Not to sound as if this is a bluster, but for me this is a
very big deal. I don’t read as much as I used to, which was damn near
incessantly. I give a writer the first few sentences and if I can see where
said writer is going and exactly how said writer plans to get there, I don’t
bother. I’m already a writer; I don’t wanna write somebody else’s book for
them, particularly not when I’m trying to sell my own damn stuff. Being this
selective, there are very few writers whose name alone guarantees me separating
from coin. Let me talk about some folks who are widening that list. I hope to
intrigue you. Click every link here and buy something.
Marguerite Reed. Ms. Reed doesn’t write for our better
angels. She writes to tell the demons to get their shit together and make sure
life, for each one, is worth living. Her debut novel, released this year, is
humanist science fiction minus any glittery trappings. If you read sci fi to
glean something about us in the here and now—and salud to you if that’s the
case—ARCHANGEL is necessary. Not only is it beautifully constructed,
intelligently written, and researched to authentication perfection, but it’s
emotionally moving as all hell too. It takes themes of pain and healing and
transforms them into a grand take on colonialism, militarization of the spirit,
ecology (both emotional and environmental), and what it truly means as a human
being to be a steward of the wonders we wander. I fell in love with the honesty
of this book.
When it comes to the brass tacks of prose itself, all you
need to assess is this, then I’ll move on to the next writer, Ms. Patty Templeton.
How to describe one’s
first experience of open air, of limitless light? If I say that everything
appeared gray, the shuttle, our skin, our clothes, that gives no true
impression. This was not the gray of weariness, of defeat. This was the
dreaming gray of dawn, the color of the silence before the beloved speaks, the
color of the water-filled glass offered to parch long thirst...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There Is No Lovely End. Isn’t that life? Isn’t that what we
run from day after day, that one truth, that one refutation of all our fairy
tales? There are times a body needs to cuss. Uttering “Holy fuck” during
communion at certain beauties shouldn’t raise an eyebrow. I ran into Ms.Templeton of THERE IS NO LOVELY END by chance. We were on the same panel at a con. I
wanted to buy her book because that’s what I do: I support writers who come out
from behind their thoughts to say hi. I can’t financially support everybody but
when I feel that spark I act on it. Ms. Templeton had that gleeful cool spark.
Bio. Read this bio.
Patty Templeton is
roughly 25 apples tall and 11,000 cups of coffee into her life. She wears red
sequins and stomping boots while writing, then hits up back-alley dance bars
and honky tonks. Her stories are full of ghosts, freaks, fools, underdogs, blue
collar heroes, and never giving up, even when life is giving you shit. She won
the first-ever Naked Girls Reading Literary Honors Award and has been a runner
–up for the Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Award. There Is No Lovely End is her first novel.
This is where I cuss.
Sweet fuck in the rock. This book is sharp. It is smart. It is macabre,
and damned if it ain’t wise. Not a character in the book walks a straight path,
and not a situation or word is misplaced or wasted. I didn’t know hide nor hair
of Patty Templeton before that con. Now, anything she writes, I’m there. She
respects the word. She knows the word is a tool not a brick. And by damn you
can tell she enjoys what she’s doing. That’s so key. Every artist in the world
who puts their joy in what they’re gifting us shines with a particular light.
I will not gush overmuch on her but will instead share with
you this snippet of her book whilst highly, highly, recommending you get some.
After a lengthy time,
wherein the sun abandoned the sky and the moon strolled out, Graham decided to
kill himself in front of Hester Garlan. He was not guaranteed to haunt her, but
from what the Uncommon History said,
he had a generous chance, so long as his last moments were of fervid yearning
arrowed at existing by her side.
On the sixth day,
Graham Johnson knocked on Hester’s door.
Hester had decided to
kill Graham Johnson when next she saw him...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mr. DaVaun Sanders. It’s hard to talk about Mr. Sanders’
work without giving away spoilers. The stories are intricate, full of
characters who cross and re-cross paths, and ever expansive. I’ll have to be
brief, but in no way diminishing. There’s joy (of which he has) and then
there’s fun, and my gods does this man like to have fun. A good adventure has
to take place in an interesting world. It needs sympathetic characters. It
needs heart. And it needs to be daring enough to take chances. THE SEEDBEARING PRINCE (parts one through three) world-builds like you wouldn’t believe, and
the surety of voice grows with each book. These adventures flip race, flip
gender, and upend expectations, especially for younger readers. I’m saving my
copies for my Wee Nephew for when he’s older because the way this world is
going he’ll need some coolness. This book is
full of monsters, escapes, and enough jumping to make Spider-Man tired. Sanders
presents his world-building without showing you the bricks; lays out the hero’s
journey without retreading thousands of previous steps; imparts enough of a
sense of community that the sense of danger seems all the more real.
To wit:
“Hello, Brother Blayle. I
won’t be surprised when ridgecats sneak into Evensong, as good as it smells
here.” Dayn’s mouth watered so freely he thought his cheeks might start to
sweat. The butcher took a good look at him, then sliced a liberal chunk from a
roasting goat and skewered it. He slathered it with his family’s sauce, known
throughout the district, and offered the morsel to Dayn.
“Oh, the ridgecats are
here,” Blayle said. “They just put dresses on over their fur. Good Evensong to
you, lad.”
I like that his books
aren’t trying to re-invent the wheel. I love that his books, with their brown-skinned
protagonists and thorough knowledge of sci fi fantasy conventions, are spinning
the wheel on a new axis.
~~~
Three authors you may or may not be familiar with; three, if not, you might want to show some love. The brain needs. Reading feeds.
As to neurons, stay lit, my friends.
As to neurons, stay lit, my friends.
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