Oops ...

Yes, I do. I feel terribly guilty about the fact that I haven't updated in months, even though it bothers absolutely nobody but me. Never mind! I made myself a promise, and despite my horrific habit of breaking promises, I will valiantly attempt to keep this one. So! News? The University of Sydney's Media degree has depressed me for almost a year now. Therefore, I have un-enrolled. I have warm and fuzzy feelings regarding this fact. Currently, I'm just a plain old Arts student ... dear Arts. I will never again doubt the fact that we are meant to be together. No matter how many people laugh at me.

The book with the honour of being first-reviewed-on-the-blog-in-a-while is Maggie Stiefvater's Shiver, which I am very sorry to say I didn't finish. On account of the fact that I didn't like it at all. In fact, I spent much of my time reading it in stupefied horror. I may be rather alone in this. The top searches came up with highly positive reviews, and even the Book Smugglers (who I usually agree with in matters of feminism) disliked it but weren't really disgusted.


Because I didn't even reach halfway through this novel, I won't review it properly, I'll just explain why I didn't keep reading. You see, on page 28, the Boy starts babbling on about how he was drunk with the Girl's scent. Not that the first 28 pages haven't been laden with stuff like this - it's just that I literally know nothing about these people yet. I know the Girl has a couple of friends, they're "introverts", she cooks dinner for her scatter-brained mum. What else do I know about her? Oh yeah. She's obsessed with wolves. And I DO mean obsessed. In fact, one page 50 one of her Friends points out:


"Don't you think this obsession [of yours] is getting kind of creepy, Grace?"


Aside from being a perfect oh, snap moment, this just made me scream "EXACTLY!" Now when you get to page 50 of a 434 page book, and you are agreeing with Minor Characters about the questionable sanity of the Main Character, you know something is wrong. The 'something' in this case is that I sympathise not a bit with the Main Character. I DO find her obsession creepy, because said obsession is never properly explained. Look, something happened to this character when she was like 6, so she thinks werewolves exist. Fine. Perfectly appropriate explanation. The problem is, I felt completely unable to suspend my disbelief at the fact that she practically fantasises about being one ... not to mention the fact that she's so head-over-heels in love for some guy who may or may not be a deadly killing machine (I know, it's SO romantic, right?) who she has NEVER spoken to and yet feels this deep connection ...


Words are failing me here, because it's late and my mind is foggy, but all I can say is: I don't understand. I only know they have a connection because the Boy and Girl keep SAYING it. But it's too sudden! Too consuming. Way too unbelievable, and it completely threw me off. I felt uncomfortable the more I read about it. It is so clearly a teenage infatuation, even though it's presented as True Love.


Should note: this may be me reading a little too deeply into what is essentially a romance. The whole point of the book is for them to get together. I shouldn't let it bother me that it happens quicker rather than later. BUT. They are teens. Plus, the Girl is a wimp and only exists to fall in love with the Boy. This annoys me even though, as I said, their falling in love is the Point of the story. At least the Boy has stuff to do other than the Girl.


Verdict? There are better teen romances out there. Saving Francesca, for one. It doesn't have werewolves, but it's just better in every way. Perhaps some day I'll write a review on it. Au revoir, my pretties.

Once upon a time ...

In Year 12, two years ago now, I wrote a story for my teacher on crime fiction. To this day, that unit remains in my memory as the most beloved of all my subjects. Amazing books, amazing genre, amazing teacher. I have never had more fun. Anyway, he had asked us to each write a crime story based upon one quote by TS Eliot: "Dare I disturb the universe?" This was mine.

The first time Leah Watson attempted to kill Sylvester Holmes was after Terry’s party. She sat in the driver’s seat sideways, back against the door, and watched him. His head was thrown back over the shoulder of the seat, cropped blonde hair gleaming in the streetlight. His mouth hung open, and he snored. Not gently, either.

Leah wondered to herself if the car would still smell of vomit in the morning. It wasn’t like she could air it out, what with this being that sort of neighbourhood. Sylvester emitted a small groan, his arm flopping into his lap. Leah winced at the splat sort of sound it made, and fumbled for the doorhandle.

It was utterly, absolutely typical of the bastard. Always making her do the dirty work. They were meant to be partners. She researched his poisons, his cause-of-death, hung around after him making reports while he coughed up murderers like bullets from a machine gun, and at the end of the day she had to clean up his vomit and bring him hangover tablets, too.

As she opened the car door, the hot humid air hit her like a brick wall. Leah hesitated, glanced at the flashing air-con sign, and then at Sylvester.  He snored helpfully.

Hatred welled. Leah only paused for a moment. Then she leaned over, turned the air conditioning off, rolled up the windows, and slid out. The car doors locked. The sound was almost like a gun-shot in the hot, still air. She exhaled heavily, stared at the sleeping blonde in the passenger seat, and then turned and walked up the hill to her house.

But it was only half an hour later when he stumbled in after her, demanding his keys, rubbing his eyes blearily and growling at her for not waking him up. Leah could only mumble “sorry”, unspeakably relieved that he hadn’t slept through the night.

She tried to forget that little voice in the corner of her mind that had screamed in rage when he’d walked through the door.

The second time Leah tried to kill Sylvester was during a follow-that-car routine. She swerved through the rough wilderness outside a little town in the middle of nowhere, trying to keep an eye on the silver car ahead.

Sylvester hung on tightly to the handle above the window and yelled at her above the sound of cracking branches and flying dirt. “I thought there was something funny about him the second I saw him at the funeral. He kept avoiding questions about his wife’s death – I know it’s not a topic any mourner would like to talk about, but the way he did it seemed so strange. Like he was on the spot, you know. And then that photo at the café ... well, it was obvious.”

“Yeah,” agreed Leah, who hadn’t seen it coming at all, and thought that the widower’s grief was the most unfeigned she’d ever seen. Pretentious bastard, Holmes.

“Watch it!” Sylvester shouted as they swerved too close to a tree trunk. The silver car flashed out of sight up ahead. “We’re losing him! Drive faster!”

Leah pressed down on the accelerator, gritting her teeth, and fixed her eyes unblinkingly out the windshield. The trees blurred past, not enough time for her to move, and barely enough room to manoeuvre. The silver car appeared again, closer than before and getting steadily closer. Sylvester pressed as far back as he could into the seat and shouted.

“Slow down, slow down! You’re going to kill us!”

The “plan” flashed across her mind in a split second. Catch the criminal. Kill Sylvester. Would she still be able to claim the insurance if she crashed the car? Going too fast – on his orders, too – no one could say it was anything more than a tragic accident.

She floored the pedal.

And both cars burst onto a gravel road. No, not road. Driveway.

There was a brief moment of sound. Leah was aware that she was screaming, and that beside her Sylvester screamed too. The car fishtailed.

Leah slammed on the brakes and hauled on the steering wheel, ignoring Sylvester’s screeched “Don’t break and swerve don’t break and swerve don’t break and swerve!”

For a moment, she wasn’t aware of much besides the fact that the view out the windshield was bouncing around an awful lot and that the car wasn’t slowing down fast enough and that she had burrowed so far back into her seat that her shoulder blades must be sticking out the other side –

The car power-slid along the gravel with a horrible squealing sound to block the width of the road ... and stopped. For a moment, they both sat frozen, breathing heavily, trembling.

Then Sylvester twisted around. “Where did he go?” he demanded in a shaky voice.

Leah stared into the rear-view mirror and felt a sickening heavy weight at the base of her stomach. Sylvester was very quiet besides her. They both stared in different directions at the silver car wrapped around the tree.

Finally, Sylvester pulled a phone out from his coat pocket and began dialling. Leah said nothing as he spoke quietly, feeling a horrifyingly disappointed sensation.

Killed the criminal. Not Sylvester.

The third time, Leah Watson crept into his house with his spare key, stood at the foot of his bed, and watched him sleep. She barely breathed, anxious for him not to wake up.

He lay with his arm flung over the edge of the bed, and his head off the side of the pillow. On the bedside table was a glass of lemonade that she knew he drank when he woke every night at 3 in the morning without fail, from yet another bad dream. In the kitchen, she was sure, was a serrated knife.

She could go down now, grab it and slit his throat. Or she could get the bottle of dissolvable sleeping pills from the bathroom cabinet. It would be dark, he never turned on the light – even if he drank and recognised a strange taste, it would be too late. Then again, if she didn’t want to wait, the pillow was right there. It would be so easy to smother him – sit on his hips with her knees pinning his arms down and wait until he stopped struggling.

Three ways. She should have thought this out better. But then, she’d never really thought she would actually go through with premeditated murder.

Quietly, she padded out of the room and into the tiled bathroom, sliding open the cabinet mirror as slowly as possible. The sleeping pills were right there. Too easy. She slipped back into the bedroom and unscrewed the cap.

One, two, three, four, five ... she watched them fizz in the glass of lemonade and wondered if she should add another couple just to make sure. Was it pushing it? Even half-asleep, Sylvester would recognise an off taste. She held the glass uncertainly and glanced towards him.

Eyes open, he gazed back.

China Mieville Signing - Kinokuniya, Sydney

My very first journalism assignment coincided with my very first book signing - ever. I had chosen to cover China Mieville, renowned author of great intelligence and somewhat lesser fame.

I shall begin by saying I was dying of nerves on the way up - I spent the train ride there trying to calm myself down with deep breathing and all. My brothers and I were running a li-i-itle late, and I really needed to ask Mieville if I could film him (don't know if anyone's tried transcribing speeches by hand, but it totally sucks.) Unfortunately, we charged into Kinokuniya right on time, aa Mr Mieville was making his way to the author's table. We crept into the corner and my eye wandered over the crowd while we waited for him to start.

I noticed one thing straight away. There were literally three other young people in the room. Everyone was in their thirties or older, a sharp distinction from the three of us who are (I say this cautiously) all firmly below the twenty-year mark. These fine people were also mainly goths and salt-and-pepper-haired hipsters (aka literature professors). I suspect it was more embarrassing for my younger brother, who's barely into his double digits. As such, Mieville stood there answering questions, all of which I'd seen in one form or another on the interwebs. No one had anything too new to ask, except for one guy who made rather clever connections between Mieville's novels (concerning the way uniforms in his novels make various points.)

As all this was going on, I was leaning against a book table trying desperately to write everything down. I didn't want to risk taking my camera out in case Mieville was really really against being filmed and put on the internet (very understandable); which meant my hand was utterly cramped by the time he finished speaking. I'm just glancing over the notes I made now and they look like total gibberish; I'm not sure I'll even be able to read them let alone sort out proper sentences for my article.

The only thing I didn't like about the evening was the fact that, basically, everyone had something totally clever to say about Mieville's books. I know, a weird thing to get under my skin. But I was a bit depressed by the way all the questions were trying to outsmart each other; I wanted someone to fangirl with! Sort of inappropriate, I guess - Mieville doesn't seem like the type to inspire rabid fandom, but dammit that's what I came there for! Or at least to listen to Mieville talk about what he liked, instead of answering the millionth question on how his politics impacted upon his novels.

He wrapped up neatly, directed everyone into a line. We were given little post-its to write our names on, and we stuck them where we wanted him to sign. He was very polite and lovely, allowed me to take his picture (although it wasn't a very good one, because I didn't want to keep him waiting while I took a shot), listened with amusement as I told him I wrote an assignment on his Bas-Lag novels and was writing about his talk for my journalism class, then wrote that he was honoured to have been in my work in the first page of Kraken. I was very pleased - as we rode home, I alternated between actually reading Kraken and grinning stupidly at his signature.

My brothers and I made a pretty picture on the train - think identical faces, all totally absorbed in their respective Mieville books, slumped sideways in the seat on the carriage. I'm utterly looking forward to my next author signing! ... but perhaps not so much my journalism assignment. How do you write a news story on a q&a session? Sigh.

Best first sentences: Moxyland - Lauren Beukes

Today, we're continuing on ye olde Underground Tradition! Yes, it's Best First Sentences time again - a tradition which has thus far appeared on the blog a grand total of ... once. Hurrah!

I've been catching up on my Unread Pile Of Doom lately, and after the third or so terrible urban fantasy novel, I was just about ready to give up. I needed a bit of a kick to get me back into my reading streak, and it came from a highly-regarded novel around the sff blogosphere ... Moxyland, by Lauren Beukes. The blurb didn't offer too much info and the review snippets on the inside made it sound like Trainspotting mixed with - bizzarely - Neal Stephenson (I assume that's because any good sci-fi has to be compared to either Philip K. Dick or Neal Stephenson, right?)

But then I read the first line. Now that's a hook and a half.

"It's nothing."

The rest of the paragraph is just as intriguing, a neurotic stream-of-consciousness that's reassuring itself about some unspecified injection. It was so eerily similar to what I think whenever I go for my shots that I was captivated at once. The brevity of it works brilliantly, and the anxiety is palpable. It's a perfect feel for the rest of the novel, which barrages you constantly with high-strung characters and wild plottage of the type that I like best: conspiracy. Beautiful.
 

Plus, that cover art's a doozy. 


I hear Ms Beukes has another novel coming out in September, called Zoo City. I, for one, am so there and will undoubtedly be reviewing it when it comes out. In the meantime, go buy Moxyland. 

It will melt your brain. In a good way. Maybe.

Lonely Werewolf Girl - Martin Millar

Lonely Werewolf Girl - Martin Millar 

As teenage werewolf Kalix MacRinnalch is pursued through the streets of London by murderous hunters, her sister, the Werewolf Enchantress, is busy designing clothes for the Fire Queen. Meanwhile, in the Scottish Highlands, the MacRinnalch Clan is plotting and feuding after the head of the clan suddenly dies intestate.

As court intrigue threatens to explode in all-out civil war, the competing factions determine that Kalix is the swing vote necessary to assume leadership of the clan. Unfortunately, Kalix isn’t really into clan politics – laudanum’s more her thing. But what’s even more unfortunate is that Kalix is the reason the head of the clan ended up dead, which is why she’s now on the run in London ...

The game is up. I have to confess it. I ... find Martin Millar’s books hard to read. Only for the first fifth or so, don’t have a heart attack yet! His pace is frenetic, his satire is biting and he has this thing where he sort of lovingly destroys his characters with every sentence. For the first few chapters, I find myself continually jerked out of the ‘reading experience’ – that state of mind whereby you are so immersed in a novel that not even the call of nature will drag you from its pages – because I’m so aware of what he’s doing that I just can’t give in to his writing.

I can’t quite tell if, by the tenth chapter I am completely immersed because Millar’s had mercy and relented a little with his satire, or if I’ve just gotten used to his style. Nevertheless, by this time - while I’m still snorting with laughter into my pillow every three seconds - I couldn’t tear myself away if I tried.

Firstly, let’s examine characterisation. I must admit, it’s difficult to discuss characters who are clearly not meant to be taken seriously. Kalix, the titular “lonely werewolf girl”, for example, is the werewolf equivalent of a teenage anorexic emo junkie. As a parody of these things, she works – her many failings make her comedic gold. But Millar never lets her become a laughing-stock. At some points her failure is funny, at others it is sympathetic and very occasionally, you are allowed to think, “if she were my sister I’d probably want to kill her too”. But she develops far beyond any of these roles, becoming a rather bittersweet instead of satiric character. I liked very much that Millar neither condemned nor commended her behaviour.When you are meant to laugh at Kalix, it’s not as a result of ‘superior comedy’ (You know: We ‘normal people’ laugh at the stupidity of your anorexia!) 

I must admit, before I finish up on characters, that as memorable characters go, Kalix doesn’t hold a candle to the Fire Queen Malveria. Unfortunately (or, well, fortunately), the joys of reading Queen Malveria must be experienced firsthand! I couldn’t bring myself to sully Millar’s fine prose by quoting out of context. Not to mention Daniel, an utterly average guy who shines amidst all the wild and wacky characters. I loved how Millar bounced all their eccentricities off him. By the end of the novel, Daniel had transcended his mediocrity to become one of the novel’s high points, odd as it is to adore a character whose average-ness was the whole point of his being. I’m a sucker for every-guy in fiction.

As plots go, this one was ... er, hectic. The blurb above is the tip of the iceberg really. With a supporting cast of over thirty characters, most with their own stories to tell alongside Kalix’s, not to mention the 500+ pages, you can imagine how exciting the storyline can get. Again, what struck me was the way Millar handled such a busy plot so simply. I never felt out of the loop. Not to mention, the characters are all so distinct that you never forget which is which (something I tend to do quite often, I’m ashamed to say). Both of these factors might result from Millar’s somewhat unique structure: most chapters are about two to five pages long. Millar never separates you from any storyline – no matter how small – long enough for you to forget what’s going on. Apart from Ken Scholes, I can’t think of any other author at the moment who feels comfortable switching perspectives so quickly, and I very much like it.

The only issue I really have with the novel is that Millar, while satirising paranormal teen fiction, doesn’t really do anything new with it. Yes, he makes all his characters aggressive and Scottish – but he pulled out that trick for The Good Fairies of New York too, and it hasn’t changed much at all. While this book absolutely shines in its YA context, I can’t say it’s his best work at all. Lest you think I’m putting it down however, let me just say that I do think that as a longer novel, it’s far more polished than his shorter books. If you’re not new to Mr Millar’s stuff, it will lack that gleam of originality so present in his other works. It is still a thoroughly good trip.

Conclusion: Millar’s latest novel is addictive. Fast-paced, sly, blackly hilarious and never boring, it will entertain you for hours. Trust me on this – you’ll be laughing. If your reading has been saturated with the undead for the past few years, Lonely Werewolf Girl will be a breath of fresh air. I for one am eagerly awaiting the sequel. And just a note to Mr Millar – more Moonglow and Daniel, please!