Octopus Review
Beauty by Robin McKinley

genre: fantasy, fairy tale
age: YA
rating: 5.5/8 tentacles

Robin McKinley writes refreshingly elegant prose. I was especially taken with the descriptions of the enchanted castle; its somber, grandiose decor; and all of the opulent little details of the wardrobe magically procured for Beauty. I like the idea of the blue dress with silver embroidered birds, the hall of portraits that capture the lives of their subjects, and the haunting, animalistic images in the carved arch over the castle’s entrance.

The existence of magic in Beauty’s world is casually introduced, long before we see any evidence of it, in a way that suggests it might only be the stuff of stories. Beauty’s family, who were born and bred in the city, view the countryside and the forests as the dark homes of goblins, fairies, and dragons. The curiosity and uncertainty in Beauty’s delivery of this information smacks of superstition and I could imagine the stories as follies of the ignorant, people’s beliefs about the Unknown they fear. Like those mapmakers who wrote “Here Be Dragons” across painted seas stitched with snakey coils. This representation of magic gave the world an anchor in reality. The novel begins in a world like our own, or like ours once might have been, and we discover magic along with Beauty. McKinley’s is a whimsical, enchanting magic. Two whirling breezes try to dress Beauty in clothes she feels are too extravagant for her and the tea things and dinner plates move on their own, constantly shoving each other out of the way in an effort to present their dish to the visiting lady.

The character of Beauty didn’t make much of an impression on me. Her love of books lacked wonder and curiosity. Her sacrifice wasn’t much of one—she didn’t seem to mind giving up her life or her family although she did miss them once she was gone. She waxed on about the Greeks and learning languages and struck me as a generally stuffy and uninteresting person. My favorite characters were her father, who had such kind intentions, and the Beast. And Greatheart, who became a capital “C” Character in my mind even though he was Beauty’s horse.

McKinley’s writing style and descriptions posses a lovely, sophisticated maturity. I called her prose refreshing earlier because I’m always glad to find writing without that overly sensationalized hyper-introspection that seems to have become common. That type of writing toes the edge of a cliff, over which is a steep descent into self-indulgent blather. But there is none of that here.

There’s more summary than I would like. A balance between summary and action scenes (scenes that relay info vs. scenes during which action unfolds before us) allows the reader to experience the story with the characters at a steady pace. Too much summary creates too much distance between reader and character and too much action might overstimulate or deaden the pace. It depends. I think Beauty could have done with a few more action scenes.

This particular retelling was more similar to the french film released in the forties than to the probably better known Disney film (which I began re-watching after I finished this book). I don’t think I’ve ever actually read any version of Beauty and the Beast before so I can’t compare it to the original fairy tale (although I can say that the characters and background were supplied with a depth absent from fairy tales), but I enjoyed this book very much. I read it all in one day.

If you like this, or think you might like this, or like Beauty and the Beast type stories in general, I recommend reading East by Edith Patou.

Octopus Review
The Diviners by Libba Bray

age: YA
genre: paranormal
rating: 4/8 tentacles

Evie “I want to see my name in lights” O’Neill gets shipped off to live with her uncle in Manhattan after her flapper antics cause trouble for her well-to-do parents. In New York, a ritualistic serial killer whose crimes smack with the supernatural is on the loose and the police ask Evie’s Uncle Will, owner of a Museum of the Occult, to consult on the case. Unbeknownst to her family, Evie posses a supernatural power of her own, the ability to get psychic readings from objects, and she is convinced that if she uses it, she could play an essential role in the capture of the murderer. But this murderer proves to be darker and more elusive than Evie, Will, & Co. expect.

This book shares some similarities with Libba Bray’s previous supernatural trilogy. Both follow the exploits of a young girl in a supernatural version of history. Unlike Gemma’s story, The Diviners is written in third person, and instead of focusing primarily on one character, skips between a multitude of them. The book improves when we’ve had time to get to know the characters a little more. The idea of the American Dream seems to pervade the novel. Most of the characters are motivated by a desire to make something of themselves, to be famous, glamorous, celebrated. To achieve an ideal.

While the book did entertain me, I still felt that something was missing. Instead of the distant, sweeping descriptions of the era, which are scattered throughout the novel (one follows wind, blowing through the city and observing its inhabitants), I would have preferred more time spent on individual characters and more specific, more sensory descriptions of the time period filtered through their points of view. There was a little too much name dropping to convince me of the setting’s authenticity and a little too much stereotype to allow me to connect fully with the characters. The only one I really empathize with is Mabel—I would have like to see more of her. I hope she plays a bigger role in the rest of the trilogy.

The story itself is creepy and mysterious, a good fall read. The plot was resolved at the end (Hooray!), but I’m still left with questions about the characters and their lives. I look forward to the unfolding of these mysteries in the next installment of the trilogy. 

Octopus Review:
Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking by Susan Cain

age: adult
genre: nonfiction, psychology
rating: 7/8 tentacles

I think it’s a pretty well-established idea that the U.S.A. is an extroverted country with extroverted ideals and extroverted societal expectations.  What role, then, do introverts have in this extroverted world?  Many guides exist that claim they can coach introverts to participate less stressfully in extroverted activities, like networking or extensive socializing.  A lot of these guides are nothing more than advice on how to act more extroverted.  How to fake it.  Susan Cain’s Quiet is a refreshing and much needed account of how introverts can find their place in society while remaining true to themselves and without stretching their personality and comfort zone in order to feel normal or be accepted.

Quiet contains many stories of people struggling to fit together the knowledge of who they are and the knowledge of who they grew up believing they were supposed to be.  It also contains stories of people who live in places with introverted ideals (I’m thinking of moving) and how their way of life and self view differs from introverts trapped in extroverted societies.  In these stories, we can see how qualities often looked down on in this society (reservedness, preference for small social gatherings and more abstract conversations, caution) are valued and even sought after.  We might see pieces of ourselves that we’ve learned to hide celebrated as ideals.

This book makes me think about how eager everybody is to force their own values and expectations on others, with little empathy or regard for alternate perceptions or ways of life. It’s sad, really. Books like Quiet and people like Susan Cain are steps in the direction of understanding and compromise between the different personality types, so I salute her for that.  I recommend this book to introverts looking for some self reflection, self-validation, the strength to live on their terms, and to extroverts looking to understand their introverted friends.

Octopus Review
Pandemonium by Lauren Oliver

genre: dystopia
age: YA
rating: 7/8 tentacles

Now that Lena has successfully fled her oppressive society, she must come to terms with losing Alex and face the new hardships that accompany life in the small, self-sustained community of runaways located in the middle of a forest. 

Pandemonium’s narrative splits into segments titled “Then” and “Now” that flip-flop between this period, set immediately after Lena’s escape, and the present, during which Lena seems to have adapted and thrived, joining fellow runaways Raven and Tack in their rebellion against an organization called the DFA (Deliria Free America).

I found myself looking forward to the “Now” segments.  I enjoyed watching the clockwork of Raven and Tack’s plan tick out, observing the smooth efficiency of the DFA meetings that Lena attended, and was intrigued by the character of Julian.  His wounded air and sense of entitlement reminded me a little of Colin Craven, who I like.  Lena watches Julian struggle with his inherited beliefs, delusions from which her own experiences had only recently distanced her—making for an interesting relationship.  In Delirium, Alex drops into Lena’s world out of the blue and radically changes everything for her, teaches her to expand her perceptions, to live.  Now it’s Lena’s turn to do the same for some one else.

I did enjoy the survival segments as well, but because I preferred the other chapters, I found myself disappointed whenever I saw the word “Then” heading a chapter.   The two threads of time are two separate stories, one informing the other, but I wish they had been presented chronologically.  I saw no reason to alternate sections like Oliver did—I don’t think this decision increases the drama of the plot, and I wouldn’t have kept getting jerked out of the story I wanted to be reading.

Delirium didn’t resonate with me and I picked up the sequel mainly out of curiosity.  I approached Pandemonium with a kind of oh-all-right-I-read-the-first-one-so-why-not mentality, without expecting to be impressed, but Pandemonium surprised me.  The plot was much more interesting than its predecessor’s, I liked more of the characters (didn’t like Hana or Alex, do like Raven and Julian), and Oliver’s descriptions were just as beautiful as her writing in Delirium.

Octopus Review:
Insurgent by Veronica Roth

genre: dystopia
age: YA
rating: 3/8 tentacles

In this sequel to the dystopian novel Divergent (Which I will review eventually, I swear.  I have notes.), we tune back in as Tris and friends cope with the aftermath of the brainwashed army attack.  Tris struggles with guilt over the death of her friend and of her parents, and attempts to navigate through a world torn asunder, unsure of who she can trust.

Most of Insurgent felt hazy and meandering. It didn’t have a solid, forward moving pace. It didn’t pull me in or hypnotize me. I read most of the story a little detached from it, waiting to be swallowed up into the world it created. I never really was. Little tiny barriers kept shoving me back out.

The lack of contractions, although a valid stylistic choice, only irritated me. The witty/romantic banter between Tris and Four felt unnatural and not as clever as I assume it was intended to be. The dialogue in general felt staged.

I’ve been noticing that a lot of contemporary YA authors write with this introspective, flowery, self aware voice that is sometimes—in extreme cases—so overly descriptive it veers into pseudo-poetry built of descriptions crafted for effect and not function. I think we get a little of that in Insurgent. There’s a lot of words flying around but not a lot of substance.

I would hazard that most of my hazy meandering feelings came from being trapped in Tris’s thoughts and fears and regrets. In Divergent, we live in Tris’s world, experiencing it through Tris. In Insurgent, we live in Tris’s head, which is not as interesting.  Because she never takes any action to resolve her guilt or confront her fear (until the very end, maybe), these thoughts grow tiresome to read about.

I floated through the book, until about the last third, when my interest was finally sparked and I sat up in my seat, eager to read ahead. It wasn’t until Tris was faced with a clear goal and an intriguing obstacle to outwit that I thought, “Yes. This is what I wanted. This is why I liked Divergent.” Insurgent needed more immediate conflict, more tension. And the twist! Oh, the twist. How frustratingly unoriginal. Maybe Roth will do something to the freshen the idea in her third novel, Detergent (a guess), although none of the millions who’ve already used it in movies, books, and probably television have, so I daren’t dream.

Octopus Review:
Fever by Lauren DeStefano

genre: dystopia, sci-fi-ish
age: YA
rating: 3/8 tentacles

Fever begins just after Rhine and Gabriel have escaped the mansion—their extravagant prison—and we follow them as they attempt to put more and more distance between themselves and the cold science of Vaughn’s evil. This type of action calls for a quicker pace than Wither with more focus on plotting and less of that honey-slow description featured in the first installment of the series.  Give me action! Give me adventure! Give me… a voyeuristic prostitution tent swathed in vagueness? Wait.

I definitely preferred the second half of the book to the first. There’s a kind of slow cloudiness in the beginning, after the initial post-escape excitement. Typical on-the-run adventures primarily move move move. Characters get to one place, interact with people, figure stuff out, go to another place. That’s what I expected from Fever, but Gabriel and Rhine dawdled at times and didn’t do much finding out.

There’s definitely some juicy stuff later on. ( Hint: remember how Linden seemed to have no idea that his beloved brides were kidnapped by his father? How he obliviously lavished them with all sorts of luxurious gifts, how he blindly hoped for love? In Wither, I got the impression he almost expected gratitude from his “wives,” a repulsive expectation, considering the violent way the girls were extracted from their lives, torn from their families. They witnessed the cold-blooded execution of the other girls, not deemed good enough to belong to Linden. I wanted that violence to be shoved in Linden’s face. I wanted his stupid delusions to be shattered into pieces, his stolen happiness punctured.)  I love the scenes with Rhine and Linden.  That is some fantastic, complicated stuff.  Linden might be my favorite character.

He’s much more interesting that Rhine’s erm… consensual “love” interest.  Oh, Gabriel. What to say about Gabriel. Not much. There’s not much about him to discuss. He’s blonde, and likes Rhine, and is possessive. That’s all I know. He is the paper kite at the end of the string in her hand. If she lets go, he is nothing. He has no characteristics beyond his attachment to Rhine.

Gabriel’s bland character contaminates his romance with Rhine (also bland). I blame his possessiveness. They don’t seem to have any actual affection for each other. Yes, Rhine shows concern for Gabriel when he’s drugged out of his mind. But I think she mostly just feels guilt that she tore him out of one hell only to drag him right into a more horrific one. She feels obligated to protect him, to rescue him from the terrors of this world she’s inflicted upon him. I don’t see any evidence that Gabriel cares for Rhine, other than the way he glares at those who try to touch her, like a dog snapping at a stranger who wants to take his toy. The guilt is good. I like the guilt; it creates ambiguity and conflict. What I’m not sure I like is Gabriel’s flatness. Even if their relationship is a sham, I’d like him to have a little more depth.  The problem is that I’m not sure what their relationship is supposed to be.

What it all comes down to is this: Wither entranced me, this book doesn’t feel finished. Nothing pulls the plot forward and I spent most of my time with Fever just waiting, and just as things picked up, the novel ended.

Octopus Review:
Reality is Broken by Jane McGonigal

genre: nonfiction, gaming, life improvement
age: all!, adult
rating: 7/8 tentacles

I spent a large portion of my childhood glued to either the television screen or computer monitor playing all sorts of games with the ferocity of a baby drug addict. Reading Blaster, Kings Quest VII: The Princeless Bride, Super Mario Bros, Super Smash Bros, Mario Kart, Mario Party, Paper Mario, and (especially) Final Fantasy VIII are some of my favorites. I understand the joy that comes from abandoning one’s self to the rules and world of a game, from working hard under the constricts of those rules to achieve an arbitrary goal, the path to which is strewn with obstacle after obstacle. I understand the determination, the absorption, and the focus it takes to achieve those goals as well as the pleasure of these comparatively small successes, the pleasure of simply escaping.

McGonical, herself a game designer, wonders why so many gamers choose to spend their time working toward virtual successes that have little value in the “real world” when they could dedicate themselves to equal but more practical productivity in their lives. In her exploration of the human love—need, even—for games, McGonical references a wide variety examples ranging from Jacks to Tetris to Words with Friends to World of Warcraft to sports. She then suggests applying the structure of game-play (a clear goal, clear instructions, and direct feedback) to real life projects and work. I think this is a fantastic way to give ourselves the sense of purpose often found in games.

A lot of what McGonical says here can be applied to books. A good book allows us to live vicariously through its characters, who often accomplish great things that might feel more important or more consequential than the trivialities of our everyday lives. Books, in addition to games, offer an alternate reality that is in many ways more satisfying than real life. I find this both sad and wonderful. Reality is Broken is ultimately a dissection of the reasons we seek escapist ventures, why we choose the methods of escape that we do, and how we can mold our worlds into places that mimic the games that fulfill us and provide us with such satisfaction.

McGonigal’s prose is deliciously clear. She writes with entrancing and efficient simplicity. Her book was a joy to read and provided some fascinating insights into the psychology of gaming, the awareness of which will now influence the way I organize my work projects and my life.

Octopus Review:
City of Lost Souls by Cassandra Clare

genre: paranormal
age: YA
rating: 3/8 tentacles

I have mixed feelings about City of Lost Souls, mainly because it didn’t meet the expectations built up by the previous four books in The Mortal Instruments series.  I wanted to like it, I really did, but there are just too many problems. 

This fifth installment reads more like fan-fiction than professional writing: self indulgent, lacking focus, and poorly edited. Clare spends too much time on cliched descriptions of make-out sessions and telling us what her characters are wearing.  Providing detailed descriptions of a character’s ensemble every single time he or she enters a scene is an amateur’s mistake.  If the outfit is relevant or contributes to characterization, these details help readers visualize the scene, but too much of this information bogs down the story and distracts readers from what matters. This line, for example, does not work:

“As she came in, Alec looked up and saw her, and sprang to his feet, hurrying barefoot across the room—he was wearing black sweatpants and a white t-shirt with a torn collar—to put his arms around her.”

The color of Alec’s sweatpants is not important and doesn’t warrant interrupting the action to tell us about them. Shoving this information in ruins the flow of the narrative.  Sadly, this line is not the only one of its kind.

This oversharing is one of the many ways CLS lacks focus. I often found myself thinking, “What, this again? Get to the good part!”  Clare spends an inordinate amount of time on the trivial exploits of secondary characters. Maia and Jordan’s scenes were all pretty much gooey teen romance, which I’m not a fan of to begin with (personal preference), and dislike even more when it contributes nothing to significant characterization or plot.

The plot (Clary and friends’ attempts to find Jace and Sebastian and then stop Sebastian’s nefarious scheme) often got buried under the aforementioned makeout sessions and fashion commentary, but when it wasn’t, when we were right in the thick of things—the book was pretty good. There was a lot of interesting development with Sebastian’s character and his relationship with Clary. My favorite scenes were with Sebastian. He’s a fantastic—I don’t want to say villain, because Clare makes things nice and grey for us. A very dark grey, but grey nonetheless.

The climax stood out as the strongest part of the novel.  I wish Clare had written the rest of it with the same clarity and focus.

The City of Lost Souls possesses an entertaining plot that has been sucked into the quicksand of Clare’s surprisingly amateurish writing.  The novel could have used some more editing to really reach its potential, I think.

Octopus Review:
Dramarama by E. Lockhart

genre: realistic fiction
age: YA
rating: 5/8 tentacles

Sarah Paulson is bored with her life in what she sees as a dead-end middle-of-nowhere sort of town.  She gives herself a dramatic makeover, changes her name to Sadye,  and heads off to a summer theatre camp with her best friend Demi, convinced that her fortune is about to change, that the world of theatre will nurture her true self and allow her to grow into the sensational human being she knows she’s meant to be.  But theatre camp isn’t quite the dream Sadye expected.

One of Lockhart’s talents is making readers empathize with her protagonists. Even though I didn’t like Sarah/Sadye, I felt enragedly frustrated on her behalf as she fought to prove herself at a summer semester of drama school. She was like a little mole who kept popping her little mole head out of its hole, blinking in awe at the dazzling world of theatre, only to get whacked on the head by a mallet-happy drama instructor.

I pronounced “Sadye” as “Sad-yuh” in my mind. I knew it was supposed to be Sayd-ee from the moment I saw it but my brain wanted to say it the way it was spelled. Should have gone with Sade, Sadey, Sadie, Sady… there are so many options. Sad-yuh doesn’t work for me.

The novel is interspersed with transcripts of the tape recordings Sadye and Demi make of their adventures at drama school.  The format is clever but boring.  Dialogue included in these segments feels flat and mostly uninformative and I had trouble following the conversations.

I’m not particularly interested in theatre, but the details of life at drama school entertained me and made me feel like I was looking into a secret world. I liked the ambiguous portrayal of friendship vs. competition and mindlessly following orders vs. creative collaboration. Dramarama is enjoyable, but not as good as Frankie Landau-Banks, which I constantly recommend to everyone.

Octopus Review: Clockwork Prince by Cassandra Clare

age: YA
genre: period, romance, paranormal
rating: 4.5/8 tentacles

**SEQUEL ALERT: BEWARE OF SPOILING CLOCKWORK ANGEL**

Our demon-killing, shape-shifting, cane-carrying, magic-wielding, corset-wearing, book-quoting friends are back!

Okay so let’s start with things I didn’t like so we can end on a positive note.
I found the plot of this novel to be much less well-crafted than Clare’s other work. I particularly like The Mortal Instruments series for its forward-moving plots that are centered on some kind of mystery or adventure—like where’s mom and who are these weirdos with pictures on their arms? I enjoy romance when it’s a subplot, but this trilogy’s romance is creeping into the forefront, greedily elbowing the actual plot out of its way. In Clockwork Prince, the Magister and the clockwork angel and Tessa’s unique abilities all take a backseat to her love triangle with Will and Jem. The romance is a spicy bonus but I’m reading the book because I want to know the secrets behind the Magister’s sinister scheming, why Tessa can shape shift, and who her parents were.

The one thing about Tessa that makes her interesting, that makes her stand out as a character, is the fact that she’s a shape shifter and had no knowledge of this fact until some demon sisters trained her to do it properly. She should be using this ability, exploring its possibilities. This is what I was looking forward to when I read Clockwork Prince, but Tessa only shape shifts three times in the whole book: twice because it’s part of a plan and once in the heat of battle. Why isn’t she sneaking around in other bodies, getting into scrapes, and spying on people? Why isn’t she using her skills for peronal gain or even just out of personal curiousity? It’s such a fun, promising idea that I’m surprised Clare didn’t do more with it. The subservient role of women in this time period lends itself to unique opportunities in this plot line.

I also had minor issues with some historical aspects of the novel. There was a kind of half-way attempt at period dialogue, but all Clare really did was use “shall” and get rid of contractions. I’m pretty sure that people used contractions in Victorian England. I think, with period speech, you either have to do research—which isn’t too hard, read some old letters or something—and really go for it, or you have write in the present day vernacular (avoiding obvious anachronisms) and it will just be understood that the character’s words are being translated in storytelling. Like in the movie Everafter. It’s set in medieval France, and yet everyone speaks with vaguely old-fashioned diction in English accents. It’s understood that the speech was adapted to aid the audience’s understanding. Maybe that’s what Clare was doing, but something about it felt off, or forced to me.

Clockwork Prince could have done with a little less classics-quoting. On the one hand, it’s interesting to know what was popular at the time and the books mentioned help set a historical backdrop. On the other hand, it’s a bit of a pet peeve of mine to read books that constantly quote other books. It feels a little bit like name dropping, or like a cheatery way to give the characters more depth.

Ta da! I’m done complaining.

I did like Clockwork Prince. Not as much as Clockwork Angel and definitely not as much as The Mortal Instruments, but I enjoyed it. It’s the kind of book that has this magnetic pull to it, that makes you think about it constantly when you’re not reading it, that makes you count down the minutes to the end of your work day even more urgently than usual because you have a book to get home to, that makes you stay up reading late into the night. I’m trying to think of specific praises to balance out my review full of criticisms and the robot battle scene was pretty cool and the Jessamine thing was intriguing (and oh my god I forgot to complain about Will’s secret but this is getting long), but I think this addictive quality is so wonderful and rare that it balances out all of the little flaws on its own.

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green
age: YA
genre: real life, cancer, humor, sadness (those are genres, right?)
rating: 7/8 tentacles

I don’t know what to say about this book except stupid vague things like “really really good” and “you should read it.” 

This is John Green’s first novel told from a female perspective and done so quite successfully, in my opinion.  Despite being about kids who have cancer, this book is not one of those melodramatic cancer-fighting-child-hero books.  It is understated and sweet and personal.  It’s funny.  Although Hazel facetiously refers to herself as a professional cancer patient, the disease takes a backseat to her personality, her fears, and her desires.  And then there’s Augustus Waters and Peter Van Houten and Amsterdam. 

Augustus uses his Cancer Wish take Hazel on a trip to Amsterdam in search of Peter Van Houten, the author of An Imperial Affliction: Hazel’s favorite, but ambiguously concluded novel.   It strikes me as sad that someone like Hazel has become fixated on a story that, for her, has ended too soon, when the threat of her own premature end has hung over her head for all the years of her illness.  Growing up in hospitals and support groups will have introduced her to other cancer kids who didn’t make it and their mourning parents.  Hazel’s entire world is built of stories ended too soon.  It’s like her quest to find out what happens after the last page of the book is actually a quest for reassurance that stories don’t really end.

I think it’s safe to say that my reviews are generally full of complaints, but I don’t have a single complaint about this book.  The characters are lovely, the writing is of high quality, and the story moves forward consistently.  I felt connected to the characters and their lives as I read.  I was made to care about them.

I read this book quickly because I was absorbed in the story and wanted to know what happened, but I’d like to read it again, a little more slowly, just to soak in the words.

Peter and the Starcatchers by Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson

age: children’s
genre: adventure, fantasy
rating: 5/8 tentacles

When Peter’s orphanage dumps him and several other parent-less boys onto an old ship called The Never Land, he becomes involved with a secret, ancient battle between Starcatchers and Others to be the first to capture the powerful shooting stars that fall to earth. The story offers a magical, star-powered explanation for the existence of Barrie’s Neverland in all of its delightful enchantment.

The writing is simple and repetitious, with lots of “he said, she said, he said,” which, in my opinion, somewhat limits target readers to those who have not yet acquired a taste for more sophisticated prose: either the very young or the non-reader. I say this as someone who still loves reading children’s literature, not someone who just picked up a kid’s book and said, “Aw this writing isn’t mature enough for me.” When I look at the intelligence and humor and dexterous descriptions in some of my favorite children’s books—books I enjoyed as child—I can’t help but hold other work up to that same standard. Just compare this with Barrie’s original. And Joan Aiken.  I compare everyone to Joan Aiken.

In many ways, Peter and the Starcatchers is similar to Percy Jackson & the Olympians. Both stories feature a young boy adventuring with friends. Percy learns about Greek Gods and goes on a Quest with Annabeth and Grover. Peter learns about Starcatchers and, in a questlike manner, attempts to protect a magical item from falling into pirate hands with Molly, Alf, and the other orphans. Both tales are told with a degree of silliness. However, as I read on, it became clear that Peter simply does not possess the same depth as Percy Jackson. The characters felt like characters instead of people and Peter lacked much of his Peter Pan-ness. One might attempt to justify this with: “but he’s not Peter Pan yet… Of course he started out as a normal boy!” But I won’t buy it. I want the cocky impish child from Barrie’s novel and Disney’s films. This Peter was too ordinary to be Pan.

Here is another similarity between Peter and the Starcatchers and Percy Jackson & the Olympians: both are based on pre-existing stories. Percy Jackson is based on mythology, which includes countless tales of all the gods that have been twisted and changed through generations of repetition. It’s difficult to remain loyal to such varying myths that have already been interpreted and reinterpreted so many times and in so many different ways. The story of Peter Pan is much younger and has a specific source. I love the novel by J.M.Barrie and find it hard to completely accept the way that Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson have claimed Peter Pan and his world as their own and almost audaciously invented a story of origin that conflicts with Barrie’s own novel. I feel much the same as I do when I book I like gets made into a movie that doesn’t fit my interpretation.

Peter and the Starcatchers was a fun, youthful adventure and its simplistic narration often gave way to moments of lovely description. Peter did not offer the same cleverness or whimsy as Barrie’s Peter Pan or the same pull as Percy Jackson & the Olympians but it was a quick, entertaining read and I will very shortly begin the next in the series, Peter and the Shadow Thieves.

Delirium by Lauren Oliver

genre: romance in dystopian world (emphasis on romance)
age: YA
rating: 5/8 tentacles

In the future, scientists have recognized love, or “amor deliria nervosa,” as a mental illness… and they have found a cure. All eighteen-year-olds undergo a procedure that promises to relieve them of the threat of love’s horrifying symptoms: obsessive attachment to another person, sweating palms and fluttering hearts, and the irrational behavior often triggered by this madness. Lena Holoway’s eighteenth birthday approaches and she can’t wait to have the procedure, to be safe from the strange behaviors exhibited by her own mother before she eventually succumbed to madness and then death. Lena is desperate to escape the risk of this horrible disease—whose effects she has witnessed firsthand—and is counting down the days until the moment she will be examined, cured, and then assigned a partner in what will be a loveless marriage of convenience.

Delirium’s premise is far-fetched, but intriguing and I was curious to see where Lauren Oliver would go with it. Generally, the story takes the most obvious route: girl thinks love is disease, girl wants cure for disease, girl meets boy, girl likes boy, girl’s heart stops (Is she dead? No, in love!), girl realizes love is good! But underneath this extremely predictable plot line, there is a government that advocates a medical cure for love (why?), that fights to keep “un-cured” rebels at bay, and that harbors great secrets, and a conclusion that is not quite as predictable as the course the novel takes to reach it.

Delirium struck me as having a similar premise as Matched because both plots rely heavily on a dystopian system where individuals are evaluated and assigned spouses. Oliver’s take on this idea is much more thoughtful and better written than Condie’s effort, with its fluid prose and strong, vivid descriptions. For example:

It’s only slightly better than the other word that followed me for years after my mom’s death, a snakelike hiss, undulating, leaving its trail of poison: Suicide. A sideways word, a word that people whisper and mutter and cough: a word that must be squeezed out behind cupped palms of murmured behind closed doors. It was only in my dreams that I heard the word shouted, screamed.

These moments of sharply poetic prose provide useful and striking descriptions of Lena’s thoughts and world. Key word: useful. (I’m looking at you, Condie and Steifvater.)

Despite the lovely writing, I had some issues with melodrama, continuity, and annoying boys. Delirium definitely contains some of that melodramatic fluttering heart garbage that is really becoming one of my biggest pet peeves. This is partly because I do not like romance novels. I enjoy romance as a subplot, but the main plot has to be something more creative, more original, more interesting (no, I don’t find two people sighing and drooling over each other at all interesting). And although Delirium is set against a dystopian backdrop, it is, at its palpitating heart, a romance novel. I generally steer clear of romance novels, but I am occasionally fooled into mistaking one for, oh, I don’t know, a dystopia. Once I get sucked into reading them, the obsession with abnormal heart activity and tingling body parts makes me fake gag and roll my eyes. This close attention to the bodily indications of attraction reminds me of a hypochondriac tracking his symptoms (Which is kind of funny when you remember the topic of this book. Maybe romance novels are a disease). In short, I do not find these types of descriptions romantic at all. So maybe it isn’t that I dislike romance, but that its common portrayal in literature fails to appeal to my particular romantic sensibilities. Especially the overly angstified romance rampant in YA. Yuck.

Contributing to my dislike of the romance is the rather ordinary, uninteresting love interest, golden-eyed Alex. I didn’t like him or his weird habit of laughing with his head tipped back so that Lena can see the roof of his mouth. What is he, an animated super-villain?

Something about Delirium, despite its attempts to conquer the deep and complicated topic of love, feels superficial and contrived. Lena is presented to us as an intelligent person who is somehow more discerning than her peers, somehow, deeper. She has a “poetic” soul (supposedly). But these qualities that allow her to transcend the oppressive norm are presented to us in very superficial ways. Her favorite color, for instance, is gray, as opposed to the acceptable blue… adopted by mindless drones everywhere? Maybe this is meant to be symbolic of the phrase “shades of gray” and how they are no longer accepted in Lena’s society, but when I read this part, I rolled my eyes.  Reciting poetry and enjoying the color gray doesn’t tell me that a character has more emotional depth than her peers. It tells me that the author is trying really hard to make her seem like she does.

I do like the descriptions of Lena’s struggle to put on an act for the world and I think a lot of people will be able to relate to the pressure she felt to stamp down her personality in favor of a socially approved persona.

Sometimes I feel there are two me’s, one coasting directly on top of the other. The superficial me, who nods when she’s supposed to nod and says what she’s supposed to say, and some other, deeper part, the part that worries and dreams and says “Gray.” Most of the time they move along in sync and I hardly notice the split, but sometimes it feels as though I’m two whole different people and I could rip apart at any second.

This book certainly has its pros and cons, but overall I’m left with a kind of “eh” feeling.

Despite all of my complaints, I did enjoy Oliver’s writing, and I kind of want to know how other aspects of the story pan out… So although this did not make it into my favorites, I will be reading the sequel. Probably.

Shiver by Maggie Steifvater

genre: paranormal romance
age: YA
recommend to: those who liked Twilight
rating: 3/8 tentacles

Don’t let this book fool you. It will try. It will pretend to have a plot, just to draw you in. It will dance pretty descriptions before your eyes and hide nonsense behind pretty words, hoping that you won’t notice. Steifvater writes, “As the hours crept by, the afternoon sunlight bleached all the books on the shelves to pale, gilded versions of themselves and warmed the paper and ink inside the covers so that the smell of unread words hung in the air.” Isn’t that lovely? It fooled me too.

As soon as girl meets boy (in his human form), all pretense at plot is abandoned in favor of what I like to call Gooey Teen Romance. You’ve seen it. Two teens meet each other for the first time and it’s like a spell has been cast. They think constantly about that person. Every other aspect of their life fades into the background. Everything becomes irrelevant except for this other person. They need to see this person, need to speak to this person. But most of all, they need to touch this person. They yearn for them. Gooey Teen Romance primarily consists of yearning. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like to read page after page of descriptions of yearning. I like to read stories. About things happening. With plots that unfold, instead of gathering dust in the corner.

This is the plot, before it was discarded and then vaguely picked up again towards the end of the book like oh yeah, wasn’t I talking about something? The book begins with Grace enduring a wolf attack. She lies there in the snow, motionless, doing nothing to protect herself. This seems like an interesting sub-mystery—why doesn’t she fight to live? But don’t get your hopes up. This is never addressed. So as she calmly submits to death-by-mauling she looks up into the yellow eyes of one of the wolves. And the wolf seems to gaze back. Then he calls the other wolves off. She survives.

After this moment, Grace feels a special connection to what she comes to think of as her wolf. He appears in her backyard every winter. She looks forward to Christmas because she knows her wolf will be waiting at the edges of the woods. Watching her. Guarding her, it seems.

Then a boy, Jack Culpepper, is killed by wolves. The town is in an uproar and the boy’s family insists the wolves be eradicated. Jack’ body is stolen from the morgue and Grace could have sworn she heard his voice in the forest. And there’s a new wolf lurking in its shadows. A mercurial wolf with very familiar eyes. She’s determined to save her wolves and also worried about what has become of Jack and what this new, dangerous wolf will do.

Sounds good, right? I thought so. But then human Sam, aka golden eyed wolf, appears and the plot is forsaken. The angry wolf hunters are never mentioned again. Let the yearning and drivelly romance begin. Grace actually tells us, several times, that she feels like the rest of her life (school, her friends, her parents) doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters now is being with Sam. I had some horrifying Twilight flashbacks. Their relationship is revealed as being even more unhealthy when Grace admits that she fell in love with Sam before she knew he was a human. She fell in love with a dog. Fell. In love. With a dog. He is touched, instead of being properly repulsed by her bestial tendencies.

Steifvater alternates between Sam’s and Grace’s perspectives although the only way to tell the difference between speakers is context. I often skipped reading the chapter heading and mistook who was narrating. Steifvater probably wanted to get both points of view in, but focused on trying to sound writerly instead of creating distinct voices for her characters. See As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner as an example of successful alternating perspectives. One of Sam’s chapters begins, “I was a leaking womb.” First of all, what boy would ever liken himself to a womb? Second of all, leaking? Was it his time of the month? Was he leaking baby juices? Whatever female reproductive organ he feels like, there is no need for metaphorical leakage. It’s just disgusting. Regardless of whether or not this is a successful and illuminating metaphor (it’s not. what does it even mean?), this is not something that ANY boy would say. She really wrote this. Its on page sixty-three.

Further nonsensical imagery include, but are not limited to:
-paper falling like listless birds (page 49). Grace drops some loose leaf. Imagine listless (languid, dispirited, indifferent) birds falling to the ground.  Now imagine sheets of paper falling to the ground. Do they look similar? Does describing these indifferent birds help you envision the paper? I rest my case.

-The full leaking womb bit goes like this: “I was not a wolf, but I wasn’t Sam yet, either. I was a leaking womb bulging with the promise of conscious thoughts…” Okay, so I think what Steifvater is trying to tell us is that Sam is in between forms and he can almost feel the conscious thoughts coming, like a baby being born? But… I don’t know. If he didn’t already have conscious thoughts he wouldn’t have been able to tell us this, so that doesn’t work either.

-“Sam and I had spent last night talking about the strange room of stuffed animals at the Culpeppers’ and wondering, with the constant irritation of a scratchy sweater, where Jack was going to make his next appearance” (Page 120). This metaphor makes sense but it’s really crammed in there. Awkwardly. This sentence is as awkward as a leaking womb.

I only wrote three examples down. But there are plenty more. I attribute them to Steifvater paying more attention to what her words sounded like than what they meant. A lot of this novel reads like overwrought pseudo poetry. For example: Sam’s song lyrics. One of Sam’s hobbies is to make up song lyrics in his head and then force us to read them (One of his songs is about truffles). I skipped over them. They seem completely out of nowhere and disconnected to his character.

So who is Sam? In the winter he’s a wolf with yellow eyes that saves girls from being mauled. In the summer he is a boy who makes up songs in his head, feels like a uterus with something oozing out of it, and reads Rilke. Which Steifvater forces us to read too.

When I picked up Shiver, I wanted a story about the silent bond between a girl and a yellow-eyed wolf. I imagined them exploring a lush forest carpeted in pine needles. I imagined the wolf following the girl, the amazement that such a majestic and wild animal had chosen her as its companion. I imagined the adventures they would have together, and her shock and delight when the wolf became a boy. When he could respond to her with words of her own language. Then, the bond they built as girl and wolf might evolve into something else. I was hoping he would still be wild and wolflike as a boy.

But Sam is just ordinary. And this isn’t the story I got.

I’m primarily focusing on the negatives here, and I feel a little bad about that. There is a lot more of the beautiful description I quoted in my first paragraph. But I didn’t like this book. Partly because it didn’t meet my expectations, partly because this kind of story just isn’t my cup of tea, and partly because a lot of things in it didn’t make sense.

Hereafter by Tara Hudson

genre: paranormal
age: YA
rating: 1/8 tentacles

I could not finish this. I think I got to Chapter Five or Six and was still wondering where the story was. Maybe some people will say that I didn’t give it a fair chance, but I read enough to get a feel for the writing, to decide it was not good writing, and to realize that I couldn’t muster up any feelings except apathy for the main character (or any other characters for that matter). Amelia is too wishy washy. She goes on about how she doesn’t remember her last name or when she lived but she kind of hangs out in her cemetery and she doesn’t even care enough about herself to turn around and read the tombstone. If she doesn’t care, why should I?

Here is how the story starts. Amelia sees a boy drowning. She desperately wants to save him from sharing her terrible fate but can do nothing to help because she is a ghost. Yup, yup, I’m still with you. She can hear his heart slowing. She wills him to wake up, to swim to the surface. His heart stops. …And then starts again? You lost me. I’m no medical expert, but I’m pretty sure that if someone is drowning and their heart stops, it’s not going to randomly start again. Maybe it’s possible in some one in a million type scenario, but we’ve only just got this story going and already I’m in doubt. My suspended disbelief is sputtering and losing altitude.

After his magic revival, the boy swims to shore where a crowd of people who know him and are shouting his name have miraculously appeared. We are shown the gaping hole in the guardrails on the bridge or overpass where his car ripped through and plummeted into the river below. So if he was in the car by himself, where did all those people come from? According to the internet, it only takes about two or three minutes to drown. So how did all those people AND an ambulance get down to the river in two or three minutes? Were they driving in a caravan formation? Is there a convenient stairway down to the river? There may be some reason for all of this, but it is unusual and so must be explained (ditto mysterious resuscitation).

When Call-Me-Joshua comes back to find Amelia, their interaction is stiff and boring. He says “O-kay” a bunch of times and Amelia looks at her dress. Despite the car crash and the rescue (which were both played down), there seems to be very little action in this story. There’s next to no tension, and thus little to propel the story forward. The first twenty pages consist mostly of introspection, which might have been interesting if it led us somewhere. Also, who requests to be called by their full name when all of their friends/family/whoever clearly call them by a nickname?

I really wanted to enjoy Hereafter because I’m a huge fan of ghost stories, but it was extremely disappointing. If you were planning to read this, I recommend putting it down and going to read A Certain Slant of Light instead—it’s a better version of the same type of story. If you really want to be spooked, More Than You Know is amazing. It’s one of my favorites.

**If anyone can convince me that it will get better and that things happen and actually move forward, then I may consider giving it a second chance. Maybe.