An Informal History of the Hugos: A Personal Look Back at the Hugo Awards, 1953-2000, by Jo Walton

Review copy provided by Tor Books.

Once upon a time there was a teenager whose physics research equipment was broken two summers in a row, and she was stuck with a library on Library of Congress system, which is great for organization but terrible for browsing. And this kid decided that if she was going to do this SF writing thing, she should take it as seriously as physics–and she was the sort of physics kid who had research jobs at ages 18 and 19 to go wrong, so that was how seriously she took physics. So…there was the list of Hugo nominees and winners. And the list of Nebula nominees and winners. And a lot of long summer hours reading them when there was no possibility of getting physics done. And a lot of wandering off down side tracks when I liked a particular author or work very much, or even just when the library had a lot by that person.

I sometimes refer to myself as my misspent youth, but it’s actually stood me in really good stead for the career I ended up having, which is 0% physicist and 100% SF writer. It also means that when I read a lengthy discussion of the history of the Hugos, I have a good grounding in who’s doing what when. This book was a kind of perspective all at once that I didn’t have, though, even with having glanced at the original Tor.com posts that comprise it. It was a fun, fast read despite its considerable size, and it left me with some thoughts I assemble for you here in no particular order.

Jo Walton is a nicer person than I am. Okay, I should have put in the disclaimer that she’s a dear friend, also, but that’s not why I’m saying this. Loads of my friends are not as nice a person as I am. (Not very nice to say that, but at the same time I can guarantee at least a dozen people are nodding happily along thinking, “She means me,” without the least trouble to their consciences.) But there were several places where Jo said, “I haven’t read this, but I’m sure it’s great,” and I said aloud to the book, “I HAVE and it’s NOT.” She gives a lot of wiggle room, a lot of benefit of the doubt. What she does not do is pretend to have read anything she hasn’t actually read, which is great, more people should be clear about what they haven’t read.

One of the fascinating things to me was watching the “I read this stuff when it was new” line kick in at a different place for Jo than it did for me. I knew hypothetically that books look different when they are ground-breaking for you than when they’re part of the status quo, but wow, there it all was. John Varley, for example, was always part of the world I could expect, one of the things stories just did–whereas for Jo and a few of the commenters who were adding to her posts, there was a period of adding those works to their world concept. It changes a lot. There are all sorts of definitions of a book “holding up” with time, many of which are discussed in this volume, but I think one of the interesting questions on that front is: how does it do as a novel if the concepts (stylistic or science fictional or whatever) that were startling have become familiar to the reader?

Another thing that became startlingly clear to me when I was seeing the lists of what came out in a particular year of my childhood all at once: it used to be that most of my reading was in one of two categories: the men I was reading because I was told they were the good stuff you read if you were serious about SFF, and the women I read because I found them on my own and wanted to. It was not quite that stark, but…it sure felt pretty stark when I was looking at the lists of Hugo nominees and thinking, oh yes, I remember reading that…and then looking at the lists of what else was published and thinking, oh, I loved that! oh, that changed my life!

One of the major questions Jo addresses in this book is: how representative was each slate of nominees of what the field was doing at the time? And this is a question that I found fascinating in this format and…literally could not care less about in real time. Reading about it in this format clarified how little I care about that. It was an interesting point of consideration academically; in the field, inasmuch as I care about awards at all, I care about people trying to give them to the things they like best, or to the things that fit some other criteria that is specified for the award. So: does it represent the field? Is it “the kind of book that wins a Hugo”? I don’t care. I literally could not care less. Award the books you think are good. Period and full stop.

This is the sort of book that makes more dent than the sum of its blog posts. It was different reading it all at once than once a week (or less, since I wasn’t totally assiduous about this). It’s the sort of thing that you should read if you want an overview of what’s been done and how it was valued in the 20th century, but especially if you’re the sort of person who spends a lot of time talking about–arguing about–science fiction and fantasy. Because even if you’re not arguing much with Jo herself, the very substance of what she’s talking about here can start a hundred discussions–or arguments–if you want it to. Perhaps it will become a party book: take the book down, read a randomly selected entry, discuss. People have done stranger things. People in my social circles, even.

Please consider using our link to buy An Informal History of the Hugos: A Personal Look Back at the Hugo Awards, 1953-2000 from Amazon.

Books read, July

Ann Aguirre, Like Never and Always. Discussed elsewhere.

Chaz Brenchley, Rowany de Vere and a Fair Degree of Frost. Kindle. This is a novella in the same world as the Crater School stories, and its heroine is one of the Crater School’s graduates, all grown up and moved into intelligence services. I think it would stand alone fairly well, if you’re not already supporting Chaz’s Patreon for these projects, but in any case it’s full of winter sports and spies, so I was entirely on board.

Lois McMaster Bujold, Ethan of Athos. Reread. This is a single-gender planet book, just outside the main Vorkosigan sequence. I reread it for my feminist socialist SF panel, and while I don’t think Lois was trying to write a perfect work of either ideology, there were elements that were extremely interesting to discuss in that context: the way that this society accounts for the labor of childrearing when childbearing is something that literally cannot happen accidentally to anyone in it, for example. This book doesn’t represent Lois’s current thinking on gender or sexuality, and also there are people in it who never were meant to–I’ll put a content note here for homophobia directed against the protagonist–but there are things it’s doing that I’m not sure I’ve seen done elsewhere.

Zoraida Cordova, Bruja Born. This was such a fast read. More family ties, more magic, more complications and difficult emotions and getting things done despite them. I really like this series. I like the way this protagonist is allowed to be wrong for all the right reasons, and the way that her family is there with her in all the worst situations.

Edward Eager, Knight’s Castle and Seven-Day Magic. Rereads. The latter is the one of Eager’s works that I feels holds up best–minimal racism, sexism not a major plot element. Knight’s Castle has a message that I guess you can read as anti-sexist, but it doesn’t really balance out the ongoing scorn for girls, in my 21st century experience, since the former is quite overt and the latter a great deal more subtle. Seven-Day Magic leans into Eager’s strength in a big way: doing explicit homage to other children’s writers. It’s a book for kids who love books, and it’s the one that brings me closest to my grade school appreciation of Eager.

Gretel Ehrlich, The Solace of Open Spaces. It’s easy to see why this is a classic of writing place. The way it evokes Wyoming, its people, its weather, its landscape, is astonishing. It’s also a 30+-year-old book, so there are places where I sigh looking at how Ehrlich has described what actual cowboys do (nurturing baby animals for heaven’s sake) vs. the cultural stereotypes of a cowboy…because we’ve had an increase in factory farming, a decrease in actual cowboys, and an increase in invested toxic stereotypes of that job from people who have never held it but would like to be seen in a certain light. Particularly politicians. Bleh.

George Eliot, Silas Marner. Kindle. I am not astonished at the people who were forced to read this in high school and told me it was boring, because it’s not a book for teens. But the people who read it as adults–come on, this is a beautiful book. It’s about community connection in an era of financially spurred isolation. And there’s that beautiful coda that is even more beautiful if you know Maryann Evans’s personal life…I cried at that ending. That was one of the most cathartic endings ever. I mean, it’s no Middlemarch, but nothing is.

Nicola Griffith, So Lucky. A thriller about being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. I’m not kidding, and it’s searing and amazing and left me with all kinds of thoughts about disability representation and expectations and what makes experiences in this area the same and different. Recommended.

William Hjortsberg, Symbiography. Kindle. Very rooted in its time in its concerns about dream and “civilization.”

Justina Ireland and Troy L. Wiggins, eds., Fiyah Issue 6 and Fiyah Issue 7. Kindle. These were two very solid issues–I think Issue 7 may be my favorite yet, with each story really firing on all cylinders. Tade Thompson’s “Yard Dog” and LaShawn M. Wanak’s “Sister Rosetta Tharpe and Memphis Minnie Sing the Stumps Down Good” were my favorites but honestly it was all good. In Issue 6 I thought the stand-out was Juliana Goodman’s “Furious Girls.”

Mary Robinette Kowal, The Calculating Stars. Discussed elsewhere.

Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed. Reread. This was for my feminist socialist SF panel, and there were some ways in which it was fascinating, and there were some ways in which it is exemplary in the area of “authors who kept learning for their whole lives.” Because there were parts of this book that were simply appalling and heartbreaking in gender terms. The protagonist, let me be clear, commits sexual assault, and when he reflects on his feelings of guilt immediately thereafter, guilt for having assaulted another person is not in the list, there’s only reflection on political complicity. Nor, I feel, does the narrative complicate or undermine that reaction. Shutting women out of the sciences is used as a puppy-kicking plot point to show how terrible a society is, but there are literally no women characters who are directly negatively affected by it, no women who want anything better than they have, no…look, it’s a lot. Go into this prepared, because Le Guin got better than this over her lifetime, and it is a lot.

Naomi Mitchison, The Corn King and the Spring Queen. And speaking of a lot…there is so much sexual violence and toxicity in this book. There are so many relationships that are utterly, thoroughly horrid for all concerned. And this is the book that made me realize how many older women had cis women in their books wishing to be men, routinely, as though it was something obvious that everyone would do, and that made me cry, and I have not been able to unsee it since. But…this is also a fascinating angle for an historical novel, its setting, its worldbuilding and attitudes toward magic, everything. I’m not sorry I endured to get to the whole thing. (But there’s some part of me that’s sorry that Naomi had to.)

William Morris, The Defense of Guenevere and Other Poems. Kindle. Do you want rhyming couplets? Lots and lots of rhyming couplets, that only extremely rarely avoid an obvious rhyme? Do you want them on Arthurian and other chivalric themes? Uncle Bill is your dude, then. This…look, I love him, I love William Morris to pieces, it’s why he’s one of the very small number of historical figures I refer to with an avuncular nickname. But this is not, in fact, good. It’s ponderous and sentimental and everything, everything that the Pre-Raphaelites got criticized for being. “Chivalric themes” means that this is not actually even remotely the feminist end of his thought. If you want to read this at all, you want to read it for very specific reasons, and I have those reasons myself, I just…most of you can really let me take this one for the team.

E. Nesbit, The Book of Dragons, The Magic City, The Phoenix and the Carpet, The Railway Children, The Story of the Amulet, and The Wouldbegoods. Rereads every one. Nesbit–like Eager after her (but before her in this book list!)–wrote for a very particular imagined child reader. That child was of her era, British, upper middle class or upper class. Servants and their families are people who help her readers, not people who are her readers. And yet. And yet she’s trying to juggle Fabian sensibilities and a strong sense of children as actual fallible people, not needing to be role models but real characters, and there’s still so very very much to love in her books. I read these because I was on more than one panel at Readercon about her, but I don’t regret a moment of the reread.

Naomi Novik, Spinning Silver. I think that Naomi Novik and I will just never align on the subject of romantic plots/fictional relationships, and I would love to talk to other people who have read this about the ending of the romantic plots in this book because…so many thoughts and feelings here. However. This was a medieval fantasy with Jewish people who interacted with their own and Gentile culture in nuanced and varied ways. This was a medieval fantasy where a stubborn peasant girl got to stay a stubborn peasant girl. There were all sorts of portrayals of work, different kinds of work, in ways that were fascinating and, again, nuanced. There was more than one villain, and more than one antagonist, and they didn’t necessarily align. So the romantic plot…differences of opinion…did not manage to undo all the good done in this book, reminding me that we like books for what they do right, not what they fail to do wrong.

Daniel Malory Ortberg, The Merry Spinster. These are short stories that take a different angle on stories we feel we know. They’re unsettling and upending and sometimes grim (and sometimes Grimm) and generally worth your time. Every time you say, “I know how this one goes,” you probably don’t.

Tamora Pierce, Alanna: The First Adventure and In the Hand of the Goddess. Rereads. These were formative for me in so many ways. They were desperately important books in my adolescence. I read them again because they were an important example, for adolescent me, of how fantasy can handle sexuality and sex ed, without bogging down the ongoing adventures in preachiness. Upon reread it became clear to me how much they reinforced the idea that talking about your harassment will prove to the men and boys around you that you’re not worthy to be among them, and that made me sad. But I’m still glad I had it when I did.

Hannu Rajaniemi, Summerland. Discussed elsewhere.

Alastair Reynolds, Elysium Fire. This is an Alastair Reynolds novel! If you haven’t read one yet, this is an okay one to start with I guess? but Blue Remembered Earth has elephants so really go with that one. Anyway: there’s a consistency of feel in the universe he writes here, and he nails that again, so if you want one of those, this is a one of those.

Kelly Robson, Gods, Monsters, and the Lucky Peach. This is very weird science fiction in ways that I didn’t expect from the title. It kept surprising me, which is always a valuable thing.

Jennie Rooney, Red Joan. This is not a traditionally structured spy novel, it’s a novel about a spy. It’s a novel about an entire long life and what leads to some decisions and what forces others. Old women are allowed to be characters here. It’s a lovely character study.

Leslie Contreras Schwartz, Fuego. A slim and passionate volume of poetry about childbirth and long-distance swimming and all sorts of interesting things.

Rebecca Solnit, Wanderlust: A History of Walking. This is lovely. It talks about pilgrimage and mountain climbing and city strolls and the history of garden philosophy and Jane Austen and the Wordsworths and all sorts of things. There is a passage toward the end that feels very firm, very deliberate, where Solnit talks about some of the ways in which walking is not the same for every demographic in every culture, especially ours–I feel like I can almost feel her saying to herself, “This is not what my book is about and yet I can’t not talk about it,” and the balance works beautifully for me. I’ve been enjoying reading my way through her works, and this was no exception.

Lynne Thomas, Michael Damian Thomas, and Michi Trota, eds., Uncanny Issue 22 and Uncanny Issue 23. Kindle. Two solid but very different issues, since one of them was dinosaur themed. I don’t generally review things I’m in, and I’m in here, so I will speak only generally.

Jessica Weisberg, Asking for a Friend: Three Centuries of Advice on Life, Love, Money, and Other Burning Questions from a Nation Obsessed. This is a history of advice writing, particularly of advice writing in the US, although there is a brief early part that’s about British advice writing, on the theory that it contributed to the genre here. This is short and interesting if you like the topic, which I do; I love advice columns. It’s so compelling to see how people formulate their problems and solutions. And watching the genre evolve socially over time is great.

Barbara Willard, A Sprig of Broom. Reread. This is a series of historical fiction from when the boundary between middle grade and young adult had not sorted itself out thoroughly, or at least not into what it is now. As a result, this series is…readable on the individual sentence level, and aimed at teens in content, but much thinner than what would be expected now. This one is the aftermath of Henry Tudor’s accession to the throne, as seen in a small manor house/family. It was fine to read, but I don’t have any reason to think I’ll want to reread it again.

P. G. Wodehouse, Three Men and a Maid. Kindle. I was on a plane, okay? This is a Wodehouse that does the things Wodehouse does. It does what it says on the tin, which is be by Wodehouse. Sometimes you’re on a plane and want a story where people run about and get into scrapes and dogs do various things and someone has to hide somewhere improbable and it all works out in the end.

Banana Yoshimoto, The Lake. A love story between two people with emotional baggage and some very weird life experiences. Compelling and thoughtful and short.

Present Writers: Barbara Hambly (Barbara Hamilton)

This is the third post in this series; see the first post, on Marta Randall, for series details, or the second one, on Dorothy Heydt (Katherine Blake) for more cool Present Authors.

Earlier this month I was on a Readercon panel about authors who challenge the pigeonhole, who cannot be categorized into one tidy box or another. And when I started to make my notes for panel prep, one of the very first names that popped into my head was Barbara Hambly’s. A quick glance at her bibliography shows a range not only all over the speculative sub-genres (historical fantasy! secondary world fantasy! vampires! Star Trek and Star Wars!), but also straight-up historical fiction, mysteries, things that are not speculative at all. She does it all. Short stories, novels, graphic novels, large press, small press, indie published…all of it. All. Backwards in high heels, I expect.

My personal favorites among Barbara Hambly’s work are the Benjamin January mysteries. They provide everything I want in historical mysteries: depth of worldbuilding, characterization that’s rooted in the place and time and yet deeply individual, thematic ties that make the setting the right place to explore these particular questions of life and death and human motivation. I am particularly fond of the women in these books, January’s sisters and his wife especially but also the variety of other characters in the periphery. As with many of the best mystery series, the ensemble cast provides strength and suspense, preventing the detective’s actions from becoming too formulaic. (Although I’m not sure that’s something we should worry about from an author who goes as readily from subgenre to subgenre and idea to idea as Hambly does.)

Characters are central to everything Hambly does. The genre tropes that she draws out in her books are presented with full context for what they would mean to a variety of real people–and that variety has included axes of underrepresentation not only along the lines of race, but age and ability and other factors as well. I never know what Hambly will decide to do next, and I love that in an author–it makes me so grateful that she is so prolifically present with us now.

In and out and around

So I have finished another year’s Readercon, and the adjacent small writing retreat I did with it, and both were good and now I am doing all the things that have to be done when you get back from a trip. And also all the things that have to be done before you leave on a trip, because it’s just over two weeks before I leave for Copenhagen.

It’s weird, because I am feeling less and less like posting an “I’ll be away for these days” message than I used to, on my blog or on social media of various kinds. Partly it’s that some of the social media will be coming with me in ways that didn’t used to be true. When I went to London in 2005 for my grandparents’ anniversary, I Got On The Internet I think exactly once. In Finland and Sweden two years ago, I did it every day, because Getting On The Internet is…not really a thing. You just are, you’re on the internet in the same way that you’re on the power grid, it’s as notable to be off the one as the other. It’s been several years now that I’ve noticed some surveys have old-fashioned usage questions: how many hours a day do you spend logged on to the internet, that sort of thing, and my answer is: huh? what does that even mean?

But there are things that I don’t do when I’m traveling, and one of them is blogging. There will be single book posts for both July and August, because the midmonth book post for each would have fallen when I was traveling, and nope. Another thing I don’t do is Facebook–I haven’t deleted my Facebook because a small number of people I care about use it for things I care about, but I use it minimally even when I’m at home, and if I’m going to choose between getting a lovely pastry somewhere in Nyhavn or using Facebook, you can bet which one I’ll pick.

And it’s interesting to me that in the two years since I went to Finland and Sweden, my feeling about Twitter has completely shifted. I now feel like I can tweet a photo of a beautiful pastry as a “hey, friend, thinking of you” to some specific people–that the rest of the world is allowed to see if they care–and have it be part of my day, not interrupting my day. That’s…insidious, but also awesome. I’m willing to live with the balance. But I do notice it’s there.

Anyway! Two weeks and two days! With a lot of revision and a lot of new stuff to write between now and then, and also house chores, and also a major birthday, and….

Juggling scarves and clubs and a flaming chainsaw, is what. But in a mostly good way.

Like Never and Always, by Ann Aguirre

Review copy provided by Tor Books.

Most body swap stories–things like Freaky Friday–feature both perspectives, and the ending is that everybody goes back in their proper body but with new appreciation for the other person’s experiences.

Like Never and Always is really, really not like that.

Liv is in a car accident and wakes up in the body of her best friend, Morgan. Morgan doesn’t wake up in any body. Liv’s old body is dead. Liv’s family is grieving, Liv’s boyfriend is grieving, and Morgan has left Liv a gigantic mess that Liv had no way to anticipate–because it turns out that Morgan has been hiding almost everything from her. For their entire friendship. Yikes.

This is a thriller with thriller pacing; the chapters are short and vivid. Mostly it’s a contemporary YA thriller, but the speculative element is present on basically every page. There’s a strong romance arc as well, and a detective element in trying to figure out things about Liv/Morgan’s new life and her past, so…a lot of genres handled here. I think this one will have pretty broad appeal, because each of them is handled with a fairly light touch, so the people who say “I don’t really like _____” won’t be overwhelmed by _____. The strongest element is Liv’s relationships, and that fits the premise perfectly.

Please consider using our link to buy Like Never and Always from Amazon.

Short stories I’ve enjoyed in the last bit

It’s time once again for a short story recommendation post! As usual, please feel free to recommend stories to me in the comments, because I make no pretense of having read everything–if you see a magazine listed, it doesn’t mean I’ve read everything from that magazine, even.

The Velvet Castles of the Night, by Claire Eliza Bartlett, Daily Science Fiction

Time, Like Water, by Amal El-Mohtar, The Rubin

The Things That We Will Never Say, by Vanessa Fogg, Daily Science Fiction

The Guitar Hero, by Maria Haskins, Kaleidotrope

Five Functions of Your Bionosaur, by Rachael K. Jones, Robot Dinosaur Fiction

A Complex Filament of Light, by S. Qioyu Lu, Anathema

A Cradle of Vines, by Jennifer Mace, Cast of Wonders

The Thing In the Walls Wants Your Small Change, by Virginia M. Mohlere, Luna Station Quarterly

Blessings, by Naomi Novik, Uncanny

Even to the Teeth, by Karen Osborne

50 Ways to Leave Your Fairy Lover, by Aimee Picchi, Fireside

Canada Girl vs. The Thing Inside Pluto, by Lina Rather, Flash Fiction Online

The Sweetness of Honey and Rot, by A. Merc Rustad, Beneath Ceaseless Skies

Sonya Taaffe’s די ירושה, Uncanny (for some reason the text box will not let me enter this in the opposite order…)

Dear David, by Yael van der Wouden, Longleaf Review

Small Things Pieced Together, by Ginger Weil, Robot Dinosaur Fiction

In the End, It Always Turns Out the Same, by A.C. Wise, The Dark

Fascism and Facsimiles, by John Wiswell, Fireside

The Calculating Stars, by Mary Robinette Kowal

Review copy provided by Tor Books. Also I hung out with Mary for hours less than a week before reading this book, so. There’s that I guess, as disclaimers go.

This book. Oh people. This book.

So the factual description first, what is this book: it is an alternate history of the early space program, with additional meteorite disaster (this is not a spoiler, it opens the book). Its focal characters draw on the neglected history of women in NASA, with a strong eye to the diverse bunch of people that actually got humanity into space from various places on this planet. There are exciting flight scenes, there are intense relationship scenes, there is…there is a lot. I am deeply, deeply glad that there is a second one, and that I don’t have to wait more than two months to get it.

But more nebulously, what is it? It is a book that deals very directly with anxiety, and with the fallout from being simultaneously the youngest kid in the class and the only girl in a technical field. It goes straight to my heart and some of the core of my identity and stays there, sometimes with catharsis and triumph, sometimes with pure struggle. It made me weep in unexpected places that will probably not be the same as yours unless they are. Its heroine doubts herself and screws up–everyone in the book is allowed to screw up–it is a book that understands that humanity and perfection do not coexist, but that striving is still worthwhile anyway. This book is made of striving.

I kind of think you want this book, friends. And I can’t wait for the next one.

Please consider using our link to buy The Calculating Stars from Amazon.

Books read, late June

It’s panel prep season! A lot of my reading this fortnight was preparation either for Fourth Street or for Readercon. So: many rereads. And so little time for other things.

Edward Eager, Magic by the Lake, Magic or Not?, The Time Garden, and The Well-Wishers. Rereads. The suck fairy had been at The Time Garden–there’s barely a bit of it that isn’t racially stereotyping and insensitive. Which makes me sad, because the general conceit of magic through varietals of thyme was cute and fun…but it made me aware that in my childhood I might not have encountered a character of Pacific Island heritage who was not portrayed as a cannibal, and that was pretty gross. (Nor was this the only example of racist portrayals in that book, nor was it Eager’s only use of that trope–Magic by the Lake is the companion volume to The Time Garden, as the children in the two encounter each other in the same scene written from different perspectives.) I have a lot to say about Eager’s relationship to Nesbit’s works–that’s the panel I’m preparing for–but here I will simply say that the difference between Nesbit doing her own thing and Eager looking back to try to do her thing looks pretty important to the result. The dubious magic pairing held up better (Magic or Not? and The Well-Wishers)–the latter was in the “okay for its time” category regarding how coy it was about race while trying to take on the theme of desegregation in housing and education–doing that while carefully never using any words that might be race-markers and never letting the illustrator illustrate the Black characters is…pretty shaky ground. But at least the book came down on the side of “these people are people and we support that,” I guess.

John M. Ford, From the End of the Twentieth Century and The Dragon Waiting. Rereads. The former is a brilliant and eclectic collection of short stories, essays, and poems. The latter…oh, oh, the latter. The Dragon Waiting holds up no matter how many times I reread it. It simultaneously does alternate history and does subtle meta things about alternate history and inevitability. It’s got vampires and wizards and Richard III and a strong Byzantium and…stuff, it is full of stuff, it is entirely full of stuff, and every time I reread it there’s something more I’d forgotten or hadn’t fully apprehended. Highly, highly recommended.

Dorothy Heydt, The Witch of Syracuse. Kindle. This is a mosaic novel about a woman who is sometimes a physician and sometimes a witch. It’s set in ancient Greece and does really well with its setting, historico-mythically. The heroine is engaging and fun, and the trials she runs into are interesting. Definitely enjoyed and would recommend. (Free! -ed)

E. Nesbit, Five Children and It. Reread. Actually held up substantially better than Eager despite being almost twice as old: Nesbit’s children are flawed, forthright, stubborn little beasts having magic adventures, and it’s still reasonably fun. She takes more care than her era really would have found proper to make sure she’s not stereotyping Roma people (not perfectly successful at this–but better than not trying), and there are little pokes and jabs at the status quo in odd and charming places.

Ryan North, Erica Henderson, Rico Renzi, Will Murray, Chris Schweitzer, et al. The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl: Like I’m the Only Squirrel in the World and The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl: Who Run the World? Squirrels!. These are just plain fun. Especially if you have no reverence for the other Marvel superheroes and enjoy seeing them skewered, mocked, and parodied. There is nut-eating as well as butt-kicking in these.

G. Willow Wilson et al, Ms. Marvel: Super Famous. I like Ms. Marvel a lot and enjoyed this comic, gentrification and all, but it suffered by being read in close proximity to the Squirrel Girl comics, because they took nearly identical paths to their young heroines’ romantic lives. Ideally there will be more divergence in future. Meanwhile it was still reasonably fun to encounter Kamala’s super adventures overlapping with her family stuff.

Summerland, by Hannu Rajaniemi

Review copy provided by Tor Books.

The first thing about this book is that it nails the voice. It’s a 1930s British spy novel, and Rajaniemi gets that, down to the bones and, er, ectoplasm. It is intensely atmospheric; while the WWI of this book is not our WWI and the thirties that ensue are not our thirties, they have the same emotional heft, the same grit and shadow as ours. I like this a lot.

Second, what it has is follow-through on its worldbuilding. I watch a lot of procedurals with my workouts–no, a lot–no, really really a lot–and they quite often want to veer at least temporarily into an episode that has ghosts. But they don’t want to think about the implications of the kind of ghosts they’ve chosen: how much they can observe the world of the living, how much they can interact with physical objects, what effects that would have on life in general and the setting of the procedural in specific. Because they don’t want to write a ghost story, they want to write a procedural and do a little flirting on the side.

Hannu Rajaniemi wanted to write a ghost story. He wanted to think very, very hard about what all the implications would be if we knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that spirits could interact with our world in certain specified ways, that people could then build technologies and social structures around. And so there is a story with heart here, with very human characters doing very human things–but the world-building was just lovely, because it thought through surveillance and evidence in a world with ghosts, it thought through how you would go about building spy networks when death did not release your agents, and the story that ensued is a very emotionally complex human story with the speculative premise utterly essential.

I liked this a lot, and I recommend it highly.

Please consider using our link to buy Summerland from Amazon.