november

December 01, 2019


Things I enjoyed in the month of November:

Deliah S. Dawson's, Wicked as They Come:

I... think I liked this?
But maybe I... didn't like this?
...
So confused.
This is a very conflicting book.
If you can imagine Alice being dropped into the world of Penny Dreadful with a steampunk edge akin to Alan Campbell's, Scar Night, and feral, fanged bunnies (amongst other creatures) vying for the protagonist's lifeblood, then you've got Wicked as They Come.
Oh, and a vampiric, charming as fuck, ringmaster of a travelling circus leading man called Criminy Stain.
...
CRIMINY. STAIN.
I honestly can't work out if that's terrible or a bloody brilliant moniker.
Truly.
I'm struggling here.
And I think that's the problem.
I struggled with this story.
The whole thing.
I liked the world.
I liked the characters - for the most part.
I liked the adventure.
I liked the banter.
I liked the bludbunnies - yup, that's what they're called.
I liked just about everything.
But maybe not all at once.
And the world Delilah S. Dawson's created, known as Sang (because of sanguine, get it? ... I felt like my brain got slapped when I read that) is most definitely all at once.
They even say it in the book:


"Sang is what would happen if my bookshelf threw up."
This is so beyond accurate.
Beyond.
And maybe because Steampunk is not my favourite thing to read (it's too much, too much about the way everything looks instead of what's going on; I definitely prefer watching it), I'm perhaps not the best audience for the Blud series.
Because even though it's a ridiculous amount of fun (how could a romp through a victorian, "vampire" infested, magical alternate Britain with a flirty, quick-thinking, bloodthirsty hero and an up to the challenge, stranger from a strange land heroine not be fun?), that's, perhaps, part of the problem.
It lacked the depth I need to fully enjoy a story like this.
I encounter this a lot with Steampunk.
And I'd like it fuck the fuck off.
Because I like Steampunk; I like it immensely.
If I didn't, Guillermo Del Toro wouldn't be one of my favourite directors.
So, maybe I just haven't met my Steampunk author yet.
But Dawson will do for now; more than do.
Because yes, I'm reading the next one.
Because as I said, it's so. much. fun.

However.
I do have a little, okay, a major quibble to vent
...
The lead characters.
...
Ugh.
So many problems I can barely contain my savagery.
But I will.
Because manners.
Instead, here's a list of what gave me near constant eye-twitchery:

The Heroine

 → Is a total whiner.
→ She's constantly falling down, getting hurt, passing out, crying - I have no problem with this behaviour, do quite a lot of it myself, but not as your character's only contribution to the story.
→ Her indesiveness drove me crazy - either shit or get off the vampire pot, lady.
→ She's totally led by her vagina - which is fine but focus on the task in hand instead of participating in some undead bushwhacking, 'kay?

The Hero

 → Spells a locket to find his soulmate and then gets pissy when she's not 100% cool about being ripped from her life to hang out in an alternate universe with a bloodsucker who's on the outs with the law and who will never age but she will with every second she spends in his world, faster than normal in fact, because of the spell the dipshit cast ... BRO. Not cool.
→ And then emotionally manipulates her because she's his soulmate, so of course she must want to abandon her dying grandmother and good tv and, uh, Pop Tarts for, yes, a totally boneable vamp-bro when he's not being a manipulative dickwipe, but a dickwipe nonetheless!
→ Also there's pouting. Post-coital, existential pouting ... Gross.

Authors?
STOP it.
Stereotyical romcom heroines and gaslighting heroes are not attractive.
They do not make me grossly swoon.
They do not make me hope they don't get gummed by the Kraken - did I forget to mention there's a Kraken?
They only make me furious, and the amount side-eyeing I have to level at the book during my happy reading time is fucking exhausting.
...
Makes you wonder why I'm reading the next one, huh?
...
Uhm...

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I don't do candles:

But this candle by The Melting Library?
I'd pentagram, light as feather, witchy the shit out this beast.
Just summon me a Fairuza Balk and I'm good to go.

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I find Bryn Courey's packaging process weirdly soothing to watch.
And generally Bryn Courey.
Her Insta-stories bring me joy.
...
Sponch.
...
Watch her stories, you'll get it.

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Erin Vest:

I love these.
They give me the exact same feeling the illustrations of Arthur Rackham and Edmund Dulac do.
Not so much in style but in feel.
Erin Vest's illustrations feel classic.
Timeless.
Like I could open up a century old book and not be surprised to see colour plates of her work complimenting some fantastical story.
...
Magic.
Actual magic.

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...
It's complete trash but...

But that's perhaps because I'm complete trash, so...

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A post shared by Katherine Lam (@katherinelams) on

The noir feels are murder mysterying me.

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Porn:

And finally an excuse to post this majesticness by Tamika Yamamoto:

...

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sseongryul:

These are so fucking charming.
Like Winnie the Pooh and Studio Ghibli hatched a soft adventure baby.
...
I want to watch that so badly.

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She is too powerful:

This energy from Adam Tots is very relatable.
Sometimes I look at Gudetama and wonder if he needs all that ass contained within a crystal palace.

But, nah.
We all know that rump cannot be contained.


Important note: my sister made this Gudetama. That butt is courtesy of her and her freakish I-can-make-anything-I-damn-well-put-my-mind-to crafty as fuck hands.
...
She scares me.
But she makes me felted backsides.
Who would ever complain?

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What happens when I look at all my books and can't decide which to read? The shorts come out to play:
Kristen Callihan's, Ember

Technically... I should have read this before Firelight, the first in The Darkest London series.
But I'm dumb.
And impatient.
But it's okay?
Because this is a nice little info filler on how the MC made their way to their story in Firelight.
Which I was kind of desperately craving but totally didn't know I was craving until I read this short story?
Brain's are stupid.
Short stories are awesome.
And now I can continue the series without hardcore side-eyeing myself for not reading it in order.
...
I repeat: brains are stupid but OCD is ever-present.

⭑⭑⭑⭑


Ilona Andrews', Magic Steals


 He learned it just for me.
Six little words and they ruined me.
...
And they made it worse with another three little words which I can't actually show you because they're a mother of a spoiler.
...
 But they're so not the words you're thinking of.
...
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Did I mention that I'm ruined?

I've been waiting for more of Dali and Jim's story since the previous short to feature them, Magic Dreams.
It was practically radio silence for two books, one novella and four short stories.
Not a Jim/Dali cute-fest in sight.
And it was killing me.
Which was probably the point; House Andrews do enjoy a good slow burn torture-fest after all.
So, this short made me happy.
Grossly happy.
Excommunicated for dopey, heart-eyed, swoony idiot behaviour happy.
Because even though their first short together was balls to the wall fun, Magic Steals gives you a chance to experience them as a couple, how they work together, their insecurities, their strengths, whether they can out-bicker Kate and Curran, etc.
Y'know, the usual coupley stuff.
But with a mystery thrown in.
And interfering relatives.


I jerked upright in my bed. Jim leaped straight up and landed on his feet, his arms raised, his body tense, ready to pounce. "What?"
"My mother is here!" I jumped to the floor, jerked a pair of shorts from under my bed, and hopped on one foot trying to put them on.
He exhaled. "I thought this was an emergency."
"It is an emergency," I hissed in a theatrical whisper. "Stay here! Don't make any noise."
"Dali," he started.
I grabbed a pillow and threw it at him. "Shush!"
He blinked.

And my girl, Dali kicking major magical ass.


"This magic isn't spell based or talent based. It's curse based. I know curses. They work like computer programs used to: they have a rigid structure. If a set of conditions is met, the curse does something. If it isn't met, the curse lies dormant. For example, let's say I am targeting a person who's left leg has been amputated. I could curse that doorway so any creature missing a leg would get gonnorhea."
Jim raised his hand. "Wait. Can you actually do that?"
I waved my hands at him. "That's not the point."
"No, that's the kind of information I need to know."
"Okay, probably I could."
Jim's expression went blank. "Remind me not to piss you off."

And my guy, Jim finally cracking an emotion.


"Everyone has that someone who is most important to them," he said, his voice so low only a shapeshifter could've heard it. "That one person who trumps the rules. You are that to me. I would do anything for you."
...

I don't know how House Andrews does this.
How they can make me feel physically better just from reading two awkward shapeshifters do the incredibly-slow-we'll-eventually-get-there no pants dance.
I'm not even exaggerating.
I was slumpy and grouchy because I didn't know what to read and all that curmudgeonly hrumphing just fucked off within the first few paragraphs of Magic Steals.
...
I call sorcery.
Or just an insane amount of talent.
Either or.
I don't care.
Just as long as it never ends.
...
Devotion is hard, man.
I'm tired.

⭑⭑⭑⭑⭑


Delilah S. Dawson's, The Three Lives of Lydia

I'm not entirely sure of the point of this weirdly miserable prelude to Wicked as They Come, but... I liked it?
I liked being back in Sang.
I liked seeing Criminy again - if only briefly.
I liked yet another unsuspecting human being attacked by bludbunnies (little vicious, but I am what I am?).
Which bodes well for the second in the series, Wicked as She Wants, because as mentioned in the review all the way up at the top of this post, I really can't figure out what the hell I feel about Delilah S. Dawson and her bludmen.
Is it too silly?
Are her heroines TSTL?
Are her male characters a little chauvinistic?
Is there just too much bloody stuff happening in one fairly small book?
Am I overthinking this?
Am I not thinking enough?
And can my fear of sea creatures hold up against another Kraken encounter?
...
Nope.
Still don't know.
I might never know.
But I liked this short.
So... yay?
...
Fuck it.
I'll report back after WaTC.

⭑⭑⭑⭐︎


Actual footage of my indecisive ass standing in front of my bookshelves:
(I'm already obsessed with Baby not-Yoda, but who the hell isn't? Look at that face and those tiny arms!)

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The Magicians season 3:

...
CLIFFHANGER MUCH!
....
That is all.
...
That, and I adore these magic drama babies.
Especially these beautiful two.

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For crying out loud, Evan Cagle:


A post shared by Evan Cagle (@hypermirage) on

Are you channelling the spirit of Gustave Doré or something?

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Amanda Bouchet's, Breath of Fire:

I am Catalia Fisa and I do not break.


There's an incredibly strong chance I loved this even more than the first in the series.
And I loved the first in the series.
A Kate Daniels-eque heroine in ye olden Grecian myth days with beasts and sex and terror?
What's not to love?
But this one?
Oh, boy.
This one fucked me up good and proper.
A Promise of Fire was the first act in Cat's expectedly fucked up story (the Gods don't deal in happy existences; puckish little fucks that they are).
 An intro to her legacy, her destiny.
Breath of Fire is watching that destiny in motion.

What I love most about classic myths (and basically all storytelling) is that they're consistently laid out in three specific acts:

1. A prophecy is foretold.
2. A quest is undergone.
3. A final battle is fought.

It's simple.
It works.
And Amanda Bouchet is following and nailing this method.
The first in the Kingmaker Chronicles is without a doubt a prophecy being shoved down the heroine's throat.
A prophecy she's been running from since childhood.
A prophecy she spends most of the first book trying her damnedest to avoid like the fucking plague.
...
She fails miserably but it's a gloriously fun fail, with added alpha-mallow benefits and quippy comments aplenty.
I loved it.
More please?
...
Cue the second in the series.
Which is most definitely a quest.
(So questy I spend most of the book, okay, all the book, with a dopey smile on my dopey face because... quest!)
 The heroine, her alpha-mallow, and their men have their prophecy, they know what's coming, and now they need mythical contraband to protect themselves and defend their home.
...
Well, fuck me mythically with Artemis's bow, that there my friends is an honest to the gods odyssey.
And. it. was. awesome.
I didn't quite realise how much I needed The Kingmaker Chronicles to fully embrace the traditional structure of the Greek myth until I read this lovely, brutal as fuck, insanely fun addition to the series.
It would still be a great read if it went the other way and simply dumped our chosen one into a mythical setting and let her fuck shit up.
That would be cool.
I'd read the crap out of that.
But for Catalia, my sarcastic, softer than soft, totally feral, Catalia, this needed to be a myth of Olympian proportions.
There needed to be bloodshed, and bratty gods who never give a straight answer.
There needed to be beasts for her to best while losing an alarming amount of blood - seriously, Cat got stabbed a lot this time around. A lot, a lot.
There needed to be labyrinths, and heaven-sent tridents, and a certain three-headed hound with a taste for Gorgon wrigglers.
There needed to be adventure.
And turmoil.
And love.
Oh, the love.
Amanda Bouchet has written a couple who make me disgustingly smooshy inside and not even one iota sorry about it.
Because I love it.
I love it so much it makes me stupid.
Just listen to these idiots:


His gaze drops to my mess on the floor. "You took our sheet. Feeling sentimental?"
Yes. Horribly. "It was my bag." I knot the ends and throw it over my shoulder.
Griffin takes the bundle from me, kissing my temple. "Clever, Cat. Always improvising."
"Improvise and survive!" I chant.
He chuckles. "That doesn't rhyme."
"Yes, it does."
"No, it doesn't."
"Yes, it does."
Griffin hits me with his hard stare. "You're arguing again."
"That's because I'm right."
"No, you're not."
"Who's arguing now?
"Cat..."
I smile innocently. It's hard not the laugh. "Yes, Your Growliness?"
He growls.
I tip my chin, thinking up a rhyme he's sure to like.
"There once was a Sintan warlord, who overcame an incredible horde. Even so, he'd be easy to mock, except he has this really huge co—"
Griffin plants his hand over my mouth, his eyes narrowing.
"What? It rhymes." I say, my voice muffled beneath his fingers.
"So do spank and thank."
I bite his hand.
Idiots.
Total idiots.
And I love them.

And I just know Bouchet is going to try her damnedest to kill at least one of them in the final book.
And it might just push me over the edge.

Oh, and for some reason, this made me stupidly happy:


My whisper is loud enough to turn Flynn's head. Jocasta shushes me, her cheeks flaming.
Kato and Kaia don't notice. She's draped herself in ribbons and is trying to get Kato to tell her which color looks best. Since Kaia is gorgeous, has the kind of striking, dark coloring that goes well with anything, and would look pretty even in a grain sack, it's a tough choice.
He scratches his chin, looking earnest and interested. Finally, he gathers up the entire lot of ribbons, wraps them around her waist, and then ties a crooked bow. "I can't decide. You should take them all."
Kaia turns bright pink. Poor Kaia.


I don't know why.
But this kills me.
It kills me dead.

And this.
This kills me even deader ← just look at that use of the English language, isn't it beautiful?:


Griffin sinks his fist into the man's abdomen and then shoves him back hard, leaving the Magoi doubled over and struggling for breath.
"Do you know what happens to anyone who tries to hurt my wife?" Griffin's voice is both iron and thunder as he flips his sword around and then delivers a punishing backhanded blow with the base of the hilt to the man's ribs. He hits the same place where the Magoi kicked me. "Either she kills that person"—Griffin flips his sword back around—"or I do."
He runs the Magoi through and then brutally lifts his blade, cutting a foot-long gash straight to the man's chin before drawing his sword back out.
I blink. Mercy is off the table. Clearly.
Gingerly, I touch my aching side. "He called me stupid."
Griffin's eyes blaze anew. "Then it's a bloody shame I can't kill him twice."


...
IDIOTS!
I swear to the gods...

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Who would they even cast as Jorg?
Who can pull off adolescent fuckheadery with so much bloody charm you won't even bother to fight forgiving above said fuckheadery?
And trust me, the fuckheadery is legion.
...

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The Grimdragon casually handing out cheat sheets on how to care for me and my people:

They will probably run away at some point.


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Also, this:

This is the exact routine Charlie and I follow when it's feeding time.
It's also the only time he'll really let me cuddle him.
...

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Pluto's a planet.
Fuck you, astronomers.
...
*is weirdly defensive about Pluto*

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I don't even need to expand on this.
Ambivalently Yours nailed it:

We deserve better.

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Mio aka. cochlea1313:


A post shared by Mio (@cochlea1313) on

Makes me want to watch Utopia for some reason.

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Atypical season 3:

It makes me incredibly happy shows depicting mental health are being made.
They need to be made.
I need them to be made.
Seeing your own struggles, issues, triumphs shown on screen is extremely validating.
It lessens the abject terror that you're the only one.
We need shows like Atypical.
But maybe with better representation.
I really like this show.
It's funny and warm and awkward as fuck.
But I don't have ASD - I'm a clusterfuck of various low to moderate mental disorders - so in order to gauge whether a show like this is actually doing a good job, I asked Google what the Autism community thought.
(Because Google knows everything)
And there actually isn't a definitive answer.
Some love it and identify strongly with the protagonist, Sam.
Some like it but find the depiction of ASD stereotypical.
Others appreciate matters such as how the police should handle situations with people diagnosed with ASD ought to be handled.
Many think the protagonist's daily struggles, and reactions to those struggles, are used as joke bait.
...
It's a mixed bag.
But I think the overall opinion is that it's wonderful mental health is finally being depicted in a healthy, positive way, instead of for cheap laughs by assholes who see us "weirdos" as a punching bag instead of people worthy of consideration and respect (see: The Big Bang Theory).
However, we've a long way to go before the mental health community is represented in full and with the right amount of understanding and compassion.
A long, long way.
But Atypical's a good place to start.

Three articles that say it better:

My Autistic Opinion: Atypical is a Stereotypical Representation of Autism

My review of Netflix's 'Atypical' as an adult with autism

What Does The Autism Community Think About 'Atypical'? The Netflix Series Is Facing Some Backlash


On a personal note, there's a scene in Sam's art class where the teacher sets his students a challenge to find and depict the "essence" of the animal they'd previously drawn realistically.
...
I nearly threw my remote at the tv.
This is the kind of shit that gave me my first mental breakdown in art school ← not hyperbole, it legit broke me, support systems in education seriously need to up their game.
Fuck you, essence.
Fuck you inexplicably.

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Adrian aka. ricenoodles.ok:


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A post shared by Adrian (@ricenoodles.ok) on

I don't know where this going... but I like it.
(Tiny Kirsten Dunst is genuinely the only reason to watch the dumpster fire that is Interview with the Vampire)

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I do all of these.
I've done it in this post.
19 justs and 6 maybes.
I didn't even realise how ingrained this behaviour is.
And how the fuck do I stop?


Ps. follow ANAERKILLIK.

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Henrik Aa. Uldalen

You may recognise his work from Chelsea Wolfe's fourth album, Abyss:
Anyone good enough for Chelsea, is good enough for me.


Stephen Bauman

Seeing classically trained artists find success in a Contemporary Art infested industry gives me all the warm and fuzzies.
And these two blow me completely away.

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Abigail Larson mini print:

I wanted the cushion.
...
But I knew customs would bite me in the ass if I bought the cushion.
Thus.
Mini print.
...
It's so dinky...

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Gris:

On repeat.
I'll never play this game - because my level of gaming suckitude should not be unleashed upon the world - but I'll damn well play its score until I'm sick of it.

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Thea Harrison's, Storm's Heart:

Of course. Now I understand.

...

This is my happy place.
Supernaturals, suspense, smooshiness and sex.
All of those S words, please, more and fuck yeah.
And after being wholly let down by a series I rely on for the above sacrosanct S words (how could you, Kristen Ashley? How could you?), I needed a serotonin boost in the form of paranormal, horrendously swoony, funny as fuck storytelling.
And Thea Harrison has yet to fail me.
Sure, this is only the second book of her's I've read but sometimes you just know, y'know?
...
Or I'm an idiot who's asking for trouble. There is always that option.
But either way, Storm's Heart was just what I needed.
It sated my every post-series-betrayal need:

→ A smart-mouthed heroine who isn't TSTL (can we just be done with idiots unless it's purposeful? Please?), knows how to stick 'em with the pointy end, doesn't constantly fall the fuck over, and definitely knows she can bawl her eyes out whenever the fuck she pleases and fuck anyone who calls her weak for it.

→ An alpha-mallow hero (my hero-flavour of choice) who actually listens to his significant other instead of playing the me man, me know best, me make weak and feeble female shush while man make fire and pee on random stuff card - that card needs to die a painful death involving an eyelash curler. 

→ VIOLENCE. I'm small and I'm bloodthirsty, give me all the ripped throats and crunched bones and various impalings; and bring them to me with arterial spray aplenty.

→ A mystery I can't figure out. This is actually not that hard. I wouldn't call myself an idiot (unless you make me do mental arithmetic, then I am most definitely an idiot) but I never, ever, puzzle out who the bad guy/girl/beast is. Can't do it. Never see it coming. I think I'm broken. And that's the way I like it. 

→ Banter. Thea Harrison provides such good banter. The kind of banter you could roll around in. Like my cat when he's stoned off his tits on catnip. That level of banterness? Bantertude? Banterivity?

→ HEA/HFN. Absolute requirement. Do not murder my MC. I am not here for that miserable, shock-bait shit. I'll head over to Literary Fiction if I'm in the mood to indulge in unnecessary misery-porn ← I love Literary Fiction, but it is pretty fucking gloomy.

...
Yup.
Look at all that good stuff.
Just what I needed.
And the third in the series is already ready and waiting on my bookshelves to be chugged down when I again feel the need for squishy-make-feel-good-supernatural-nonsense-storytelling.
...
I give me five books maximum before I'm knocking on m'lady Harrison's door for my next hit.

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More porn!:


A post shared by Mr Doodle (@mrdoodle) on

Those lines...

Someone get me a mop marker, stat.

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Icarus and the Sun:

I missed the Indiegogo campaign for Gabriel Picolo's romantic retelling of the Icarus myth, and I cannot even begin describe how bummed out I am about this.
But!
He might be releasing a second batch.

...

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My people...:

...

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Two scenes from Laura Dean Keeps Breaking Up with Me:


A post shared by Lindy Vega (@lindyparkervega) on

I really need to get this bloody book.

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