I make it no secret how much I adore Jacqueline Carey and her Kushiel books. I have read every novel set in that universe. There have been 7 books to date.
Carey writes with lush, descriptive (but not overwrought) prose, develops a killer fantasy world that is both heartbreakingly realistic and a place to which I want to escape, portrays wonderfully nuanced and sexy relationships between all her characters, and has created my favourite feminist heroine of all time: Phèdre nò Delaunay, a kinky, bisexual, sexually masochistic courtesan-cum-spy.
Yep.
NAAMAH’S CURSE is her latest book (available for pre-order), the second in Moirin’s trilogy, the first being NAAMAH’S KISS. And right on the heels of my race-in-fiction week: LOOK AT THE COVER.
As it’s Banned Books Week, I’ve been doing a bit of musing about the subject in the past few days. I just finished John Green‘s most excellent PAPER TOWNS (review to follow soon), which I believe was challenged somewhere in this country, although for what conceivable reason I have no idea.
Verboten.
I grew up in a household which banned books. My parents are well-intentioned, lovely people who tried to instill in me a love of reading from an early age. Mum and Dad are not readers themselves, but nevertheless did their best by me. Our nightly routine included Mum bedding me down and Dad reading out loud to me until it was time to switch on the nightlights.
Unfortunately, because my parents are not readers, they didn’t necessarily care to review the books they perfunctorily forbade me to read. For instance, THE BABYSITTERS’ CLUB was proscribed in our house. Why? I have no idea. My mother insisted the books were “trashy”. (She’s never read one in her life.) I had to sneak home a few from the school library. I don’t know what she meant by “trashy”, but I suspect it has something to do with literary quality vs. book quantity. I mean, it doesn’t get more wholesome than THE BABYSITTERS’ CLUB!
The rest of the morning was spent introducing my roommate to the awesome that are the VlogBrothers, John and Hank Green. This, of course, prompted me to watch some of my favourite Brotherhood 2.0 videos when I stumbled across one of John’s videos about THE CATCHER IN THE RYE by J.D. Salinger.
In response to the comment/criticism that Holden Caulfield, the narrator of THE CATCHER IN THE RYE, is unlikeable, I regret to inform you that you are also unlikeable.
So am I.
There’s this weird, but pervasive feeling in the world of contemporary coming-of-age fiction that characters ought to be either the person you want to be or the person you want to be with. [...]
[Holden Caulfield] is the guy you secretly know yourself to be.
A few weeks ago, Sarah Rees Brennan wrote a great essay called “Ladies, Please (Carry On Being Awesome)” about (specifically female) response to female characters in fiction. She later followed up on Twitter asking about character identification and whether it was necessary to enjoy a book.
There is not enough coffee in the world to keep me awake. Serves me right for staying up until 2am rereading HOWL’S MOVING CASTLE and finishing Sarah MacLean‘s THE SEASON. (Review for the latter coming soon, I promise, as well as some thoughts about skydiving relative work.)
But good writing is better than coffee. In other, extremely happy news, Sarah Rees Brennan has uploaded the second part of her short story Sorcerer & Stone as thanks to her readers. I linked to the first part here, talking about how serial fiction can make for a bigger and more ardent fanbase.
Now, go read! If I haven’t convinced you of her awesome yet, then perhaps her words will.
A line from the second part of the story:
There was power building warm and sweet at the centre of his chest, at the focus of his mark. It felt like love.
Go, go, go! And if you haven’t yet, buy THE DEMON’S LEXICON! Then maybe she will write more serial stories.
Uncreated Conscience is JJ's blog, in which she rambles about the toils and tribulations of writing her first novel, why CSS eats her brain, or how skydiving takes all of her money.
And when she's done with that, she's reviewing books and looking for fiction to publish for postadolescent "new adults".
Moot Point
[The Libertines] sang and were informed by a Britain that had disappeared, a land of high poetry and low comedy, of William Blake and On The Buses Blakely; of the Hellfire Club and Hancock; of learning and excess; literature and The Likely Lads. This was a band, after all, whose acceptance speech at a rock awards ceremony was Peter and Carl’s tender call-and-response reading of Siegfried Sassoon’s World War I poem ‘Suicide In The Trenches’.
