Book Review: The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater

Book Review: The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater

The Raven Boys, book 1 in the new series The Raven Cycle, is the recent release by Maggie Stiefvater, highly praised author of The Scorpio Races and the best-selling series The Wolves of Mercy Falls. At least one unanswered question arises from reading this book: What exactly is a cycle? Is it different from a trilogy or a series? If there are two books in the cycle, would it be a bicycle? Inquiring minds want to know.

I’m a bit stumped by how to review this book, so I’ll just be blunt. It’s not good. I don’t even know where to begin enumerating all the many problems contained within its 408 pages.

Let’s start with the book’s focus — or lack of one. The dustjacket and promotional materials seem to cast Blue Sargent as the main character. Blue is certainly a main character, but there are a few others as well, none of whom exactly clamor for center stage. So, Blue — Blue is the 17-year-old daughter of a psychic who lives in a house full of female psychics. There’s a definite crunchy-granola-earth mother vibe going on there. Blue is not psychic herself, but she acts as a sort of amplifier — when she’s in contact with a psychic or a spirit, all powers are magnified, and the communication between mundane and spirit is clearer and louder. Blue has been told all her life that she’ll kill her true love with her first kiss (cheerful, right?), so she decided early on that there will be no kissing in her life. Easier said than done when you’re seventeen and suddenly have lots of very close, very attractive male friends.

Then there are the boys — the raven boys — who attend the ultra-exclusive Aglionby Academy, a prep school haven for the sons of the extremely, obscenely rich. As a rule, they are privileged, pampered, rude to locals, and self-absorbed. Blue crosses paths with the close-knit group formed by best friends Gansey, Adam, Ronan, and Noah when they come to her mother for a reading. The boys, we discover early on, are engaged in a quest, spear-headed by Gansey but with the involvement of all, to track the ley lines that run through their small Virginia town. Ley lines are focal lines of magical energy, and Gansey’s quest (which apparently he’s been pursuing all over the globe for the last several years, despite the fact that he’s only 17 years old) is to wake up the local ley line as a means of finding Glendower, an ancient king of Wales. Glendower’s bones were possibly transported to the New World centuries earlier and reburied somewhere mysterious… but he’s not really dead, just sleeping. Whoever wakes Glendower will be granted a favor, and each of the raven boys has his own reason for wanting – make that needing – this favor.

Does this make any sense? I read the book, and I’m still confused.

All of this business about ley lines and Glendower comes off as mystical mumbo-jumbo. Gansey is supposed to be a brilliant, manically inspired seeker dedicated to a higher cause, but his character never clicked for me. The quest itself is a muddle. Magical stuff happens, none of it very coherent. Blue gets involved, and there’s a lot of running around seeking the energy focal point, but mostly the plot just jumps from action to riddle to more action to… I don’t even know.

Stereotypes abound. Gansey is the spoiled son of a very wealthy family (he’s got a III at the end of his name, so you know he’s pure country club material). He shows his individuality by insisting upon driving a classic Camaro that’s always breaking down rather than taking one of his father’s pristine high-end vehicles. Ronan is the one with an edge, battling with his older brother, cutting classes, sporting a dangerous tattoo and shaved head — the brilliant loose cannon who must be controlled by his friends in order to avoid expulsion. Adam is the poor local kid, literally trailer park trash, who gets a scholarship to Aglionby as part of his own personal quest to escape the poverty and abuse he faces at home, but too proud to accept any help from his wealthy friends who truly love him. And then there’s Noah, whose circumstances are bizarrely told and, to me anyway, entirely unbelievable.

Blue herself is an enigma. We know that she likes to stand out as a weird girl, but we never see her go to school or talk to a single friend. Does she have any friends? Who knows?

I was at least 100 pages into the book before I could keep the boys straight. They all seemed rather indistinguishable, frankly. Blue’s connection with they boys seemed rushed — but then again, that ‘s my overall impression of the entire book. Rushed, messy, not very well thought-out, and with sentence structure issues that just cry out for a good copy editor… perhaps the goal was just to lay the foundation for the rest of the series, but even so, a first book in a series should be stellar.

I’ve actually read all of the author’s previous works, and have found them rather hit-or-miss. I didn’t care for her faerie books (Lament and Ballad), but I enjoyed the wolf books, particularly Shiver, the first in the trilogy. I also liked The Scorpio Races quite a bit, although with reservations about certain plot points. What I liked best about both Shiver and The Scorpio Races was the author’s use of language to create a mood. Shiver is simply permeated by a sense of tragic longing; you can feel the cold air, sense the loneliness of the winter months, feel the main character’s yearning for the wild unknown represented by the wolves. Likewise, in The Scorpio Races, the writing itself evokes life on a small, windswept island with few options and almost no way out; the effect is practically hypnotic, and lends the book much of its strength and grace.

Here in The Raven Boys, that powerful language conveying atmosphere and mood is missing. What’s left is a plot that’s far from compelling. Perhaps The Raven Cycle will improve and the story will start cohering in the subsequent books. I guess I’ll never know; this is one series that I don’t plan to continue reading.

Q&A with the kiddo: A kid’s-eye view of The Haunting of Granite Falls by Eva Ibbotson

Book Review: The Haunting of Granite Falls by Eva Ibbotson

 

From Amazon:

American millionaire Hiram C. Hopgood will stop at nothing to make his daughter, Helen, happy—even if it means buying her an ancient Scottish castle and shipping it back to Texas. Assembling the castle isn’t a problem for the oil tycoon . . . it’s the ghosts that worry him. Hopgood has made up his mind: the ghouls have got to go. But these spirits don’t spook so easily. Instead, they make their way to America, where they meet up with a magical severed hand and three fiendish, cross-dressing kidnappers for a Texas-sized adventure with a ghostly Scottish flair.

Proudly presenting Q&A with the kiddo, courtesy of my 10-year-old son, in which I ask my kiddo to describe a book he’s enjoyed recently and he gives his opinions, more or less unfiltered by mom.

Without further ado:

Q: What book do you want to talk about?

A: The Haunting of Granite Falls.

Q: What was it about?

A: [Note: The kiddo didn’t feel like giving a plot summary, so here’s the mom version: An American millionaire buys a Scottish castle for his sickly daughter, has the castle shipped to America to be rebuilt in the heart of Texas, and unintentionally gets a handful of castle ghosts to go with it. Scottish orphan Alex and the millionaire’s daughter Helen form a fast friendship, and need to call upon the ghosts for help when a dastardly kidnapping plot threatens their safety. Much mayhem ensues.]

Back to the kiddo:

Q: Who was your favorite character?

A: The Severed Hand [a ghostly disembodied hand who haunts the local cinema and the mineshafts underneath]. He’s really fun, he can cook, he’s an author, and he’s also a Hand of Glory.

Q: Who else did you like?

A: Flossie [the ghost of a 5-year-old girl, currently wreaking havoc as a poltergeist]. She’s really funny, and she messes up everything.

Q: What was your favorite part of the book?

A: When all the action was happening [towards the end] in the theater and in the mineshaft. [Note: A scary kidnapping in the mines, a daring rescue by the ghosts, much chasing about, shouting, scaring, and… heroic ghosts!]

Q: How would you describe the book overall?

A: Lots of cliffhangers. A tiny bit scary. Mostly funny, silly, weird, and mysterious.

Q: Who do you think would like the book?

A: My friends. If you have a sense of humor, you’ll like this book.

Q: Did you think this was a good reading level for you?

A: There were some words I didn’t understand [Note: that’s where moms come in handy], but otherwise it was fine. I probably could have read it on my own but it would have taken a lot longer.

Q: Would you want to read more books by this author?

A: It depends what they’re about.

Q: Would you want to read more ghost stories?

A: Maybe. It depends what kind. If they’re scary, then I wouldn’t want to read them before bed-time. That would give me nightmares.

Mom’s two cents: This was one book that we both could enjoy. It worked well as a read-aloud, but a kid who’s comfortable reading chapter books solo should be able to handle this one just fine. The kiddo and I found The Haunting of Granite Falls to have just the right combination of funny elements (a Viking ghost named Krok Fullbelly is good for all sorts of laughs) and dramatic action. 12-year-old Alex makes a fine hero as well, a nice mix of sensitivity and loyalty, with a dash of Scottish laird in him as well. I was a bit uncomfortable with the bad guys, who were more seriously threatening than I typically expect in a book aimed toward ages 8 – 12; in particular, the ringleader, a woman with many awful traits, among them a fondness for souvenirs of Hitler, was especially distasteful. Still, the book overall was a success. Author Eva Ibbotson has a delightful writing style, humorous and exciting, that really appeals to my son and keeps me entertained as well. We both give this one high marks.

So there you have it. We’ll be back with more book opinions from my kiddo, whenever I can get him to talk books again.

Book Review: Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

Book Review: Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

This review is going to have to be brief, because there’s almost no way to talk about Gone Girl without giving something away, and really, the less you know ahead of time, the better.

Gone Girl is a thriller, but you could also describe it as an analysis of a marriage. What makes a couple tick? How do people know if they fit? What happens to a relationship when the initial excitement and spark have faded?

Nick and Amy Dunne are a beautiful couple — truly, they are. It’s emphasized from the beginning of Gone Girl how very attractive they each are; they’re the golden boy and girl, the ones who get noticed, never ones to fade into a crowd. Nick and Amy meet at a party in New York when they are both magazine writers. They have an exciting romance and a beautiful wedding; the perfect couple — smart, attractive, fun, and completely in tune with each other. When the economy tanks and the magazine business dries up, they are both laid off, and end up moving back to Nick’s boyhood hometown of Carthage, Missouri to care for his dying mother, but really more to lick their wounds and figure out what a next chapter in their lives might look like.

Amy is the daughter of two psychologists who are famous for their bestselling Amazing Amy series of children’s books, based on Amy’s own life, which makes her both a curiosity and a celebrity. Nick is the son of a woman-hating father who left his mother when Nick was 12; Nick’s father now resides in a care facility from which he regularly escapes in an Alzheimer-fueled fog of anger.

Gone Girl opens with Nick and Amy’s 5th anniversary, as Nick contemplates just how miserable he is… and then discovers that Amy has disappeared. Day by day, evidence begins to pile up suggesting that violence, perhaps murder, has occurred, and Nick is slowly painted into a corner as the prime suspect, with only his high-profile lawyer and his twin sister Go to defend him.

What really happened to Amy? Why does Nick talk so much about the shape of Amy’s skull and have visions of harming her? Is Nick really a killer, or just a not-very-good husband who’s a convenient target for police interest and public scorn?

Told in chapters that alternate between Nick’s narration and Amy’s diary, we hear bits and pieces of the story from both Nick and Amy’s points of view. Gillian Flynn does a fantastic job of creating unique voices for each character, and the portraits we receive are detailed, rich, and chilling. Supporting characters feel well-defined and true-to-life.

The author skewers the current cult of crime TV, sensationalism masquerading as journalism, and seemingly endless parades of murder suspects dominating cable programming at all hours of the day. Nick realizes quickly that he’ll be considered the prime suspect, because everyone knows from watching TV that it’s most likely that the husband did it. He knows how police investigations work, understands that a sympathetic detective is just trying to soften him up, and knows that he’ll look guilty if he asks for a lawyer too soon — because he’s seen it all on CSI. His lawyer points out to him that by the time a case goes to trial, it’s been all but decided already on the cable legal shows and on the Internet. Control the message, control the outcome of the trial. The behind-the-scenes look at how publicity and public relations dictate the course of a crime investigation is actually quite fascinating.

Ultimately, though, it is the mystery at the heart of Gone Girl that makes it such a compelling read. Understanding Nick and Amy’s psyches and their inner workings is key to understanding what has happened and how it will all play out. I couldn’t put it down, and the twists and turns kept me guessing until the end.

I did find the ending unsatisfying, not because it left loose ends or because it didn’t fit — but because it wasn’t the outcome I wanted. Which means that I was enmeshed enough in the story and the characters’ lives to really care about what happened, which in my view makes this book a terrific success.

Read Gone Girl if you enjoy a good mystery, and most especially if you like to be surprised. Believe me, you will be.

Breed: Lingering questions (spoilers!)

Yesterday, I posted my review of Breed by Chase Novak. On Goodreads, I gave Breed 3 out of 5 stars, largely because I felt there were a lot of extraneous characters and plot points that didn’t go anywhere.

I try not to read other people’s reviews until I’ve written my own, so that I don’t (voluntarily or involuntarily) second-guess my own reactions or opinions. So last night, after finishing my review, I looked up the New York Times review of Breed, where I learned this little nugget of information: Chase Novak (aka Scott Spencer) is planning a sequel, called Brood.

I’m of two minds about this. One, there was no indication in Breed that this was the first of two (or more?) novels. Therefore, I’d expected a book that wrapped up satisfyingly and didn’t leave me hanging. Granted, in many horror books (take Rosemary’s Baby for instance), part of the horror is the fact that not everything is resolved — maybe the immediate problem has been addressed, but — my gods! — what about the future? You really should feel at least a little creeped out at the end of a good horror novel.

On the other hand, knowing that Breed will have a sequel, I feel much better about some of the implied outcomes and the various loose ends. Hurray — it’s not sloppiness or intentional vagueness! We’ll find out more!

So, what do I want to know in a sequel to Breed? (Warning: here’s where the spoilers creep in!)

  • Alice and Adam — how soon will they start to change? What exactly happens to all these kids once they hit puberty?
  • Bernard — how does he matter to the story?
  • What’s the deal with the triplets’ birthmarks on their hands?
  • Is the horror here purely genetic? What was in those injections and vials?
  • Is there a supernatural element involved? The scenes in Slovenia feature place names that included the words “castle” and “dragon” — is this a hint that there is more going on that just a medical mystery? Eastern European nation, dragon imagery, big slavering dogs, crying nuns… anyone else thinking what I’m thinking?
  • Obvious question: Is there a cure? Dr. Kis couldn’t find one, but does that mean that it doesn’t exist?

For those of you who have read Breed: What else do you want to know? What plot points do you want to see addressed in the sequel? Any predictions as to where it’s all heading? Share your thoughts, please!

Book Review: Breed by Chase Novak

Book Review: Breed by Chase Novak

Talk about having nightmarish parents.

In Breed by Chase Novak, the pursuit of fertility literally turns people into monsters. Chase Novak is the pen name of author Scott Spencer (Endless Love, A Ship Made of Paper), who here turns his talents toward a truly yucky horror tale. Alex and Leslie Twisden are young, attractive, and very well-to-do. Alex is the scion of old, old money, with a home full of priceless belongings and a beautiful, engaging younger wife. Alex and Leslie have it all, except for the one element outside of their control: They can’t seem to make a baby. After three years of progressively invasive and expensive infertility treatments, all to no avail, Alex and Leslie are just about ready to call it quits when they stumble upon a hush-hush miracle treatment offered by a doctor in Slovenia. Before you can say “uh-oh”, they’re off to Ljubljana for a scary, painful procedure from a shady doctor, who proclaims:

We are turning a quiet glade in the forest into a teeming spot in the jungle. Life, life, everywhere life, wanting, taking, growing. We are going to turn you on. Up high. Like teenager and creature of the wild. Nothing will hold you back. Life! Life!

Back at their hotel for the one night they plan to stay in Slovenia, Leslie and Alex are indeed turned on, and wake the next morning to find their hotel room completely and utterly demolished and their bodies covered in scratches and bite marks. Sure enough, the treatment has worked, and Leslie embarks upon a pregnancy that is more than she bargained for, as both she and Alex experience disturbing and drastic changes to their bodies.

All that, and it’s only the first 40 pages of the book. Before long, Leslie has delivered, and we move into part II of the book, set 10 years later, as twins Adam and Alice struggle to find safety in a world in which their home is the most dangerous place of all. Each night, Adam and Alice are locked into their own rooms and then let out again in the morning. Their parents are inconsistently protective, allowing them no playdates or afterschool activities, walking them to and from school each day more as guards than nurturing parents. We learn pretty quickly what the twins know of their world: strange, wild noises come from their parents’ bedroom at night, the cellar is always locked, and it’s best not to get too attached to the random pets that come into their lives and then quickly disappear. Alex and Leslie no longer go to work, instead selling off Alex’s inherited wealth bit by bit and allowing their house itself to crumble into garbage-strewn, corrupted ruin.

Adam and Alice’s flight toward freedom triggers a calamitous collapse of their already shaky lives, and as they innocently involve others in their plight, the potential for violence explodes all around them. The adults in their lives are either feral savages or ineffectual benign beings who can’t quite manage to save themselves or the children from the awfulness that pursues them. Numerous sequences involve chase scenes all over Manhattan, as its streets teem with life both wildly dangerous and recklessly free. The action builds to a more or less inevitable end, as horrifying events grow one upon the other.

Ultimately, my feelings on this book are mixed. I am not a horror aficionado, and therefore can’t assess whether Breed is really a top-notch entry in the genre. From a fiction reader’s point of view, however, I can say that Breed has a lot going for it, although the ending felt a bit flat and predictable to me. As the action in the middle of the book escalates, I couldn’t look away, despite the unfailingly horrific and gross (really, there’s no other word for it) nature of the scenes. By the end, though, there weren’t very many surprises left, and I didn’t walk away from the book feeling that the early promise of the story had truly paid off.

Is this a cautionary tale about the vanity that can become enmeshed in the no-holds-barred quest for reproduction? Early in Breed, Leslie tells Alex that she’s ready to quit:

Alex, I want us to adopt. I’m sick of living this way. I’m tired of doctors, and diets, and I am most of all worried… I am worried about what this is doing to us. Our marriage. Our souls.

But Alex is insistent upon one last try:

All your kindness and intelligence and beauty — it would be a waste not to pass it along, not to keep it in the world. The gene pool cries out for it!

Of course, the irony is that by pursuing that one miracle cure, the gene pool itself is compromised, so that it’s left extremely questionable what in fact has been passed along to the next generation. It’s doubtful that the inheritance will have any resemblance to kindness, intelligence, or beauty. Clearly, Leslie was right to worry.

 

 

Book Review: Merits of Mischief by T. R. Burns

And now, for the mom’s perspective…

Book Review: Merits of Mischief: The Bad Apple by T. R. Burns

From Amazon:

The start of a mischievous new middle-grade series has trouble written all over it.Twelve-year-old Seamus Hinkle is a good kid with a perfect school record—until the day he accidentally kills his substitute teacher with an apple.

Seamus is immediately shipped off to a detention facility—only to discover that Kilter Academy is actually a school to mold future Troublemakers, where demerits are awarded as a prize for bad behavior and each student is tasked to pull various pranks on their teachers in order to excel. Initially determined to avoid any more mishaps, Seamus nonetheless inadvertently emerges as a uniquely skilled troublemaker. Together with new friends Lemon and Elinor, he rises to the top of his class while beginning to discover that Kilter Academy has some major secrets and surprises in store….

When reviewing kids’ books, I usually prefer to let my son do the talking. After all, what matters is whether he liked it, right? In the case of Merits of Mischief: The Bad Apple, I find that I have a thing or two to say myself. Consider this the point/counterpoint version of Q&A with the Kiddo, if you will. And now for my rebuttal:

SPOILER ALERT! While I usually make it my policy to avoid spoilers in my book reviews, I’m breaking my own rules for Merits of Mischief. I’m assuming that anyone reading this is an adult and won’t be bothered by learning how the book ends. If this isn’t true for you — look away now! You have been warned: I will be disclosing the ending of this book. END OF SPOILER ALERT.

I’ll be blunt. I did not like this book. I knew early on that I was going to have a problem with it, but my son was hooked and didn’t seem to be bothered by the moral issues that bothered me, so onward we went.

The main character, Seamus, is a well-behaved 12-year-old who attempts to break up a lunchroom fight by throwing an apple across the room. Unfortunately, the apple hits brand-new substitute teacher Ms. Parsippany in the head AND SHE DIES. Yup, chapter one ends with a dead teacher, killed by the book’s hero.

Seamus isn’t proud of himself:

I killed her.

Some people say it was an accident. They say I didn’t mean to do it, that I was just scared and tried to help. That may be true. But what’s also true is that Miss Parsippany, who’d been a substitute teacher for all of four hours and thirteen minutes, was alive in homeroom and dead by lunch.

Because of me.

A week later, Seamus’s parents are dropping him off at Kilter Academy, reputedly a severe scared-straight type of reform school for seriously troubled kids. The building is gray and imposing, ringed by barbed wire, and with a very menacing armed guard waiting to greet Seamus. But the second that his parents drive away, the guard reveals that her gun is a water pistol, sheds the ugly uniform to reveal stylish clothing, and shakes out her long, pretty hair. It’s Annika Kilter, sparkly director of the Kilter Academy, and nothing is as it seems.

Kilter, it turns out, is a school dedicated to encouraging promising young troublemakers to live up to their potential. The grey walls are merely a facade; behind the prison-like walls are high-tech dorms filled with endless sorts of entertainment, a cafeteria serving unlimited treats, beautiful gardens, and all sorts of trouble-making gadgets. The school store (the Kommissary) sells a variety of gear, including bows and arrows, a tar-and-feather kit, Hydra Bombs, and flame starters and extinguishers. Students earn Kommissary credits through a complicated system of points: misdeeds are rewarded with demerits, good deed earn you gold stars. The trick is, it’s the demerits that are desirable, and the bigger the difference between your number of demerits and gold stars, the more credits you get toward stocking up on the weaponry of your choice.

Seamus is naturally baffled at first, particularly when Annika greets him enthusiastically and proclaims herself delighted to welcome Kilter’s first murderer. Seamus is assigned to room with Lemon, an arsonist who starts fires in his sleep. Seamus and Lemon begin to bond after Seamus sticks by Lemon despite a series of middle-of-the-night dorm room fires, and eventually they form an alliance with other students as well. Despite making friends, Seamus feels that he must hide the reason for his entry into Kilter from all others, believing (rightly, as it turns out) that his friends would turn against him if they knew what he’d done.

Students are referred to as Troublemakers, and the goal is to advance in trouble-making skills. As part of their studies, students are expected to “get” each of their teachers by pranking them in a way that demonstrates knowledge of that teacher’s field of expertise. Pranks include sniper-like attacks with paint ball guns, stealing items without being caught, staging fake fires, and unfortunate incidents involving bodily functions. First year students are assigned trouble-making specialties based on their perceived talents in a ritual quite reminiscent of a sorting at Hogwarts — minus the magical talking hat, of course.

Seamus is assigned into the Sniper Squad, and is soon in training with his tutor Ike on the advanced usage of arrows, metallic boomerangs, rifles, and anything else that can be aimed and thrown or fired. Seamus is determined not to harm anyone else, but finds himself at the top of his class as his skills cause him to successfully “get” more teachers than any other students.

Exhausted yet? I am. Now is probably a good time to recount all the little things that bothered me so much about this book:

1) It makes no sense. Not that I’m a stickler for reality — I appreciate a zany approach to kids’ books as much as the next fun-loving reader. Take, for example, the Wayside School books — clearly, a set of rules apply that don’t exist in real life, wacky things happen, and it’s all for fun. Here, in Merits of Mischief, the story is presented as taking place in an ordinary boy’s life, but the pieces don’t hold together. So Seamus is sent off to reform school one week after killing a teacher? What happened to the legal system? Was there a trial? Weren’t there any witnesses? Doesn’t the accidental nature of the incident come into play? And what about this reform school that the parents send Seamus to — didn’t they check it out at all?

2) Hold on, Seamus is assigned to share a dorm room with a kid WHO STARTS FIRES IN HIS SLEEP! Lemon has had something like 12 different roommates assigned to him, none of whom last more than a day (and a fire) before moving out. Somehow, it’s supposed to be a sign of Seamus’s loyalty that he sticks by Lemon, despite the fact that he almost chokes to death one night from smoke inhalation. Um, no. I don’t care how zany a school this is supposed to be — leaving a kid to burn to death isn’t a good idea.

3) The kids are rewarded for their bad behavior — but the behavior isn’t about solving mysteries or figuring out physical conundrums, a la Mysterious Benedict Society. Nope, Lemon the arsonist is assigned a tutor to teach him even more fire-starting skills. Seamus, the alleged killer, is assigned to become an even better sniper. No ultimate purpose is ever defined, other then teaching the students to become better troublemakers. What will they do with these skills? Are they being trained to join some sort of secret agent force? We don’t know.

4) The teachers show a remarkable lack of awareness or concern. When a girl is injured at the end of the book during a major trouble-making assignment, the teaching staff continue celebrating the success of the trouble-making and refuse to assist the girl, leaving it up to her friends to get her medical treatment.

5) Finally… the book is about a kid who KILLED A TEACHER! Although as an adult reading this book, I was pretty sure it would turn out that she wasn’t really dead, my son had no idea and spent the entire book rooting for a kid who KILLED A TEACHER. Sure, Seamus feels bad about what happened and writes unsendable emails to Ms. Parsippany expressing his regret — but in point of fact this is a kid who caused someone’s death and who then gets to attend a super-fun high tech academy where he’s expected to make trouble. It makes no sense.

We do find out – on the very last page — that Ms. Parsippany is in fact alive and well. Seamus receives an email from her (which, as my son pointed out, shouldn’t have been able to happen, as the book very clearly states that the email system only works within the Academy itself). Her email simply says that she just returned from vacation and received his emails (huh?), that she appreciates how he feels, and that she’d be happy to keep corresponding with him. And that’s it. No explanation. The end.

The Bad Apple is the first book in a projected Merits of Mischief series, and I assume that someone who keeps reading will eventually find out more about why the Academy exists, how parents can send their children to a school with no knowledge of what happens there, and how Seamus ends up punished (if you’d call it punishment) for a crime that never happened. As is, The Bad Apple answers none of these questions… and it’s not mysterious, it just feels like poor planning.

I found Merits of Mischief: The Bad Apple to be a poorly executed but presumably well-intentioned book for kids. It seems to aim for fun and adventure, in the spirit of The Mysterious Benedict Society, mixed in with the excitement of a boarding school for specially gifted children, perhaps akin to a Muggle Hogwarts — but it misses its mark by a mile.

I like to let my children find their own way through book likes and dislikes, and so I didn’t drop this book in the middle. However, I found the moral fuzziness at the heart of Merits of Mischief quite disturbing, and would be perfectly happy to not read any further in the series. Fortunately, book 2 doesn’t come out until sometime in 2013, and I’m assuming my kid will have moved onto other things by then.

All in all, while my son enjoyed the story, I’d mark Merits of Mischief with a big red “not recommended” sign. On to bigger and better, I hope!

Q&A with the kiddo: A kid’s-eye view of Merits of Mischief by T. R. Burns

Book Review: Merits of Mischief: The Bad Apple by T. R. Burns

 

From Amazon:

The start of a mischievous new middle-grade series has trouble written all over it.Twelve-year-old Seamus Hinkle is a good kid with a perfect school record—until the day he accidentally kills his substitute teacher with an apple.

Seamus is immediately shipped off to a detention facility—only to discover that Kilter Academy is actually a school to mold future Troublemakers, where demerits are awarded as a prize for bad behavior and each student is tasked to pull various pranks on their teachers in order to excel. Initially determined to avoid any more mishaps, Seamus nonetheless inadvertently emerges as a uniquely skilled troublemaker. Together with new friends Lemon and Elinor, he rises to the top of his class while beginning to discover that Kilter Academy has some major secrets and surprises in store….

Proudly presenting Q&A with the kiddo, courtesy of my 10-year-old son, in which I ask my kiddo to describe a book he’s enjoyed recently and he gives his opinions, more or less unfiltered by mom.

NOTE: THIS Q&A CONTAINS SPOILERS! You have been warned.

Without further ado:

Q: What book do you want to talk about?

A: Merits of Mischief.

Q: What was it about?

A: It was about this boy, Seamus, who threw an apple at a teacher named Ms. Parsippany. He thought she died but she didn’t. He went to this reform school that was actually to teach the kids to be bad. Then he met lots of new friends and pranked all the teachers.

Q: What did you like about the book?

A: There were funny parts. I liked that the kids were supposed to get into trouble [at the school]. I like all the characters except Abe. My favorite character was Lemon, because he always makes fires. Also, because he stands up for people. My favorite teacher was Mystery, because he’s mysterious and really hard to prank.

Q: What didn’t you like about the book?

A: The Good Samaritans [mom’s note: the GS are the school’s police force], because they try to stop the kids from doing bad stuff.

Q: What did you think of the ending?

A: It was stupid. Seamus got an email from outside the school, but all along they said you couldn’t get emails from off-campus. Also, because you find out Ms. Parsipanny’s not really dead, and if she’s not, then Seamus shouldn’t have gotten sent to the school in the first place.

Q: Are you glad you read Merits of Mischief?

A: Yeah.

Q: How would you describe the book?

A: Funny, with lots of action.

Q: Who do you think would like the book?

A: I think most kids would like it. If they’re bad, they’ll love it!

Mom’s two cents: My kid and I are usually in sync about our read-aloud books. We tend to either both enjoy a book, or both be bored or unimpressed. Merits of Mischief was one of the rare books we’ve encountered where we had vastly different experiences reading it. I’ll be back with the mom point of view in a separate review. In terms of reading levels, this book is listed as ages 8 and up, although I think it would be a bit much for an 8-year-old.

So there you have it. We’ll be back with more book opinions from my kiddo, whenever I can get him to talk books again.

Book Review: The Diviners by Libba Bray

Book Review: The Diviners by Libba Bray

Roaring 20s. Jazz Age. Prohibition. Flappers.

Libba Bray perfectly captures the excitement and glamour of 1920s Manhattan in her newest young adult novel, The Diviners. Set in New York in 1926, The Diviners is a long book (500+ pages) with a sprawling cast of characters whose lives intersect amid the outward glitter of jazz clubs, boisterous parties, and daring girls looking to get noticed. The bright lights and loud music mask a darker underbelly, as a nation recovers from war, teeters on the brink of the coming economic disaster, reacts to political activism and division, and fails to take note of the growing blackness creeping into the world.

Main character Evie O’Neill is a sparkling, au courant flapper, a 17-year-old shining star stuck in small-town Zenith, Ohio, until her need to show off at a party gets her “exiled” to live with her eccentric uncle in Manhattan. Evie’s uncle, William Fitzgerald, is the director of the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult — or the Museum of the Creepy Crawlies, as it’s known in popular parlance. A confirmed bachelor, Will oversees a dusty collection that no one visits and give lectures on the occult and the supernatural. When Evie arrives, she’s not content to just sit around a fusty old museum and immediately throws herself into the whirlwind of high times in New York.

Unfortunately, there’s a killer on the loose, who begins leaving a trail of ritually mutilated bodies. The killer is soon dubbed The Pentacle Killer by the sensation-seeking tabloid press, and Evie and her uncle are thrust into the action as they begin consulting with the police on the occult symbolism surrounding the bodies.

Evie crosses paths with an array of memorable characters, including showgirl Theta, who ran away from a troubled past and reinvented herself on the New York stage; Theta’s best friend Henry, a talented piano player with a secret life; Memphis, a good-looking Harlem numbers-runner who longs to be a poet; Memphis’s younger brother Isaiah, prone to odd dreams and prophecies; Jericho, Will’s stoic assistant with his own secrets to keep; and many more.

Secrets abound. Each of the main characters has a hidden gift — a secret power — which must remain guarded. But as the killer works toward the climax of a foretold ritual designed to bring about the end of times, Evie and others are called upon to use their talents to unearth the clues that may empower them to save themselves and their world. This group of people, of diverse backgrounds and with differing talents, soon realize that they are part of a prophecied group called the Diviners, who will play a part in defeating a darkness yet to come.

Libba Bray succeeds beautifully in The Diviners in conjuring forth a time and place gone by. Her descriptions of Manhattans’s sights, smells, and sounds, the glamor of the flapper girls, the allure of hot jazz clubs — all are rendered so precisely that you can feel them come alive. Evie and friends use the lingo of the times to great effect: Evie asks for “giggle water” when she’s looking for a nip of gin; she frequently pronounces things “the bee’s knees” or “the cat’s pajamas”; her speech is peppered with “posititutely” and “you bet-ski”… and it’s all quite delicious. Evie is witty, charming, and quick on her feet (“A murder! Oh, my. Let me just change my shoes.”); she uses her flapper attitude to cope with the grief of her older brother’s death in the Great War, and never lets on that there is a sorrow underneath her fun-times demeanor.

Fabulous too is the looming sense of dread, which grows darker and scarier throughout the book as the killer moves closer and closer to fulfilling the prophecies, and it becomes clear that the threat is beyond human, and may well be unstoppable. The supernatural elements are unveiled bit by bit, and the creepiness amps up as the plot hurtles forward.

The Diviners is both an excellent period piece and a creepy occult murder mystery, with heavy doses of prophecies of doom and mystical dreams of strange times to come. If the book had ended with the resolution of the pentacle killings, it would have made a terrific stand-alone novel. However, it doesn’t end there. The Diviners is the first in a series, and I’m a bit uncertain as to where the story may go or how long the series will end up being. The author has established the group of characters who form the Diviners, and it’s clear that they will continue down the path of fighting some mysterious being whose shape has yet to be fully revealed or understood. I look forward to spending more time with the enchanting Evie and her eclectic group of friends and colleagues. I trust that, in Libba Bray’s deliciously talented hands, the story will continue to be engaging, colorful, and creepy. I just hope that the series will have a strong finish, rather than turning into an open-ended story without an end-point. Still, despite my hesitation over getting involved in a new series, it’s clear that The Diviners is something special, and I look forward to seeing what happens next.

Book Review: The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving by Jonathan Evison

Book Review: The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving by Jonathan Evison

Benjamin Benjamin Jr. is a certified caregiver, having completed a night-school course offered at a church and mastering essentials like setting professionals boundaries, avoiding burnout, and memorizing helpful mnemonics such as ALOHA (Ask – Listen – Observe – Help – Ask again).  How very much Ben defines himself by his ability to provide care is central to this sad yet funny book.

When we first meet Ben, he is heading out on a job interview for the first time in a very, very long time. On the brink of middle age, he is tapped out, having used up every penny of his savings and with no other option if he wants to make rent on the impersonal, grungy “compartment” in which he resides. As we soon discover, Ben’s life has not always been such a wreck. Until just a few short years earlier, he seemed to have a golden life, true happiness, and everything a man could want — until disaster ripped his life apart and left him empty and hopeless. At the end of his rope, Ben is hired to care for Trevor, a 19-year-old wheelchair-bound muscular dystrophy patient, for whom Trevor provides companionship as well as the day-to-day physical care necessitated by Trevor’s degenerating condition.

Ben is clearly a natural at caregiving. Bodily functions don’t faze him; he cleans Trevor, applies his deodorant, dresses him, and maneuvers him in and out of his chair. Despite his commitment to his so-called professional boundaries, Ben has to constantly remind himself not to push Trevor past his comfort zone, not to goad him to break out of routine and try something new. Eventually, the two head out on a somewhat ill-conceived road trip to visit Trevor’s estranged, accident-prone father in Utah. Along the road, the two are joined by a variety of waifs and strays, all lost in some way and in need of care. Ben becomes a de facto protector and shepherd for his odd assortment of travel companions, as they drive through the American West past landscapes and attractions such as the world’s largest pit and other weird roadside highlights.

As the book progresses, the details of the horrible loss in Ben’s past slowly emerge. It’s no wonder the man is a mess. His grief is unending, his self-blame immense. He believes himself responsible for the destruction that occurred, and cannot see himself as deserving of happiness. Through his caregiving role and his developing relationship with Trevor, a glimmer of light emerges. Ben will never forget the past or stop hurting over his incomprehensible losses, but he can begin to trust himself once more. By book’s end, we see that Ben is perhaps not a totally lost cause after all, and although it will be long, his road to recovery and redemption is within his view, if not yet quite within his grasp.

I hesitate to say any more about the plot, as I believe the emotional impact would be lessened by knowing too much in advance. I found The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving an affecting story, sad yet with moments of lightness and humor. The writer’s deft skills give sharp focus to the speech, physical traits, and personality quirks of the various secondary characters whose lives intersect with Ben’s, and Ben’s cynicism and bruised soul make him an interesting lens through which we readers can peek into his world.

I did find some awkward phrasings (“And what was I thinking in that instant just before the world went icy black, as I strode toward the front door irritably beneath my mountain of groceries?”) and odd word choices (Trevor diverted — not averted — his gaze), and a weird interlude related to Facebook that just didn’t ring true to life. These are relatively minor quibbles, however. Overall, I found Ben’s voice convincing, and the plot was a touching portrayal of a man’s journey from tragedy towards the first tiny specks of the possibility of finding meaning in life again.

Book Review: The Dog Stars by Peter Heller

Book Review: The Dog Stars by Peter Heller

When is the last time you were so mesmerized by lovely writing that you had a hard time finishing the book, simply because you wanted the reading experience to last just a little longer? That’s how I felt as I neared the end of The Dog Stars. I almost wanted to put the book down for a while just to avoid having to say I was done… Of course, I didn’t do that, because I really, really wanted to see how it would all work out.

Where to begin? The Dog Stars is a vision of a post-apocalyptic world at once horrifying and beautiful. Nine years before the start of the events in the book, a virulent flu pandemic wiped out 99% of the human population of earth. Those who survived were further decimated by an HIV-like blood disease that doomed many to a slow, lingering, miserable death. And yet, the land remains, canyons, woods, creeks, and plains, mostly empty of people now, and nature is busily trying to reassert itself even in the face of climate change and species die-offs.

Hig is one who survived unscathed, at least physically, having lost his beloved wife to the flu. As the story opens, Hig lives in relative safety at an isolated airstrip in rural Colorado, with his dog Jasper and his gruff survivalist neighbor Bangley as his only companions. And Hig has the Beast — an older Cessna airplane that he lovingly maintains, and which gives Hig and Bangley the power to protect their home turf. Hig flies the perimeter, scouting for intruders and surveying the stark and empty land. Bangley is a weapons expert, ready to shoot anything that moves. Between the two of them, they protect their home from the bands of dangerous invaders who seem to find them every few months.

Hig lives, but he’s only partially alive. He experiences joy when he flies, with Jasper in his accustomed place in the copilot’s seat, or when he tends his garden and has a moment where he just is:

I could almost imagine that it was before, that Jasper and I were off somewhere on an extended sojourn and would come back one day soon, that all would come back to me, that we were not living in the wake of disaster. Had not lost everything but our lives. Same as yesterday standing in the garden. It caught me sometimes: that this was okay. Just this. That simple beauty was still bearable barely, and that if I lived moment to moment, garden to stove to the simple act of flying, I could have peace.

But Hig remembers, too, and suffers mightily over his losses: his wife, their future together, and the world that they inhabited. Although not entirely spelled out, it’s clear that some other global environmental catastrophes have crept up on the world. Early on, we hear a list of animals that no longer exist — elephants, apes, even trout. Throughout the book, we learn of changing weather patterns and shorter rainy seasons, with drought always threatening. It’s clear that global warming is upon us, and its effects are not kind. Hig is a man who loved to fish, who appreciates nature and its cycles, and the loss of the animals, trees, and rivers hit him as hard as some of his more human losses.

When Hig suffers one more devastating bereavement, it frees something in him to the point that he decides to venture out of the safe perimeter that he and Bangley have so carefully maintained and fly off in search of a phantom voice heard years earlier over his airplane radio. What happens to Hig from that point forward is better left to the reader to discover, and so I won’t go into any more detail about plot points.

The writing in The Dog Stars is spare and lovely, reminding me of the beautiful, airy language in Plainsong by Kent Haruf. In The Dog Stars, each paragraph stands alone, with gaps in between lines and phrases. There’s space there, and you can almost feel Hig thinking in between anything he decides to say. Sentences may be half-formed, phrases are uttered but not finished. It truly feels like we are living inside a man’s head, experiencing his viewpoint and his pain through his use of language.

I could pick almost any passage to illustrate the unique writing. One example that stands out:

You hear bullets make the sound they always do in Westerns and war stories and guess what? They do. They make a phhhht like someone opening a poisonous can of soda. The Soda of Death. Like a vacuum following itself at the speed of a diving duck. Followed almost simultaneously by a little hum, a musical exclamation point.

Peter Heller is a journalist and has written several non-fiction books. The Dog Stars is his first novel, and I hope there will be many more to come. You don’t often hear a post-apocalyptic book described as beautiful, but The Dog Stars truly is. I highly recommend this literary, lovely, moving book.