Book Rec: Gideon the Ninth

Today I'm recc'ing a book that I pre-ordered the moment it was available to do so, and just finished reading this morning. The cover is killer - couldn't resist the pun, sorry - and, having read the author's writing before, I was more than willing to embark upon any literary journey on which she'd chosen to take her audience. I went into the novel without having ready any reviews, only the jacket copy, and without a clue what to expect - beyond the author's unique, big-hearted, delightful prose. I'm happy to report that the book became an instant favorite of the year. 

Gideon the Ninth introduces central protagonist Gideon Nav, a cynical, irreverent, crassly funny swordswoman hell bent on escaping her current planet - the Ninth. Her plan goes disastrously wrong, and she's instead roped into becoming the cavalier of the Ninth's Reverend Daughter, Harrow, on an off-world mission to the First, where Harrow - a necromancer - will be put through a series of trials along with necromancers from all the other "houses" (Second through Eighth) to test their ability to become Lyctors for the mysterious Emperor. What unfolds is a wildly original, imaginative adventure full of bones, blood, mystery, and absolute horror, all while Gideon and Harrow struggle - most of the time unwillingly - to better understand one another, and all told through Gideon's quippy viewpoint. 

That's my basic breakdown. The thing I loved most about this book is the fact that it ferociously resists being stowed neatly away in a particular genre. I scanned some of its reviews today, and it's being called sci-fi, fantasy, space opera, horror, whodunnit, thriller, and the truth is that it's all of these without being mostly any of these things; it's very much its own thing, with imagery that pulls from creaky old gothic mansions, to Dr. Frankenstein's lab, to the underlit steam grates and tunnels of Alien. This reads like a book written by someone who loves all kinds of fiction, who's consumed it from every genre, and has unleashed all the elements she loves best on a multi-layered story as spooky, detailed, and precise as it is gorily in-your-face and horrifying. This book is a wild, original, full-throated cry of "I do what I want," and that's exactly what makes it so unputdownable. I was riveted, beginning to end, and left breathing a silent "wow" when I shut it. 

Enter the novel knowing that: It's the first in a trilogy, so there's lots of world-building, and, though there is closure at the end, there are still plenty of purposeful loose ends left dangling, questions that will be answered in the next two books. It does get bloody, so it's perhaps not the best read for anyone who's very squeamish. If you can't/won't read my Sons of Rome series, this is definitely not the book for you. 

I for one am thrilled to see this kind of book getting published traditionally, and getting some traction in the market. Richly-drawn, detailed, hard-to-categorize fantasy being put out in the world does my writer heart good - and gives me wonderful books to read, besides. 

Re-Read

I have, admittedly, had a shitty summer. I'm sure there are those who've had worse summers, and to them I extend my true sympathies - and feel no small amount of shame for feeling sad for my own shitty summer. But. It is what it is. Grief is funny. It recedes for long moments, and allows you to be perfectly normal and ordinary; and then it comes surging back, like a wave, seemingly without provocation, and knocks your feet out from under you. Leaves you stunned and stupid, thinking, "He's dead," and you just...grasp, mentally, for a moment. And you try very hard not to think about the scar in the soil of the paddock behind the barn, though you see it every day, and you try even harder not to think about what's happening beneath that soil. 

It's been a shitty summer. But. Life goes on. Responsibility and work go on, and we just press along no matter what life throws at us, the best we can. I've made ugly decisions before, and I will again...but, there are moments, there are days, when those decisions drag at you. When you need a deep breath, and maybe a hug, when it just...hurts. 

I've gotten off topic. Because the point I wanted to make with this post was this: we all have our dark moments, and, sometimes, in those moments, we soothe ourselves with fiction. 

In the last two months, I've sought a bit of peace in re-watching two of my favorite shows, both of which I've recc'd here on the blog: Yuri on Ice, and Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood. Both of which make me cry like a baby, so that's a rather stupid decision. But they're comforting, too. They're good, and they make me feel creative, and artistically whole. YOI I tackled in a day, last month. But FMA is a much longer show, and so I started it, and have been working my way slowly through it an episode or two at a time. 

Early this morning, when I couldn't sleep, I watched the end of Season 2, Episode 13, which is the ep which, at the end - spoiler alert - Ed encounters Al's body inside the Portal of Truth, and: cue waterworks. Artistically, I love every time an episode ends with a bleed-over of the end credits music - the music in this show is amazing. But also, on a character level, this ending is a doozy. One of those smack-you-in-the-face moments you aren't expecting, that make you tear up. 

I've been thinking, as I re-watch favorite shows, and re-read favorite books (I'm on a Vampire Chronicles re-read, currently) about the ways a second viewing/reading cuts so much closer than a first. The ways we see new things, and have old things reinforced in even more meaningful ways. The first time you watch or read something, you're mostly along for the ride. And you feel things - God knows I cried like a baby when I reached the end of FMA for the first time. What a perfect freaking ending to a story. But in my re-watch, I already know how I feel about all the characters, I'm already sold, I'm already attached. And on my re-watch/re-read, I'm looking at all the details. I'm putting myself in the moment and trusting in a way I couldn't as a first-time watcher. 

I won't lie and pretend that part of my reason for posting this isn't to double-recommend Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood to you, if you haven't watched it. It's off Amazon, but it's still on Netflix, so I can't encourage you enough to go watch it. It's become my favorite show of all time, and, as a late-comer to it, I can't express how much I wish I'd known about it sooner. 

My other angle is this: I wanted to thank everyone who's commented/messaged recently to tell me they've been re-reading my books. I can't think of a better compliment. Because, readers being excited about new books, and hyping an author as a celeb gets lots of immediate attention. I mean, all authors want that, don't they? But when someone tells me they're re-reading...then I know that I've provided thoughtfulness and comfort to that reader. I know that my books have been a bright spot. And when that's the case, I can't express my gratitude. I can only hope I continue to write the sorts of books that beg a re-read. That are a comfort, a distraction, a balm. 

Fiction is an escape, and I thank you for allowing me to, at moments, provide that. 

I'm leaving a link, right here, for the FMA scene I'm talking about. If you have TV time, I hope you'll consider it for your rotation. And I thank you, whole-heartedly, for giving me the chance to entertain/comfort/distract you. I know how important that can be. 

#TeaserTuesday 9/3: The Tsarevich

Extra long teaser today! 

Golden Eagle © copyright 2019 by Lauren Gilley

Alexei and his father, Tsar Nicholas 

When they finally came up for air, the angle of the sun had changed, and the women, and their clothes, were gone. One had left a Post-It note stuck to the fridge, a pair of phone numbers with a little smiley face in the corner. Dante flicked it with a fingertip before he opened the freezer in search of ice. 

an individual activity

There's something I've been thinking about a lot lately, and yesterday evening I realized I wanted to blog about it. I was thinking about the way - despite them being mass-produced, and often marketed as possessing "something for everyone" - books are art pieces created by individuals for individuals. Authors came from all backgrounds, from all nations and religions and communities, and so do readers. 

Duh, you're thinking. And yes, but...

I was rearranging some books on my shelf last night and, on a whim, pulled out Interview With the Vampire - as I'm wont to do on occasion - and stared dreamily at the cover a moment, remembering the way it felt to read that novel for the first time, and wanting to re-read it - as I'm also wont to do. But this time I opened the cover, and I did start reading, and whether I'll re-read the entire series, I'm not yet sure, but I felt instantly warm and comforted within just the first few pages. 

Reading is still largely an individual activity. Book clubs make it social; Goodreads makes it even more social, and provides an avenue for things to go viral, besides. But when you're reading, it's you and the words on the page, alone. No: it's you and the author on the page. It's your brain conversing with the author's brain, and how closely the two of you view the world is going to impact your enjoyment of the novel. When you read, you're looking at the typed-out insides of another human's imagination; at all the wild and dark little corners they probably don't show to friends and family. The wonderful weirdness that lives inside their heads. Readers ask "Which character is most like you?" And even if an author hasn't done an intentional self-insert, she's still been the voice of the murderer, of the monster, of the wicked, manipulative, clever person you've just spent 400 pages with. 

Our love of books is tiered. We don't love every book in the same way. Sometimes we love a book because of its perfectly-paced plot; for the gorgeousness of its prose; for a character we root for tirelessly. I hate the phrase that I see over and over in book reviews: this book wasn't perfect. Of course it wasn't; it was written by a human being, and humans are imperfect. I roll my eyes when a reviewer says, Well, I would have... Because the author wasn't trying to write a book for BKLVR32. The author was writing the truest, most honest and heartfelt version of what she herself imagined. For a mind like her own, out there in the ether; hoping a stranger would pick up the book and find exactly what she needed in it. Of course others would have done it differently; that's the magic of books: you're getting one person's take on an idea. Other takes exist, and you might like them better, but that's because you as a reader gel with that other author's voice. It doesn't mean the other takes are bad. 

Sometimes you don't care for a book because you and the author aren't on the same wavelength, and that's okay. 

I love vampires as a concept. I always have. I adore Anne Rice's take on them - it's lush, it's full of adverbs, her characters are dramatic, and every single thing about her prose and storytelling tickles my brain in a wonderful way. 

I read Twilight, and it wasn't my thing - but guess what. I get so tired of seeing people bash Stephenie Meyer. Leave her the heck alone. She wrote her own take on vampires, and it really worked for a lot of people. I'm an Anne Rice-vampire kind of girl. An Underworld and Dracula girl. But that's a comment on my personal tastes, and not a slam on others'. I really wish we didn't live in a society that needed to pick "the competition" apart in order to justify what we ourselves enjoy. Because that's just insecurity talking. "I feel self-conscious about loving this thing that's weird, so I need to destroy every other iteration of this thing in order to make myself seem more legitimate."

The thing is: I love books. I love fast-paced thrillers, and slow, ponderously-moving epics. I derive incredible joy from the language of a novel. I love an author who is witty, and clever, and well-versed. I love deep dives into a character's psyche. I love flashbacks, and seemingly-tedious moments of introspection. 

Poorly written books exist, sure. I can usually tell within the first 500 words of a novel if I can hang with an author's prose stylings. But I'll never Instagram a book that I haven't enjoyed in several capacities. And I hate this notion that there's a singular, unified standard of what constitutes good writing. That authors like me have to adhere to what has come before. That the money counts more than the art...

I know it does. To other people. People would celebrate anything if it sold enough copies. 

But I reject that idea. I reject the idea of "perfection." Writing is an art, and you won't always jive with an individual's art...but that doesn't mean it's "bad" art. It doesn't mean it won't be someone else's favorite. 

I suppose I just have the absolute hopeless wish that the creative world of fiction-writing was kinder.