Review: Blackbirds

Blackbirds (Miriam Black, #1)Blackbirds by Chuck Wendig

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

It’s got to be hard to find work when your main talent is coming up with detailed, grisly, and inventive ways for people to die. (Though I suppose it’s possible your accountant or barista is also imagining all the ways you could bite it…) However, Chuck Wendig seems to have figured it out with the incredible Blackbirds.

Let’s just say this wasn’t a typical book to be enjoying beachside, and I was more than a little worried that someone would notice I was reading about murders, suicides, and horrible accidents and out me as the weirdo I am.

I’ve never read Wendig before, though I have long intended to. What an introduction! Blackbirds features Miriam Black, one of the most original characters I’ve ever encountered.

Miriam is a deeply disturbed girl, and for good reason: she can see how people will die. The slightest touch sends her a detailed view of death; something she cannot avoid and seemingly cannot stop, despite her efforts. In fact, she has long since given up, and lives as a carrion bird, taking just enough from the dead to get by herself, flitting from place to place, foul-mouthed and alone.

She is a tragic figure, and yet likeable. She’s vulnerable, though she’d hate for anyone else to really know it. She’s an absolute trainwreck and she has a terrible past that we see in fragments. Poor girl; her whole life is fragments.

Through a variety of accidental encounters, Miriam finds herself caring for someone for the first time in years. This, however, is also unfortunate: she has seen that he is going to expire (in a truly macabre way) with her name on his lips. Even before he is dead, he haunts her nightmares.

Miriam is an incredible character, and I can’t wait to read more of this series (even if it does leave my stomach swirling at times). Wendig is an inspiration, and a reminder that stepping outside the bounds of normal can reap huge rewards. He earned at least one fan in me.

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Review: Skin Game

Skin Game (The Dresden Files, #15)Skin Game by Jim Butcher

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

The Dresden Files series, by and large, is fun, but lately the books had gotten a little…heavy. (There was brooding…a lot of brooding.) I had started to feel like maybe Butcher was struggling to find realistically scary foes for his super-charged wizard to deal with, and all the gloom and doom was feeling oppressive.

But not Skin Game. For this book, our friendly-ish neighborhood Chicago wizard gets back to some good old-fashioned problem solving, and it’s a joy and a relief.

(Spoilers below!)
After months of isolation on the jailhouse island, Dresden is antsy for action…and he’s learned a few new skills (Parkour!). But the ability to leap tall objects in a single bound isn’t really enough when it comes to stealing from Hades himself while trying to avoid being killed by an arch-nemesis-turned-temporary-coworker. With the help of old friends and a bit of divine intervention, Harry is up to the challenge.

(ok, clear from spoilers here on out)

This book was a nice change of pace because several characters who had been on the bench for awhile finally got to come out and stretch. I still miss some of the original old gang, but for the most part, we got to revisit a lot of characters who had been unavailable or at least busy elsewhere. Butcher clearly put a lot of thought into the effects some of Harry’s actions would have on even his closest friends, and it’s good to see folks with their own distinctive character arcs. (It would have been all too easy to have everyone else stay the same–is is the (Harry) Dresden Files, after all.)

This book reminded me what I liked about the Dresden Files, and I’m happy to be back on the bandwagon.

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Murder-Fiends of Summer

I just got back from my epic and relaxing vacation at the beach, and I plowed through 3.5 books in a week–most of them from the recommendations of my friendly commenters (Thanks, guys!). In other words, I have a lot of reviews coming soon.

Before we get to that, though, I’ve gotta say: you guys are some sick weirdos! I ask for summer beach reads–more precisely, “light but engaging stories available digitally. No horror or gritty fantasy (looking at you, Game of Thrones). Genre fantasy/sci-fi is good but only if it is a bit original (ex. I read The Black Unicorn and it was TERRIBLE)”–and you guys provide suggestions for murder, disturbing deaths, horrifying wizardly accidents, and more murder.

In other words, I love you guys.

I read:

  • Skin Game, the latest Dresden Files book, recommended by KokkieH.
  • Blackbirds, by Chuck Wendig and recommended by Michael Patrick Hicks.
  • The Bride Wore Size 12, by Meg Cabot, recommended by me to myself. (yes, the title intrigued me)
  • Sick Puppy by Carl Hiaasen, recommended by Twitter friend @ronielise

A recap for those who aren’t following: we’ve got a possibly-turning-evil powerful wizard fighting ghouls, witches, and monsters who have a taste for dismemberment; a girl who can see people’s deaths; a college dorm coordinator who somehow ends up solving murders; and a criminal with an anger management problem and a preference for saving the environment.

You people are the reason I started imagining murder scenes at my resort. Thanks a bunch.

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Grammar in the Cat-iest (Best) Way

Special thanks to grammarian extraordinaire and friend-to-cats Tex Thompson for her shout-out and grammar lesson featuring my very own cat! My own naughty kitty can now help you learn more about the “royal order of adjectives” (he’s the one who prefers Coke products and espionage).

Tex is a great resource for the fine and tricky points of grammar that can be hard to grasp and harder to explain. She’s one of my favorites, too. Check her out!

From her post:

“The what?  The royal what?  Don’t be coming ’round here with all your highnesses and majesties and HMS Jolly Longbottoms.  This is AMERICA, dammit, and we speak democracy!”

YES WE DO.  And that means we have the right to life, liberty, and a full, complete understanding of where all those dang commas go between the adjectives — including the reason why we have one in “full, complete understanding” but not in “all those dang commas.”

Read more to get all the deets!

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Step Away From the Camera/Pick Up the Camera

I’m about to speak out of both sides of my (metaphorical) mouth.

First, I’m going to jump on the “cameras are ruining everything!” bandwagon. Then I’m going to step off it. OK? Ok.

Step Away From the Camera

There have been a proliferation of “articles” and videos about how people aren’t experiencing life anymore, how even live concerts are viewed through the screen of an iPhone and how that’s horribly annoying. Here’s the most recent one I’ve seen.

This article talks about a study that found that the act of taking a picture impedes memory. Basically, by choosing to take a picture instead of just soaking up the moment, that you deprive yourself of the moment.

My first reaction was “Omigosh, yes!”

When I went to the Grand Canyon, I was stunned. I mean, I figured I was prepared: I’d seen lots of images of the canyon before. But when I got there and saw it for myself, in person… I cried. It was a really powerful moment. The wonder of nature and God and the incredible feeling of being so small in the face of something so huge and incredible and old… it literally took my breath away. One day, I tried to capture that sense and the sun sliding down the canyon, to bring home the wonder of that sunset.

And it completely did not work. Photographs just do not contain that kind of depth (I don’t know, maybe Ansel Adams could have done it, but not me and my dinky tourist camera). I envied the woman I met who was fast-painting the scene in watercolors. That image got much closer. Plus she was doing something pretty incredible.

I’m getting married soon (oh my gosh, so soon),  and therefore reading a bunch of wedding blogs. One was so trollish that I still struggle to believe it was real: it was about how “rude” it was for the bride and groom to request that guests don’t take pictures during the ceremony. It was, hilariously, demolished by the commentors, who poked right through the argument.

And I agree with those folks: it’s so frustrating to see people actively missing this big moment because they are so busy trying to “catch” it. Plus I’m spending a bunch of money on an impartial professional photographer to get those photos, anyway.

But then again…

Pick Up the Camera
I saw this video just before I was going to write this post, and it changed my mind…somewhat.

First, it’s adorable. Second, I hate this guy, for making my life seem so crappy in comparison and being so methodical about his planning. Third, it is a great way to have captured 4 years of his travels.

And that is the upside to the camera. So long as we don’t live behind it–or vicariously through it–it can bring us back to those incredible moments. I know my photos of the Grand Canyon don’t really capture the grandeur of it, but I remember the trip when I look at it. I can imagine myself back there under the sun and I can practically taste the wind. The photos make the memory more vivid. They ground us, give us a sense of space and time and history. For some of us, like my grandfather, they are literal doorways to memories.

So pick up the camera. Do capture your life. But remember to live it, too.

And maybe take a few trips, like the proposal guy there. Me, I’m going to Jamaica.

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A Name I’ll Miss

I’m getting married, and it’s made me contemplative. I wrote this just after picking up the marriage license, when I was feeling really contemplative about the whole name-change situation. It is a challenging choice, and I think it’s become so expected that a lot of people don’t even think about it. But I do. It bothers me. It bothers me that it is assumed (at least in my area, in my licensing office) that a name change is just a given.

Anyway, that’s how you get weird prose-poems like this. Sorry.

——–

First, they called me “the bun in the oven.” Then, “sweet baby.”

Then they gave me my name, 21 letters that spelled out my parents’ hopes, the legacy of the family unit.
My name I learned, writing it out in waxy kindergarten hand, scrawling it at the top-left corner, papers held by the lopsided staple poorly mashed in. I knew trouble was my name yelled in full.
 I grew into my name–it always was, and always would be. Even as nicknames proliferated and clung like sticking burrs, the name fit, comfortable as a hug.
Then I owned my name. Proudest moment the first time it blazed in fresh ink on a high school newspaper. My name rang out at graduations to my family’s applause; my name on a resume opened doors to shaking hands; my name on a check at the bank bought a sense of accomplishment, ability to spend.
Once again I’m called “baby,” having found my love.
But to be with him, I am rewritten, my name undone.
Though the change is a choice, it’s often assumed. Something is wrong with me if I reject a new moniker, a new life, all at once.
I grapple with this new name, this unwanted pre-supposed choice. I pin it to the ground an try it on. It fits a little tight; it’s not quite my style, but I suppose it’ll suffice.
(I leave my name on underneath, because it’s mine and I don’t have to take it off, not for no one.)
But outside, I’m different. I’m changed. The shift is subtle, but I notice, the looks, the gentle mentions. The rudimentary paperwork I plow through; the expense, the awkwardness.
In time, this name will fit me, like the one before. As I wear this second skin, it will gain meaning, import, weight. Maybe it won’t feel so strange.
I’ll be ma’am’d and not miss’d… and that I may miss.

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Not Real Friends

One of the glib phrases people toss out in times of stress goes something like, “Don’t worry: your real friends will be the ones who are there for you.”
Which is no solace when they aren’t.
Our safety nets in life are designed in layers: while you’re up there, teetering on that thin wire and juggling some flaming sticks, you have several layers of protection you’ve built up. You have your friends; your family; maybe another tier of friends–coworkers, maybe?; people who helped bring you up but you don’t confide in; and so on and so on, all the way down to strangers.
The number of nets you’ll have will depend upon much, but most people have more than one.
Aside from my high-wire partner in life, my first tier of netting was built up of my close friends. Yes, they were newer to my life, but we’d celebrated birthdays, trashed-talked bosses, helped each other move.
And then I slipped, and I fell off my balancing act, and…
They weren’t there. They didn’t even drop me; Worse, they just let me fall.
I am lucky that I had farther layers below that net, that I was caught elsewhere, but the pain of the fall was sharp.
Some people have told me “at least I know how my true friends are.”  And I worry, because I don’t trust myself to know anything at all.
But then I discovered I have other people, with relationships so tenuous that they couldn’t count as a safety net, but with each faint touch of support, they strengthened this guide rope. They couldn’t be called “real friends” at all, by even a generous interpretation: I’ve never even met them.
These are people I met online, who live several states away. A friend from one quiet corner of the internet used to talk video games with me; lately we’ve been swapping wedding-planning horror stories. A sweet sweet girl on the wedding forum APracticalWedding reached out and, out of her own kindness, made me dozens of paper flowers–just to be nice. Others have offered advice, support, sympathy, and friendship.
Those friends kept me going when I felt bleak about everything. They helped in ways I can’t measure and I can’t thank them enough.
Which calls into question the meaning of “real friends.” What makes something real, anyway?
Though it’s lessoned, people still disparage these internet connections. It isn’t the same, not at all, but those “unreal” internet connections have been far better friends than some of the “real” ones I thought I had. And so I am grateful, and walk steady on my wire toward the big finale.

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Kids Aren’t Reading (Because They’re Reading All The Time)

Another day, another spate of articles bemoaning the state of today’s youth. This most recent is a bunching of studies that found that kids aren’t reading as much.

NPR put it this way: “Nearly half of 17-year-olds say they read for pleasure no more than one or two times a year — if that.That’s way down from a decade ago.”

GASP! The horror! Let’s trot out the motifs of the way this generation is RUINED FOREVER!

…but wait. It said “read for pleasure.” Hold the phone there. Perhaps there is another, different explanation beyond “the internet/video games/drugs/television did it.”

Terrifyingly, I’m now old enough to be considered part of the “adult” quotient, but I was in high school not too terribly long ago, and I can tell you something: there was a lot of required reading. And I like to read! I read all the time! But, during the school year, my reading fell to being mostly required reading.

And let me tell you, reading the Crucible for the fourth time in the same year (“to really understand the text” *gag*) gets really old and I would not consider that enjoyable!

So that’s me, a kid who loves reading and literally never leaves the house without a book. When I was 17, I wouldn’t necessarily have said reading was “pleasurable” either: I was maxed out, and, yeah, preferred to play video games or watch TV. How must it be for the kids who are ONLY exposed to school reading? They never get the opportunity to develop a fondness for reading because they’ve been conditioned to view it as work full of meaningless “symbolism.” (yes, I’m still scarred from “The Scarlet Letter.” Sometimes a tree is just a freakin’ tree, teach!)

In an increasingly technological society, I find it hard to believe that kids are not reading in general. We’re all reading and writing MORE than ever, with so much communication switching away from in-person or on the phone to texting, email, status updates, and online forums. It’s becoming MORE important, but that kind of reading and writing wouldn’t show up in these studies.

Essentially, I think the problem here is not with teens and reading for pleasure, but with the studies. I DO think there are probably plenty of things to distract kids from reading, but those things could be bolstered not by writing ominous-sounding articles about “kids today” but instead folding more “fun” books into required reading. As much as I loved “A Handmaid’s Tale,” would it kill school districts to allow some trendy stuff–maybe middle schoolers would really benefit from doing an analysis of “The Hunger Games” instead of a nonfiction book for a change.

What do you think? Should we be worried about teen reading levels?

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Let’s Talk About Bridezillas

Let’s talk about the concept of “bridezilla.”

It’s the idea that weddings inherently turn perfectly nice young women into some sort of fire-breathing, plate-throwing, tantrum-screaming monsters. That women develop this malady through their own lack of character, a high budget and the desire to achieve a selfish fantasy in which their every whim must be met.

I hate this concept. It needs to go.

First, as Slate so humorously describes, it is a really bad portmanteau. “Godzilla” and “bridezilla” don’t even sound alike, so it doesn’t make sense from a language standpoint.

Second, it is a term used to judge, cut-down, and control others. “Bridezilla” is a term that comes out when a woman–only a woman, you never hear about “groomzilla,” do you?–doesn’t perform to your expectations. It is a weapon.

Personally, I have heard it several ways.

  • “Oh, don’t worry about it! I’m sure that Major Wedding Problem will work out! You don’t want to be a bridezilla now, do you?”
  • “Don’t get all bridezilla about it, but I need you to…”
  • “You’re really acting like a bridezilla now.”

Every time, it came up–sometimes “jokingly”–as a way to brush off my genuine concerns, to minimize my experiences and stress, and to manipulate me into being something else.

Okay, by now you may be rolling your eyes and saying, “Geeze, she must really be a bridezilla if this is going on!”

And maybe someone objective would say that–but I really don’t think so. All throughout wedding planning, this term has been hanging over my head: don’t be “like that.” I’ve tried to be accommodating wherever possible, and I truly don’t care about things like what color napkins we use or if we use live flowers or not.

Now, will I agree that there are women who do go overboard? Absolutely! But we already have words for unreasonable people, tons of them, and the act of being unreasonable is really not limited to women in this situation. The truth is, some people are bitches all the time.

The other truth is, weddings are extremely stressful and there are a lot of competing values at stake: what you want, what you have money for, what your parents want, what your SO’s parents want, what your neighbor who isn’t even invited to the wedding thinks a wedding should be like, etc etc. (Seriously, I had a family friend call to ask me the color of my guest book, because this was apparently critical to her preparations. Really?!)

I mean, how often do you plan an expensive multi-hour event for hundreds of people? It’s not like you know how to plan a wedding going into it; you’re stuck browsing Pinterest and getting sucked into the DIY rabbithole as you try to navigate all this.

And the wedding industry is literally built on people telling you you are not good enough, that if you don’t have XYZ, your wedding will be the worst and you’ll ruin “the memories.” I am shocked by the mountain of pressure that gets dropped on women when we get engaged (and on the men, but to a lesser degree, in my experience). (This article in The New Yorker does a good job analyzing this.)

In my own circumstance, the accusation of bridezilla-dom came from the then-maid-of-honor. What had I done? I told her I was upset that she went dress shopping without inviting me. Without even telling me. I felt left out of my own wedding, and when I told her–honestly–about my feelings, she came back with that. “You’re really acting like a bridezilla.”

It hurt. It hurt deeply, and I cried. It was an insult from someone dear to me, and I didn’t feel like I’d deserved it (particularly because the dress I was suggesting she wear cost all of $50).

That was a low moment. But it wasn’t the worst thing to come from wedding planning. There have been a lot of stress-tears, and grief-tears (which came when she decided to drop out of the wedding rather than wear said $50 dress). Wedding planning is hard, but, really, it’s just a party. And I’m not a monster for feeling hurt.

I’m looking forward to the marriage, and an end to this madness.

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Stephen King at His Worst

I’ve been reading Stephen King’s Skeleton Crew. (Pro tip: It may not be a great idea to read horror when you’re going through a stressful time! The more you know!)

It’s taking me awhile. I picked it a) because it’s Stephen King and I feel like there’s a lot I can learn by studying him, b) my fiance brought me the book when I didn’t have one to read, and c) I figured hey, short stories! Perfect for when I’m busy!

I sort of forgot that I don’t read Stephen King generally because he writes horror. …The subsequent nightmares reminded me, don’t worry.

Anyway, so I’ve been reading this book. And you can tell he’s talented, even though many of his successful books, including On Writing, hadn’t been written yet. But the really interesting thing, to me, is the prologue. He writes about how he likes to write short stories, how he got started with them, selling a thing or two to a magazine (back in the day when mainstream magazines bought fiction to publish) to keep his family afloat. He writes about how it’s been harder, since he started in on novels, to find time for the shorts.

And–critically–he talks about how the contained stories aren’t really “winners.” (He specifically calls them “losers” and then details why, and why you should read on anyway.) I don’t know if that’s an author’s critic chewing away at him or what, and I haven’t read enough of his works overall to know for sure but… I believe him.

Some of the stories don’t really work. Some are dalliances with other genres and then remember they’re supposed to be horror so make a sharp and weird turn at the end, like The Jaunt (science fiction), The Wedding Gig (1920s crime intrigue) and The Man Who Would Not Shake Hands (maybe Poe-sian or Doyle? I dunno, it just didn’t work). Some are clearly horror but are so undefined that it’s hard to be frightened, like The Raft, which read like an episode of Supernatural, except those guys would have killed the monster somehow.  Then there are those where you can see the ending coming from a mile away, like the charming wish-fulfillment fantasy Word Processor of the Gods.

Nevertheless, I feel like I’m learning a lot from these “losers.” (I mean, they were still published, some of them twice, so they aren’t so bad, really). King is great at giving his characters baggage; everybody has issues of some kind. This makes his people relatable. I think I can work on that in my writing. I also feel like I know the general landscape of Maine, even though I’ve never been anywhere near it; he does a great job mining his geography for detail, and maybe I need to work on embracing Texas in my writing more. His word-choice manages to have depth without ever feeling too out of reach for a general audience, and it feels like you’re getting to know him.

But the biggest lesson, perhaps, I’ve gotten so far? Failure doesn’t always mean the end.

Skeleton Crew was published in 1984. In 2007, the first story in the book became a movie: The Mist.  I haven’t seen it, but it seems like it stays pretty true to the text…with a critical and gut-wrenching change to the ending.

23 years later, his “loser” became a success–or at least a pretty good movie, with a slight change. It has a rating of 7.2 stars on IMDB right now. That’s not so bad for a “meh” story, is it, Stephen?

Twenty-three years seems like a long time to wait, but it does give me hope. (Though I’d prefer things come along a tad faster.)

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