Lorina Stephens's Blog, page 19

Review: The Inheritance Trilogy, by N.K. Jemisin

The Inheritance Trilogy by N.K. Jemisin

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

It would appear there is a new star in the celestial body of my favourite authors, and that is N.K. Jemisin.

Having been impressed with her Broken Earth trilogy, I was curious about her other works, and delved into The Inheritance Trilogy. I am very glad I did. Here is a fantasy unlike any other.

Jemisin, who has now received three Hugo Awards, three years in a row, the first author to have captured that trifecta, amid jeers from many male counterparts (which is another whole story in which I repeatedly mutter WTF?! in her defense), has crafted a world in which gods and demigods walk among mortals of questionable morals and intentions.

Her world-building is rich and dense with detail. Her characters are utterly believable. The pacing sings with tension. Her prose is delicious. You will be swept away into a tale which, like any good story, rises beyond genre to become stunning literature. There is allegory here. There is escapism.

I read the omnibus edition, which includes The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms, The Broken Kingdoms, The Kingdom of Gods, and The Awakened Kingdom.

In the first novel, Jemisin introduces her readers to a world in which a morally bankrupt ruling family are about to determine their successor. The story is filled with the betrayal of sacred trusts, of the powerful rendered powerless, of the enslavement of gods, of love, bitterness and vengeance at any cost.

The second continues to explore these themes, now in a world in which demigods are hunted for the extraordinary qualities of their blood, all in the hope of an apotheosis of select members of that depraved ruling family who attempt to recoup and strengthen their power. Heroes arise in the most unlikely of characters, in the most unlikely of places.

In the third novel there is an unlikely and tempestuous cooperation between the last scions of the ruling family and a god who takes the form of a child, but a clever, trickster and mercurial child who has lost all his power because of an act of love, all in an attempt to prevent the devolution of existence into chaos.

The delight of the omnibus edition is Shades in Shadow, in which Jemisin explores the birth of a god, and weaves a first-person, stream-of-consciousness breathless narrative which brings the entire series to a sated, perfect conclusion.

Highly recommended.

View all my reviews

The health side of writing

It is no secret I’m obese. Have been most of my life but for a few years between the ages of 14-23.

Yes, yes, I know many of you will say TESTIFY, or IF YOU’D ONLY WATCH WHAT YOU PUT IN YOUR MOUTH, or, YOU SHOULD EXERCISE. And it will do no good for me to say I’ve done all of that. Over and over. It is the sad litany of so many of us who battle bodies that just want to be fat, in a society which renders us ugly, unacceptable, lazy liars.

Having said all that, two years ago I said to myself: I DON’T WANT TO BE LIKE THIS ANYMORE. Now, anyone who knows me well, also knows when those words come out of my mouth, that means a grim determination has spawned. I’ve done that sort of thing over and over in my life, whether it was dealing with a toxic relationship with my mother, or refusing to give in to depression, or any number of things. So, in April 2016, just months before my son and his amazing and now wife were to be married, I put myself on a diet and a journey to become a thinner, hopefully healthier, me.

September 2016

I’d never indulged much in junk food. Just wasn’t in my lifestyle, because I love to cook, and love fresh, natural ingredients. So that wasn’t a problem. Portion control was brought in to play, and the old standby of calorie counting. At that point I couldn’t really look at much in the way of exercise, beyond some chair yoga, because of debilitating arthritis. However, I decided the hell with what the alleged experts had to say, and I cut my intake to 1500 calories per day. Now, you just try that out for a few weeks and see how you fare. It’s hard. Especially when you’re trying to keep a balanced diet. But I did it. And as of November 2017 I lost 65 pounds.

Then came the expected plateau. And since then I’ve only lost three additional pounds, despite cutting those calories back further to 1200 per day, and implementing a gentle cycling regimen of 20 minutes per day. That latter came about as a result of being accepted to have two knee replacements in April 2019, and setting about some pre-habilitation so that surgery will be successful. The cycling hurts like hell. My knees are shot. My surgeon asked me why I’d waited so long to see him, to which I replied I’d been told I wasn’t eligible for knee replacements because of my weight. His response? Nonsense.

So, determined once again to overcome adversity, I’m pedaling away on my wee cycling machine, and now doing gentle walking laps the length of the house (which is 40′). Those laps usually result in 800′ per day. That likely doesn’t seem much to you. But to me it’s the equivalent of having walked a marathon, because, again, THAT HURTS LIKE HELL!

Has the weight again started to come off? No. But I don’t care. I’m doing my best, and eventually something has to give. And it won’t be me.

June 2018

Now, all of that likely sounds very grim and depressing and futile. It’s not. There’s another effect of all this dieting and gentle exercise: I’m proud of myself. I’ve taken charge and am doing something positive to affect a positive change. And that resulted in a vain, but happy surprise today. Last year I purchased a lovely rayon shirt dress. I knew when I ordered it online it likely wouldn’t fit properly, given my shape which very much resembles a pear. The dress did fit, but was snug through the tummy and hips. Did I return that dress? No. I hung it in the closet, knowing full well my journey would eventually take me to a place that dress would fit well. And this morning, in a burst of hopefulness, I put that dress on. And it did fit. Much better than last year, despite only having shed a modicum of weight since the purchase. It’s still just a wee bit snug, but not like it was, and is perfectly acceptable. And I’m happily hobbling about today sporting my new dress. I’ve gone from a size 32 to a 24.

So vain. But it also feels so good.

What does any of that have to do with writing? Damned if I know. But I also know eventually this experience will work its way into something I write, because all of life informs what we do creatively. It is the journey. It’s not the destination.

Civil Liberties

For your reading pleasure, a short story I penned a little while ago I thought I’d share here, just for you.
Civil Liberties

The first time I ask Mom for my own neural link she says, “No, son. Isn’t gonna happen.”

“But, Mom, it’s not like – ”

“Dulal, not open for discussion.”

I thought she’d at least ask me why. I watch her for a bit. I feel weird. I want her to listen, but I don’t want to make her mad. I decide I better wait awhile.

Two weeks later, I’m sitting at the table, eating chapatis and bhindi bhaji, and try again. “Please, Mom, I would like my own neural link. Everyone at school has their own.”

“Everyone at school is rather encompassing.”

“Well, lots of kids do.”

“You’re not lots of kids. No, I’m sorry.”

“But –”

“I said no.”

What does she mean by you’re not lots of kids. That she sees me the way – well, that stings. Even though I’m supposed to be a big all-fired secret, the whole station knows what I am. Friggin Pinocchio. Adopted son of a geneticist. Nanoman.

“I’ve got a treat for you,” she says.

“Oh?” I refuse to look at her cause I don’t want her to see I’m hurt. I can hear the clatter of dishes as she loads them into the sanitizer. I scoop up the last mouthful of bhindi and put my plate in the rack. There’s a sunset glow from the holo over the sink. A bluejay zooms onto the branch of the pine. It makes this noise, sort of a fluting sound. I wonder why Mom always has the same half dozen Muskoka scenes.

“What’s the treat?” I finally ask.

“We have to go to the lab for it.”

I feel dinner go sour. “Not another test.”

She drapes her arm around me and squeezes. “No, Dulal, I promise. This is definitely a treat. Bit of a secret, but a treat.”

“Well, why do we have to go to the lab?”

She laughs. “You’ll see. C’mon, gloomy guts. You’re gonna love this.”

I tap in the cycle for the sanitizer, and follow her out.

Once in the corridor we cut through to the arboretum. I like it here, like the soft light, the smell of the pines. Off the path, a guy sits cross-legged on the ground, a hang drum cradled in his knees. It’s amazing watching his fingers dance over the shining metal. It sounds like bells. There’s a woman dancing with ribbon wands and I think of space dust caught on a solar wind. From there we swing off to the right and to the airlock.

“Damn,” Mom says. I look at her, cause I’ve been walking backwards, watching that guy, watching the ribbons and the green light of the trees. I wonder what’s up, and then turn around and see two miners approaching with a woman in a white helmet. “We’ll have to wait,” Mom says. “Must be a problem with the water extractors from Enceladus.” We retreat a few paces.

The outer airlock hisses shut with the trio inside. I watch their hands flap, try to figure out what they’re saying. They move through to the second stage.

“Ah, there, they’re through,” Mom says. “C’mon, our turn.”

We step into the airlock, wait for the signal to move to the next section and take the lift to the research ring.

“Do you miss it, Mom?” I ask, cause I’m still thinking about the guy with the hang drum, and the trees in the arboretum.

“Miss what?”

“You know. Earth. Ontario. The pines you always have on our holos.”

She looks down at me. Lights from the deck levels slide over her face, bright and dark, bright and dark. “What makes you ask that?”

“I dunno. I just thought that maybe you missed it cause you’re not from here.”

She frowns, thinking. “Yeah, sometimes. But the work I do here is so important.” She touches my cheek. “And you’re here. How could I miss Earth for long with you here?” I can feel my face get hot. I look away, out the thick window to the shimmering blue halo from the ice geysers of Enceladus. It doesn’t matter how many times I see that, it’s always amazing.

We take C Corridor when we dock instead of A to her office, each of us going through security checks. The first difference I notice is the walls of green plants, dripping with white flowers and small red fruit. Mom flings out her arms, pointing and grinning.

“Strawberries,” she announces.

I look at her, trying to figure out the big deal. So they’d made a wall of plants. Yeah, that’s a big deal, for sure, but she seems to think this is something I should get excited about. I shrug.

She laughs and picks one of the dangling berries. “Try this.”

“Eat it?”

“No. Play catch with it. Yes, eat it, silly.” She pops one in her mouth. She closes her eyes and sighs as she chews.

I take a nibble of the end of the fruit. Wow! Pop the whole thing in my mouth and chew. Wow! There’s all this sweet juice, and the taste is, well, indescribable!

She laughs again, watching me. “I know, eh? We had samples in suspension and decided they might be a safe thing for our self-sufficiency program.” She gestures to the long corridor of hanging green plants. “They’re easy to grow. We’ve hybridized them, obviously, so they’re self-pollinating, give a high yield, and can tolerate the light conditions here. And what’s even better is they don’t take up much room and can be grown in common spaces, increasing the biodiversity of the station, and the nutritional value of our diet.” She looks back at me. “Cool, huh?”

I have to admit it’s exciting. I pick another berry and chew away. Mom joins me. It’s the best dessert of my life.

A week later I’m studying World Politics at school, the section about civil liberties. And there, right on the tablet in front of me, I find something I can use. These philosophers likeThoreau and Paine, and Vanderkemp and Bhatnagar, are going on about freedom of expression and the rights of humans, and how access to information is freedom for the people. I look up at my classmates. Some of them are staring out into the classroom, like monks in meditation. I’m wondering what it’s like for them to be receiving this same information right into their brains, to be making physical notes with their thoughts. I look back down at the text on my tablet. Freedom of information. Freedom of expression. Civil liberties. I figure I can use that on Mom. But of course what I really want, besides my rights, is to be able to connect with this stuff. I mean really connect, to be the information.

So, that evening I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of our common room, trying to download research for an assignment. It’s taking forever. Mom is stretched out on the sofa, tablet propped on her chest. I figure now as good a time as any to hit her with another try. I take a big breath.

“You know, Mom, it’s an infringement of my civil liberties to deny me my own neural link.”

She arches a brow, doesn’t even look at me when she says, “Nice try. And how, exactly, have I infringed upon your civil liberties?”

“You’re denying me my personal freedom of expression and research,” I answer. “I have the right to pursue research uncensored, unmonitored.” That makes her look over at me. The tablet does a horizontal to her belly. In the background I can hear the music shuffle to classical guitar. “You talk about this sort of thing all the time in your work.”

“We can’t afford it.”

“I thought you wanted me to study hard, to learn, to explore,” I say softly, my head down. I think I’ve friggin’ hurt her feelings. Way to go.

“I do,” she says.

“Then we have to find a way.”

“How, Dulal? These things are expensive. And in case you hadn’t noticed I’m not a miner or an engineer connected to the mining facility. I’m just a genetic biologist.”

“Is it because of what I am?” There it is. Out in the air between us.

“You’re my son, Dulal.”

“And I’m a freak.”

That makes her sit up. “Says who?”

“Everyone knows I’m NanoMan.”

“NanoMan? Where did that come from?”

I can’t look at her. If I do I’m sure I’ll cry. “Doesn’t matter.”

She slides down off the sofa and pulls up my chin. I look at the oval of her face and think of an image I’ve seen of the goddess Indra. “You listen to me, Dulal,” she says, her voice not much more than a fierce whisper. “You may not have been created in my womb. But you were completely from biological sperm and my egg. You may have a nano-structure that assists your DNA. But you are all mine. You’re most definitely my son.”

“But the kids all say the reason I don’t have my own neural link is because I’m property, a research project for the station.”

Mom squeezes me tight then. She’s really upset I can tell. “You’re not property. You’re my son. My own flesh and blood. We none of us own each other. It was my choice, my decision, to have a child, to allow that child to have an advantage no one else has. What I gave you is a chance to live in space without all the problems the rest of us have: the bone loss, the circulatory problems. You understand?” I nod. She sighs. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix this,” she says. She gets up. I’m thinking she’s pissed and is going to call somebody, make a public fuss. All her movements are sharp and short. She’s keying something into her tablet, muttering the whole time about idiot bullies and ignorant plebs. I run the back of my hand across my eyes, mad that I’d cried, that I’ve made her upset.

My own tablet warbles then. I thumb the message and gawp, look over at Mom who has her own tears and a frown. I look back down at the message there. It’s a freaking huge sum of money she’s transferred to me. She hasn’t called anyone. She’s done this for me. For me!

“No kidding?” I say. “Wow, no kidding?” I look back to Mom. “But you said we couldn’t afford it.”

“That’s right.”

“But so where does this credit come from?”

“It’s our household budget for the next month.”

That puts me on full alert. “But what will we live off of?”

“I can manage to fudge things for about thirty days with most accounts. Food credits, though, are going to be difficult.”

“Food credits? But –”

“—How will we eat?”

I nod.

“Well, everything we have stocked will be allocated for you, because you’re under-age and if I don’t make sure you’re properly housed, clothed and fed, the station authorities could take you away from me.”

“They’d do that?”

“It’s part of what you called your civil liberties. Children must be cared for. You know very well it’s a big deal for families with children to be allowed to live on the station.”

“So this has nothing to do with Nanoman?”

“It has to do with my son.”

“But what about you?”

“Oh, I’ll manage. I can scrounge some stuff from the lab, eat lots of strawberries,” She flicks a smile. “And people are always leaving lunches in the lab fridge.”

“But that’s stealing!”

“It’s surviving. But you’ll have the link, and that’s more important. What concerns me is paying for our air allotment, because that I can’t juggle.”

“But we can’t survive without air!”

“I know.”

“But that means we’d have to live in public spaces!”

“I know.”

“But that’s illegal. The station doesn’t allow vagrants.”

“I know.”

“But we’d be homeless, Mom!”

“But you’d have your link, and I don’t want you to do without your civil liberties, Dulal. You know you mean everything to me, that I’d walk through fire for you. There are places we could hide out.”

“But they’d take me away from you! Like what happened to Jerry when his mom took that asteroid deployment.” And what rules there might be about me, because Mom had engineered me into a kid who would stand a better chance in space, I have no idea. I try very hard to keep a calm face, to breathe normally, and I want so much to go and hug Mom and hear her say this will all work out. Damn, this is hard!

Decision done. I thumb my tablet. Mom’s vibrates on the table. She picks it up.

“You cancelled the transfer?” she asks.

I nod and run to her. It’s perfectly okay for a guy to hug his mom when she’s upset. I say to her, “I don’t need my civil liberties at the expense of other people.”

She gulps at that and hugs me back, fiercely. But of course neither of us are crying. Not really.

We’re cooking again!

Either Friday or Saturday evening Gary and I plan a special evening: yummy food, music or a movie. This week my culinary adventures took me to Ontario organically raised lamb, and domestic salad. I give you:

Spicy Honey Lamb Chops, and Blueberry and Kale Salad
Spicy honey marinated lamb chops, along with kale and blueberry salad
the Lamb

4/person lamb loin chops

The Marinade (for service for two)

1/2 cup Ontario honey

3 cloves garlic, finely minced

1 teaspoon chili flakes (or fresh chili, finely minced)

1/4 cup lime juice, along with the zest if you’re using fresh

1/4 cup lime-infused olive oil

Combine all the ingredients for the marinade. Allow the lamb chops to soak in all that yummy goodness overnight in the fridge. Grill over charcoal barbecue to whatever level of pink you wish. Serve immediately.

The Salad

1 cup shredded kale per person

2 tablespoons chopped almonds per person

1/4 cup blueberries per person

1 scallion per person, finely sliced

The Vinaigrette

1 tablespoon cherry black balsamic vinegar

2 tablespoons lime-infused olive oil

freshly cracked black pepper

Prepare the salad. Combine ingredients for the vinaigrette, and toss with the salad.

 

Yes, yes, I know I never call you

It’s been a month and nothing but silence from me, I know, I know. But despite the fact I can talk to a crowd of hundreds and not bat an eye, in fact never shut up, creating blog posts is more intimate, like having a phone conversation, or curling up in comfortable chairs and chatting. I detest the phone. And in fact I detest having to talk. Out loud.

That’s what a blog post is: talking out loud, to just one person: YOU.

So, here I am, coffee to hand, three monitors lit up like some sort of command central, and I’m searching for a way to tell you about all my news, when really what I want to hear is all your news.

But I procrastinate.

What has filled the last month? Good the gods, where do I start?

Taking care of oneself

Looks like I’m getting new knees next spring. What does that have to do with writing? Pain. It has to do with the distraction of pain, to the point I cannot settle down to deep thought and weave an intelligent story. My surgeon says April for the left knee, wait two months, and then the right knee. So, let’s just spread the pain out, shall we? And then six months to recover. So, I figure by Christmas I should be ready to wreck havoc upon the world.

I get so restless sometimes, confined by physical inability. And I have to admit this waiting thing is more than a little distracting. But I’m behaving. Or as best I can. Still, I daydream about ripping wallpaper off the walls and finalizing the reclamation of this old stone house. I long to bend over in the garden, ass to the heavens, joyously weeding, planting, hoeing. Walking in the village—now that would be a joy, to go and fetch the mail from our village general store. Or even just to climb the hill of our property (it’s uphill everywhere, even when you’re uphill) without a careful, two-fisted cane thump up to a perching place.

Yep, the world better look out.

But what about writing?

I’ve been a complete idiot and sent off The Rose Guardian to an agent for consideration. Why? How the hell do I know? I’m perfectly capable of publishing this thing myself. Have done so with everything else I’ve written. So why kick that can again? I have no idea. Validation? Maybe. But probably not. Truly, I am at a loss as to why I’ve done such a ridiculous thing. And this process will likely result in the first three months awaiting a nod or no to the query. If it’s a nod, then it will be at least another three months for them to decide if they like the sample they’ve requested. And then if that’s a nod then likely another three months for them to decide if they like the full manuscript. And in the meantime I could have it out there.

I really believe in this novel. I think it’s the best thing I’ve written. Yes, the concept isn’t new: a relationship struggle between a mother and daughter. Old as time. But maybe I’ve brought something new to the discussion. Maybe. And maybe that’s why I’ve sent it off to an agent. So maybe that really is a desire for validation.

Damned if I know.

Tesseracts 22: Alchemy and Artifacts

In the meantime I’ve been busy with the Tesseracts 22: Alchemy and Artifacts anthology Susan MacGregor and I are editing for Hades Publication. That’s been an interesting journey. So many stories. So many voices.

The choices have now been made. Susan is sending out acceptance emails over the next week or so, and rejections will go out shortly after. Then she and I are into copy-editing, getting contracts into place, and generally finalizing the details. It’s going to be a strong and interesting anthology, and I’m very pleased to help bring this to fruition.

Beyond that?

Oh, the usual is beyond that. I get mired in the administrivia of both Five Rivers Glass and Five Rivers Publishing. But the fun part comes when I get to edit some of the remarkable novels that are coming up from Five Rivers, like D.G. Valdron’s sequel to The Mermaid’s Tale, which is The Luck. I am stunned by the grace and power. And then I have another Dave Duncan novel to edit, this another installment in the King’s Blades series: The Ethical Swordsman. 

And overseeing audiobook production. So many!

But to work

By now I’ve spent too long writing this post, and really must attend to business. So, I shall say anon….

Catfish Ceviche

Summer Dining with Catfish Ceviche

When it looks like it’s just going to be too hot to cook, either on the range or the barbecue, a little forethought can provide you with a deliciously savoury and cool dinner. In this case, the main event is ceviche, a quick-pickled fish concoction which is purported to be as old as 2000 years in Peru, but more likely of Moorish origins when Spanish conquistadors colonized the area. However, the culinary art of pickling fish has origins back in early medieval Europe as well, particularly in northern countries, and also has roots in medieval Japan. Pickling fish was, and is, a way to preserve a catch for future use.

Ceviche, however, is meant to be consumed fresh. Myself, I prefer to prepare my ceviche the day before and refrigerate, in order for all the flavours to get happy. I have made many variations of ceviche. One recipe, Tuna Tartar, appears in my cookbook, Stonehouse Cooks. Today’s recipe is a variation on that, a little more spicy, very satisfying. and a lot more affordable than sourcing and paying for quality ahi tuna.

Catfish Ceviche Recipe

1 large boned catfish filet

1 red Spanish onion

3 cloves garlic

1/4 cup chipotle infused extra virgin olive oil

1/4 cup Persian lime infused extra virigin olive oil

1/4 cup honey ginger white balsamic vinegar

1/4 cup lime juice

3 tablespoons jalapeno Tabasco sauce

1/4 teaspoon coarse salt

1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper

Finely dice the catfish and onion. Place in a glass or plastic bowl. Finely mince garlic and add to fish mixture. Add remaining ingredients. Stir well. Cover and refrigerate overnight. Serve on a bed of your favourite seasonal greens, creamy havarti and oka cheeses, a few oil-packed dried tomatoes. Yum.

Sourcing Ingredients

I’ve called for infused olive oils in this recipe, because I’m presently on a kick of them. You can purchase infused olive oil from a specialty oil and vinegar shop. Believe it or not I order mine online from a great company called Evoolution. They have a tempting selection of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and if you’re near one of their stores, they have all kinds of tastings and such. If you’re of a mind to make your own infused oil and vinegar, it’s not hard. Simply heat the oil or vinegar, add herbs and spices, bottle and seal well, and allow to sit for a few weeks in a cool, dark place.

However, if you’re not able to procure infused oil or vinegar, and don’t want to make your own, you can simply use the best olive oil and balsamic vinegar at your disposal, and add your own flavouring to the ceviche. If you’re going to do that, I suggest using the following:

1 seeded chipotle

zest of one lime (in which case you can then use the juice of that same lime)

1 teaspoon finely grated ginger (I store mine in the freezer, which makes it super easy for grating)

1 tablespoon honey (go ahead and experiment with different honey)

Variations

It’s easy to substitute with this recipe. Basically it’s a method waiting for inspiration. So, for fish substitutes you can use pretty much any mild, well-boned fish. I’ve made ceviche from trout, talapia, salmon, tuna, catfish, shrimp, and scallops. I’ve probably used others, but these are the fish varieties that come to mind.

You can also switch up your seasonings, doing something super easy and brainless like using a seasoning mix like chili powder, cajun spice, curry powder, garam masala, za’atar, Tuscan herb blend, Provencal herb blend. You can substitute any citrus for the lemon. Orange is simply wonderful with a trout ceviche.

You can also use teriyaki or soy sauce in your mix, to give a more Asian flavour, offsetting that with more incendiary pepper.

Just remember the balance rule of sweet, savory, salt, sour.

And enjoy.

In the aftermath of Ontario’s provincial election

It almost feels like the morning after a binge. Headache. Disbelief. A feeling you’re going to lose your cookies if you’re not very careful. Vague sense of paranoia, and just wishing everyone would duct-tape their mouths. You’re tired of hearing about it. Tired of looking up with the conviction the sky is going to fall.

But you know what? You’re not going to lose your cookies. People shouldn’t employ duct-tape on body parts. And we will continue to talk, and work, and go about our lives. Why? Because that’s what we do. We get on with things. That’s how we survive. Sure, for many of us this Ontario election result isn’t exactly peachy. Actually, for all of us, but those who voted for the Fordnation have no idea of what’s coming.

The rest of us? I think we need to pay attention to what the late Jack Layton said, and which is being much-quoted this morning-after:

Consider that we can be a better, fairer, more equal country by working together. Don’t let them tell you it can’t be done. My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.

Now that’s a very ’60s statement to make. I identify with that, having been born at the back end of that remarkable awakening which swept so much of the Western World. We believed we could build a better world, that we might actually create global peace and harmony. We believed we’d become race-blind, gender-blind. We lobbied for women’s rights. We advocated for the right for people do with their lives and bodies what they wished. And that advocacy paved the way for later social measures which resulted in better conditions for workers, for families with children, for children themselves, as well as so many other awakenings. I cut my teeth of social conscience on books like Black Like Me, on the writings of political figures throughout history, on analysis of political and social revolutions.

As an adult those teaching and lessons infused my personal paradigm.

And so when the provincial election results came in last night, I was angry. Full out angry. And then came disbelief, because it was astonishing to me people could believe unsubstantiated promises, and a rhetoric of hate and exclusion. What had we worked so hard for all these decades? Had we learned nothing from the past?

But of course the answer is in the swings of political climate which always occur. You only need to look to history to see that. So, for now, the world of Ontario is in a darker place, a less friendly, less communal frame of mind. But that will shift. It always does. And it will shift in part because at our most primitive core I believe we weary of conflict. There is prosperity in peace, in social consciousness that ensures a community of inclusivity and equality. And we will advocate for that in one manner or another, lighting the beacons of Jack Layton’s gentle admonition to us: Let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic.

A website is no longer just throwing together HTML

I’m no expert. Not by a long-shot. But I can tell you, having to maintain three websites, that the world of creating and maintaining a website is now highly complex, fraught with frustration, imperiled by hackers and spammers and all manner of roguish ruffians.

Recently my website was invaded by hackers who planted malicious code, hijacking visitors off to all manner of disreputable sites. It’s taken me weeks of lost hair in finally clean the site. In the end I opted for my son’s very sage advice (he works in the industry), and instlaled Wordfence. I’d have to recommend it highly. Not only does the plugin give you a detailed list of problems, but if you’re unable to fix the problem yourself (something I discovered by breaking my site for a few minutes), you’re able to obtain professional assistance through their premium support. Best money I ever spent. After fixing all the issues, I was given a detailed report of what was done, and recommendations for future protection.

So, apparently one of the caveats is to make sure you log in regularly, and if you have a blog, post regularly. So, this is me, logging in, posting, keeping the nasty-peeps at bay.

Anyway, site clean. You shouldn’t have any problems.

Oh, and btw, you might want to purchase a copy of my latest release, Caliban. Really. You might just like it. Or Shadow Song. There’s an audio version of it now available as well. And if you’re into audiobooks, then why not go all out and get From Mountains of Ice while you’re at it. Go nuts.

Contemplating Caliban’s Reviews

It’s one thing for me to review a novel or book. It’s quite another to receive a review of one of my own works. I’m always trying to decode them. Sure, it would be easy to default to the assumption I’m tetchy when it comes to reviews of my novels. But what I’m honestly trying to do is figure out if a negative review is the result of my own failing, or of a lazy, perhaps uninformed reader. Truly, I don’t know. I am trying to be objective. But after decades at this profession of writing, I’m still no closer to figuring out what’s going on, especially in light of some of the reader reviews about authors who are giants, in my opinion.

For example, I read a reader review for Thomas King’s The Back of the Turtle, in which the reader only gives the novel three stars, and complains about exaggerations and perceived  implausibilities. The offending passages had to do with an abandoned First Nations reserve ringed with barbed wire, and a school bus parked to block the entrance on which the epithet: Indians go home is written. Huh. Doesn’t seem that implausible or exaggerated to me. But I guess it depends on cultural perspective.

Then there’s the two-star review of Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses. I quote:

I tried to get into this book, believe me, I tried. For me, this experience was a bit like trying to climb to a cloud on a glass ladder. Each time I thought I was getting somewhere, I lost my place…or realised I was still back where I started. Rushdie is a master of words, that’s true. But sometimes knowing all the words isn’t enough. I felt like the book was always behind a wall of intellect, making the content tricky to connect with. Sometimes there are pages of literary magic, but then those pages are followed with twice as many pages of Debbie McGee breaking wind at a bus stop. Outside a chippy in Portsmouth.

I have no words. Well, I did, and my review is here.

So, I guess what I’m trying to say is everyone has an opinion. Those opinions are neither right nor wrong. They are just opinions. And that’s all reviews are—opinions. I don’t care if you’re writing a review for The New Yorker, or Goodreads, it’s still an opinion. Not necessarily well-informed or considered.

Thus I bring you to the paltry few reader reviews I’ve received for Caliban, despite having sent out myriad review copies. These come from LibraryThing.

3-stars:

As other people have said, it was a little difficult to picture the characters. I feel that connecting in that way is integral for the reader to really be involved in the story. I’m hoping the author will go back and beef up those sections a little more. There are a lot of good things in this book, some beautiful language and ideas. It is certainly a lot different than much of the sci-fi offerings currently available and that in itself is encouraging.

I think with a little polish, this could be quite beautiful. The author certainly has shown she is capable of crafting an engrossing story. Now just to build the world around that a little more, part the curtain, let us see more of what’s around our protagonist.

I’m minded of Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness, in which she never describes exactly what is shifgrethor. It is a word which apparently means shadow. But within the novel it has so many shadings (yes, I’m aware) as to be nebulous. I wonder what 3-stars would have thought of that?

Then there’s 2-stars from someone with the handle: NotaTurnip. Cute, eh?

I tried to read this book, I really did. It’s really unusual for me to not be able to, but I was 10% into this book and I had no real idea of who the characters were, or what was happening. It wasn’t compelling so much as confusing.

This isn’t to say that the story isn’t salvageable. If the author put down the thesaurus and worked more on ordering character introductions and world-building in a more logical way to the reader, I know it would make for a compelling read.

The tone is also inconsistent in some points, we pass between ephemeral susurrations down to shit-shows and fart jokes. I’m a huge fan of humour in fiction, but there’s a time and a place and they were both off in this story.

I don’t think this book was quite ready to be published, but with a few workshops and discussions with readers to find out what’s easy to understand and what doesn’t follow, it would be well worth the read. As it stands, it’s incredibly confusing.

Thesaurus? Seriously? World-building? Good the gods, the world-building.

And then the ever-so-informed and lazy 3-stars:

An intriguing novel to begin with, but the author’s style simply did not hook me (personal opinion only.)

Well, at least DaccariBuchelli had the grace to admit this was only personal opinion.

Huh. So, years in the writing, in the revision and crafting of a world so utterly alien, of aliens so utterly alien, of cultures and paradigms beyond human experience. Looks like probably I shouldn’t have bothered, because, after all, we want something safe, that doesn’t challenge, that refuses to allow you to say, Oh, I hadn’t considered that.

Oh well. I”m not going to apologize for Caliban. But I am going to challenge you to pick up your own copy, make it an eBook so you’ll feel comfortable about the monetary expenditure, and then  draw your own conclusion. Write your own review. Make it public. Even if it’s 2-stars. Why not?

After all, any exposure is good exposure, as the saying goes.

Review: The Back of the Turtle, by Thomas King

The Back of the Turtle by Thomas King

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

As always, Thomas King makes no apologies to his readers. I think he must write entirely for himself, because his stories are so full of imagery and metaphor, allusion and metaphor. He is, quite frankly, brilliant, and to read his work is to be immersed not only in the magic of a supremely good storyteller, but to come away with a new window on the universe.

The Back of the Turtle chronicles the intersecting lives of people in search of new hope, new beginnings, exploring the facets of what it means to be a refugee. There is very much an undercurrent of redemption here, grace granted not so much in receiving forgiveness from others, but rather finding the ability to recognize past actions for what they were, attempt reparation, and thereby make peace with oneself.

This is a multi-layered tale, told from seemingly disparate viewpoints, but as always Thomas King draws the threads of his narrative together into a cohesive unit that leaves the reader illuminated.

The Back of the Turtle is high on my recommended list.

View all my reviews