Supernatural Horror & Nature Nonfiction | Mini Reviews

In the Tall Grass by Stephen King and Joe Hill
Published by Scribner, 2012
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

In this novella, adult siblings Cal and Becky pull over for a rest stop by the side of an old church. On the other side of the road, a field of impossibly tall grass spreads to the horizon. From it, they hear a young boy pleading for help, and his mother, begging them to stay away. Against the mother’s warnings, the two venture into the grass to try and help; a decision they will quickly regret.

Father and son writing duo, King and Hill, do a great job of creating tension and unease. The fever dream of events that unfolds is as disorientating for the reader as it is for the characters, with several horrifying tableaus that are sure to linger in the mind. I can’t say the plot itself did much to satisfy, however; this being a conceptually driven story that hinges around its atmosphere and key set pieces rather than a particular arc. In that respect, I found it to be the kind of read that is somehow weaker than the sum of its parts. Still, it’s morbidly entertaining if you want something unapologetically strange and disturbing to fly through well within a couple of hours.

You can read In the Tall Grass online here, or purchase it as part of a full collection of stories by Joe Hill here.

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Wisdom from a Humble Jellyfish by Rani Shah
Published by Dey Street Books, 2020
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

The primary aim of this book is to encourage us all to follow the many examples of self-care and wisdom found throughout the natural world, by simplifying our daily lives and prioritising our own health and wellbeing. It does so by sharing fascinating facts about the weird and wonderful creatures we share the Earth with, and exploring what principles we as humans can take from them to apply to our own routines.

It has to be said that a few of the equivalent self-care tips for people were very tenuously linked to their animal counterparts, but I consistently enjoyed the gentle, warm tone of the book. The highlight for me was definitely the plethora of fun, interesting facts I picked up along the way (like how porcupines have evolved to have a coating of antibacterial oil on their quills, to reduce the risk of infection when they accidentally cut themselves on them). By imparting knowledge in small, bitesize chunks, and finding ways to make it applicable to our everyday lives, it’s the kind of read that educates stealthily, focussing on genuine interest and readability, and successfully avoiding the dreaded feel of a school lesson.

I appreciated the way Shah brought everything together at the end, by highlighting the sad reality that many species referenced throughout the book are currently at risk of extinction, and why it’s critical that we redress the balance of our lives to reconnect with simpler, kinder, and more natural ways of being. After all, ‘caring for nature is self-care for us all.’

Thank you to the publisher for an advanced copy via Edelweiss in exchange for an honest review.

You can pre-order a copy of Wisdom from a Humble Jellyfish by clicking here.

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In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado | Book Review

In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado
Published by Serpent’s Tail, 2020
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This account of Machado’s experiences within an abusive same-sex relationship is at once painfully honest and uniquely indefinable. In documenting the reality of her emotional trauma, and the frustration she felt at the lack of representation for queer domestic abuse, her approach is unflinching. In terms of structure and style, she challenges our expectations, shifting the boundary lines of what defines a memoir.

The book forgoes traditional chapters and linearity, opting instead to lay bare memories and musing in a series of short vignettes. Not only is this reflective of the unpredictable way that memories return to us, and the disorientating bewilderment of her lived experiences, but it ties into the recurring motif of attempting to cultivate the eponymous ‘Dream House’ with the supposed ideal partner: these are the moments that make a life; the bricks that build a home.

There are also footnotes littered throughout, highlighting the many symbolic and narrative parallels between her life and folk tale conventions. These traditional (and often cautionary) tales were written to reflect the universality of human experience. By aligning her own life with these widely accepted and morally relatable stories, she attempts to place the reality of queer domestic abuse within the literary canon; a space from which is has been routinely excluded.

There is, in fact, a trio of criminally overlooked social taboos being challenged here: the aforementioned queer domestic abuse; the impact of emotional versus physical abuse; and the uncomfortable reality that women are capable of inflicting suffering. Machado is able to present the nuances of these complex issues in a memoir as intimate and personal as it is outward looking. It’s not always an easy read, the content understandably upsetting at times, but there’s a self-awareness and a beauty to Machado’s writing that counters the darkness of her experiences with a sense of much-needed hope.

On that front, the use of perspective is also worth note. Machado switches on the fly between first and second person, choosing at certain points to address her past self directly. This instantly creates a sense of distance as she discusses certain moments in her life. Is this a deliberate disassociation, necessary to confront trauma from an objective viewpoint? Or is this emblematic of some kind of renewal, establishing the idea that Machado is no longer the same person she once was? Either way, it’s interesting and well-handled; one of several meta reminders that Machado is well aware of her role as a writer and a documenter.

As anxiety inducing as it is eye-opening, and as playful as it is readable, this is a woefully necessary book that I hope falls into the hands of those who need it most.

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You can pick up a copy of In the Dream House from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Book to Film | In the Tall Grass

In the Tall Grass’s book cover (left), and film poster (right).

I finally got around to reading Stephen King and Joe Hill’s supernatural horror novella, In the Tall Grass, and since it was a quick read, I decided to watch the recent film adaptation on the same night, making comparisons between the two all the more interesting.

Both versions follow the exact same setup. In fact, the opening 20 minutes of the film are a beat-for-beat recreation of the novella’s first section, dialogue and all. Adult siblings Cal and Becky pull over for a rest stop by the side of an old church. On the other side of the road, a field of impossibly tall grass spreads to the horizon. From it, they hear a young boy pleading for help, and his mother, begging them to stay away. Against the mother’s warnings, the two venture into the grass to try and help; a decision they will quickly regret.

First to point out is how loyal the film is to the overall tone of the original story; both creating a sense of dread and unease that is deliberately disorientating. It’s clear that director Vincenzo Natali (who also adapted the screenplay from the King/Hill story) has great artistic flair. Writing-wise, he makes a decent attempt to flesh out the plot to accommodate the longer running time (adding a new major character and building on concepts of time displacement only hinted at in the novella) without contradicting anything from the source material. Sadly, it feels a little overstretched, if anything. My main gripe with the novella was its lack of cohesion, with the story feeling like a series of horrifying vignettes rather than a fully developed narrative. For all its effort to delve a little deeper, the film can never quite shake the same feeling.

Where the film really excels, however, is its visuals. Natali makes excellent use of what could have been a very restrictive setting and colour palette, with some gorgeous shots and surprisingly clever cinematography. The performances on the other hand are a little uneven. The cast all have their decent turns, but some awkward dialogue contributes to more than a few unintentionally camp, hammy moments.

The film’s principal cast, from left to right: Laysla De Oliveira, Patrick Wilson, Harrison Gilbertson, Will Buie Jr., & Avery Whitted.

All-in-all, I’d say the screen version of In the Tall Grass is a very solid adaptation, making every effort to enhance what was set down on the page, tweaking and expanding where necessary to suit the visual medium. The trouble is, the core narrative being built from was never quite strong enough to make either wholly satisfying. Both versions (the novella, in particular), focus more on evoking a nightmarish atmosphere than laying out a cohesive story arc, as we stumble from one disturbing tableau to another, with little being explored beyond face value. As such, neither are prime examples of what the genre can do, but if you want to spend an hour or two with some entertaining and unashamedly strange, dark, mind-bending ideas, you could do worse than the book or the film version of In the Tall Grass.

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Long Bright River by Liz Moore | Book Review

Long Bright River by Liz Moore
Published by Hutchinson, 2020
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

The initial setup for Liz Moore’s Long Bright River is almost classic crime/thriller territory, as we’re introduced to a police officer concerned that her missing sister (a drug addict and prostitute) will emerge as the next victim in a string of killings against similarly vulnerable women. Her personal investment in the case will push her prided professionalism to its limit, as she seeks to find her sister before the killer can. While the novel does have all the gripping intensity and intrigue of a good mystery romp, it opts (initially, at least) for a very different stylistic approach.

The first 300 or so pages are a real slow burn, with Moore taking the time to establish the community her characters inhabit; one that has been ravaged by the opioid crisis, corruption, and the dangerous feeling that everyone has become desensitised and complacent in the face of such injustice. Despite the somewhat restrained plot progression, the book always reads swiftly, largely because of how well Moore establishes her characters and the hardships they face. She captures with real grit and poignancy just how devastating the opioid crisis has been in the US, examining not only the myriad ways it impacts individuals, but the ripple effect it has throughout families and communities, from one generation to the next. But if Moore is unflinching in her portrayal of addiction, she is never judgemental of her characters – a balancing act that takes real writerly skill.

In her more nuanced approach, Moore is also able to tackle some other big themes, particularly the struggle of single, working mothers, and the many sacrifices they are forced to make. The more she is drawn into the case, and the seedy underbelly of the town, the more our heroine must wrestle with the guilt of seeing less of her young son. He, in turn, shows increasing signs of separation anxiety, which I thought was handled really well. Indeed, where many authors struggle to write believable, three-dimensional child characters, Moore excelled. My heart broke for young Thomas on several occasions.

If the book is slower and more contemplative at first, it hits breakneck speed and doesn’t relent for the last 100 pages or so (the novel clocking in at around 450 pages in all). The plot itself moves to the fore, in a rapid sequence of twists and revelations – some big, some small; some I predicted, some I didn’t. I can see this sudden and drastic tonal shift being a little jarring for some, but by then I was so invested that I just allowed the pace to carry me through to the end. It was here, however, that I hit the novel’s only other slight stumbling block. I felt Moore erred towards the kind of conclusion that wraps up every single plot thread a little too neatly, and in very quick succession, akin to ticking off a checklist to ensure there are no loose ends. In a book that’s all about how messy life can get, I wouldn’t have opposed a little more ambiguity where certain characters and events were concerned.

This is a hugely readable novel overall; one that thrills as a piece of entertainment as much as it shines a light on a very real problem within society. It shows the kind of thematic depth crime books are capable of, and why genre fiction should not be automatically dismissed when it comes to literary awards. With that in mind, this is one that has had a bit of buzz as a possible longlist entry for this year’s Women’s Prize for Fiction (within my bookish circles, anyway), and I’d be more than happy to see it make the cut.

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You can pick up a copy of Long Bright River from Book Depository by clicking here.

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Hieu Minh Nguyen & Jo Walton | Mini Reviews

Not Here by Hieu Minh Nguyen
Published by Coffee House Press, 2018
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Written by a queer Vietnamese American, the poems in this collection are largely concerned with identity, trauma, and the painful journey towards acceptance – particularly when you feel othered by those who should love you most. There are a few absolute gems in here, particularly the final poem, Notes on Staying, but Nguyen’s poetic voice and array of styles didn’t always click with me, sadly.

You can pick up a copy of Not Here from Book Depository by clicking here.

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A Burden Shared by Jo Walton
Published by Tor Books, 2017
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

I love the concept of this short from Tor Books. Set in the near future, the successful development of pain transference allows people to literally carry the burden of someone else’s sickness on their behalf. We follow a mother who has spent the majority of her adult daughter’s lifetime shouldering the excruciating pain of her degenerative joint condition, allowing her to focus on establishing her own life and career. With impressive brevity, Walton is able to comment on both the selflessness and the folly of her heroine’s actions, the story reading in some ways like a cautionary tale about the dangers of ignoring your own health and happiness for the benefit of others.

This functions well as a short story, but even so I would have liked a little more emotional depth. It cut off very abruptly, just as the potential for some excellent character development was presented. Still, I was impressed by how many layers of a complex moral and medical issue Walton was able to touch on within the scope of such a small word count.

You can read A Burden Shared for free online by clicking here.

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Tear Tracks, & Frida: The Story of Her Life | Mini Reviews

Tear Tracks by Malka Ann Older
Published by Tor Books, 2015
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This short from Tor Books is about a mission to make contact – and attempt to draw up a peace treaty – with the first newly discovered alien race. It has many hallmarks of classic sci-fi, and is a quick, engaging read, but it’s the subtext that helps this one stand out – even if it does become a little heavy-handed by the end. Essentially, the story is a riff on the idea of what constitutes power, and where, as a society, we place credence. Chiefly, Older asks the reader to consider why we feel compelled to supress pain.

The lack of a proper denouement is interesting. It certainly left me wanting more, but I can’t quite decide if it did so in the good way or not. Still, I enjoyed the quieter, more contemplative approach to a sci-fi/first contact narrative, and would read more from the author.

You can read Tear Tracks for free online by clicking here.

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Frida: The Story of Her Life by Vanna Vinci (translated from the Italian by Katharine Cofer)
Published by Prestel Publishing, 2017
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

This graphic memoir of Frida Kahlo offers a particularly insightful look into life with chronic pain, and the transformative power of art. It’s very interestingly structured, both in its forgoing of traditional panels in favour of a freeform layout, and in its narrative framing, with the book presented as though a first-person discussion between Kahlo and Death. Having suffered many losses throughout her life, and flirted dangerously close to death many times herself, this has effective thematic resonance.

I appreciate that Vinci chose to present Kahlo as the complex being she was, rightfully celebrating her genius and magnetism, but refusing to shy away from her prejudices and infidelities. Vinci’s artwork is also perfectly suited to the task at hand, drawing clear inspiration from Kahlo’s work, and incorporating motifs that dominated her subject’s own style. It’s a great example of where the graphic memoir form can really enhance the material; the beautiful, vivid, sensual, and often surreal imagery adding an immersive quality while also paying additional homage to the life and work of a fascinating artist.

Examples of Vinci’s art style

You can pick up a copy of Frida: The Story of Her Life by clicking here.

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10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World by Elif Shafak | Book Review

10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World by Elif Shafak
Published by Viking, 2019
My rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Reading this novel was an odd experience, in that I flipped between immensely enjoying it and finding it incredibly frustrating on multiple occasions. Put simply, it’s full of excellent themes, ideas, and characters, but the execution is almost uniformly clumsy, leaving me with the distinct impression that it’s a brilliant book trapped inside a good one.

The story is presented largely in two parts. In the first, Leila has just been murdered, and though her body has already shut down, her brain has precisely 10 minutes and 38 seconds of activity left, during which time she is able to revisit key memories from throughout her lifetime. At first, though a striking concept, this proved somewhat tedious. Not only do we have the main character recounting her own birth (a very specific pet peeve of mine), but these early scenes are described in excruciating, unnecessary detail, the author’s push for ‘beautiful’ writing awkwardly apparent. Once the narrative finds its focus, however, things really start to improve.

The bulk of Leila’s memories centre around why she became estranged from her birth family, and how she came to meet each of her five closest friends, who, like her, are all societal outcasts. In the novel’s second half, the focus shifts to these five friends as they attempt to claim Leila’s body for burial. Since none of them are blood relatives, they are refused, with Leila’s body destined for the Cemetery of the Companionless instead. As much as I loved Shafak’s commentary on the injustice of this, and her exploration of the power of found family, this section was also not without its flaws. Firstly, though each character is interesting in their own right, the group feels ragtag to the point of caricature, and prior to Leila’s death, we see little to no interaction between them as a combined group. This makes it hard to buy them as a united front straight away. Secondly, their attempts to reclaim Leila’s body and give her a proper funeral – though compellingly readable and full of heartfelt intention – err dangerously close to farce, with the latter section of the book reading strangely like a slapstick buddy flick at times.

That said, there are consistently moments of excellence throughout. I love the way the group navigate the diversity of religious and political beliefs amongst them. There’s a particularly brilliant exchange between a devout believer and a non-believing transgender character. The former puts little stock into what happens to Leila’s body, believing the importance lies in setting her soul free, while the latter, who has had to fight her whole life to craft the body she desires, feels quite the opposite. It’s in these quieter, nuanced explorations of difference, tolerance, and understanding that the book really shines.

I’m definitely glad I read this, as even when certain elements were exaggerated to the point of frustration, I remained invested in the overall narrative throughout. That has to speak for something. If Shafak’s style didn’t wholly work for me, I certainly admired the warmth, wisdom, and purpose behind her words.

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You can pick up a copy of 10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World from Book Depository by clicking here.

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