wordchasing

**This review contains spoilers, please read at your own risk**I’ll keep this brief because I only have so much time I’m willing to dedicate to talking about books I didn’t particularly like and YOLO.Despite the hook of the premise and strong, if disorienting, opening - Pretty Girl 13 is an uncomfortable (and I don’t meant that in a compelling, interesting way), mess of a novel. It relies heavily on the protagonist’s Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) and her ordeal being kidnapped, repeatedly raped and held captive for three years, along with childhood sexual abuse without adequately addressing any of it. There’s tension and reasonably compelling characters, but the sloppy and problematic handling of both mental illness and the investigation surrounding Angela’s disappearance let the novel down, not to mention some completely absurd plot developments.While the author admits that part of Angela’s “treatment” currently exists in theory only (the “deletion” of alters, rather than therapy to reintegrate them), the fact that it was used to truncate the story really bothered me. Two of Angela’s alters are conveniently erased using this experimental process when they are no longer required in the plot, which feels incredibly disrespectful to me. (I know, I know, ”It’s fiction! Who cares!?” Well, I care.) Coley also attempts to incorporate more traditional (albeit abbreviated) methods of treatment as part of Angela’s recovery, but it’s all very expedient and neat, as if the disorder is only useful so long as it keeps propelling the plot. The other big problem I had with this novel is the ridiculously unrealistic manner in which media coverage of Angela’s reappearance is completely suppressed and / or avoided (until it’s necessary to up the ante in the plot, of course), and the similarly bizarre reactions of the other characters. Despite the fact that Angela’s return to school prompts a horde of fascinated hangers-on and rubberneckers, somehow, not a single whiff of the amnesiac girl who returns after a three-year absence reaches the headlines. Call me jaded but in the age of social media and means of communication that now inform faster than traditional news outlets, this novel apparently believes its readers are idiots. Nor is there any real nuance in the handling of how Angela’s peers process her return and her DID. Confusion, questions, ignorance, misconceptions, shock, curiosity, fear – these I would understand. But there’s no real exploration of how it impacts them or their relationships with Angela. (Of course, there’s jealously and some good-old-fashioned-mean-girl-style ostracising over a boy.) Sorry, but the ”looks like your slutty alter dressed you today, LOL!” reactions just ring false to me. Relatedly, after an intense scene in which Angela – with the assistance of her alters – finally speaks up about her paternal uncle sexually abusing her since she was a child, there’s little to no discussion of how this affects the family, apart from a couple of lines towards the end of the book. The scene itself abruptly cuts away to another, and this huge reveal of information just sits there.. undealt with. Then there’s the climax, in which Angela discovers that the toddler she babysits is in fact her own child - conceived with her captor and rapist, who gave the child up for adoption – who just so happened to end up placed with her next door neighbours. I’ll just leave that there for you to digest, shall I?Sadly, there is much fact in this story. The trauma that Angela’s own mind is trying to protect her from is a reality for some, and I don’t want to take away from the seriousness of that. But I am disappointed in the sensationalist tactics Coley uses in her novel, and the superficial treatment of the numerous issues raised in Pretty Girl 13. I would love to read a more proficient take on this topic, so please throw your recommendations at me if you have them.

Despite a genuinely creepy and intriguing premise, I found the execution of Cry Blue Murder somewhat wanting. The story opens with the abduction of Hallie Knight, a school girl from Melbourne’s south-east suburbs, and the subsequent investigation into a possible link with two previous murders. Someone - dubbed the Cocoon Killer - is kidnapping girls in their early teens, poisoning them and leaving their naked bodies wrapped in shrouds of handwoven fabric and hair. Rocked by the tragedies, and as the cases remain unsolved, the community responds with understandable fear. Suddenly, their suburban streets are no longer safe. Cry Blue Murder is related entirely through documents: emails exchanged between the two main characters, spliced with statements, interview transcripts and newspaper articles. The two girls, Celia and Alice, meet on a facebook page for then missing Hallie Knight, and quickly strike up a regular correspondence. Both feel somewhat isolated in their situations – Celia at a new school and Alice banished to a boarding school after a family tragedy – and find comfort in their budding friendship. It’s also a medium for the girls to express their anxiety over the ongoing Cocoon Killer case, and communicate how it’s impacting their lives. With some reshuffling in order to tell the story in a logical and suspenseful manner, Kane and Roberts have attempted to replicate the kind of material that might be found in a Barrister’s brief – organising records of the police investigation to gradually reveal clues. And while the format works exceptionally well for a maximum impact reveal, it unfortunately makes the beginning feel somewhat flaccid and slow. I had expected to be immediately plunged into a chilling story, close to the detail of the mystery. In reality, the first half of the novel is more about the girls themselves and the way their friendship develops. In hindsight, it’s the right choice for the story, but it did take me a while to warm up to the pace. The thing is though, I called the killer early. It’s possible that that was meant to happen, to augment the unsettling tone of the book; I can’t say for sure. By the final pages, I was less shocked by the reveal than by the abruptness of the ending. The authors leave readers with little explanation of the killer’s motivations, just a few breadcrumb hints threaded through the plot. Cry Blue Murder is a quick read, and both Kane and Roberts have a good grasp of their characters’ voices (even if a couple of the cultural references and instances of slang felt somewhat dated given the ages of the girls.) The emails are conversational and expressive, while still conveying detail about their lives and fleshing out the secondary characters, including family members. That said, I never felt particularly engaged by either Celia or Alice, and perhaps this was the problem. For much of the novel, my lack of interest in them resulted in diluting much of what should have been a creepy, unsettling atmosphere. That said, the concept really is clever, and I suspect other readers won’t have the issues with the execution that I did. If you’re looking for an inventive YA mystery, definitely give it a go.

4.5 starsI don’t know about you, but for me, every iteration of the “Next Big Thing in YA” hoopla now comes with attendant alarm bells.I am wary of hype; worn weary by hyperbolic accolades and extravagant marketing campaigns that vary from the invasively viral to the downright obnoxious. It all starts to seem like a lot of unabashed snapping at the heels of the Previous Big Thing in YA – (whether it’s warranted or not) – a desperate attempt to replicate its success, or at the very least to sop up the remaining interest in the latest trend. Call me cynical – (you’d be right) – but I am suspicious of hype. So much of it seems manufactured now, the product of heavily orchestrated, militant marketing strategy; rather than a groundswell of genuine grassroots enthusiasm among readers.But I will concede defeat to The 5th Wave.There was an obvious marketing push – though arguably it was clever and far less offensive than other campaigns clogging up the blogosphere – but it has also been accompanied by critical acclaim and strong reader reaction.Then there’s the fact that I read The 5th Wave and I thought it was pretty darn brilliant.I still don’t like applying sweeping statements of annexation to books, like YA is ground to be conquered and previous successful books are targets to be taken out. I don’t think this book is necessarily The Next Anything. But I do think that it’s an intelligent and gripping apocalyptic/sci-fi novel and Rick Yancey deserves ALL the high fives.Alien invasion stories are nothing new. This is well-trodden ground since War of the Worlds; even Stephenie Meyer had a crack. The trope speaks to a very primal instinct for survival, as well as serving effectively as allegory for the human condition, or metaphor for political manoeuvring and current events. We read alien invasion stories not necessarily because we believe in the possibility of extra-terrestrial hostilities, but because it sets up a scenario that speaks to our fundamental urge to examine and define our own existence.In The 5th Wave, Yancey uses the premise of an alien onslaught on Earth to develop the themes of humanity, survival in the face of desolation, and “otherness”. ‘Humanity’ is a word that appears frequently throughout the novel in various contexts and on different scales, but the question overarching the book drills down to a very personal level. What does it mean to say that a person has humanity? Can it be lost? And can it be gained?The framework of The 5th Wave, using primary first-person narrators interspersed with secondary, third-person points of view, provides readers with a wider lens through which to examine Yancey’s concept of invasion. The novel written firmly in only Cassie’s perspective would still have made for an entertaining story, (more on Cassie soon), but the narrower angle would have somewhat stifled the true brilliance of The 5th Wave, which lies in solving the jigsaw of the plot. Like all puzzles, some pieces are more easily connected than others: astute readers will anticipate certain twists. But it’s the way the segments of the novel snap together that keep it compelling: the constant hypothesising that accompanies the reading, the uncertainty of whether you’re right or not, the dread that your suspicions are correct.In Cassie, Yancey captures the essence of The 5th Wave: the sense of utter isolation and dread balanced with the tenacity of hope. Cassie is rendered in shades of snark, fear and determination. There’s an immediacy and authenticity to her voice that keep her story engaging, even when chunks of it are delivered via flashblacks. She’s an accessible character, without any of the strength of her personality having to be diluted or her flaws glossed over.Yancey uses moral ambiguity to excellent effect in all of his main characters: Cassie, Evan, Zombie, Ringer. The question of whether they are “good” or “bad”, and whether or not these are mutually exclusive concepts as far as the characters’ actions and motivations are concerned, maintains tension in the story. By challenging readers’ perception of the characters, we get to the crux of the novel, that is – what is humanity? What does it mean to be human?Interestingly, while the story could be perceived by some as taking, or even perpetuating, a problematic and imperialistic stance on the idea of the “other”, one that’s steeped in discriminatory doctrine – I’m not convinced that this is the case. I think there are enough clues in this novel to expect a deeper exploration of the issue of “othering” in subsequent instalments. Since the characters themselves display ethical gradation, I would be surprised if Yancy left the idea of “us” and “them” in such oversimplified terms. Rather, I think he’s only just scratched the surface of what’s going to be examined in this series.As to the titular fifth wave, and what it comprises of, I think Yancey’s concept is frighteningly plausible. Not plausible in terms of an extra-terrestrial invasion, but in terms of tactics employed (trying very hard to avoid spoilers here). Sadly, we have more than enough historical and current evidence of indoctrination and use of child soldiers in conflicts around the world, including genocides and so-called ethnic cleansing. There is no shortage of examples of systematic desensitisation and exploitation of children as a tool of hostilities. In this sense, The 5th Wave is a complex, thought-provoking novel; a high-concept premise layered with relevance to our current reality.Of course, The 5th Wave asks for a certain amount of suspension of belief from the reader, particularly in the climactic action scenes and some of the more convenient plot developments. I’m more than willing to do this for a good story, and for characters I’m invested in. Mileage will vary as to how much you buy into to the denouement and the choices that lead the characters there; I found it no hindrance at all, so entrenched was I in the characters’ predicaments.So, consider me a fan. I don’t know what Rick Yancey has in store for us in the follow-up, but I am so on board for it.An advance reader copy of The 5th Wave was provided by Penguin Books Australia via Netgalley.

“If a girl punches someone, she’s crazy. If a guy punches someone, he’s dealing with his feelings. He’s normal.”I have to thank several friends for recommending Skilton’s debut recently; without their encouragement to pick it up, Bruised might have been quietly sucked into the black hole of my growing TBR list. Bruised is an insightful novel about a girl’s journey to redefine her sense of self in the wake of a traumatic incident. While suffering PTSD as a result of a diner hold-up, Imogen is compelled to confront what she believed to be fundamental truths about herself. Considering herself responsible for the gunman’s death, Imogen struggles to reconcile the reality of the event with her own expectations of herself. In some ways, Bruised reminded me of Elizabeth Scott’s Miracle, in its thought-provoking take on PTSD and the way it impacts self-perception. By failing to act when she believes she should have, Imogen’s sense of worth is undermined. The construct of herself as an empowered, disciplined and strong young woman is challenged by the fact that she froze under pressure, which drives a desperate need to prove herself. Under the weight of what she perceives as a failure, Imogen begins to pursue an increasingly self-destructive path in an effort to redeem herself. She wants a real fight, a chance to do-over the moment her mind, body and training betrayed her. Skilton’s characterisation of Imogen and the depiction of her internal conflict is effective: its sharp and visceral, and Imogen’s disillusionment is believable. Imogen passes through a broad emotional spectrum, and this progression is developed organically. Skilton is unafraid to push Imogen into some dark places emotionally, essentially stripping her back to a state of mental vulnerability and raw instinct, before allowing her to slowly reconstruct her life. This reconstruction is not only within Imogen, it’s also necessary in her core relationships: with her parents, her brother, her friends, and with Tae Kwon Do. Then there’s the boy who was also at the diner the night of the hold-up, the one person Imogen feels is able to relate to what she’s going through, and the burgeoning attraction between them. I felt the most successfully handled relationship development was that within Imogen’s family. She is emotionally distant from both parents for different reasons, and sees her brother as responsible for her estrangement from her former best friend. Skilton tackles each of these dynamics realistically, and I enjoyed the manner in which they progressed and their issues were addressed, particularly between Imogen and Hunter. Their sibling bond felt genuine, yet believably complicated. Most of all though, hats off to the author for allowing her teenage girl main character to respond to conflict in such a physical way. Imogen spends a considerable portion of the novel looking for an opportunity to test her ability to fight, a rematch of sorts. This quest leads her to make some poor choices (understandable in her situation), and also to try to get Ricky (her co-witness of the hold-up) to fight her. Imogen’s insistence on having someone engage in an no-holds-barred physical fight with her is not something commonly seen in YA, but Skilton navigates it well, addressing not only Imogen’s need, but Ricky’s reluctance to hit a girl, or be beaten by one. If this novel lost me a little, it was in the way some of the plot threads/conflicts were resolved. While I enjoyed the openness of the ending, and the place where the author left Imogen, I felt a couple of the closing scenes were a bit twee in their delivery, and not necessary to communicate that the characters were in a positive space. That said, the novel is tight and engaging. Although flawed, Imogen is a sympathetic protagonist with a compelling struggle. The romance and friendship subplots complement the story, while keeping Imogen’s internal journey front and centre. She develops as a character, yet there’s integrity to the way she is written; Imogen grows, but her core beliefs and strengths are not transformed, just adjusted. I appreciated Skilton’s dedication to Imogen in this way – allowing Imogen to keep those fundamental elements of her personality and principles. This is especially evident in the way the novel handles various attitudes towards sex. Skilton presents the characters’ perspectives without judgement or commentary – respecting the diversity of their experiences and choices. Bruised is an accomplished debut novel about navigating physical and psychological trauma, and the challenging of self-worth. It’s a respectful and knowledgeable portrayal of martial arts, relationships and the journey of a teenage girl to redefine her inner world.

In-ter-est-ing...

Among my Goodreads friends, Code Name Verity seems to fall very clearly into two categories: "Not for me" and "True love 5ever!". There are actually very few people I know who sit in between these. When I first attempted Code Name Verity, I thought I was Camp A. Upon second attempt, turns out I'm Camp B. Which actually isn't all that surprising considering my love of war history, unreliable narrators etc. Anyway, review to come, eventually.. Until then: KISS ME, HARDY!

I’m not sure whether Lucid is extremely clever or just frustrating, but I’m leaning towards the decision that it’s a little from Column A, a little from Column B.Sloane and Maggie dream they are each other. They live completely different lives: one a straight-A student in a small town, the other an actress in New York. Each girl believes that they are real, and the other is a dream. Except, of course, that thought is shadowed by the fear that they are in fact the dream, and they could disappear at any time. Lucid spends some time establishing the two separate worlds of each girl, exploring the differences in their characters and day-to-day lives. Their realties are seemingly unconnected, yet each is fully cognizant of the other. They know each other’s families. They know each other’s secrets. They essentially live each other’s lives when they fall asleep. And with the exception of Maggie’s psychologist, no one knows that they inhabit a double reality, or that they both fear they are not real. That is, until the fabric between their worlds begins to perforate, and parts of their lives start to bleed into the others’.Although this is a premise I found intriguing, Lucid took some time for me to feel immersed in. I wanted to be fully engaged by this story, but some quality of the storytelling was almost repellent at first. The worlds felt slightly unreal to me (though in hindsight, perhaps this was a deliberate choice), and neither girl was initially very compelling. Lucid seemed more concerned with telling the reader how different Sloane and Maggie were, as opposed to creating characters that were interesting in their own right. It wasn’t until a considerable way through the book that I actually started to feel some investment in what was happening to them, which coincided with the plot gaining momentum. While on the face of it Maggie and Sloane lead vastly different lives, there are subtle parallels in their stories and markers in their personalities. These small hints, and trying line them up with their counterpoints, are what keep the novel intriguing, more so than the actual events taking place in their respective lives. Much of Lucid revolves around romantic drama. And while this makes sense to me now, it did occasionally feel tedious and drawn out while reading. Both girls meet new potential love interests, and there are other possible candidates for their affections existing in their lives. These entanglements are accompanied by a lot of internal rumination and complicated emotions, so a large portion of the book is concerned with working through these issues and “falling in love”.In keeping with the continuous background questioning of ‘real or not real’, some of the characters feel more organic to the story, while others seem like anomalies. There’s a slight quality of wish-fulfilment to these characters and certain events that unfold, which are used almost as red-herrings, so that neither world feels consistently “real” or “unreal”. Again, it’s a tactic that makes sense in retrospect, though at the time seemed lifted directly from the Paranormal Romance Guide to Tropes. (Probably another reason I was initially resistant to the book). Where Lucid really strengthens though, is in the convergence of the worlds. The pace lifts rapidly, and the writing nails the disturbing sense of unravelling and descent into chaos. Here, the book becomes hard to put down, as it become increasingly confusing while moving inexorably toward a conclusion. However, it’s not an ending that will satisfy all readers. A few answers are provided, from which readers can draw their own conclusions (pun totally intended). Ultimately, much is left unconfirmed, several threads left hanging. This is both appropriate, and annoying, depending on your level of investment in the characters. That said, by leaving readers free to fill in some of the blanks, Lucid makes a more lasting impression and almost guarantees readers will continue to puzzle over its unravelling long after the final page. * * * * *Loved the concept, but I'm a bit ambivalent on the execution. Review to come.

O.OOkay. You know what time it is (besides 9.00 p.m. on a Tuesday night) - ASoIaF gif reaction time!So, after an extended break after reading A Clash of Kings, it was time to jump into A Storm of Swords.And everything was good. .. Even the Davos chapters.Until..And though slightly spoiled for part of the story, I was entirely unprepared for the feels.At first I was all, "This book is DEAD TO ME."Then my grief became anger.Then resignation..And finally determination.Until.. that ending.

Because Trin said so!

This is gorgeous. It's like a blend of [b:Rhubarb|632434|Rhubarb|Craig Silvey|http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1353399923s/632434.jpg|618740] and one of Charlie and Jeffrey Lu's ([b:Jasper Jones|8407173|Jasper Jones|Craig Silvey|http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1275886753s/8407173.jpg|6560290]) conversations.

This review also appears on wordchasing“This is the story of a wild girl and a ghost girl; a boy who knew nothing and a boy who thought he knew everything. And it’s about life and death and grief and romance. All the good stuff.”..and Girl Defective does have these things. But for me, it isn't about those elements so much being about a girl finding her place in the world. As with Notes from The Teenage Underground, Simmone Howell does this beautifully: it’s real and organic and subtle. Within the framework of a flagging record store, an unconventional family, a lost girl and a charismatic one – another girl grows and changes. Girl Defective is not just about the things that change her, but the girl that is changed - her metamorphosis between the pages. "Sometimes I’d see Dad look at my brother and feel the acid tang of jealousy in the back of my mouth. I’d flash on Gully at four saying, ‘I’m a boy and Dad’s a boy but Sky is a GIRL.’ And I’d feel cursed and isolated and defective."Sky is a girl in transition. She’s not even sure if she fits in with her family of misfits: a father stuck in the past, a little brother who won’t take off his pig snout mask, and a mother who left her behind. She’s somewhere in between friendship and infatuation with the magnetic Nancy. A musician turned developer wants to build over St Kilda’s history and the place Sky calls home. Then there’s the quiet, short-sighted boy, spending nights pasting up pictures of a girl’s face on walls.There is a palpable sense of place in Girl Defective, (I promise that’s not just my bias as a former St Kildan speaking), and Howell’s rendering of Melbourne’s seaside playground suburb is both affectionate and frank. Alongside the tourists attractions and crowds and the slow slide from bohemianism into gentrification, Howell also portrays the homelessness, sex work and drug abuse that are very much a part of St Kilda. It would be disingenuous to ignore the sharp socio-economic contrasts that characterise the area; that disadvantage and privilege exist side by side in glaring disparity.It’s a setting that fits Girl Defective, a kind of warped urban fairground populated by artists and hacks, misfits and celebrities. The fanciful and the real are entwined here: underground parties are filled with girls in silver and boys in masks, while street workers hug the edges of Carlisle and Greeves Streets. A run-down record store clings to the glory days of the mix tape and pristine vinyl, while a window on Inkerman Street is filled with the ugly mugs of infamous curb-crawlers.As with the location, Howell develops her characters with various shades. As one character later states, they are not “bad” people, but they are flawed and layered. Part of this story is about Sky discovering this fundamental truth, peeling back the different versions of themselves people present, and understanding what lies beneath.At the heart of Girl Defective are these relationships, each of which have some bearing on Sky’s character development. Whether they are familial, romantic or platonic, the connections between the characters are engaging and nuanced. Howell addresses matters of loneliness and lust, alienation and alcoholism, manipulation and empathy. Yet this isn’t a heavy book. There’s a certain levity to story that balances its substantial content, and an artfulness to the writing that is intelligent and gorgeous to read."Kid, that was what she called me. Or little sister, or girlfriend, or dollbaby, or monkeyface. Sometimes she even used my name – Skylark, Sky – all in that drawl that felt like fingernails on my back lightly scratching itches I didn’t even know I had."And then of course, there’s the music. (The lovely Mandee has put together a playlist for the book.) As befits a book with an iconic record store at its centre, music is woven through Girl Defective like an extension of the characters and setting, a soundtrack not only accompanies the plot, but feels integral to it."Late in the night, in the yoga light, I listened to Leonard Cohen but I didn’t have to coax the sadness out. His voice was a long tunnel with the tiniest pinprick of light at the end."A unique coming-of-age story with a touch of mystery, a lot of character and full of heart, Girl Defective is indeed “all the good stuff.”The Face on the WallSimmone Howell posted about one of the "sparks" for Girl Defective on her tumblr, which links to this article from The Age: "The Girl in the Tunnel".Reading that Rone's work played a part in inspiring Girl Defective felt almost serendipitous, given my own burgeoning obsession with his art. His posters and murals are highly recognisable, now appearing not only in Melbourne but around the world.I'm not sure exactly what it is, but I think there is something a little haunting about Rone's 'girls' and their expressions. I don't know what their origin stories are, but I can't help but wonder if there are any lost girls among them...

2.5 starsIn a word, I found Crewel inconsistent. The good? The concept. I thought the central idea behind Crewel, returning to the roots of the word “spinster” and the mythology of weaving, was interesting and strong. Albin’s spinsters have the ability to manipulate and repair the weave of their world (the “weave” being the individual strands making up the physical world and the people in it, entwined with the constant flow of time). Weaving is a highly specialised skill requiring particular finesse, and Spinsters are accorded a level of privilege and prestige in the world of Arras, despite the fact that they live effectively cloistered in Coventries and are controlled by the governing Guild. That said, the execution is hit and miss. Albin’s particular take on time and matter and how they can be manipulated is intriguing, but not explored very deeply . This is light science-fiction and as such the worldbuilding assumes a degree of reader buy-in that not all will be able to extend. (When you start messing with time, I start asking questions, and Crewel doesn’t give a lot of answers). However, if you’re willing to suspend some belief and take Albin’s world as she presents it, Crewel’s premise is both inventive and engaging. Adelice has been trained from a young age to conceal her weaving ability by her parents, who have reservations about the governance of the world they live in. Ostensibly crime, poverty and disease-free, Arras is nevertheless a tightly controlled society in which women have little agency and few rights. Segregation of the sexes is widely practiced (at least, partially – Adelice lives in a sector where all children are female, though there are plenty of adult males living there). Travel is severely restricted – reserved for mostly male officials. Food is rationed. Reproduction is regulated. Women who do not exhibit weaving ability are expected to marry, and their employment options are limited. However, due to an unconscious slip during routine testing, Adelice reveals her skill and is forcibly removed from her home to become a Spinster. For me, this where the inconsistency begins. Adelice informs the reader that they come for them at night, vaguely sinister figures who remove girls from their homes under cover of darkness. However, she later explains that girls dream of becoming Spinsters – coveting a life of luxury and status. This doesn’t compute for me. Why remove girls at night in such an intimidating manner if most of them view it as a privilege, something to strive for? After a futile attempt at escape, Adelice is transported to the Western Coventry, unsure of the fate of her mother and sister. Following a short incarceration, during which she grieves over the traumatic circumstances of her removal, Adelice bounces back rapidly. Before long she’s whisked away to the Coventry’s high tower, plied with luxuries, training with the other Eligibles and singled out by a vindictive Spinster, Maela, and the creepy Ambassador Cormac Patton. Because of course, Adelice isn’t just any old prospective Spinster, she’s Super Special. And of course, there are Hot Guys.Strangely, Crewel reminded me in places of The Selection. This is another novel where “purity”, beauty, clothing and make up are given a peculiar amount of attention and almost disproportionate page time. The Spinsters are required to wear dresses and stockings, to be pandered to by personal stylists and domestic staff, to be occasionally squired about by Guild dignitaries as arm decorations at official functions. They are also required to maintain “purity standards”, since Spinster’s abilities are allegedly tied to their virginity. All the while, they’re also apparently ensuring weather, food distribution and the day to day operations of life in Arras run smoothly – though Albin provides minimal detail on how the Spinster’s orchestrate this round the clock. Further, Adelice undergoes something of a transformation - in the hands of her aestheticians she’s a vision of beauty. While I can appreciate that this is part of the world Albin is building, one built on illusion and facades, I’m also perplexed by the amount of time spent on the minutiae of the Spinister’s accoutrements. Comparatively little time is spent on the daily work of the Spinsters, how they operate the looms and manage their considerable responsibilities. Oh, wait, I’m not really. Not when Adelice has the burgeoning attentions to two young men to consider. To be fair, Crewel gains momentum in the second half and the complexity of Arras becomes more interesting. The stakes are raised as Adelice discovers just what nefarious deeds the Guild are capable of, and the potential of her own abilities. Complex ethical questions are hinted at – though mostly brushed over – and Albin uses her secondary characters to challenge and criticise the restrictive world of Arras, including their enforced notions of gender equality, sexuality and free will. But ultimately, I’m left feeling underwhelmed by Crewel. It’s not a bad book, but I feel much of its potential was left untapped. The big reveal at the climax of the novel is clever, and the ending makes the promised sequel enticing, but Crewel also falls into some familiar tropes. While I appreciate Albin’s efforts to imbue Adelice with distinct personality – she’s tenacious and sarcastic – she’s still something of a super special snowflake, a concept I’m thoroughly tired of. A little more clarity around the finer points of weaving and the structure of Arras wouldn’t have gone astray either. It’s an interesting novel, but ultimately, an uneven one.

"And all the time the same question flails around my head, like a hawkmoth round a light-bulb: Is it possible to keep loving somebody when they kill someone you love?”C.J. Flood’s debut, Infinite Sky, is a novel that is at once both understated and emotionally devastating; a story that unfolds gradually with a quietness that belies the impending tragedy.The prologue hangs like a shadow over the following pages of the novel. It is made clear from the start that this is a story marked by death, but by withholding the identity of the character to die, Flood maintains a sense of compelling disquiet. We know grief awaits us, yet we don’t know for whom, or why. It’s an approach that works for this book, allowing the plot to progress at an unhurried pace without sacrificing any of the tension required to keep the story engaging.This is a coming-of-age story, but Flood’s approach to Iris’ development is refreshingly frank and unsentimental. At thirteen, Iris is attempting to adjust to a life in which her mother has left the family, her father is drinking and distant, and her brother Sam is becoming increasingly altered and withdrawn. Flood is subtle in her depiction of each character’s response to their changed circumstances: she shows it in the neglect of their home, in Sam’s muted anger, in Iris’ habit of wearing of her Mother’s abandoned clothes.In addition, and partly in response to her mother’s departure, Iris is feeling increasingly alienated from her friend, Matty. Bristling under the well-intentioned, if heavy-handed, pity of Matty and her mother, Iris becomes more aware of the nuances of their friendship, the shifting dynamic between them. Though secondary to the central plot, Flood also writes these elements of the story with insight and skill.It’s against this backdrop of emotional upheaval that a family of Irish Travellers set up camp on the Dancy’s land, and Iris finds an unexpected friend in fourteen-year-old Trick. After some initial wary observation, Iris and Trick’s interactions develop from tentative sympathy to something deeper: a closeness that’s both friendship and first love intertwined. Yet Flood never allows this relationship to become overly romanticised or unrealistic, nor does she trivialise it. With an excellent grasp of her characters’ experiences and ages, Flood writes their bond with restraint, allowing Iris’ self-consciousness and Trick’s cognizance of local prejudice to shade their growing closeness.Flood’s handling of the issue of discrimination and racism is particularly adroit, conveying the complexities of the conflict honestly, and without judgement. Her depiction of the local attitudes towards Travellers is unflinchingly candid; she doesn’t shy away from the slurs and assumptions that accompany the arrival of Trick and his family, nor does she paint an idealised picture of them. Rather, Flood presents the various sides of the issue with impartiality, striving instead to accurately present a situation where the many shades of grey prevent black and white judgement, or definitive allocation of blame.When the various conflicts – both internal and external – reach the inevitable climax, Flood has created a situation that is intensely distressing. But there are no easy villains here. Each of the characters shares some culpability in the outcome, yet this isn’t a story that is trying to moralise to readers. Rather there is something heartbreaking about the very believability of this story, that these kind of actions and attitudes are both realistic and common.Yet it’s Iris’ opening question in the prologue that lingers, and I appreciated Flood’s choice to tackle the complexities of grief and guilt when the situation is far from clear-cut. The novel asks us to consider difficult questions - and while it doesn’t necessarily provide the answers - its strength lies in acknowledging that these questions exist. That in life, and love, and death, sometimes there are no easy answers.

3.5 starsStupid good is more like it. If you’re looking for a contemporary YA with an exceptionally strong voice, well-rendered characters and a realistic approach to family, friendship and first love, I’d have no hesitation in recommending this novel. I assumed that Stupid Fast would have a much larger focus on football – not unreasonably, given the cover and summary. But while Felton Reinstein’s newly discovered speed and size do gain him the attention of the high school football team, this is also the catalyst for a chain of events that unfold over the summer, and will impact his entire life. Herbach’s execution of Felton’s voice really is effective. It’s strong and distinct, consistent while still developing over the course of the story. This is first person at its best – as believable as if Felton was really speaking. Admittedly, it’s a voice that does take some adjusting to - Felton narrates with a unique energy and humour – but it’s compelling and endearingly honest. Discovering that he’s “stupid fast” means that Felton learns what it is to go from being a dork, to a being a.. dork that plays football. Along with his sudden induction into the world of jocks and pee-smelling gyms, a beautiful piano-player moves in next door, his best friend isn’t answering his emails, and his mother is suddenly exhibiting some very strange behaviour. And while that may all sound a little trite in those words, this really is a touching story with surprising depth. What prevents Stupid Fast from being too weighed down by the issues Felton faces is the humour. Throughout the novel, Herbach balances Felton’s journey of discovery and change with the warmth and authenticity of his characters – even during the sadder parts of the story there’s an undercurrent of wit that makes it feel realistic and honest rather than maudlin. This was a surprisingly engaging read for me, and I’m looking forward to following Felton’s story in Nothing Special.

I thought this book was going to burn a hole in my stomach.Even now, when I think about it I feel a visceral surge of anxiety; it triggers a physical response that echoes the rapid heartbeat and shortness of breath that accompanied the reading.I mean this as a compliment to Summers’ writing. The ability to elicit such an intense and provocative reaction is, I think, testament to her skill. Some Girls Are is almost relentlessly harrowing in its portrayal of bullying and abuse, accentuated by Regina’s acerbic voice and Summers’ razor-sharp instinct for pacing and dialogue.This is an unsettling and compelling story. The tension escalates rapidly as the stakes increase, and the novel (literally) doesn’t pull punches – to the point when beginning each chapter was accompanied by a mental flinch. It’s not always easy to read, but it is hard to put down.What delineates Some Girls Are from other novels I’ve read about high school bullying is the perspective. Through Regina, we experience the viewpoint of someone who is both victim and perpetrator, someone who is subjected to physical and psychological bullying, and also inflicts it. Taking this further, not only does Regina exhibit mean girl tendencies, but a part of her relishes them. Even as she becomes fully cognizant of how far-reaching and destructive her actions are, she is also aware that on another level, she takes a vicious pleasure in enacting them.This is an uncomfortable position to be in as a reader. It would be easy to categorise all who carry out this kind of torment as morally reprehensible villains. But Some Girls Are muddies this idea by examining the complex cycle of manipulation and abuse of power amongst the characters. The lines here are not clearly drawn; not all of those culpable are devoid of sympathetic – or at least, understandable – elements. Some Girls Are goes some way to explaining how such a deeply messed up dynamic is perpetuated – feeding off insecurity and intimidation, cultivated to exert control – without attempting to justify it. I don’t believe the novel asks us to defend Regina, but to acknowledge that these situations are rarely black and white. We’re not asked to excuse her actions, but to consider the context of them, to recognise how guilt, abuse and emotionally damaging relationships impact the way she responds to threatening situations.As such, Some Girls Are challenges the common perception of the high school ‘mean girl’ – often presented as little more than a caricature of evil – with a confronting level of physical and emotional cruelty entangled with “friendship” and the ever-shifting hierarchy within cliques. To deny that girls are capable of this kind of behaviour does a disservice to those who have experienced it, and for that reason I believe this is a brave novel, insisting that we face a disturbing reality.Considering the circumstances, buying into Michael’s ability to accept Regina is a big ask of readers, and I understand why some would struggle with how this particular plot line develops. I’m okay with this element of the story – in addition to fuelling the conflict in the final chapters of the novel I think it provides an interesting counter-balance to Kara’s consuming hatred and inability to let go. (And maybe I’m naïve but I want to believe that people are as capable of forgiveness as they are of torture).I feel that the ending is left largely open to interpretation. Personally, I don’t see this as the end of Regina’s story, but rather as the beginning of long, hard road. We don’t know what choices she will make once she leaves those stairs. Even the weaving together of hands is a tentative, fragile thing. A sliver of hope, not a life-preserver thrown into the sea of carnage. Summers offers a reprieve from the harrowing climax in suggesting that Regina has options, a chance to alter her course. But she doesn’t explicitly spell out what lies beyond the final page.. that is left up to you.I'm pretty sure I need an antacid right now.

Darkwater is a languid, atmospheric novel about murder and coming of age in 1970s Australia. It draws much of its strength from Blain’s use of setting; she paints an authentic and vivid picture of life in that time: summer days swollen with heat, the tick of ceiling fans through the interminable school hours, front doors left open and unlocked, skateboarding and joints under the underpass.It’s an accurate rendering of a different time, and Blain’s attention to detail is notable, though I do wonder why she chose to place the story at this point in history. Possibly because it mirrors Winter’s own position on the cusp of innocence and naivety to something more self-aware. Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch makes an appearance, along with environmental activism and local politics muddied with money, markers of a community undergoing change and churning with unrest. Or maybe it’s the less sophisticated approach to crime investigation that lends itself to the story, perhaps a contemporary setting would have significantly curtailed the process, preventing the mystery of Amanda Clarke’s death from drawing out like languorous summer evenings.In Darkwater, Winter chronicles how the discovery of Amanda’s body impacts her small, suburban world. Winter is an observer, recording the reactions and changes she notices around her as the community attempts to come to terms with the tragedy. Younger than Amanda’s core group of friends, Winter is on the periphery of things, writing down what scraps of information she can glean, attempting to piece together a picture of what really lead to Amanda’s body floating in the river.None of the characters feel particularly close, as if by setting the story some time ago, a distance with the reader has been preserved. Even Winter, who narrates in first person, feels somewhat aloof at times. Perhaps this was the point, to keep the focus firmly on the shocking event that rocks the community – but Amanda is also a shadowy figure. We’re given second-hand glimpses of her through other characters, but we never become close to her. We see her through the lens of envy, lust, adoration or frustration. We’re given insight into a home life that is substantially less charmed than it outwardly appears. Yet she isn’t a dynamic character in the story; she’s a figure, a symbol, a catalyst for the ripples that spread out through her hometown.The central mystery itself – in all honesty – I didn’t find terribly compelling. While the question of who killed Amanda hangs over the story, I thought its most powerful scenes were those depicting the small moments between Winter and her friends, Sonia and Cassie. In these, Blain captures the awkwardness of adolescence, the fumbling of the characters as they navigate their way through crushes, drugs, sex and death. It’s handled frankly and with a distinct lack of melodrama – Blain presents these events as realities of life, not as fodder to shock.The resolution of the mystery felt a little like it fell back on convenient plot points – the seeds of who the perpetrator is and how it will be revealed are planted fairly obviously. That said, I get the impression that the crime itself is not strictly the point of the story, but rather its effects on those surrounding it. Blain shows how the insidious creep of prejudice and paranoia drives people apart, how suspicion and grief unravel relationships and families.Blain’s writing has a slightly lulling quality about it, or maybe it was the lethargy of the setting seeping through. The pacing is sedate, focused on character development more than action, but there’s a note of disquiet that keeps the story engaging. The technique of opening the majority of the chapters with a “Fact” or “Theory” from Winter’s notebook initially seemed intriguing, but it did grow tedious after a while.Darkwater is a quiet story, steeped in mood and atmosphere. While the pacing and logic of the plot are not without flaws, it’s an candid depiction of one girl’s coming of age in a time of tragedy and social change.