Dream with Our Eyes Open

Selena arrives at the tiny train station in the town of Quartz Creek with a backpack, a rolling suitcase, her dog Copper, and a postcard from her aunt, suggesting a visit. When Selena had finally decided she could not deal with her emotionally abusive fiancé any longer, that postcard gave her a destination. But when she reaches the town, after two and a half days of travel, she discovers that Aunt Amelia is dead, and has been for a year.

Selena has hardly any money, and it would be so easy to return to her poisonous partner and let him run her life, but she hesitates. And as she's hesitating, she meets a variety of kind but eccentric townspeople who suggest that there is no reason why she can't simply take over her aunt's house, known as Jackrabbit Hole House. Even in a town where it's far more common for a house to have a name than not, this one is puzzling. Jackrabbits, one of the residents informs her, don't live in holes.

Despite all the minor issues that one might expect in a house that's been all but abandoned in the U.S southwestern desert for a year, Selena finds the place surprisingly comfortable. Her next-door neighbor Grandma Billy keeps her supplied with eggs and other miscellaneous food, and the local church has a potluck supper multiple times a week. She also discovers, when she goes to buy Copper some dog food, that Aunt Amelia left several hundred dollars of credit at the local store, which the store owner insists is Selena's now. With Grandma Billy's help, Selena even starts to recover her aunt's vegetable garden.

Everything is fine until she starts hearing voices. Then there's that creepy statuette in the main room. And one morning, she finds she's not alone in her bed.

This is the Southwest of Kingfisher's collection Jackalope Wives and Other Stories, where spirits, gods, and shapeshifters co-exist with vintage pickup tricks and ecotourists. Kingfisher seems at her best in this setting, and Selena's predicament is genuinely frightening at times.

The book is also, however, rather familiar. The outline of the story is very similar to Kingfisher's The Twisted Ones (2019), in which a young woman named Mouse travels with her beloved dog Bongo to inventory her late grandmother's house and finds all manner of creepiness. She deals with these manifestations with the help of eccentric locals. The Twisted Ones is actually a more complicated story, probably because it's a pastiche of a 1904 horror short story called “The White People," by Arthur Machen. Snake-Eater is also shorter: 267 pages to 399 for The Twisted Ones.

To me, Snake-Eater is the more engaging story. In the acknowledgments, Kingfisher reminisces about growing up in the Southwest. I knew she had moved there recently, but I didn't realize that she was a returnee when she did so. That may be why this story feels more full of life than the earlier work.

I think I'll be re-reading this one. I've never bothered with that for The Twisted Ones.

I'm a little past halfway, and golly, it's so great to be back with witch king Kaiisteron and his found family of extremely powerful misfits as they try to figure out whether Something Bad is happening at the edges of the map.

The family vibe is ramping up, in fact. At one point their little street urchin, Sanja, wants reassurance that if she goes off to play with some children in the household of an ally that they are visiting, the grownup members of the group won't leave her there (where she'd be safe) while she's distracted. Kai tells her with affable sarcasm that it would be very bad manners to abandon his children to their hosts.

The Earth is ruled by the authoritarian Mandate, which like all such governments is constantly alert for threats to its stability. This extends to its scientific research: although the Mandate has explored space and discovered a number of exoplanets (a few of which have some form of life), it still insists that scientific discoveries must support the philosophy of the Mandate, which holds that human beings are the pinnacle of creation and that other life forms must all be in the process of striving to achieve that same state of being.

Ecologist and xeno-ecologist Arton Daghdev chafes against both these mental manacles and the Mandate in general. Some time before the story opens, he becomes part of a cell of would-be revolutionaries. After discovery of his improper views and rebellious actions, he is sentenced to what is meant to be a short life assisting research on the planet Imno 27g, casually known as Kiln for the strange clusters of pottery buildings scattered over its surface.

Life as a prisoner on Kiln within the research enclave is brutal in all the ways any such prison can be, when the prisoners are nothing but human-shaped machinery to accomplish the goals of their jailers. The Mandate's leadership has absolute control over who among their prisoners lives or dies, and if anyone should harbor the intent to escape, the environment outside the base is all too lively. The death rate among the workers is appalling, but new shipments of convicted crooks and malcontents arrive all the time, so it hardly matters.

None of the weird aliens seem to be builders of the sort needed to create the clusters of mysterious structures or indeed intelligent in any way beyond, perhaps, the level of social insects on Earth. Yet somehow the small, dysfunctional cadre of scientists on Kiln must serve up the desired tidbits of discovery to keep their commandant happy with them: evidence that there once were intelligent humanoids on Kiln.

I am an emotional person, and I want to like at least some of the characters about whom I'm reading. Daghdev is prickly, snarky, and fatalistic — but then, he has cause. He's also an unreliable narrator who only reveals to the reader what he wants, when he wants. The situation is really excruciating: people with a deep dislike of body horror might want to avoid this book. And there is not, in fact, a happy ending (at least not IMO).

On the other hand, this is very well written. For me, it moved along at a fantastic clip, and when I went back to check some particulars for this write-up, I found myself reading far more than I had intended because the story caught me up again. Some of the scientific ideas reminded me of other works (Sue Burke's Semiosis surfaced in my thoughts a couple of time), and sometimes I was reminded of something more elusive, a source that I can't recall. Does anyone else who has already read this have thoughts on the book's likely ancestors?

From my viewpoint, this was one of the most "science fictional" of this year's finalists. I think it might be my first choice in the vote.

In 2005, artist Rhea Ewing had a lot of questions about their own gender identity. Some of those questions were so big and so formless that they didn't even know how to ask them.

They started a kind of study, gathering people who were willing to talk to Ewing about their gender identities. Because Ewing thought in visuals, they turned it into a comic. It was originally meant to be maybe 30 pages, a little project for their final university project. Ewing soon realized that this work was too complex and multifaceted to be that simple booklet, and in fact, they didn't finish the comic until the early 2020s.

The book is arranged by topics, starting with Femininity and Masculinity and then working through more of the interviewees' experiences within themselves and then out in the world of other people, through Hormones, Healthcare, Queer Community, and much more. Under each topic are relevant snippets of the actual interviews, drawn as lively, expressive comics, and the words of the interviewees are thought-provoking and sometimes heart-rending.

Some reviewers I've read are miffed with Ewing, because the artist doesn't come up with a specific plan or specific answers to the issue of gender in today's society (and yes, there is acknowledgement and discussion of variations in culture within that society). But in fact, there are conclusions, expressed on the last couple of pages before the acknowledgments. What there isn't is a step-by-step recipe for "solving" the question of gender. And if you really read that far, you should appreciate why.

A being called Kai wakes up to find himself in a glass box, feeling terrible. His mental powers confirm that a dear friend is somewhere near, but she's feeling equally out of it. Then a gang of unsavory characters show up, dragging with them a dead body and a struggling prisoner. With an ease that shows he's done this many times before, Kai transfers himself into the dead body.

Wait, what?

In less than five minutes, the little band of evildoers discover that they are facing not the helpless ensorcelled person that they had expected, but a fully functioning and extremely pissed off major demon:

"Now," Kai said, grinning, as he shoved the veil aside. "Which one of you wants to go first?"

This is not the Wells of Murderbot, with relatively straightforward plots and a narrator with a limited interest in the worldbuilding around it, but instead the Wells of the Fall of Ile-Rien and Books of the Raksura, with rich, multi-layered histories and landscapes. Some readers may be disappointed; I was enthralled.

After a series of brief action-filled set pieces in which Kai, his friend Ziede, and the former prisoner (who turns out to be a street urchin named Sanja) escape the islet tomb/tower in which the two adults were imprisoned, the book starts to alternate the current timeline plot, in which Kai and Ziede start to unravel the mystery of who imprisoned them and why, with sections set in Kai's past, where we find out more about what he is and what he cares about.

I really liked this book, but then, I trust Wells to tell a story that I will enjoy, and she seems to be as addicted to the Family of Choice trope as I am.

Witch King has drawn an extremely mixed bag of reviews. Part of it is likely due to the fact that readers are thrown into the deep end and expected to figure out this swimming thing themselves. Not everyone likes this approach. What info dumps we do get are brief, basic, and simply told because they are most often directed in-story at young Sanja, who seems to be nine or ten years old.

Another complaint is that except for Kai, we don't get inside anyone's head. This is actually a common Wells characteristic: the sole narrator of Books of the Raksura is Moon, and the sole narrator of the Murderbot Diaries is, of course, Murderbot/SecUnit. (The Fall of Ile-Rien is a little different: we definitely get sections from both Tremaine and Ilias' viewpoints, and I think we get some from Florian in the second and third books.) Again, this isn't something that bothers me.

On the positive side, people have noted with pleasure the fact that much of the story is agendered. Kai's only concerns about the bodies he has inhabited are how useful they are: some bodies require more rest, some need more food to function well, and so on. Gender isn't an issue. Ziede and her wife Tahren are both women, and various members of the supporting cast use they pronouns.

The ending is fairly open: some of the mysteries are solved, but there is plenty of "Yes, but what about …?" to feed into a sequel or sequels. And when I went to move the ebook from my actual Kindle device to the app on my iPad for another re-read (this will be re-read number 3) , I noticed that the current title info says Witch King (The Rising World Book 1). 😃

Usually novels in the form of legends or histories leave me a little cold because the narration style usually draws back from the characters' interior lives. It's not always an insurmountable problem, though. Ursula K. Le Guin's A Wizard of Earthsea is a book that I learned to love despite the withdrawn, almost cool narrative voice, and it seems that The Empress of Salt and Fortune by Nghi Vo might be another.

When Cleric Chih (along with their intelligent bird companion, Almost Brilliant) comes to inventory the goods of the Imperial residence at Lake Scarlet, they also gradually learns the story of the exiled barbarian empress who most famously lived there. Her teacher is an old woman called Rabbit, who as a low-class girl from the provinces became the servant of the empress In-yo.

This is a strange and strangely beautiful novel, but it didn't really grab me.

So, yeah, slow off the dime on this. Nominations are due March 19. Eeek!

I've read only a few eligible books during the past year, mostly by authors I knew I liked already (Martha Wells, Yoon Ha Lee). I made myself of list of possibles on Big South America River, on the basis of the Locus Recommended Reading List and a few "Best of 2020" review lists, and it's clearly too much to finish by then, even if I skip books that are volumes 2 or 3 of series I haven't been following.

Any recommendations? I just finished Piranesi (Susanna Clarke) and Pacific Storm (Linda Nagata) (... talk about style and mood whiplash!).

A feckless young man has but one wish the day he's released from a prison term for minor charges: to take in some Rakugo, a Japanese art form consisting of storytelling by a single performer who does the narration, all the character voices, and some simple sound effects. He tracks his favorite performer, the master Yakumo Yurakutei VIII, home after a performance and insists on becoming his apprentice. Yakumo never takes apprentices, but somehow the persistence of this awkward and uneducated fellow wears the master down.

At first Yakumo treats the young man, to whom he gives the apprentice name Yotaro, as a combination of man-of-all-work, pet, and comic relief. In addition to Yakumo himself, the household includes Matsuda, his elderly valet/driver/housekeeper, and a moody young woman named Konatsu, who was Yakumo's ward when she was a child. The tension between Konatsu and her guardian is like an open wound: he ignores her most of the time, but when he does notice her, it's usually to remark on how much she looks like her father, and she reacts with angry words and tears. At this point in (recent) history, classical Rakugo was closed to women performers, and Yakumo is adamant that Konatsu will never become a storyteller while in his household.

Yakumo gradually starts treating Yotaro as an actual apprentice, but the young man's real teacher is actually Konatsu. Whatever her history, she has an encyclopedic knowledge of Rakugo stories, and although the master remarks disparagingly about her tutoring of Yotaro, he never outright forbids them to continue. Yotaro's cheerful antics, willingness to work at menial tasks, and enthusiasm make him popular in the yose (Rakugo performance hall), and it looks like he might actually succeed in his ambition.

One day, it all comes crashing down. Yotaro, exhausted from a late night, falls asleep during the evening's storytelling at the yose and snores so loudly that he interrupts his master's performance. Yakumo throws him out. Yotaro comes crawling back, but Yakumo rejects his pleas — and then suddenly has somewhat of a change of heart. He starts to tell Yotaro and Konatsu of his own history, back when he was known as Kikuhiko, and that of his fellow apprentice, the man who became the Rakugo artist Sukeroku: Konatsu's father.

I had never heard of Rakugo before. The theatrical arts always interest me (I used to be in stage crew in high school and college), and the human intrigue of this story adds another dimension, although the story starts out rather slowly. The artwork is pretty great: mangaka Haruko Kumota's drawings remind me a bit of Fumi Yoshinaga's work in its more relaxed versions (What Did You Eat Yesterday?, for example), although it's a little looser and sloppier (example here, showing Yotaro and a more senior apprentice watching Yakumo perform in vol. 1, from Sequential Ink), especially when drawing Yotaro.

You can find Rakugo in English online! Here is a brief comic tale told by woman performer (things have changed).

This josei series is compete in 10 volumes. The five I have read take the story from the beginning to the next section of the modern-day story, after the extended flashback about Sukeroku and Kikuhiko. I certainly intend to finish the series.

ETA:. This is an even better intro to Rakugo, with another woman performer.

This is part of my Hugo Award Reading. I read Anders' first novel, All the Birds in the Sky, back in 2016 and was meh for me. This book is better but still ends up wandering off into nowhere.

The book starts with a small info dump in the guise of translation notes, such as the fact that the people who colonized this planet, January, named the native creatures after animals from their homeworld. You have been warned.

We then join our first protagonist, Sophie. She's from a lower-class family that might, in other settings, be called peasants. Faced with a future as a producer of more peasant agriculturists, she studies with desperate diligence and wins entrance to the university in the city, where she develops a deep crush on her roommate, Bianca. Bianca is beautiful, bright, and at her core, not a great person. She dabbles with the concept of being a revolutionary from a position of extreme privilege, and when things go south, it's not Bianca who falls.

As this story unfolds, we learn about the city and to some extent, the world. In Xiosphant, the activities of the city are controlled to the hour, at a minimum. Timed signals throughout the day tell the citizens when to wake, to eat, to go to work or school. No one breaks curfew, or they are punished. Maniacal little rules occupy any spare thought cycles people might have: food can only be bought with special food currency, for instance, and there are a variety of other currencies for other purchases. Bianca's daring revolutionary actions are trivial: if they were anything else, she'd be dead.

From Sophie's memories, it seems that this draconian governance is somehow a response to the planetary situation. January does not rotate. One side is baked to a fiery hell by its sun; the other side is deathly cold. A narrow temperate zone exists between the two, home to two cities: Xiosphant and Argelo, which we learn about later.

When Sophie takes the blame for Bianca's stupid act of defiance, she is cast out of the city into the edge of the cold zone to die but is unexpectedly saved by a creature considered a hideous and violent monster. When she comes back, she is unable to take up her old life and instead goes to work in a fascinating coffee shop where people can come be different for a short period of time.

At this point, I figured the book was heading into its final arc. I was intrigued and excited. I thought, this time Anders has really nailed it! Somehow Sophie and the underpeople represented at the coffee shop will make things go right! The only thing that didn't seem to work was this strange parallel arc about a traveling merchant called Mouth, part of a desperate crew who bring in contraband goods from Argelo, a strange and dangerous journey. Mouth discovers that the sacred text of her people, whom she lost at a young age, is in the museum in Xiosphant, and plans a burglary under cover of the nascent revolution under the partial leadership of -- you knew this, right? -- Bianca.

And as you've probably also guessed, the book was, in fact, only about half over at that point.

The revolution and Mouth's caper both go badly, and pretty soon, everyone is fleeing back across the horrible leagues between the two cities. After many misadventures, most of the group arrive in Argelo. Mouth and her partner try to fit into non-traveling life, and we get some rather nice "stranger in a strange land" as Sophie and Bianca learn about Argelo. Sadly, Sophie also finally begins to learn about Bianca, who very quickly makes herself at home with the most powerful of the free-wheeling criminal organizations that run the place. Bianca has plans, and Sophie is going to be part of them.

In the final 15% or so of the book, there are battle and horror and catastrophe, and then things just kind of stop.

Anders has a wonderful imagination, and she sometimes has a way with words. But the pieces simply aren't hanging together yet, at least not for me.

I also want to note that the book strikes me as, in some way, a homage to the works of Ursula Le Guin. An obvious inspiration is Le Guin's The Dispossessed, with the two cities and their very different approaches to life on the hostile planet standing in for the worlds of Urras and Anarres. We also have the world January, its very name echoing that of Winter, the outsiders' name for the planet Gethen, setting of Le Guin's The Left Hand of Darkness, which also considered the challenges of maintaining a complex civilization in a very hostile environment.