by H.G. Wells
ages: adult
First sentence: “No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinized and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinize the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water.”
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This review comes to you in two parts.

Part one:

Yawn.

I could not, could NOT, make myself get interested in this book. Sure, it’s supposed to be gripping and scary, and the introduction by Orson Scott Card made it sound like a contemporary commentary, which I suppose most end-of-the-world novels are. But this book lost my interest for two reasons: first — and this surprised me — it’s written in the first person, past tense. We know from the start that our narrator, whatever his name is (strike two), will survive because he’s writing this as though it’s happened, done and gone. No sense of immediacy, no suspense, no thrill, at least for me. The second reason is evidenced in the first sentence. Blame it on Twitter, blame it on my reading YA books, but whatever the reason, I found wading through these sentences to be incredibly… boring. Which didn’t do anything to help the already dismal situation.

Then… part two:

After the Martians attacked, killed most everyone off, and settled in to “rule” the earth, I found myself fascinated in the book. Nothing changed, yet everything changed. I found myself fascinated by our narrator’s will to survive and the various stages of madness around him. I found myself thinking about The Stand, and how the second half of that book was more interesting to me as well. Perhaps I’m not so much a lover of end-of-the-world fiction, as I am interested in how society all plays out after the end of the world. Which, I suppose, feeds into my interest in dystopian fiction. Who cares how the world ends, really? The fascinating stuff is the rebuilding, the surviving, the changes that society goes through after the fall.

So, this book was kind of a wash for me in the end.

by Sarah Addison Allen
ages: adult
First sentence: “It took a moment for Emily to realize the car had come to a stop.”
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I don’t know why I picked up this Sarah Addison Allen book next, and not Sugar Queen. Perhaps because it was making the rounds on various blogs, and for some reason it looked appealing. Perhaps it was because of the cover; it’s a bit busy, but there’s something alluring about it, making me curious as to what’s inside.

And, from my limited experience with Allen, it’s pretty much exactly what to expect from her: a love story about broken people trying to heal, mixed with Southern charm, and just a dash of magical realism to add some spice to the story.

Don’t get me wrong, though: I enjoyed the book. In fact, I came away again wanting to make and eat food, in this case cake and pulled-pork sandwiches (though I’m a Memphis, not North Carolina, barbecue girl). I enjoyed the Southerness of the book as well; the summer humidity, the slowness of the days, the friendliness-bordering-on-nosiness of the townspeople. But, it also felt like it was more of the same in a different wrapper: the character coming home to find a mystery and dysfunction that she has to overcome. The heartbreak, the consequences and the trying to heal from said heartbreak. The magical home-grown elements; this time a mood-changing wallpaper, a sweet sense that allows characters to see/feel when cake is being made; and the biggest mystery of all… which I won’t spill because it is interesting to see how it all plays out.

That said, it was still an enjoyable read. Allen does have a way of drawing you into her world, of making you care about her characters, of entrancing you with her storytelling. It’s still the only magical realism that I can stomach without cringing — still can’t explain why, though — and I found that the book called to me whenever I put it down, until I finally gave in and let the family run wild while I finished.

Which means, in the end, I can’t complain.

by Neil Gaiman
ages: adult
First sentence: “The night before he went to London, Richard Mayhew was not enjoying himself.”
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Being a Neil Gaiman fan has been sneaking up on me for the past two or so years. I’ve been slowly working my way through his books and have yet to be really disappointed in one. (Okay, I wasn’t terribly thrilled with American Gods, but it did have a good concept.) But, this one put me over the top. Neil Gaiman is a brilliant storyteller, a master juggler, someone who can grab you and hold your attention, entertaining you the whole time.

Richard Mayhew has a boring, normal, everyday London life. He goes to work, he does his job, he goes home. He’s got a fiance, someone who’s upwardly mobile; someone beautiful, slightly intimidating and predictable. Then, one night, he finds a girl wounded on the sidewalk, and, in the simple act of helping her, his life changes. After she — the Lady Door — leaves, he finds that he no longer exists in his life. And he discovers a whole other London, one of class and fiefdoms, of weirdness and magic, and of violence and heroism. He falls in with Door, becomes one of her companions on her quest to find out who murdered her family. And, in the process, finds out what is really real in his life.

I loved this one. It had me from the first sentence, and I couldn’t put it down. (Yes, it was one of those “let my kids watch too much TV because I have to finish this book” books.) The thing that really stood out to me, though, was how masterfully Gaiman juggled plots and characters. It’s like he had all these balls in the air, and he would, oh-so-calmly pick up another one and throw it in the mix without even blinking an eye. New characters, plot twists, descriptions of the underworld: it all came at exactly the right moment and made perfect sense. He would flit back and forth between plot lines and it never felt jarring or awkward. He gave details of the characters, helped us understand not only their inner workings, but also sympathize with and enjoy their interactions with each other. (Okay, one tiny quibble: he kept describing Hunter as “caramel colored” and after a while it did bother me. I felt like saying, “Yes. I know she is. Give it up already.”) It was funny, it was touching, it had the absolutely perfect ending. He led me on a storytelling journey and kept me positively breathless the whole time.

Masterful. Absolutely masterful.

by Alison Larkin
ages: adult
First sentence: “I think everyone should be adopted.”
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If you’ve hung around here for any time at all, you know I love many things British. So, how could I resist a book with this title (or the pretty cover)? I couldn’t, though it’s been on my TBR list for a very long time.

Pippa Dunn is adopted. She’s had a good life, growing up in England and traveling the world with her parents and sister. Yet, even though she’s mostly happy — she has abandonment issues with her relationships — she wonders: who is she, really? Who are the people who gave her life? What are they really like? So, she sets out on a quest to meet her birth parents, and to hopefully figure out herself.

She sets up a meeting with her birth mother, who, by all accounts (except for Pippa’s, at first), is crazy. Needy, clingy, paranoid… you name it, this woman is mentally unstable. Pippa tries for a connection, but finds that — after a while — it’s best to just get out. She finds her father — she’s a product of an affair — and while, initially connecting with him, discovers that he, too, is not what she wanted, needed or expected.

The whole book is her journey to this conclusion: that, while it’s nice to know the people who gave you your genes, that does not a family make. It’s an interesting journey, though. I liked the tension between British customs and manners and American ones, which created much of the tension in the book. There was a bit of a romance (hooray, she ended up with the guy I wanted her to!), as well, but mostly it was about self-discovery.

And in that journey, I felt that there was something missing. Perhaps the pacing was off: I felt too much time was devoted to her discovering her parents and not enough to developing anything else; everything happened overly fast at the end, wrapped up in a neat little bow. Perhaps it wasn’t British enough, or funny enough: I didn’t laugh as much or as often as I hoped I would. It also lacked a wit that I think would have helped the book overall in the end. Perhaps it was that I’m not all that interested, right now, in self-discovery: there was a lot of Pippa flailing around, trying to figure out who “Pippa Dunn” really is. I can respect that, but it’s a journey for much younger, much less settled people, which I am not. I’m sure it would mean more, as well, to someone who was adopted, or had adopted a child.

All that said, it was a quick, fun, mostly enjoyable read.

by Maria V. Snyder
ages: adult
First sentence: “Worry and dread clawed at my stomach.”
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The problem with second books in a trilogy is precisely that: they are second books. They neither create nor resolve conflicts that are playing out over the course of the books. Their place is to advance the story, to create subplots, and to, well, make people want to read the conclusion. Which means, often, that they are either meandering or depressing.

In this case, it’s meandering that wins out. We pick up the story immediately after Storm Glass ends, with Opal facing the consequences of her new-found powers. Opal, as a character, is all over the map in this one: she’s moody, she’s mistrusting, she’s insecure, she’s trying to strike out on her own. She develops her romance with one of the leads, but yet can’t deny she has feelings for another. She wanders around in the dark abyss of second-book-in-a-series-dom, leaving us readers to wonder why on earth we’re reading this book (so we’ll be ready for the conclusion!).

Synder’s not on the top of her game in this book; while the world is still fascinating, it’s not quite enough to offset the wandering plot. Snyder has the characters go all over the place — so much time is spent traveling! — and introduces plots and subplots and characters that don’t go anywhere, or even do much to add to the initial story. It’ll all probably make sense when the third book comes out, but until then, readers are left hanging and wondering what this all means.

And until then, we can blame it all on it being the second book in a trilogy.

by E. M. Forester
ages: adult
First sentence: “One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister.”
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Quick memory: I first read this book when Hubby and I moved from Utah to Washington, DC. In one of those weird quirks of time and space (especially since I usually get very carsick if I’m not constantly looking out the window), I was able to read this while we were driving the moving truck across the country. I remember two things about my impressions the book: I liked it and I thought it wasn’t anything like the movie.

I can’t speak for the movie part anymore (though I’m going to re-watch it soon), but I still quite liked the book. If you haven’t read it, it’s the story of two sisters — Margaret and Helen Schlegel. They’re half German, middle class women in their mid- to late- twenties (old maids in Austen’s books, anyway), liberal in their thought. It’s only when they cross paths with two families — one old-school wealthy (the Wilcoxes) and one definitely lower class (the Basts) — that their ordered lives, as well as their philosophy, get thrown into a tailspin.

The thing that struck me most this time around (perhaps it struck me last time, too) was that this not only a book about the class divide in early-20th-century England, but it was also a book about the connections that are made between people. Margaret meets Mrs. Wilcox, which impresses Mrs. Wilcox enough that she wills Howards End to Margaret. This in turn sets the rest of the family off (because it’s just not “done”), which in turn leads the family to interact with the Schlegel sisters, which leads to Margaret’s falling in love with and marrying Mr. Wilcox. In turn, Leonard Bast accidentally meets the Schlegel sisters, and that in turn, eventually changes the course of his life. It’s fascinating seeing all the intricate connections that Forester weaves through the book.

And it works, I think, because Forester is such an astute writer. He doesn’t dribble on like Dickens (sorry), and he’s not as brilliantly pointed as Austen. But, he is observant about people’s characters and, perhaps most of all, their motivations. He is able to get inside a character, so much so that you understand them, even if you don’t like them all that much. And that is what really drives this story, making all the various elements in it work well together. Which is good, because I’m not sure, in the end, that this is a truly memorable story with a memorable plot and memorable characters.

That’s not to say it’s not a good book; it is. It’s just not one that I think I’ll talk about and think about for quite a while.

by J. D. Salinger
ages: 16+
First sentence: “If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”
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I’ve gotten the impression that you can’t be on the fence about this book, that you either love it or hate it.

Well… I’m mostly ambivalent.

I didn’t hate the book. Sure Holden was annoying — so gratingly annoying — but I mostly felt pity for him. He was so pretentious and judgemental, and yet I could see that underneath all of that he was confused, lost and hopelessly depressed. The poor kid needs a good shrink and some meds. But barring that, he was mostly just a punk teenager trying to be more grown up than he actually was. Nothing to hate, nothing to despise, much to pity.

The book itself was all right. I’m not a huge fan of stream-of-consciousness books; I like things to clip along without spending much time in a character’s head. But, this book wouldn’t have worked any other way. Or, if it was told in another fashion, I don’t think it would have had the same impact. The reader could be more dispassionate about Holden and his troubles (for all my ambivalence, I wasn’t dispassionate; I did have emotional reactions to it all), and more dismissive. This way, with Holden being the narrator — though I have to admit that I wondered whether or not he was reliable; he did admit to being a liar, after all. Did any of this *actually* happen, or was it all in his head? — the reader was forced to confront Holden and his missteps, insecurities and judgements, and react to them, for good or ill. It’s a challenging book in that it throws life — a depressed, miserable life — in the readers’ faces, without flinching, without embarrassment, and makes the reader deal with it. Which is something that I can respect.

One other thing: I think I understand better what John Green was getting at in Looking for Alaska. If only for that, I am glad I read this one.

by Maria V. Snyder
ages: 14+
First sentence; “The hot air pressed against my face as I entered the glass factory.”
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Four years after Opal helped Yelena capture the Warpers in Fire Study, she’s still dealing with the aftermath. She’s a student at the Keep, learning to be a magician, except she’s more of a one-trick wonder. Sure, that one trick — blowing magic into her glass sculptures in order to test for a person’s magic ability, and enabling magicians to communicate with each other — is pretty useful. But she keeps her distance from the others students, assuming they don’t want much to do with her.

Things change for her when she is called out to fix the problem with the Stormdancers on the coast: their glass orbs are breaking and killing some of the dancers. Opal, with all of her trust and confidence issues, is able to handle the problem, but that also opens up a Pandora’s box of problems, some of which are positive, but many just pick at the wounds Opal’s been trying to heal.

It’s not as good a book as the Study Series, but it’s not a bad book either. Opal has the potential, with all her (understandable) hesitation to be completely annoying, but Snyder pulls off the delicate balance between insecure and grating. The fact that Opal’s dealt with a lot, physically and psychologically, helps with that balance. As does her love interests. The romance isn’t as swooning as Valek and Yelena’s (can I mention that I missed Valek? I. missed. Valek. Kade’s a decent romantic hero, and while I didn’t trust Ulrick as far as I could throw him, I could understand the appeal. But neither is Valek. Swoon.), but it has potential. The thing that carries this book, however, is the world that Snyder has created. It’s a complex and intriguing place and Snyder builds upon the foundation she laid in the Study books. I would probably go as far as to say that if you haven’t read the Study series, this one might not make much sense. Snyder does go into some back history, but newbies might get lost.

That said, it was a fun book, fluffy and light: perfect for a cold winter’s day.

by Gerald N. Lund
ages: adult
First sentence: “David Dickinson’s eyes were wide open.”
Review copy sent to me by someone at By Common Consent because I volunteered for this torture.

Five ways to ruin a historical novel:

5. Write in dialect: “It be joost fur me, Dah?” If I have to read it aloud to understand it, it’s not worth my time.

4. Too much historical detail, not enough plot. “These full-sized coal carts were four feet wide and eight feet long and could hold the contents of six of the small coal tubs. That was about four tons of coal each. The carts had wheels and axles formed from a single piece of steel. This meant the two wheels did not turn independently, nor did they have an independent braking system. This was where the spraggers come in. If a car got rolling too fast down a grade, it would jump the tracks and smash into the wall.” I really don’t care that much about mining practices in England in the mid-19th century anyway. I swear about 500 pages of this book could have been axed. (Granted, I only made it through the first 50, but I’m just sayin’.)

3. Too much narrative exposition, not enough action. “David still hesitated. He liked Albert Beames, or Bertie, as most of the trappers called him. He was a bit odd looking, with freckles hidden beneath the layers of coal dust, and teeth that were prominent enough that some of the older boys called him Beaver Beames. Bertie was a year older than David and about a stone heaver* [yep, that was footnoted] He was totally devoid of ambition and was baffled by David’s continual talk of becoming a hurrier.” Three words for you: Show. Don’t tell.

2. Having a Message. Okay: I get it. They were Brave and Noble and Faithful. It’d be nice if they were interesting characters, too.

And the number one way to kill a historical novel:

1. Footnotes and endnotes. Puh-lease. It’s fiction, not a textbook. If I really cared what Yorkshire Pudding or Turkish Delight was I’d Google it.

I knew there was a reason I never read LDS fiction.