fourteen, and escapes a near-fatal car accident with scars, a bum leg, and an addiction to Oxy that'll take years to kick. 

The second time, she's seventeen, and it's no accident. Sophie and her best friend, Mina, are confronted by a masked man in the woods. Sophie survives, but Mina is not so lucky. When the cops deem Mina's murder a drug deal gone wrong, casting partial blame on Sophie, no one will believe the truth: Sophie has been clean for months, and it was Mina who led her into the woods that night. 

After a forced stint in rehab, Sophie returns home to find a chilly new reality. Mina's brother won't speak to her, her parents fear she'll relapse, old friends have become enemies, and Sophie has to learn how to live without her other half. To make matters worse, no one is looking in the right places, so Sophie must search for Mina's murderer on her own. But with every step, Sophie comes closer to revealing all: about herself, about Mina, and about the secret they shared. 

My Review: Sharpe's Far From You exists in a nebulous space for me. Even after several months, I still can't decide how I feel about it. It's a mixed bag; while the positives are on point, the negatives make me so frustrated that I wanted to throw the whole book out, good parts be damned. For one, it's an excellent read, full of twists, turns, red herrings and scattered clues that make it a satisfying mystery to unravel. It also has a deep emotional core that sits atop a romance that meshes together so many confusing adolescent feelings and experiences: love, jealousy, anxiety, social stigma, interpersonal drama, grief, and loss. The romance captures a realistic look at teenage social dynamics that spiked a wave of nostalgia for my own adolescence, where the interpersonal drama and intense emotional reactions were all claustrophobically bottled up within our tight-knit teenage cliques. Yet despite the realism, the book falls into the YA publishing trap when it comes to depicting teenage drug use: wanting to borrow the drama of addiction while failing to actually represent people with addiction. YA publishing errs on the side of caution when tackling these stories, preferring to depict addicts as victims rather than as having an active hand in their own addiction. While this is the safer approach when appealing to parent pocketbooks, it purposefully skews the perception of addiction and differentiates between "deserving" and "undeserving" addicts. When the point of writing a story like this is to encourage empathy towards people living in different circumstances, creating this distinction in fiction that isn't reflective of reality is more problematic than not publishing fiction on addiction in the first place. 

Before I elaborate on its problematic elements-- we'll start with the basics. The book features a first person POV with a writing style focused primarily on action, with little introspection or lyricism to its style. This helps to keep the pacing swift as the mystery builds upon itself layer by layer. The text also features heavy flashbacks that jump all over the timeline, and this scattered sense of events shows the reader how Sophie's trauma and addiction have rattled her memory and ultimately the story of her life. The book is gritty, managing a noir detective-like tone, but not as much as one would expect -- Sophie largely hangs out with non-drug users, which significantly reduces opportunities for sketchier scenes. The book's focus on the romance subplot also detracts from its 'edginess.' The depictions of drug use are minimal and purposefully vague, which ultimately prevents glamorization and copycat behaviours. There are just enough signal words, like 'snorted,' to give hints to the methods, but no overt descriptions of her use.  

As far as queer representation goes, this book is wonderful. It features a relationship between a bisexual woman and a lesbian, and explores the nuances of how labels affect them - Sophie's ability to love men as well as women allows her to blend in with heteronormative society, while Mina doesn't have that option. The book also beautifully conflates the stigmas of addiction with WLW attraction - showcasing how both addicts and LGBTQ2S+ people live dual or shadowed lives that prevent them from self-actualization. The text also digs into how homophobia manifests differently for bisexual vs lesbian women, which is just... *chef's kiss* Books that dig into the nuances of identity and interpersonal relationships really get my motor running, because expanding empathetic understanding for those different from you is what writing is all about. 

Which is why the depiction of drug addiction left me seriously disappointed. Firstly, I want to be clear: Far From You is not completely unrealistic. There are a lot of very real elements to Sophie's addiction that do speak truth to the experience, but the narrative still falls into the same victimization pits that claim many other YA books dealing with the topic. The origin of Sophie's addiction is revealed within the first few pages: a car accident left her with chronic pain and a near--unlimited access to prescription painkillers. The addiction that develops almost feels inevitable. The 'car accident' narrative is extremely popular in YA when tackling drug addiction, because it removes a character's personal responsibility for their addiction. This unfortunately creates a distinction between "deserving" and "undeserving" addicts --  those who are victims of treatment mismanagement are therefore worthy of our attention, support, and treatment, while characters who instigate their own addiction through the use of street drugs are ultimately "monsters" who deserve to be vilified and forgotten. Unfortunately, Far From You highlights who is "deserving" and "undeserving" very clearly when Sophie encounters a teenage meth addict later in the book who is trying to get clean -- she is incredibly rude to him, condescending, and treats him as the liar 'addict' stereotype - a stereotype she vehemently fought against when parents and adults pinned it on her. This lack of empathy for someone going through nearly the exact same situation as her feels strange - I could write it off as a character flaw, if the narrative itself didn't treat Sophie and Matt so differently. Matt is in recovery, yet spoken about like garbage, the worst is assumed about him, he goes to NA meetings, and he is heavily watched by his entire family. He's treated as dangerous, as a bomb that's about to blow, while Sophie, on the other hand, gets incredible freedom, and people act like they're just disappointed in her -- when Sophie is the one who has supposedly gotten someone murdered. 

This unbalanced treatment left a bad taste in my mouth, especially because in my experience working in a youth detox/rehab facility, teenagers don't follow Sophie's trajectory of car accident, pain killers, addiction. They usually look more like Matt, and have chosen to use substances to cope with trauma, or because their parents did it, or because of abusive peer pressure, and now find themselves powerless against their addiction. The Matts of the world are just as deserving as the Sophies, and I'm tired of fiction that draws a line between types of addicts, because this distinction influences our politics, our laws, and how we treat the most vulnerable in our society. Frankly, I think understanding what makes someone reach for a pipe is far more fascinating than borrowing the drama of drug addiction through a victimization narrative that allows characters to "play bad" without being "one of them." 

TL;DR: All in all, 4/5 stars. A story about love and loss that enmeshes the stigmas of homophobia and drug addiction, while ultimately failing the addicts it hopes to represent. 

Book Review: Magical Boy

Book Review: Magical Boy by The Kao

Goodreads Description: Although he was assigned female at birth, Max is your average trans man trying to get through high school as himself. But on top of classes, crushes, and coming out, Max's life is turned upside down when his mom reveals an eons old family secret: he's descended from a long line of Magical Girls tasked with defending humanity from a dark, ancient evil! With a sassy feline sidekick and loyal gang of friends by his side, can Max take on his destiny, save the world, and become the next Magical Boy? A hilarious and heartfelt riff on the magical girl genre made popular by teen manga series, Magical Boy is a one-of-a-kind fantasy series that comic readers of all ages will love.

My Review: This will be another review in my series of, "I don't usually review this genre, but..." Magical Boy is a beautifully drawn, full colour graphic novel with an anime inspired art style. The story originally debuted on the comic website Tapas, which is where I first stumbled upon it. I was thrilled to see it was picked up for print publication by Graphix, an imprint of Scholastic. This story holds a special place in my heart, so I'm thrilled for the opportunity to share my thoughts and help connect it to more readers. 

To begin, the art! This book is drop-dead gorgeous. The cover gives you a glimpse of what's in store, but the art inside takes it a step further, from small intimate panels to gorgeously detailed fight scenes that convey a tremendous sense of movement and action. The colours pop, backgrounds are detailed, the linework is clean, and the art blends an eastern and western comic style that is refreshingly original. Traditional anime/manga facial expressions and expressive reactions are mixed with a western action style of large, detailed panels and classic comic sound effects, like 'whoosh, pow, smack.' Unfortunately, the panels were originally drawn for a vertical setup on a webpage, where readers could scroll infinitely, so at times, the panel spacing on the page is cramped and the flow is disjointed. While the panels and speech bubbles are usually arranged in a way that takes your eye smoothly through the scene, some pages failed to achieve a flow and became messy and confusing. Even though I had already read the comic, I struggled on some pages to figure out in what order some panels and speech bubbles were supposed to be read. This confusion was overall minor and didn't take away from the story. 

As for the story, have you ever been bouncing around the internet and stumbled across a story prompt idea that you would die to see happen? Magical Boy is one of those. The world we live in is incredibly gendered, though many cis people fail to realize how deep the gendered expectations go, as many have never resisted or took issue with them. Magical girl stories are often hyper-feminine, and when you toss a transman into the mix, who is trying to assert his own masculinity through stereotypically masculine behaviours, you've got an excellent environment to play with and parody gendered expectations in western society. The magic that gives Max his feminine battle outfit also works as an excellent metaphor for cisnormative expectations - as he attempts to transition, the magic pushes Max towards a femme presentation, until he's able to assert his will and the magic adapts to an outfit that matches his identity. One major change I noticed from the online version was Max's deadname has been censored in dialogue, but left untouched if it's part of the background/scene. This sort of bothered me, as I felt it was silly to censor the name when the book tackles some of the realities of transitioning, which includes misgendering and deadnaming. I understand that the target audience, however, is younger and probably far more sensitive about seeing beloved characters misgendered than my old, jaded soul, so I can understand why the change was made. 

At times, the story can be a bit cheesy, but more in a wholesome way than overtly cringy. Then again, I do enjoy a nice helping of cheese now again, it keeps my soul from becoming too black and crispy. The story is mostly focused on Max, his transition, and trying to get his mom to accept and understand him, so some part of the narrative can fall a little flat. The villains were very one-dimensional, as if they were trying to hit every square on the Classic and Stereotypical Villain Bingo card, but as the fantasy is mere metaphorical dressing for the interpersonal drama, it didn't take away from the story that much. However, if the antagonists and magic system had more depth put into them, it could have reinforced the interpersonal themes and scaffolded this story up into something really cool. Max's friends also come across as a little one-dimensional, as they don't seem to have lives outside of Max and focus entirely on him and his issues. While this turns them into a wholesome cheerleading squad, it constricts the story into something small and simple, which has its own set of pros and cons. 

All in all, Magical Boy is an adorable, heartwarming, gorgeously drawn trans story that makes a great addition to any child's library. I can't wait to get my hands on volume 2, the finale, if only so I can flip through and admire all the beautiful artwork. 

TL;DR: 4/5 stars. A hyperbolic trans metaphor using the magical girl trope to highlight the absurdities of gender. 

Book Review: Dr. Edith Vane and the Hares of Crawley Hall

Book Review: Dr. Edith Vane and the Hares of Crawley Hall by Suzette Mayr 

Goodreads Description: Dr. Edith Vane, scholar of English literature, is contentedly ensconced at the University of Inivea. Her dissertation on pioneer housewife memoirist Beulah Crump-Withers is about to be published, and she's on track for tenure, if only she can fill out her AAO properly. She's a little anxious, but a new floral blouse and her therapist's repeated assurance that she is the architect of her own life should fix that. All should be well, really. Except for her broken washing machine, her fickle new girlfriend, her missing friend Coral, her backstabbing fellow professors, a cutthroat new dean—and the fact that the sentient and malevolent Crawley Hall has decided it wants them all out, and the hall and its hellish hares will stop at nothing to get rid of them.

My Review: Horror as a genre tends to lean towards the cartoonish -- madmen with axes, supernatural predators-- because the mundane horrors that fill an adult's everyday life are mostly intangible. Suzette Mayr leapt at that challenge like a cracked-up jackrabbit, using magical realism to bring the horrors of academia to life through a delightfully satirical perspective. As an academic herself, Mayr draws on her own experiences as an English professor when criticizing the institutional failings of universities that care more about profit and prestige than the well-being of their staff and students. 

The book follows Edith, an introverted English professor facing increasing pressure from her department heads to hurry up and publish her dissertation. Edith struggles to find balance between her professional and personal life, and as stress mounts, she throws herself further into her work, hoping to find salvation through external validation. Health struggles compound under the poor building maintenance, and soon Edith begins seeing strange things within the university - fellow professors going missing, a sinkhole opening up, and the devilish hares that are more than they appear. But is any of it actually real? Or is she hallucinating due to a budding stress disorder? Mayr's use of magical realism within the book treads the fine line between real and imaginary, allowing the reader to draw their own conclusions. Is Crawley Hall really alive, or is Edith spiraling into mental illness? 

Throughout the book, Edith refuses to acknowledge how systematic oppression/failures have harmed her and assumes personal responsibility for failing to keep up with impossible standards, driving her to figurative madness. The text almost feels Shakespearian at times due to Edith's inability to see how the system and environment she's in has pushed her to act against her best interest, while the audience can see the connection between her emotionally abusive upbringing, to her lack of a support system, to the predatory nature of the university. It feels like a modern iteration of a classic 'driven mad' Shakespeare narrative, but with a greater understanding of how various intersectionalities of identity (class, race, gender, upbringing, etc.) influence someone towards 'madness.' The magical elements really highlight and enhance this downwards spiral, as well as create a hauntingly creepy atmosphere to set the drama within. 

This novel is both a character study as well as a critique of academia. As such, the plot is slow and mostly focuses on Edith's daily ruminations and routines, which takes time to build into a solid mystery. Tension does build right from the start around the school, but as Edith's focus is on her work, little of the narrative is spent actually trying to 'solve' the mystery. While this approach felt fresh when compared with other narratives where characters drive straight towards the plot, it also gave the book a literary feel, complete with the stereotypical pros and cons that come with the genre. To support readers through the slower plot points, Mayr filled the book with gorgeous, lyrical language that is heavily layered with symbols, metaphors, and satirical commentary on all facets of life. 

The book's satire is deliciously absurd and yet freakishly real. The oppressive atmosphere mounts until it threatens to suffocate Edith by the finale, which beautifully illustrates how overwhelming stress and mental illness can become. Ultimately, my favourite part of the book is its finale, which (no spoilers) capitalizes on all the building horror and manages a twist that gave me chills in all the best ways. The ending satisfies by balancing Edith's wins and loses to create a catharsis for readers who enjoy it when both the hero and the villain get a few solid jabs in. 

TL;DR: 4/5 stars. A chilling and satirical perspective on the horrors of academia. 

Identity Policing, Forced Outings, and my Thoughts on Coming Out in Publishing

Growing up as a queer kid in the 90s/00s in Canadian conservative country was, at the best of times, an incredibly isolating experience. There were no Gay Straight Alliances in my schools, many of my peers stayed in the closet longer for fear of rejection, and the bigoted jokes that played on loop across mainstream TV left the impression that I was a queer island in a sea of heteronormativity - separated from kin by thousands of miles. The only thing that helped bridge the seemingly endless distance was fiction - the few published books I could find featuring LGBTQ+ characters, as well as the budding online communities where queer folks could freely gather and share their stories.

I lived in those online queer spaces, but I kept going back to the bookstore, seeking out titles that maybe, just maybe, featured someone who felt like me. Whether the book was excellent or terrible, I found myself flipping to the author bios, searching for some evidence that the author was queer. I was always skeptical, and a little disappointed, when the author appeared to be straight and cis, or there was no indication as to their orientation. It felt like a sort of appropriation, and I was desperate to find the raw authenticity of queer stories told through an author's queer perspective. 

So I get it. I get the queer fans calling for writers to come out. I get the editors and agents who are seeking the security of marginalized authors who write in their lanes. With a limited number of books that can be published in a year, everyone with stock in the game wants to ensure the author they’re betting on is a safe gamble. Everyone wants authenticity. They wants to know: who are you to write this story? 

But do they have a right to know? 

When I entered the world of publishing in the late 2000s, young, bright-eyed and bushy-quilled, the

concept of author brands was gaining traction. As social media took hold, many in the industry quickly recognized the value in an author's "personal brand” and began pushing authors to develop loyal fanbases that would follow them from book to book. Today, this expectation is thrust on authors more than ever. Even when it’s not written directly in contracts, there’s an expectation that authors do a fair amount of their own promotion through social media, turning them into quasi-influencers. 

Over the last ten years, there's also been a growing cultural acceptance of and expectation for LGBTQ+ representation in media. As more queer kids grow up seeking queer stories, publishers quickly realized there was more money to be made appealing to the interests of queerdos than burying any mention of LGBTQ+ characters or themes under vague back jacket blurbs. All of this, in turn, changed how editors and agents evaluated potential clients and acquisitions. Industry professionals began looking for writers whose potential (or already constructed) author brand would align with the target audience's value system, reinforcing a parasocial relationship that would boost sales. #OwnVoices launched with the intention of supporting marginalized creators and connecting fans to the authenticity they were seeking, but was quickly co-opted by industry professionals into a catch-all branding term that identified more "marketable" clients. Fan and writer communities also weaponized the hashtag against marginalized creators to scrutinize their identities, histories, as well as gatekeep communities. (If you want to read more, BitchMedia wrote articles on the pressures on queer authors and authors being forcefully outed by the industry. R29 also wrote on the effects of #OwnVoices on books.)

Despite the retirement of #OwnVoices, this pattern of identity policing shows no signs of slowing down. On the one hand, readers aren't wrong to ask what an author's relationship is to the community they choose to write about. Young readers may do this as they attempt to find the same safety and solidarity from within the book in the real world, so it makes sense they would start with the author of the escapist fantasy that has already comforted them. On the other, the expectation that some of the most sensitive parts of our identity must be integrated into an author brand so we may be "allowed" to publish stories about marginalized communities feels ridiculously authoritarian. Not only does #OwnVoices not guarantee authenticity or credibility (as two people with the same identity may have vastly different experiences and perspectives), but the enforcement of authenticity above all harms and chases away marginalized creators, while limiting an author's career. An author’s consent in disclosing their identity should be prioritized above all, and silence should not be assumed to mean they don’t belong. I do hope more authors reveal more of who they are for the sake of representation, especially for YA and MG authors whose audience are likely looking up to them as role models, but no one should be pressured to build their entire brand—or identity—around a single diversity trait. Maybe by policing author brands, we'll catch the occasional con artist who seeks to insert themselves into marginalized communities to profit off them, but we'll harm a far greater numbers of allies, closeted people, and marginalized creators in the process. 

Cat Tax

As much as the idea of turning yourself into a 'product' still makes me uncomfy as all hell, I've seen a lot of value from building a brand that centers on you. I tend to be a bit of an oxymoron when it comes to self-disclosure. I don't like to talk about myself, but I wear everything on my sleeve, no secrets here. When considering my own brand, both as an author and a freelancer in the industry, I had to seriously consider how much of myself I wanted to place on the internet for public consideration. How to balance privacy and minority representation. How much I wanted to build a community centered around my LGBTQ+ identity vs other aspects of my personhood. How much of my career history I wanted to sacrifice to preserve my privacy. 

Some identities are easy to hide. Some aren't. Some minorities can walk into a room and blend, while others have it literally written on their skin. Being trans lets me exist in a strange reality where I'm both. At a certain point, I will pass enough that most people won't be able to tell that I'm from a minority group. Other times, it is painfully impossible to hide, and I have to put my safety in the hands of strangers in public spaces, hoping my identity doesn't upset those around me. But my personal brand grants me an opportunity: I could delete my blog, let go of my contacts and twitter, and essentially start my brand and business from scratch. It would completely disconnect me from my old name, gender, etc., yet I'd also sacrifice over ten years of work just to keep this part of myself hidden, while also surrendering a chance to provide representation for other transgender individuals. 

When put like that, the answer felt simple. At least for me.

So, hi. I'm Kyle, a transman. Nice to meet you. Come in, take a seat. I’ve got cookies around here

somewhere. 

I've been coming out slowly, tactically, in each new environment, like a solider behind enemy lines, and finally I've come to storm the online trenches. For me, being open about who I am and the changes I’m going through grants me the space to be a more authentic writer, which is why I’m choosing to publicize this change and my thoughts with this blog post, instead of quietly changing over my name and hoping no one notices. During my rebranding, I seriously considered whether I wanted a trans pride flag in my new banner, an easy way for other trans people to recognize the solidarity and connect, if they wanted to. Yet I hesitated, and ultimately chose not to include any identifiers in banners or bios, other than the vague title of "queerdo.” I know I’ll talk about it quite freely, so it will by no means be a secret, but I don’t want to advertise myself based on that feature and build an expectation with my audience that LGBTQ+ rights are a main focus of my art. Cause they are and they aren’t, and I don’t want to pigeon-hole myself artistically or have to publish under multiple pen-names, each with their own authorial branding. 

While coming out in this way works for me, the expectations of author transparency need to change. That disclosure of identity should be treated with respect – as the gift that it is, instead of something we’re entitled to. To help let go of this entitlement, the reigns need to be loosened on who "owns" what stories, and we need to let go of this desperate grab for an imaginary supreme authenticity. I believe very strongly in research, authenticity readers, and seeking to elevate representation of minority groups, but that can be achieved through criticizing the work, not the person. Somehow, in our push for more diversity, we expect marginalized individuals to act more alike than ever: conforming to single narratives about what it means to be gay, lesbian, Indigenous, an immigrant, etc. and labelling others as "bad rep" for not assimilating their own experiences into the dominant narrative. Author consent and autonomy needs to be central if we want to reverse the assimilation trajectory and get back to, you know, actually supporting and celebrating diversity. 

As Alanis Morissette would say, "Isn't it ironic..." 

Book Review: The Song of Achilles

Book Review: The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller 

Goodreads Description: Achilles, "the best of the Greeks," son of the cruel sea goddess Thetis and the legendary king Peleus, is strong, swift, and beautiful--irresistible to all who meet him. Patroclus is an awkward young prince, exiled from his homeland after an act of shocking violence. Brought together by chance, they forge an inseparable bond, despite risking the gods' wrath. They are trained by the centaur Chiron in the arts of war and medicine, but when word comes that Helen of Sparta has been kidnapped, all the heroes of Greece are called upon to lay siege to Troy in her name. Seduced by the promise of a glorious destiny, Achilles joins their cause, and torn between love and fear for his friend, Patroclus follows. Little do they know that the cruel Fates will test them both as never before and demand a terrible sacrifice. 

My Review: 

“Will you come with me?” he asked. 

The never-ending ache of love and sorrow. Perhaps in some other life I could have refused, could have torn my hair and screamed, and made him face his choice alone. But not in this one. He would sail to Troy and I would follow, even into death. 

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes.” 

Frankly, I wasn’t going to do a review because school has eaten my brain, but when I read a beautiful book, sometimes I just need to shout its praises from the rooftops. It shuffles free all the demons and leftover feels that stick like baked molasses to the cookie sheet of my soul. So I’ve dug out my soapbox today to tell you why you need Achilles and Patroclus’ brand of Too Gay To Function in your life. You may not realize you do, but that’s okay. I didn’t realize how necessary it was either. 

As much as it tries to dress itself up in Greek myth, lyrical writing, and a historical setting, The Song of Achilles is, at its core, just a romance. The first half of the book seeks to establish Achilles and Patroclus’ relationship, which is then used to highlight the tragedy of the Trojan war for the second half. Yet the book doesn’t hammer on the romance to make the loss more poignant later. In fact, I found the book took a ‘light touch’ to the romantic or sexy scenes. We get just enough of those romantic moments for the reader to savour, but not enough to satisfy, which propels the reader through the rest of the book. Achilles and Patroclus never say the words ‘I love you’ in the book, but it’s because they don’t need to. It’s shown, very clearly, to the point where it would be superfluous to put it to words. Part of the appeal of the loss isn’t that we spend the book learning how much they love each other, but rather why. We fall in love with each of these men alone and together, making the ending so much more devastating. 

The writing is pure gold. It captures that antiquity feel without alienating a modern reader. The prose is melodic, which makes the book very enjoyable to read. These characters could be planting daisies or recording a shopping list and it would still be a joy to read due to the delivery. It’s definitely a book you read partly for the story, and partly for the poetry of its construction. 

The end is devastating, as is to be expected if you know anything about the Iliad. However, like the love scenes, the tragedy isn’t meant to wring you like a dishcloth to pull the emotions out of you. I didn’t find myself crying, but rather overwhelmed with its inevitability. This was purposeful to illustrate to the reader how the characters themselves felt, holding onto the prophecy of death through 10 years of war. The amount of foreshadowing is quite profound as well. There are the obvious pieces of foreshadowing, which Miller does nothing to hide, but also much subtler pieces sprinkled all throughout the book which adds to the feelings of inevitability.

So, seriously, what more do you need from a book? Blending of myth and history? Yes! Melodic prose? Yes! Romance? Tragedy? The gay agenda? Triple yes. Will it leave you borderline suicidal when you realize you will never have a relationship as profound as the one between Achilles and Patroclus? If it does, consult your local mental health professional. I’ve got several on speed dial. 

TL;DR: 5/5 stars. Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay! 

Book Review: Symptoms of Being Human

Book Review: Symptoms of Being Human by Jeff Garvin

Goodreads Description: The first thing you’re going to want to know about me is: Am I a boy, or am I a girl?

Riley Cavanaugh is many things: Punk rock. Snarky. Rebellious. And gender fluid. Some days Riley identifies as a boy, and others as a girl. The thing is…Riley isn’t exactly out yet. And between starting a new school and having a congressman father running for reelection in uber-conservative Orange County, the pressure—media and otherwise—is building up in Riley’s so-called “normal” life.

On the advice of a therapist, Riley starts an anonymous blog to vent those pent-up feelings and tell the truth of what it’s REALLY like to be a gender fluid teenager. But just as Riley’s starting to settle in at school—even developing feelings for a mysterious outcast—the blog goes viral, and an unnamed commenter discovers Riley’s real identity, threatening exposure. Riley must make a choice: walk away from what the blog has created—a lifeline, new friends, a cause to believe in—or stand up, come out, and risk everything.

My Review: Before I get started, some terminology to make this review clear AF. During this review, I will refer to Riley, the main character of Symptoms of Being Human, as they/them. Riley does not express what their preferred pronoun is in the book, but "they/them" is a pronoun many non-binary people use when they want to avoid gendering themselves. When I talk about gender, I mean gender identity (how we express our gender), and when I talk about sex, I mean the biological sex (genitals) you were born with. 

Gender takes a front seat in Symptoms of Being Human, the story of a genderfluid teen coming to terms with their identity. The book takes an interesting approach to non-binary characterization by purposefully not revealing the main character, Riley's, sex. The author uses first person POV and avoids any gendered language, reducing the chance of a reader approaching Riley with their own assumptions on gender and roles. By doing so, the reader focuses on Riley as a person, with their sex and gender as a secondary focus. I've never read a book before where the main character's gender was not outwardly stated. It was an eye opening experience to see how establishing gender also establishes a huge list of expectations and assumptions, even when we don't realize we're applying them. It's a good reminder that none of us are immune to the 'programming' we receive from society. I identify as genderfluid and have considered using they/them pronouns, so I've understandably got a lot of feelings about this book. Hopefully I can get them all down coherently. 

To start, Symptoms is all around a great story. Though it tackles a lot of hard issues, such as gender non-conformity, suicide, and sexual assault, it keeps a light-hearted tone that makes it a pleasant read. Even during heavier chapters, I didn't feel weighed down or depressed by the events, probably because Riley doesn't spend a lot of time ruminating on the bad. It is well-balanced with a lot of happy scenes, making this feel like the story of a normal kid with ups and downs as opposed to a kind of tragedy. The scene where Riley first comes out was so beautiful and supportive that it filled me with warm fuzzies down to my toes. It is now probably one of my favorite scenes in queer YA lit. 

A lot of Symptoms' strength lies in its characters. The author clearly had a solid grasp of the characters before he even started writing, as they were so well-formed. Riley had little interests and quirks thrown in that didn't affect the story, but added depth to the character, showing that they were more than what was presently happening to them. I found the feeling of "otherness" with Riley and Bec really authentic. It's a feeling that many YA writers try to touch on, but which can often come across as fake or forced; a reason for the main characters to be the underdog rather than creating characters that truly are different-- and get singled out for it. I was really excited to see how the "villain" characters were handled as well. The bullies at school were jerks, without question. They viciously went after Riley for no reason other than Riley stuck out as different-- and not an easy to swallow difference, either. Riley's gender was something they couldn't comprehend, and so their confusion turned to anger, which is very true to the real world. More so, we get to see a bit of the bullies' backstories to understand why they act the way they do. Rather than presenting it as justification or an excuse for how they treat Riley, it's used to contextualize their behaviour. 

Alright, now to the meat of this review: all that queer stuff. As I mentioned earlier, the premise of the book is that neither the reader-- nor, it seems, most of the characters-- know if Riley was born a girl or a boy. From a reader's perspective, this was amazing. We were able to strip away assumptions and focus on how Riley saw themself rather than how the reader saw them. However, when it comes to the characters within the story, keeping Riley's gender secret didn't make much sense. Very few people in the world are truly "androgynous," and most people will assume a gender before accepting an "I don't know" answer, whether or not they're correct. I'm sure many non-binary people would kill to be able to look truly androgynous, but that's not the world we live in. We often have one trait or another that people connect with a gender (adam's apple = man, curves = woman) and so even hinting at those traits cause people to assume a gender. The reason I say this is a problem is that non-binary people face a host of expectations, especially from transphobic people. They assume your sex denotes your gender which denotes your behaviour, and when you break out of that chain, the non-binary person is seen as doing something wrong and must be corrected. So you will have parents who try to get them to dress a certain way, peers who will tell them they can/cannot have certain interests, teachers/adults/strangers will bar them from certain activities or areas, etc, all based around gender roles. Those expectations can be overwhelming and can be a bigger problem than outright bigotry, as even allies can come in with expectations and unconscious biases. So while not knowing Riley's sex was hugely beneficial to the reader, it also left this gaping hole in the story where Riley doesn't have to deal with this issue that many non-binary people do. This also led to a lot of confusing scenes with Riley's parents. We get the feeling in those scenes that their parents do have gender expectations for Riley. As much as they're trying to be supportive, they feel Riley shouldn't be "dressing this way," but don't give any indication of what they want from their child. It led to a "tip of the tongue" feeling where the parents are always about to say something, but never do because the author doesn't want to "out" Riley's sex. 

Despite how hard the author tried to remain impartial on Riley's sex, there were many hints that came through that led me to believe that Riley was born a boy. This was no doubt due to the author's own experiences bleeding through, but it makes me wonder if the publisher utilized non-binary sensitivity readers who were born female to check over the book to truly make it more neutral and cover up these slip ups. What led me to believe Riley was born male were a lot of tiny details: Riley's constant reluctance to wear dresses (this one is negotiable, but as it was presented more like Riley wanted to wear a dress but was scared to, it made me think Riley was used to having male expectations pushed on them), all the "pieces" in their formal binary outfit (some dresses do come in parts, but it sounded more like all the pieces from a suit), Riley had a crush on a boy who rejects them because "it's weird" whereas their relationship with Bec takes off without issue (even when it's stated Bec's only connection to the Q or queer group is her trans sister), etc. These were so subtle that most readers will not see them, but as a non-binary person who has grown up with "female expectations," the differences in expectations stand out like they were highlighted. 

Finally, I have to take issue with the fact that sexual orientation was not touched on at all. There was some mention where Riley stated that his parents thought genderfluid was being "bisexual," and while Riley does refute that a little, the book doesn't touch on sexual orientation whatsoever. I understand the intent was to focus on gender identity and not confuse the two, but I felt it would have been beneficial, especially to younger readers who might not be as familiar with these terms, to establish and explain the difference between gender identity and sexual orientation. As well, since Riley does get into a relationship through the book, it actually feels necessary to touch on. If the book didn't have any romance and focused solely on Riley's coming out and everything else happening, then there would be no need to talk about Riley's sexual orientation. But since the book does go to romance, avoiding the topic feels like the author is trying to have his cake and eat it too by giving Riley the benefits of a relationship without tackling any hard questions. How does Riley view their sexual orientation? Do they see themself as gay? Straight? Bisexual? Many genderfluid people have different ideas of how to treat their sexual orientation due to their fluctuating gender, and it would have been helpful to see how that piece helps to complete the puzzle that is Riley. 

Overall, my concerns for this book were very minor, and mostly focused on the queer representation. As I identify as non-binary, this book was super important to me, which means I'm going to nit-pick like crazy. So much in this book hit strong, deep chords I didn't know were in me before. I laughed, I cried, and I fell in love with Riley, who was a reflection of me but also very different from me. As a child, I never would have imagined a book like this was even possible and it really makes me believe in a future where every kid can actually be who they are without abuse. Symptoms of Being Human belongs in the hands of every gender-questioning kid. Hell, it should be given to kids who aren't gender-questioning too. Because Rileys exist everywhere and we're tired of hiding. 

TL;DR: 5/5 stars. Caught between coming out and closing down, Riley struggles to make sense of a fluid gender identity and the people who seem more concerned by what's in their pants than in their head. 

Book Review: More Happy Than Not

Book Review: More Happy Than Not by Adam Silvera 

Goodreads Description: Part Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, part Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, Adam Silvera's extraordinary debut confronts race, class, and sexuality during one charged near-future summer in the Bronx.

The Leteo Institute's revolutionary memory-relief procedure seems too good to be true to Aaron Soto - miracle cure-alls don't tend to pop up in the Bronx projects. But Aaron can't forget how he's grown up poor or how his friends aren't always there for him. Like after his father committed suicide in their one bedroom apartment. Aaron has the support of his patient girlfriend, if not necessarily his distant brother and overworked mother, but it's not enough.

Then Thomas shows up. He has a sweet movie-watching setup on his roof, and he doesn't mind Aaron's obsession with a popular fantasy series. There are nicknames, inside jokes. Most importantly, Thomas doesn't mind talking about Aaron's past. But Aaron's newfound happiness isn't welcome on his block. Since he's can't stay away from Thomas or suddenly stop being gay, Aaron must turn to Leteo to straighten himself out, even if it means forgetting who he is.


My Review: "Now we know the procedure is 100 percent real and 0 percent bullshit because one of our own has gone through it." 

Explaining books like More Happy Than Not can seem like a Herculean task. It's a book about everything and nothing, about the complexities and chaos of humanity interwoven with the daily banality that drives boredom into your skull like rail spikes. Somewhere between chatting with his mom and games of manhunt with the guys lies this beautiful picture of firsts, from first love to first kiss to first discovering who you really are, which all folds together to paint us a picture of Aaron Soto's life.

After his father's suicide, Aaron is left adrift. He has Genevieve, his girlfriend, who has stuck by him through the struggle, his Mom, who means well, and his brother, who never looks up from his video games, but at least he's there. Then Aaron meets Thomas, a kid from the next block over who sees things in a way Aaron never considered. As they grow closer, Aaron must come to face truths about himself: that he doesn't miss his girlfriend of over a year like he misses Thomas, that he can't stop staring when Thomas takes off his shirt, and that he's hopelessly in love with his new best friend. Being gay would disrupt everything he's tried so hard to build up since his father's suicide, so he turns to the Leteo Institute, which can help him forget his sexuality. But can erasing parts of himself really work in the long run? Or will the procedure threaten to tear Aaron's life-- and his mind-- apart?

After finishing this book, the only metaphor I could think of to describe it was a roller coaster with only one drop. The anticipation builds as you settle into the seat and it slowly starts the ascension. The view is beautiful. This is how the book begins. We see Aaron, living in poverty but happy nonetheless, still reeling from his father's suicide, with a girlfriend at his side and a gaggle of neighborhood friends. Then Thomas enters the picture, and the view just gets better. The budding romance, the slow realization of sexuality, and the feelings of real love blooming all flows as expected and loops the reader into a false sense of security. We think we know how the rest of the book will play out. Then before we know it, the roller coaster drops and we head down, down, and the rush is amazing but there's the realization that you're not coming back up, and the book heads down, down, down, until you crash at the bottom into a beautiful emotional wreckage.

Plot? Characters? Tension? Writing? Give them all a ten out of ten. The writing is so well-done that it's sometimes hard to stay objective as a reviewer and not get completely absorbed into the story. Silvera especially has a flair for foreshadowing, which comes into play all throughout the book. It's used throughout in small and big ways and leaves the reader constantly looking back, reevaluating the dual meanings in every line. I was particularly taken with one of the first lines, the one at the beginning of this review, which takes on a whole new meaning about half-way through.

Too often in books, characters can have their negative traits washed away to appear "good" in an attempt to create a character that is likable and sympathetic. Silvera didn't hesitate to risk "likability" for raw relatability, which sounds similar, though likability tends to be sugar coated while relatability tends to show us our flaws as well as our strengths reflected in a character. There are several instances of characters "behaving badly" throughout the book; Aaron cheats on his girlfriend, a love interest cheats on his girlfriend, Aaron obsessively denies Thomas's sexuality and assumes he knows what others are feeling. I was initially a little turned off by the cheating, especially as I started the book very aware that Aaron had a long term girlfriend and the potential for cheating was rife. I've been burned hard before by books that have a character cheating on their SO while it's portrayed as okay because of "true love" or because the SO was a dick once. I was disappointed to see Aaron cheating, but the way it was presented made this an opportunity for character growth as opposed to excusing poor behaviour. Both through dialogue of other characters and through Aaron's narrative, it's asserted that the cheating was completely wrong and fully Aaron's fault. What's nice is there's no speech from Mom to explain why cheating is bad, instead we get glimpses that allows the reader to come to that conclusion on their own. That's what really makes these negative characteristics shine: Silvera shows the reality of how and why we act that way, and then layers in the slow realization of the consequences from it. We're not told that cheating is bad, instead we see how it affects those Aaron cares about. Plus it allows the reader to draw their own conclusions, which is crucial, especially for YA fiction.

Throughout the book, Aaron stresses in his narrative that he knows Thomas' sexuality, that he knows Thomas is "acting straight," and will come to his senses eventually, allowing them to be together. It was a little jarring at first, especially because making this assumption is pretty unflattering for Aaron. As the book goes on, he continues to stress that he knows what Thomas likes, despite being provided with evidence of the contrary. By the end of the book, he comes to accept the reality, and by doing so comes to accept himself, for Aaron's assumptions about Thomas' sexuality are really just him projecting his issues onto Thomas. He can be certain about Thomas' sexuality because he's so uncertain about his own. Deep down, he knows he's 100% gay, but because of his circumstances he cannot consciously admit it. It's why, just before he admits it within narrative, he tries to rationalize in ways that become ridiculous in their attempt to avoid the obvious. He literally does anything he can to avoid the truth, to the point that when he does admit his sexuality, he immediately begins to project everything onto Thomas, seeing him as the one whose gay but straight passing. By projecting his situation onto Thomas, he can safely analyze the situation and think about what he should do (stop hiding his homosexuality and just be true to himself). As well, this rings so true to the experiences many LGBT kids have growing up: that forceful wishing that the person you loved would realize they were gay too (or just returned your feelings) so you could both have that Happily Ever After. It's something real and tragic and seeing it on page brought me right back to being 13 years old again.

The book perfectly captures the pain and hope of adolescence. It literally made me feel like a teenager again because of how incredibly well-crafted the narrative was. As mentioned above, Aaron makes assumptions about Thomas' sexuality, uses his girlfriend as a cover, falls in love with his best friend, hopes when there's no reason left to hope that his crush might love him back, and when things don't fall into a fairy tale, he struggles to find his happiness with people who can't give him the whole of what he needs. All of this done with an unapologetic teenage thought-process that mirrored exactly how I thought as a teenager. Aaron Soto actually thinks like a teenager, not an adult pretending to be a teenager. The cherry on top of that realistic teen experiences were things like Gen and Thomas hanging out together, the way Collin just isn't who Aaron needs him to be, and the empty spaces where no one asks what's wrong, which really brought home that isolating teenager experience. Life isn't Disney as a teen, and boy, does this book remind us of that.

The book can come across as heavy, especially because a major part of the book involves Aaron wanting to erase the part of his brain that's gay. It's a risky topic to play with, but Silvera handles it perfectly, and without having Aaron sit down and say, "I'm okay with me!" the narrative manages to show that being true to yourself is the key that opens the door to happiness. One of the hallmark's of this book is its ability to say something without outright saying it, which is a true testament to Silvera's incredible writing skills. Bring on the books, Silvera! This is one author you'll want to watch.


TL;DR: 5/5 stars. A beautiful tale of firsts, of a boy coming to grips with who he is, of finding happiness through the shards of tragedy.