Messy by Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan

Max hung back from following them into the classroom. She felt jittery and weird. Not at the prospect of spending more marinating in her and her classmates' mutual hostility--sometimes that could be invigorating--but because after this, she had a meeting with YourNewItGirl@gmail.com. At It Girl's suggestion, they were meeting for dinner at Mel's Dine-In on Sunset to see if they had "a copacetic rapport." Max focused her nervous energy on retying her Doc Marten boots and trying to brush the fine film of chalk dust off her black skirt. It had never recovered from this morning's blackboard race in calculus. Nobody else had come out of class looking like a powdered doughnut. Maybe designer pants repelled dirt in a way H&M's one-ply cotton could not.

-Messy 

 This was another enjoyable outing from The Fug Girls. I feel like they are pretty talented in creating characters, giving us people who behave realistically and don't just act in ways that further the plot or conform to romantic tropes. They are also very funny, which doesn't hurt. I am very much looking forward to their current work-in-progress, which looks to be a Kate-and-Will inspired royal romance with an American twist. How could you resist?

Up next: The Laughing Policeman by Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö

Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan

Penumbra sells used books, and they are in such uniformly excellent condition that they might as well be new. He buys them during the day--you only sell to the man with his name on the windows--and he must be a tough customer. He doesn't seem to pay much attention to the bestseller lists. His inventory is eclectic; there's no evidence of pattern or purpose other than, I suppose, his own personal taste. So, no teenage wizards or vampire police here. That's a shame, because this is exactly the kind of store that makes you want to buy a book about a teenage wizard. This is the kind of store that makes you want to be a teenage wizard.

-Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore

Now that I'm writing about them back to back, I'm finding that Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore is an excellent book to weigh against The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making.  While the former doesn't have the vaguely timeless nature of the latter--Google is a significant part of the story, after all--it was more inventive and definitely more absorbing, while maintaining elements of the classic quest. I didn't like the love interest as much as I suspect I was supposed to, but I enjoyed the writing quite a bit and would be happy to read more by Robin Sloan.

Up next: Messy by Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan

The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making by Catherynne M. Valente

Once upon a time, a girl named September grew very tired indeed of her parents' house, where she washed the same pink-and-yellow teacups and matching gravy boats every day, slept on the same embroidered pillow, and played with the same small and amiable dog. Because she had been born in May, and because she had a mole on her left cheek, and because her feet were very large and ungainly, the Green Wind took pity on her and flew to her window one evening just after her twelfth birthday.

-The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making 

I'm ridiculously, ridiculously behind on posting, and with NaNoWriMo on the horizon, I figured I ought to put up something sooner rather than later. The next few posts are going to be pretty bare bones, though. I mostly enjoyed The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making--although, whew, that title. I appreciate that sort of thing to some extent, but I couldn't make up my mind about the more twee elements of the book. It was a classic fairy tale, and clever, and hit all the beats it needed to, but I couldn't help but feel it was lacking in heart. Like it was an exercise in creating a fairy tale more than a genuine fairy tale. That being said, for whatever reason I found the story of the key enormously affecting. Wouldn't be opposed to reading more by this author, but I wouldn't necessarily seek it out either.

Up next: Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan

How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely

GOALS AS A NOVELIST:

1. FAME--Realistic amount. Enough to open new avenues of sexual opportunity. Personal assistant to read my mail, grocery shop, and so on.
2. FINANCIAL COMFORT--Never have a job again. Retire. Spend rest of life lying around, pursuing hobbies (boating? skeet shooting?).
3. STATELY HOME BY OCEAN (OR SCENIC LAKE)--Spacious library, bay windows, wet bar. HD TV, discreetly placed. Comfortable couch.
4. HUMILIATE POLLY AT HER WEDDING.

-How I Became a Famous Novelist

As always, I have a formidable stack of unread books sitting on my shelf--a bit of an obligation, but mostly a comfort, since not having a book to read is a none-too-secret terror of mine. Thus I had no reason to pick up How I Became a Famous Novelist at St. Vincent de Paul a few months back, except I thought that I would regret it if I didn't.

How I Became a Famous Novelist is the story of Pete Tarslaw, a twenty-something living in Boston and working as a professional polisher of school admission essays. He's--and I don't think there's a way to put this nicely--a loser. When he gets an invitation to his ex-girlfriend's wedding, though, it spurs him to action. Not for any particularly selfless reason: he just wants to win the breakup.

He hits upon his plan of action while watching a soft news piece on folksy novelist Preston Brooks. He quickly sizes up the man, who never met a platitude he didn't like, as a con artist--and decides there's no reason that he can't write a book like that. No point in trying to make it good, mind. He creates a list of what elements he would need to include to make his story popular, and dreams of the fame and fortune to follow.

To his credit, he does write a book. A terrible book, from all the evidence provided, but nonetheless a book with a beginning, middle, and end. (As a NaNoWriMo participant, I realize just that is an accomplishment). How I Became a Famous Novelist then charts Pete's new career, with its highs and--more often--its lows. It's a funny ride, particularly when author Steve Hely pokes fun at the modern book scene. (His imagined titles and plots for New York Times bestsellers were amusingly believable.) While Pete himself is not particularly likeable, he's self-aware enough that the reader doesn't tire of his company, and I found the book overall to be pretty enjoyable.

Up next: The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making by Catherynne M. Valente. (Whew, that's a mouthful.)

The Flavia de Luce Series by Alan Bradley

Sanctified cyanide
Super-quick arsenic
Higgledy-piggledy
Into the soup.
Put out the mourning lamps
Call for the coffin clamps
Teach them to trifle with
Flavia de Luce!

-The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag 

I had intended to write one entry for each book of the Flavia de Luce series--there are five so far--but it didn't work out quite like that. I love these books, so much so that it was impossible to stop after just one and record my thoughts. I went from one book right to the next with virtually no interruption, so eventually it seemed better to just tackle the series in one post, as my thoughts about the different plots would be bound to get a bit muddled. Here goes.

Flavia de Luce is a girl of nearly eleven living with her family in the small English town of Bishop's Lacey in 1950. She is an unusual child--fiercely smart, with a particular love for chemistry, and no real interest in maintaining the sort of propriety that a girl of age at that time would be expected to do. She runs wild through the village, accompanied only by her bicycle, Gladys, which formerly belonged to her long-lost mother.

Flavia's mother, Harriet, casts a long shadow over her life, though Flavia herself has no memory of her. Harriet left on a mountaineering expedition when Flavia was just one, never to return. Flavia's father retreated from the world after his wife's disappearance, seeking refuge in his collection of postage stamps. Her sisters, Ophelia and Daphne (or, as Flavia calls them, Feely and Daffy), torture Flavia with their accounts of her supposed early life, telling her she was a changeling, for example, or that she made Harriet miserable.

It's no wonder, then, that Flavia is so independent. And perhaps it should be no surprise that when she stumbles upon a dying man in her garden in the first book of the series, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, she's far from terrified. In fact, she's fascinated, and sets about to solve the mystery of his death.

She's a dab hand at it too, and over the course of the series, she acquires quite a reputation for being involved whenever the game is afoot.  Flavia combines her keen sense of hearing--inherited from her mother--with her knowledge of chemistry and her sheer moxie to get to the bottom of things. It is nothing short of a delight to read along as she puzzles out each case.

I am absolutely in awe of Alan Bradley, who has such a sure hand in guiding this series. The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie was his first novel, and he created such a beautiful character in Flavia as well as such a fully realized world in Bishop's Lacey. Even if there were no mysteries, I think I would enjoy following Flavia as she rode around on Gladys and visited Denwyn Richardson or Miss Cool, or the Puddock sisters. The clever mysteries--never overly convoluted, which seems like an absolute rarity in the genre at this point--do make it all the sweeter, though.

The most recent book in the series, Speaking from Among the Bones, ends with a bit of a cliffhanger. I will be waiting most impatiently, I must admit, until I can next return to Bishop's Lacey and follow the further adventures of Flavia, her family, and the rest of the village.

Up next: How I Became A Famous Novelist by Steve Hely

PS: While looking for an image for this post, I stumbled upon this promotional video for the series: http://vimeo.com/12758978. It makes me even more excited for the eventual adaptation. (Good luck to whoever has to cast Flavia!)

Made in America by Bill Bryson

Before the 1820s, dining out was an activity reserved almost exclusively for travelers. Though it was possible to eat in hotels and taverns, there were no places dedicated to the public consumption of food for the mere pleasure of it, nor any word to describe them. Then, in 1827, a new word and concept entered American English from France: restaurant.

-Made in America: An Informal History of the English Language in the United States

If you're going to pick up a book by Bill Bryson, be prepared to learn things. So many things--truly interesting things--that there's no way you'll be able to remember everything you'd like to. (O, for a photographic memory!) You will be highly tempted to put down the book every few pages and tell anyone in the vicinity whatever nugget of trivia you've just learned. If you're reading Made in America, I hope you keep company with people with a thirst for more information about language and history.

I very much enjoyed the facts thrown at me on every page; so many that I can't even begin to recount them (though the excerpt above, with the introduction of the word restaurant, is a good example). Just as when I read Bryson's At Home, I was staggered by how many things in everyday life I'd never stopped to consider. Like how the phrase "mother of all," in the sense of the biggest of something, only dates back to the Gulf War. Who knew?

I will say Made in America isn't a page-turner--it lends itself to being read in little chunks. You could certainly put it down for a while and return to it later without losing the thread of things, I think. It took me a bit longer than expected to get through it, but it was definitely a worthwhile read. I wonder if Bryson has considered updating it, since it came out in 1994--certainly an additional chapter on the last twenty (well, nearly--gulp) years wouldn't go awry.

Up next: The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley

A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness

It begins with absence and desire.
It begins with blood and fear.
It begins with a discovery of witches.

-A Discovery of Witches

I think I must begin by saying that A Discovery of Witches is an excellent title for a book. I know we shouldn't judge books by their covers, but I think it's fair to be enchanted by a good title. Well played.

A Discovery of Witches is the story of Diana Bishop, a historian working at Oxford. She is also, as it happens, a witch, though she does her best to suppress her natural abilities. Nonetheless, one day she calls up a most unusual book from the stacks at the library--a clearly magical book--and despite her best efforts, she can't deny her heritage any longer. She quickly becomes the center of the magical world, with witches, vampires, and daemons alike clamoring to get a hold of the book, long thought lost.

One vampire, Matthew Clairmont, takes a particular interest. He's an esteemed doctor at Oxford, an expert in multiple fields. He's also devastatingly handsome, bien sûr. His destiny is quickly tangled up with Diana's, to an extent that seems preordained. The story becomes one of supernatural romance and intrigue.

The romance develops quite rapidly--clearly an intentional move by Deborah Harkness. It's not supposed to feel like a traditional romance, but I think the rush made it a little harder for me to understand Diana and Matthew as characters. At a certain point I just went with it, and the last couple hundred pages flew by. Harkness also did an excellent job setting up her sequel, which does sound quite intriguing. I will certainly be on the lookout for it once I've put a bigger dent in the pile of books I already have.

Up next: Made in America by Bill Bryson

Dead Ever After by Charlaine Harris

The devil was eating beignets, fastidiously, when the businessman walked up to the outside table.

-Dead Ever After 

With Dead Ever After, we bid adieu to Miss Sookie Stackhouse, telepath and waitress extraordinaire. Quite a lot has happened to Sookie in the two-year period Charlaine Harris's novels covers. She's known love and death (probably more of the latter than the former, sadly). She's become acquainted with all sorts of fantastic creatures, for better or worse. She's gotten at least a little suntanning in.

Dead Ever After begins with Sookie trying to navigate the tricky politics surrounding her relationship  with Eric, and things only get more dire when she's accused of murder. There's a fair amount of reaching back to the earlier books, particularly in terms of the familiar characters who pop up all over the place. It's definitely not a novel one could pick up without having read the other 12--or at least I couldn't see that being a particularly enjoyable experience.

The story is undeniably over-stuffed, and I'm not sure I love the direction that Charlaine Harris decided to go in with regard to Sookie's love life, though it's not implausible. I don't think it will stand up as one of the best books of the series, but, that having been said, I still enjoyed spending time in Sookie's company.* There's something so comfortable and cozy about Charlaine Harris's books, despite the mayhem that inevitably ensues, and I think a lot of it is just Sookie. I'll probably read Harris's follow-up on the other characters of Bon Temps, which is to be published this fall, and perhaps I'll try one of her other series as well. For now, though, I still have close to fifteen unread books on my shelves, so I  won't be picking up anything new.** At least we still have the weird and wild True Blood.

Up next: Continuing with fantasy, A Discovery of Witches.

*I would be curious to go back through my posts and see how many times I've said that.

**Unless it looks really good. Or I've wanted to read it for a long time. Or, or, or...

Telegraph Avenue by Michael Chabon

Archy felt blood in his cheeks, the shame of the ponderer in a world that urged decision. A deliberator nipped at and harried by the hounds of haste. Professing in his heart like some despised creed the central truth of life: The only decision a man will never regret is the one he never made.

-Telegraph Avenue

It's nice to have a history with an author, isn't it? Not just having read a lot of books by that author, but to have memories connected with them. That's how I feel about Michael Chabon. I remember picking up The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay and being so absolutely wowed by it that I emailed him. It was the kind of ridiculous, flowery email that you might expect a 19-year-old to write, and he very kindly responded. I remember taking The Mysteries of Pittsburgh with me when I went to Italy later that same year. I remember when he did a reading at my college and signed my copy of Summerland, which I had bought at the university bookstore. That's a history, I think.

When I was thinking about what I wanted to say about Telegraph Avenue, I remembered all of that. From page one, the writing was everything I could have wanted--on a sentence-to-sentence level, Telegraph Avenue is beautiful, funny, and true. Just on that first page, there's this description of Archy Stallings--"moonfaced, mountainous, moderately stoned." I didn't intend to wax rhapsodic here, but that's pretty near perfect if you ask me.

The story--of Archy and his partner Nat, their wives and kids, and their business, Brokeland Records--shares a lot of the hallmarks of other Chabon stories. There's the obsession (with vinyl here, as opposed to comics or baseball), the quirky characters (shades of Wonder Boys), the sexual exploration. I think I might have been more absorbed in the story of I'd connected to any one part of it better--jazz, Berkeley, kung fu--but I still enjoyed it. The characterization is particularly good--I'd love to have a follow-up just about Nat's son, Julie. Regardless of what Chabon does next, I'll be along for the ride.

Up next: Dead Ever After, the last of the Sookie Stackhouse novels.

Broken Harbor by Tana French

Richie closed the door behind us. He stayed beside it, sheaf of pointless paper hanging forgotten from one hand, eyes skittery as a corner boy's. That was what he looked like: some malnourished scumbag hunched against a graffitied wall, standing lookout for small-time dealers in exchange for a fix. I had been beginning to think of this man as my partner. His skinny shoulders braced against mine had begun to feel like something that belonged. The feeling had been a good one, a warm one. Both of us made me sick.

-Broken Harbor

Let's try this again, shall we?

So, I've missed a bit. (A year is a bit, yes? A long bit, but still.) I tackled Proust for the first time, finally conquered Team of Rivals, and enjoyed books by Mary Roach, Jo Nesbø, and Gillian Flynn. I will probably never get around to writing about any of them, and that's okay, I think. Fresh start.

It's fitting to start back with Tana French, a perennial favorite of mine. Broken Harbor follows Mick "Scorcher" Kennedy, another member of the Dublin Murder Squad. Mick has shown up in previous books by French, though I must confess he didn't make much of an impression on me. Still, I think you're bound to remember a nickname like Scorcher.

Mick is called up to investigate a grisly case in the once-booming housing development of Brianstown. A family has been attacked, with definite fatalities. It's a high-profile case, a chance of redemption for Mick, who botched an investigation a few years earlier. It also (in classic French fashion) forces Mick to confront a painful time from his past, back when Brianstown was a seaside holiday spot called Broken Harbor.

The case was a bit of a toughie for me--I don't love reading about murdered children, funnily enough--but overall I found Broken Harbor to be more satisfying than Faithful Place. It's sad, to be sure. If there's one thing I've learned about Tana French books, it's that a happy ending is relative. Her detectives may solve their cases, but it's always at a grievous cost. Her books are fantastically written, perfectly paced, and deeply sad. Quite a recommendation, I know.

Up next: Telegraph Avenue by Michael Chabon. Go big or go home, yeah?