Archive for July 2014
Tamsin Greene is determined to find her own path in life, one far from the family that seems to pity her. It’s not easy living in the shadow of a perfect older sister. It’s even harder when you’re also the odd one out in a very close knit extended family, the only one who can’t do magic. But when a stranger walks into her grandmother’s bookstore one night while Tamsin is working, she finds herself inexplicably pretending to be her perfect sister. And promising to help the stranger with the kind of task only someone with Talent could manage.
I really enjoyed this book – up until about the last third of it, when it felt like all of the revelations were just a bit too recycled. Especially for a young adult fantasy novel published post-Twilight. The writing was not spectacular, but it was engaging enough. I’ll likely give the sequel a try, but my expectations won’t be very high. Perhaps it will surprise me?
Following the devastating and tragic events of The Outskirter’s Secret, Rowan and Bel have temporarily parted ways. Bel is staying behind with her own people, to do what she can to keep them safe, and to help maintain peace between the Outskirts and the Inner Lands. Rowan, after informing the Archives of what she has learned, has settled for a time in Alemeth, hoping to find some clues as to the location and identity of Slado in the disordered records there. While there she runs into Janus, the lost Steersman, and is faced with the dilemma of wishing she could trade information with him while he remains under the Steerswomen’s ban. When Outskirter demons begin attacking Alemeth, and it becomes clear that Janus is no stranger to dealing with them, Rowan knows that she must learn his secrets, no matter the cost.
There’s a definite shift in tone in this book, largely due to Bel’s absence. As much as I missed the banter and teamwork between the two women, this is still an amazing book. Kirstein’s ability to explain things scientifically and clearly, and with prose that remains imaginative and engaging, is used extensively here. It’s hard to imagine anyone else writing scenes like the ones in which Rowan investigates the demons, especially while also maintaining such a clear point of view and tight but logical control over how much is being revealed.
Rowan continues her quest to track down Slado, and this time her investigation has brought her to the town of Donner. Bel is with her once again, as is William, the magician’s apprentice the two women met and fought beside in The Steerswoman. They are hoping that investigating the succession change from the current wizard, Jannik, and the one before him, Kieran – to whom Slado was once an apprentice, may yield some useful clues as to Slado’s identity and location. But time is quickly running out for the trio, as the threat of the remaining Guidestars’ destructive power grows with every day that passes.
It may seem from the synopsis that Rowan’s search is going painstakingly slowly, but I assure you that’s only because discussing the extent of the progress she’s made would involve revealing major spoilers for all of the books. The overall search does take time, as such investigations almost always do, but that’s largely because each new bit of information Rowan finds prompts even more questions. Rowan’s real progress is in learning to ask better questions, something that’s especially evident in this, the fourth book. There’s much that Rowan is able to do and figure out in this book that she wouldn’t have been able to in the first, simply because what she has learned in the meantime about the jewels, the Guidestars, demons, magic, and the differences between the Inner Lands and the Outskirts. All of her discoveries have fundamentally changed Rowan’s perceptions about the world around her, and her actions, decisions, and inner dialogue in The Language of Power makes that extremely clear. This entire series is amazing for the ways that it shows how research, science, and logical thinking really work to change how we understand things, which is a big part of why I love it so.
Rainbow Fish was beautiful, too beautiful to play with the other fish. Only, now Rainbow fish is lonely. What will he do?
That first sentence up there is almost exactly what the first page says. Which tells you all you need to know about this book. I suspect that there’s more text in the picture book version of this story, and perhaps the extra words are an improvement. But yikes! I think the moral of the story was supposed to be about sharing or being considerate, instead the lesson seems to be that you should give away parts of your body so that people will like you.
“I have always loved the snow.” Page by page, a young bunny talks about all the things she loves about snow and winter.
I always have such high hopes for Wallace’s books; she’s done so many on the kinds of topics that make for great preschool themes. And yet…the text is always matter of fact, there’s no rhythm or elegance to it, and the illustrations are readable but lack inspiration or harmony. They’re always just serviceable enough, but never really well done.
Despite the page layouts being slightly busier than they ought to be for a board book, this is an excellent concept book for little ones. National Geographic’s stunning photographs are put to good use (badly photoshopped cover notwithstanding), as they always are. It also goes beyond the typical set up for such books; after each type of opposite is introduced in the traditional way (an image illustrating that particular pair, and the accompanying text) it doesn’t immediately move onto the next pair. Instead, the following pages then present a similar, but more complicated picture, as well as questions that invite parents and toddlers to have deeper conversations about the concept. The layouts on these pages could use some cleaning up, but they do an excellent job modeling for parents how to engage their children in dialog about the books they are reading.
I adore Joyce Wan’s You are My Cupcake and We Belong Together, so I was very excited to stumble across My Lucky Little Dragon on display at the bookstore. Just like the other two board books, My Lucky Little Dragon features a different endearment on each spread, this time focusing on the 12 animals of the Chinese Zodiac. Wan’s illustrations are just as adorable as always and full of personality. They also feature a variety of colors that pop! off the page, yet remain soft and almost pastel, rather than being limited to high contrast primary colors.
Just as the title says, this board book is about farm related words, consisting of illustrations and the names of various nouns included in the pictures. The illustrations themselves will likely delight it’s target audience, but the choice of font and words are questionable. It’s not an awful book, but there are much better books out there available for the same price.
If you recall, Hale is also the author/illustrator of Baby Giggles, which was cute, adorable, and well put together – but extremely homogenous, in terms of the kinds of babies being photographed. Baby Colors still treats white as the default, but manages to have closer to a quarter or third of the children pictured be children of color. The rhyming text works, although the colors being discussed aren’t always as prominent as they could be. Overall, a good book to have in the collection, despite it’s flaws.
A young boy and his even younger sister attempt to play hide and seek, but the younger sister doesn’t quite understand how to play.
For some strange reason I remember liking this book as a kid. Which makes me wonder about the overall quality of easy readers available at the time. To be fair, there is humor here, and it’s the kind of humor that your average seven year old with a younger (or older) sibling can relate to. The illustrations in particular haven’t aged well though, and it’s a meaner type of humor than, say, what readers find in the Piggie and Elephant books.
Amal Mohamed Nasrullah Abdel-Hakim is sixteen and about to start her third term as an eleventh grader at the exclusive and expensive McClean’s Prepatory Academy when she realizes that she’s ready to wear the hijab full time. But is she ready for the assumptions people will make about her – about her parents and her abilities and her dreams – if she starts wearing the hijab to school? To the mall? To job interviews? And yet what will it say about her, and her faith, and her country if she lets fear and prejudice keep her from making her own choices.
Despite the rather slow moving plot and lack of action, I found myself liking this book quite a bit. It’s not just that it offers a very compassionate and balanced view, and presents readers with a perspective that is sadly in short supply in YA. Abdel-Fattah writes in a very compelling and engaging voice and I look forward to reading more books by her.
Boys who love boys. Girls who love girls. New loves and old loves. Teenagers forced to hide their true selves. How Beautiful the Ordinary collects twelve stories from twelve authors who know what it’s like for their normal selves to treated as different, as outside the norm.
I expect a mixture of quality and taste when it comes to the content of anthologies, but that doesn’t excuse the disrespect for others that I found in a handful of the stories in this particular collection:
William Sleator’s Fingernail has it’s Thai protagonist and narrator telling readers that ” [English] is the most important language in the world” and pointing out that were it not for his abusive, European ex boyfriend, he never would have met his current, loving boyfriend from the West. It’s not that it’s inconceivable for a young man like this to exist, and to have these kinds of thoughts, but that it’s not really appropriate or responsible for an white American to be putting these words into the mouth of a Thai character he created.
Jennifer Finney Boylan’s The Missing Person is in many ways a beautiful and heartbreaking tale of a girl who everyone else sees and treats as a boy. Unfortunately, it also uses the misfortune that befalls a Taiwanese exchange student as a metaphor for the main character’s own struggles, rather than as an experience belonging to the exchange student herself, and as a source of common ground.
The stories are not all disappointing, however. Jacqueline Woodson’s Trev is elegant and full of sorrow, determination, and hope. Margo Lanagan’s A Dark Red Love Knot is twisted and cruel and beautiful. Emma Donoghue’s Dear Lang, a testament to the meaning of family, left me in tears. And lastly, Gregory Maguire’s The Silk Road Runs Through Tupperneck, N.H. contemplates paths not taken and shows us the costs of hiding in closets.
Fifteen year old Lucy Oswego has always towered over her classmates. Not that she needs to in order for people to remember her, Sitka is the kind of small town where everyone knows everyone else – and their business. Which is how all the bar owners know to call her when her dad gets so drunk he can’t even stumble home on his own. So it’s no surprise that Lucy wonders what it would be like to blend in, to fit in – to be someone other than Lucy the Giant. And when a crabbing boat crew mistakes her for an adult, and invites her to sign on, Lucy finds her chance to do just that.
Have I mentioned how much I love Smith’s books? Lucy the Giant is no exception. Smith has a gift for finding the extraordinary in the everyday, and for centering the kinds of characters that tend to exist on the fringes of most mainstream narratives. Lucy the Giant is a deceptively simple story; more complicated and subtle than it appears at first, and one that packs a punch despite it’s short length.
Like everyone in New Avalon, Charlie has her own personal fairy. Charlie has never seen her fairy, but she knows her fairy is there because of all the little things her fairy does for her. But while most people are happy to have the extra help, Charlie is determined to ditch her fairy any way she can.
Some people (such as Charlie’s best friend Rochelle) get to have shopping fairies, and always find the best clothes. Other people (like Charlie’s nemesis Fiorenze) have fairies that make all the boys fall in love with them. But fourteen year old Charlie has a parking fairy, and what good is a parking fairy if you can’t even drive? All it means is that everyone always wants to drag Charlie along on all kinds of boring errands. So Charlie has spent the last sixty days walking everywhere – no riding in cars, buses, or any other vehicle that needs a parking space – in the hopes that it will convince her fairy to leave. Because there’s nothing Charlie won’t try in order to ditch her fairy and get a new one.
I’ve only read three of Larbalestier’s books, but I can already tell she doesn’t do typical. Which is fine by me.
How to Ditch Your Fairy is not quite the genius novel that Liar is (because what can really compare to Liar?) but it is a wonderful story. It’s not at all what one might expect from an urban fantasy novel, and that is definitely one of its biggest strengths. Not every single part of the novel works as well as it could, but it’s always very fresh and engaging.
I also appreciate how Larbalestier handles Fiorenze’s situation. As one might expect, having a fairy that makes all the boys around you be attracted to you isn’t quite the dream that it might sound like at first. It’s not just that it’s hard for Fiorenze to be sure which boys are sincere, it’s not just that it can be tedious and distracting, and it’s not even just that it creates a lot of jealousy among other girls and makes friendships impossible. Larbalestier makes it clear that the boys don’t really enjoy having their wishes overridden by fairy magic and, most importantly, that having a fairy like this is unsafe for Fiorenze – that it quite often places her in dangerous situations. And Larbalestier shows this by giving Charlie moments of understanding and growth that are logical and realistic and rooted in empathy rather than preachy and dogmatic.
I was very sad when my copy from Better World Books ended up being a library discard, because I really think this is a great addition to any young adult collection.
Theo Waitley is not who she was raised to believe she was. Her mother may indeed be Kamale Waitley, a scholar from the Safe World of Delgado, but the father she’s always loved turns out to have a past she never suspected, and comes with a family that’s larger and more complicated than Theo may be ready for. Pilot Waitley has more to deal with than just family politics, however. She has a friend to rescue, a mysterious sentient ship to find, and she’s still under contract as a courier pilot.
It’s always taken me longer than usual to lose myself in this series, but this particular book was especially hard. I don’t know if it would have helped to have read the previous Liaden books first, as the first part of Ghost Ship involves characters that were new to me but I think perhaps not the series. (Several books were written in the Liaden universe before this particular series, but Theo Waitley’s story begins with Fledgling and – until now – her series works quite well on it’s own.) As it was, parts of the book were compelling, while others left me wishing certain characters would talk less and do more.
Nick’s life has never been perfect, but it has been full of love and laughter and parents who love him. Coping with their divorce, with not being allowed to choose who he lives with, would be hard on any teenager. But after their split, Nick isn’t even allowed to see Jo. Since Jo never adopted Nick, and his mothers’ marriage was never legally recognized, neither he nor Jo have any legal rights to make sure the mother who gave birth to him allows Nick to spend time with the mother who raised him. Can Nick convince his mother of what Jo means to him? Or will his enforced estrangement from one mother ruin his relationship with the other?
As with so many of Peters’ books, we need more of this kind of story, and I’m glad that we now at least have at least this one. However, the writing just isn’t very good. It’s arguably one of her better written novels, and she does some interesting things with telling the story in a not quite linear fashion, but the prose never manages to rise above acceptable.