You Should Read This: An Appreciation of Maya Angelou

This year I’ve been reading for the Andre Norton Award, which has been great in that a ton of books have arrived and insane in that a TON of books have arrived and need to be read. I wanted to call out some of my favorites so far.

• The Coldest Girl in Coldtown by Holly Black: Vampires, yes. But an interesting twist on them, and a protagonist who drags us along to Coldtown to find its secrets.
• The Rise of Renegade X by Chelsea M. Campbell: This is listed as Jan 2014 for the paperback edition, but I believe the e-version was self-published in 2013. It’s a terrific teen superhero adventure, featuring a protagonist trying to figure out if he’s a hero or a villain. IT has a sequel as well, The Trials of Renegade X.
• Conjured by Sarah Beth Durst: I don’t usually like protagonists who wake up with amnesia, but here Eve and her situation grabbed me and made me care much faster than such narratives usually do. The book managed to surprise me, and did so in a really engaging way.
• Contanimated by Em Garner: This is a zombie story, so I didn’t expect to like it much. But the zombies are caused by a diet drink, and the challenge is integrating the contaminated into society. When that contaminated is your mother, it’s a whole new issue. The ending is not as satisfying as it could be – things feel a bit too easy — but overall this was a gripping, hard to put down book.
• Control by Lydia Kang: Plenty of corporate-controlled futures in the YA I read this year, and this was one of the more interesting ones. The ensemble of teen characters are engaging, entertaining, and above all believable.
• The Color of Rain by Cori McCarthy: This features a fairly adult theme, in that the protagonist prostitutes herself to get herself and her brother off planet. But the sex is fairly low-key and not depicted in the thorough way it might be for adults. It’s a good story with a charismatic main character in desperate straits.
• Twinmaker by Sean Williams: This book is an extended exploration of the implications of matter transporters. It’s a lot of fun, fast-paced, and ingenious.

#sfwapro

John Bellairs wrote a host of children’s books, including one of my favorites, The House with a Clock in Its Walls, and a single adult novel, The Face in the Frost. I wish the ratio had been in the opposite direction, because The Face in the Frost just has such an engaging world and characters that I would have loved more of it. Much, much more. It’s a woefully slim little book, and I will not claim that it has the world’s most satisfying ending, but it delights me in so many ways.

Much of the book’s richness lies in the banter between the two old friends (there’s only one place it falls flat, and it says something about the quality of the texture elsewhere that the flat spot drives me a little nuts every time I read it), who are both skilled and eccentric wizards. The friendship is a longtime one, built of mutual affection, exasperation, and shared experience. Pieces of this book are a buddy roadtrip, taken through a series of small kingdoms, some only town-sized, and the supernatural menace is one that is genuinely haunting.

I’ve read other books by Bellairs, but with the exception of The House with a Clock in its Walls (which has lovely Edmund Gorey illustrations as a bonus), I find that his children’s literature falls flat for me, though I know it’s well-loved by many middle-graders. For me, it lacks the menace that both Face in the Frost and Clock in Its Walls hold.

I used part of the first paragraph for the description of Prospero’s house for our clan housing on Dark Castle MUD, (back in the innocent days of the early Net when the majority of us had no idea what copyright meant); for all I know (and hope) it’s still there, but I somehow doubt it. Here it is, for your delectation:

Several centuries (or so) ago, in a country whose name doesn’t matter, there wa a tall, skinny, straggly-bearded old wizard named Prospero, and not the one you are thinking of, either. He lived in a huge, ridiculous, doodad-covered, trash-filled two-story horror of a house that stumbled, staggered, and dribbled right up to the edge of a great shadowy forest of elms and oaks and maples. It was a house whose gutter spouts were worked in the shape of whistling sphinxes and screaming bearded faces; a house whose white wooden porch was decorated with carved bears, monkeys, toads, and fat women in togas holding sheaves of grain; a house whose steep gray-slate roof was capped with a glass-enclosed, twisty-copper-columned observatory. On the artichoke dome of the observatory was a weather-vane shaped like a dancing hippopotamus; as the wind changed, it blew through the nostril’s of the hippo’s hollow head, making a whiny snarfling sound that fortunately could not be heard unless you were up on the roof fixing slates.