If you can feel that wilted sigh from across the country/sea/ocean/universe, then the depth of my literary despair is as strong as it feels inside my chest: Fucking devastating.
I am having the worst run with books (and media in general; what is happening?!), truly fucking awful, and I'd like it to stop now, literary gods, preferably with a year's worth of book recommendations so I never have to feel this hell again.
My brain is on fire, itchy and grouchy, and I need a fucking win before I walk into the fucking sea.
Which is what I thought The Blacksmith Queen would be when I plucked it from my shelves, because, I mean... Fantasy. Lady. Blacksmith.
Three words to send a delighted shudder down even the sturdiest of Speculative Fiction heroine-loving spines.
It contained everything I could possibly want:
⚒ Hammer-wielding heroine
⚒ Alternate Britain
⚒ Centaurs! I don't get to read enough centaurs
⚒ Bickering siblings
⚒ A quest
⚒ And a little romance
All that up there, that's my Fantasy jam, seeds included, thank you kindly.
But it's only my jam when my brain agrees it's my jam, when those fickle synapses follow their sparky little guts and collectively concur that yes, that is our Fantasy flavour.
The Blacksmith Queen was not my flavour, and the only way I can express why exactly, is to make a convoluted comparison to the cringy movies of the 80s (the best era) that I love so very much.
Okay, not so convoluted, but there are reasons why I feel this way, why I'm a Legend, Willow, The Princess Bride, Ladyhawke kinda girl, why they are the movies of my heart, my happy film era, and I'd die a delighted goblin if Labyrinthwas the last movie I ever saw, but I can't make it through ten minutes of Krullor Red Sonja without slamming my face into a pillow and dramatically groaning in despair.
And it's not a movie-budgetary thing, and it's not an acting-quality thing, or even a storytelling thing.
It's a that thing just feels right thing.
TBQdoesn't feel right, it didn't from the first page.
Simple as that, it just tasted funny on my brain-tongue ← behold, the delightful imagery said brain supplies.
I chose the wrong flavour, strawberry when I wanted raspberry, and there was no narrative mint strong enough to overpower it.
I was trapped in unpalatable, Fantasy romp hell.
And oh wow, did I complain my ass off about it.
Too bawdy.
Overly smug.
Thinks it's so funny.
Everyone's a caricature.
I could play an exclamation mark drinking game with page one and be drunk off my ass before the first paragraph was over.
Now, I don't like to boast, but as you can see from that little, snarly snippet, I'm a world-class complainer, with a doctorate in curmudgeonliness, and tenure in scowls of displeasure.
When I don't like something, I'm gonna let the universe know and the universe is probably going to call me a little bitch, and to get the fuck over it, it's just a damn book, but the universe can bite me.
But also might have a point because the weirdest thing happened:
I leaned into it.
I took a moment to stop griping and groaning about how much the writing was pretty subpar and akin to a small child telling you every moment of their day: and then this happened, oh, and then this happened, but wait, THIS other thing happened! - don't tell me, show me, dammit.
And instead of hyper-focusing on what was wrong with the story, I simply accepted it and kept going, which is when this very welcome feeling of safety and comfort starting to diffuse within my body.
All that annoyance and cantankerous feelings I was experiencing simply fucked off into the abyss whence they came.
No goodbye, no so long and thanks for all the serotonin snacks, they just left, and I could read and not be a hateful shitbag about everything.
...
It. Was. Awesome.
Did it make me like the story any better?
Uh, no.
It's still not my flavour of fantasy, too forward paced with no real surprises, the fantastical elements felt forced and cartoony, and the characters are easily forgettable.
This is not a book win for me, at least no in the sense of story, but as a minor, tiptoed step out of literary purgatory?
Absolutely a goddamn motherfucking win.
And I will give the story this, it is stuffed to the castle rafters with tough as shit women.
Be it through brawn or brain.
A sunshine blacksmith wielding an enormous hammer like the nicest valkyrie you'll ever meet.
A cantankerous, necromantic war monk with impulse control (Harrowhark, what are you doing here?)
Or a bookish, bitch-queen in training using her smarts to out-plot everyone.
Etc., and so on, every last one of them, fierce and not to be trifled with.
And for most part, the men are just soft dopes who dote on them wholeheartedly and expect nothing in return except maybe their feelings.
...
Now that, my fellow goblin friends, that is my kind of Fantasy.
🐾 Grendel, Kate Daniels series, giant attack poodle/hellhound? ← he's stinky, he's loyal, he'll berserker out and eat your face if you try to hurt Kate and the fam, thus we love the stinky boy.
🐾 Greebo, Discworld, shape-shifting tomcat with a foul-temper and a taste for vampires ← his human form has always had a likening in my head to an unwashed Aidan Turner à la Being Human: gorgeous but the bad-tempered boy is in desperate need of a bath.
🐾 Lying Cat, Saga, overgrown, sea-foam green feline ← don't tell fibs around the fuzzy one, she'll tell The Will on you.
🐾 Fizzgig, The Dark Crystal, fuzzball ← who knew a ball of fur with teeth could be so fucking cute. Oh, wait...
🐾 Spike, October Daye, rose goblin with cat-like tendencies ← a new addition to the list but this loyal thorny boy rubs his sharp butt all over Tobey on a bookly basis and it brings me much joy.
🐾 Ludo, Labyrinth, rock troll? ← Bowie wasn't the only "rock star" in my favourite Fae movie. Ps.Eternal good boy.
🐾 Oberon, Iron Druid series, Irish Wolfhound, lover of poodles and sausages ← he's named after the father of the Fae, instant legend status. Also, BEST GOODEST BOY.
🐾 PuppyCat, Bee and PuppyCat, space prince? Stinky boy? ← he's too cute to poot. I love him, your honour.
🐾 Winston, Hannibal, mottled boy, cannibal mistruster ← not technically a Fantasy companion but I had to include him (Her! Heidi, irl. Best girl!). It hurts my heart how much he must miss Will *gross sobbing*.
🐾 Artax, The NeverEnding Story, noble steed, resurrection baby ← I just to remind myself that Bastian Balthazar Bux(woah) brings him back. He. Brings. Him. BACK. ... *brief interlude to retrieve tissues and the remnants of my soul*
🐾 Ein, Cowboy Bebop, data dog, space corgi ← his butt is reason enough to be on this list but his love for Edward and ability to drive a car (look, no hands, ma!) confirm it. Yet another best boy.
🐾 Cerberus, Lore Olympus, gatekeeper to the Underworld, has a weakness for curvy, pink goddesses ← I'm sorry, it has to be done: BEST BOYYYYYYYYYYY. All dogs are best boys but this flower crown-wearing, napping-goddess cushion, sweet-faced cinnamon roll boy needs a special mention.
🐾 Dog, Good Omens, hellhound, the antichrist's fur baby ← he chose to be a regular dog instead of a mythical beast because he loves his owner that much. ... *SOB* Don't look at me, right now!
🐾 Toby, Rivers of London, short-haired terrier, faulty psychopomp? ← I'm 90% convinced he's the only reason Peter's stayed alive this long.
🐾 Calcifer, Howl's Moving Castle, fallen star, fire demon, sass-mouth, bacon-thief ← when you think you're the whiniest supernatural creature in the 'verse and then Howl enters stage left, pursued by a hair stylist. Ps. He's blue in the book.
Okay, I'm out, that's all I've got for now, stay tuned, because I'm mostly like not done.
Fantasy animals are the best animals, apart from this absolute unit:
Look at him, he's basically the golden rule in floof, and I'm 90% sure he's a god on holiday.
This show has been ruining my fucking life since 2015.
With it being too smart for its own bloody good but absolutely justified in its smugness.
The purposeful and trusting Fourth Wall breaking.
The tech-speak I understood not one word of but felt like I did.
The consistent feeling of having no fucking clue what was going to happen next.
And of course, Rami Malek, destroying my tear ducts and ribcage stability one heartbreaking scene at a time.
Fucking fuck, I love this show and I'll miss it, and the ending was perfect, and I gotta go cry some more now because I just remembered the way Malek's face looked in the finals scenes (anyone else clock the Fight Club ref?) and I just...
If I believed in a deity, I'd be laying offerings at their feet.
My shifter babies are back!
I can stop crying internally!
And do you see what that says? Wilmington Years 1.
...
ONE!
MEANING THERE WILL BE MORE.
YOU DON'T NUMBER IT UNLESS THERE'LL BE MORE.
...
I've gotta remember to breathe...
But I can't because my favourite authors in the whole fucking universe just set up a merch store:
And it will have an international equivalent so us lowly europeans can own something without selling our souls to the shipping and oh dear, that'll be £8+ worth of customs charge, if you please demons.
...
THIS NEVER HAPPENS.
Living on this stupid island means most of the creators I love live elsewhere and can't afford to sell here, so I have to simply lust over goods from across a fucking ocean/sea/pond/whatever.
The Walking Dead gets eighty million seasons to be a glorified zombie soap opera minus 90% of the zombies, but this Gen Z slap-fest gets cancelled after one season?
I have multiple mugs I'm profoundly attached to, that I'll use for different drinks and different moods, some that will never be imbibed from because they're more art than they are receptacle.
Some for plants, some for pens.
Some just because.
There's nothing quite as comforting like a good mug.
And I'd sell a little of my soul to the goblin-kind for either of the creations above.
Wouldn't even pause to think about it.
Just let me drink my fairie liquor from a mushroom cup in peace.
What's a little bit of missing soul between goblins?
.............................................
The only Christmas songs I'm willing to accept this year are these three:
I've loved this British-Buffy trash-fire since it came out.
All campy and crudely acted but with stupidly lovable characters and enough supernatural farce to keep me happy.
And of course, Jemima Rooper, who I've had a crush on since As If, yet another timeless, early noughties classic that I remember nothing about, other than a general feeling of I liked you, if you were on anywhere, I'd totally watch you again.
Stomping out with as little grace as she could manage, Holly found Thorne waiting for her in the front hall. With each step she took, his smile grew, until it was wide and boyish with unfettered glee, his dour mood apparently forgotten like last season's gun model.
"There she is," he announced in an almost sing-song manner, "my little devil lass, looking like a vision from Hell."
Coming from a demon, she supposed that was a compliment. It did not quell the urge to hit him square on his elegant nose. Unlike her, he was perfectly kitted out as a gentleman ought to be, with a silver-satin waistcoat and expertly cut black frock coat and trousers.
When she stopped before him, his gaze turned obsidian, and he let it travel over her in perusal. "You are transformed, Evernight." His voice was deeper now, rough and tumble. "A visual feast."
Well then, far better than a literal feast. Holly fought the urge to step back and cross her arms beneath her breasts. "You are enjoying, aren't you?"
The smug grin stayed put. "Immensely."
Full disclosure:Evernight was my happy fiction-pill back into the land of literature that doesn't make me fucking miserable.
...
It worked.
After FIVE consecutive novels that left me either disheartened or downright pissed off, I needed a literary win.
I needed a story that followed the laws of good storytelling, something with a beginning, middle, and end, with characters that didn't bore me to tears or make my slapping hand twitch murderously.
I needed an engaging story that would flood my brain with endorphins, release some blessed dopamine and soothe my achy brainpan, because holy shit, I didn't realise how much not enjoying what I'm reading affected my overall mental health.
I mean... I did, but more that it's my happy place? Where I go to relax, escape, feel better, feel joy, and root for characters I've fallen in love/like with.
Books are where all the euphoric chemical reactions in my brain happen.
And apparently I've had a truly blessed run of reading before now because this frustrated, resentful feeling has never happened to me before.
Sure, I've read things I haven't enjoyed or outright loathed, but they've always been cushioned with something better, a story that brings pleasure to counteract the discomfort that came before.
But not this time, not five books ago, where I grouched around and dreaded cracking (gently) the spine of the uninspired story I was currently mired in each night.
I don't dread books, I fucking worship at their papyraceous altar ← I shouldn't be allowed near a thesaurus, and this quintet of disenchantment ← oh seriously, take it away,was a blow to the system. Literally. I was so gloomy, my serotonin levels must have been shockingly low.
Thus, I finished my latest disaster - and it was a doozy, slotted it back into place amongst its brethren, glared a little, as one does when one's been unsuspectingly vexed, and set my inner, literary divining rod to choosing me a good 'un.
It took about two seconds to clock Kristen Callihan's Darkest London series lounging sedately at the foot of the bed, louche in its knowledge that yes, we know, we're exactly you what you want, go on, pick us up and all will be well again.
Arrogant little fuckers were right, smack-dab, bang on the money.
As soon as I'd finished the first chapter I could feel my raging, curmudgeonly bitch-monster recede back into her hollow, beaten back by gentle, Victorian-era steampunk, an MC that could bicker-flirt for Britannia herself, the forced proximity trope (only one bed! Only one bed!), and some Fae malarky thrown in.
...
Bitch-monster never stood a chance.
And you would think after having been in such bookish distress previously I'd've gracelessly gobbled Evernight down with a swiftness only the truly desperate can empathise with in order to experience the much coveted reader's high, but no, this was a slow consuming.
A strict diet of thirty, forty pages a night, to chew and taste each word, savour the swallowing down of whatever the brain's equivalent of a throat is until it rested in my belly, brain, unholy mixture of the two, and settled whatever fuckery had been wrought before.
In short, I wanted this to last.
I couldn't go back to the dread of each new chapter, paragraph, word! The weather's fucking atrocious, the days are too short, and the world's on fucking fire, books cannot betray me, I will not allow it.
So, I went slow, and steady; and my mood?
...
I cannot express the release I felt, it was like finally breathing out, rolling tight neck muscles into a state of unclench, taking your bra off at the end of the day.
Sweet. Fucking. Release.
And the more I read, the better I felt.
No more griping and groaning over every dissatisfying combination of words, no more hateful characters to exhaust me, only the fog-laden streets of London and its supernatural inhabitants to lick my literary wounds.
And the best part?
This isn't even my favourite of the series so far, and it still gave me more satisfaction than any of the supposed five star reads trailing in its wake like uninspired crime scene victims.
Not to throw any shade (but to throw quite a lot of shade): don't trust reviewers, especially not paid ones.
Weird thing to say when I, myself, am a reviewer who is currently reviewing (note to self: talk about the book at some point, yeah?) and hoping someone out in the void will read my nonsensical word vomit, but its true: don't trust reviewers. Don't trust me. Because there is no assurance in anything they/we say; just because I enjoyed something or wanted to kick its narrative ass, doesn't mean you'll feel the same.
By all means, read reviews - I'm certainly not stopping - but then trust your gut, it's the only way.
...
For the last five books, I didn't follow this advice, I didn't trust my gut, I trusted everyone else's and it made me a sullen fuck-knuckle.
And once upon a time, I might've looked upon Kristen Callihan's books and convinced myself I couldn't read them because they weren't highbrow fiction, they were just romantic fluff that would poison my brain ← hello, patriarchy, still an asshole, I see.
Well, that "romantic fluff" has been saving my brain for the past decade (if you have mental health issues, I highly recommend reading, it's a tonic like no other), with its flouncy outfits and pockets just for weapons.
This entire genre is my antidepressant, and I'll take my medicine with grace and greediness, even when, as I said, it's not a story I've particularly lost my mind over.
In all honesty, I thought I would with this one, because, uh, the heroine literally ripped the hero's heart out, replaced it with a clockwork contraption, accidentally sent him bonkers, then he attempted to kill her, and yet somehow they overcame the assassination/body violation business and fell in love.
...
But, for a reason that doesn't really bother me, it didn't incite the excitement the series usually does.
The reason being:
It doesn't differ enough from the previous stories.
There is a running theme in Callihan's supe-infested Victorian London of the main couple being at odds, be it mutual dislike, a marital separation, a disagreement that's gotten out of hand, etc, there's always conflict between the two.
This is no different for Evernight's MC, Holly and Will, because like I said, she ripped his heart out and he tried to return the favour.
Animosity is alive and well between these two, and there there's nothing I love more than the enemies to lovers trope (there are many equally loved tropes, however), but even with the hate-flirting and the eye-fucking and the throwing-over-the-shouldering, their relationship wasn't distinct enough from the ones that came before to truly flood my brain with that good ol' dopamine rush.
He roamed over to a table and picked up an apparatus that appeared to be some sort of half-formed pocket watch, only it had a tiny lens on the face.
"Do not," she bustled over and took the thing from him, "touch my work."
"I won't damage it." But he had to smile at her proprietary tone.
"Maybe not, but it might damage you." Carefully, she set the watch down and turned to face him. "How shall we proceed?"
"You can start by telling me everything you can about your activities leading up to―" He stopped short when she uttered a strangled cry and tugged his arms to get him away from the table. "Oh, for God's sake," he groused, "I was only leaning a hip against it."
"I told you to stay clear of my―"
Will bent down and scooped her up.
"Mr. Thorne! Release me at once."
"In a moment." Will held her close and headed for his room. "I cannot think in here, not with you admonishing me like a high-strung governess."
"Then simply tell me that and let me walk on my own volition." Up close, her lashes were thick and long, her eyes indigo. A tiny freckle graced the outer of her left eye.
He might have done what she requested, but he found he enjoyed annoying her, and he had his hands on her, which eased him. Regardless, he let her down with an ungracious drop the moment they were back in his room. She wobbled on her feet and uttered a ribald curse beneath her breath,
[...]
"Come, Evernight. Hold my hand and ease me."
Her look of disgust grew. "You do realise that I could put you into a world of agony with just one touch?"
"But you won't."
Did I enjoy their angry courtship? Bet your ass I did.
Did the mixture of Holly's brains and Will's cocksure brawn bring me pleasure? *vigorous nodding*
And did the violent beginnings of their relationship add an unorthodox aspect to the development of their feelings for each other? ... Does a steampunk vampire shit cogs in the woods? Undetermined! But you get my point.
This story had just about everything I want when I enter Callihan's Darkest London, but just not enough to make me love it more than its predecessors.
HOWEVER! Because this is the book that dragged my limp body from reading slump purgatory, defibrillated my heart back into some sort of rhythmic order, and saline flushed all the bad literary toxins from my system, we're going to talk solely about the good stuff.
In list form.
Because I've had a tooth-induced migraine for about a week, looking at the screen for too long makes me barfy, and I like lists.
Lists are the best.
Everything should come in bullet point form.
Thus...
The Top Five Reasons Why Evernight Cured My Book Depression:
✞Worldbuilding
Usually, steampunk is not my favourite genre/style, at least not in written form.
In movies and tv shows, I'm a hungry, hungry automaton for that clockwork nonsense; the way it looks, the grease-stained stink of it, and of course that it's normally set in Victorian times.
All aesthetically good stuff, please insert it into my eyeballs for now and forevermore.
But in literature? In my experience, it has a habit of overtaking the story, where you can often spend more time reading endless passages of mechanical exposition than experiencing an actual story, and that's not something I particularly enjoy.
In any genre.
So, when an author gets the balance just right, the aforementioned hangry automaton comes out for a three course meal and won't leave until an iron pooch's been developed, the belt buckle lays unclasped and slack like a luxuriating serpent, and a tinfoil swan with the leftovers has been placed warily into greedy, articulated fingers.
Her steampunk London never feels overladen with rust, instead she chooses to keep her characters' metal contraptions just out of sight, secreted in a pocket, disguised as a seemingly harmless walking stick, a pocket watch, a perfectly ordinary hat.
I love that these items are treated with the same quiet, personal necessity as a lip balm or phone.
Not worn as a badge of alignment but as private acknowledgement.
This is how steampunk should be: not the theme but a natural extension of the theme.
But most of all I love how she can knock Will off his cocksure pedestal with a single, perfectly raised eyebrow.
"...cease berating me and give me your waistcoat."
[...]
"My waistcoat? Why?" [Will] was already shrugging off his jacket and going at his buttons.
Evernight pulled a few hairpins out of her coiffure and re-secured them, tucking in wayward inky strands until every hair was severely secured. At least she'd taken not of what a good target free-hanging hair made.
"I do not want to worry about my bosom popping free on top of everything else.
In the act of handing her his waistcoat, he nearly dropped it. His fist clenched. "Good point," was all he got out, for now he had that image in his head to contend with as well, thank you, Miss Evernight."
She took it from him and finished dressing with brusque efficiency.
Hell, she ought to look ridiculous, with her hacked-off skirts hanging limply around her knees, exposing black-striped silk stockings and little boots, and wearing a man's waistcoat. The garment did not fit her perfectly. It hung too loose at her waist and strangled over her breasts, but it covered the sweet swells of them admirably.
Yes, she ought to look a fright. Instead she stirred his blood. With the determined tilt of her head, her steeled spine, she was a warrior.
"Right then," she said crisply. "Weapons."
[...]
Lips pursed as if she were shopping at Harrods, Evernight scanned the selection [of weapons]. She picked up a pair of metal gauntlets first. They were huge, meant for a large man, and crafted of steels. He was about to protest the inane choice when she slipped them on.
As if alive, the metal suddenly undulated, gliding over hands and forearms, shrinking and stretching, fitting itself to her shape. When the gauntlets had reached her upper arms, they suddenly shimmered and then hardened once more. A perfect fit.
Evernight peered at him from over her slim shoulder, and a quiet smile danced around her lips. Then she made a fist. Instantly four blades shot from her knuckles. Claws.
Will thought he might be in love.
...
She's perfect.
✞Bickering
There are many couple dynamics I love:
♥ Sweater boy and absolute nightmare
♥ Grumpy one and the sunshine one
♥ Friends to lovers
♥ Enemies to lovers
♥ Enemies to friends to lovers
♥ Friends to enemies to lovers
♥ Fake dating
♥ Opposites attract
♥ Cinnamon roll x cinnamon roll
♥ Villain and hero/heroine
The list's friggin' endless, but nothing, and I mean nothing, makes me more feral than an MC who can't go two minutes without antagonising each other.
Full blown argument or foreplay teasing, it doesn't matter, I'll inhale those prickly vibes like a flu patient huffing Vicks VapoRub.
I can't even explain why, maybe it's some primordial ooze bullshit programmed into my DNA, I don't actually care, I just want to nom it down until I'm sated.
Which is never.
Seriously, never.
But couples like Holly and Will keep the hunger at bay for a little while, with their near-constant bickering, and Will essentially pulling Holly's pigtails just to see what happens, and Holly returning that tug with a glare, an acerbic comment, and a swift punch to the gut when he won't stop grinning at her.
And then the forced cuddling begins and I'm fucking ruined for the rest of eternity.
"Must you lie so close? You're crowding me?"
A slow smile pulled at his lips. "Bothers you, does it?" Dark eyes slid along her length, making her feel stark naked as opposed to being covered from toe to chin in layers of eiderdown. "You do seem rather stirred up."
"Annoyed is the word to use." Holly burrowed farther under the covers and moved away from him. Unfortunately the edge of the bed was at her back.
He grinned as if he realized the fact, and as if he did not believe her. "I'll behave." His solemn, almost innocent tone belied the evil twinkle in his eyes.
[...]
Thorne slid in close, spooning his body to hers and bringing their linked arms together before her. Nothing, not even the heaviest cover, felt as secure, as instantly warming as his hold. From the man who'd come here to kill her. Who nearly killed another this day.
"Thorne―"
"Do not waste your breath fussing," he cut in blandly. "It's the only way to lie comfortably." He snuggled in further, bringing parts of him she'd rather not focus on into contact. "And I will keep you warm."
*happy sigh* Bad-tempered love, I do love it so.
✞Agoraphobia representation
This is a pretty personal one for me, having had fairly consistent bouts of agoraphobia throughout the years, and it's not something you often come across in fiction.
Or if you do, it entirely misses the point.
Agoraphobia can and usually does involve the fear of open spaces, but it's not technically a fear of the outside but the threat of it to your, for want a less hokey term, inner balance.
Sometimes it's the people, often the noise, the lack of control over your environment, strangers entering your personal space without consent, the feeling of being in the open but entirely trapped, which can often lead to a sort of sensory-overload, out of body experience (commiserative five to my fellow HSPs), which in turn makes the feeling of safety a much more distant companion.
I've experienced all of these things, and they all suck, but not once has it been the place itself that's inspired these feelings, if anything, I take great comfort from the unpredictable predictability of nature and the steadfastness of architecture.
But as someone who works really hard to just remain mentally level, being thrust into an environment that does have social rules but flows noisily and chaotically, it defenestrates any control I have directly out the fucking window.
Shoves it hard and without mercy.
Callihan seems to understand this and shows it honestly and carefully in Holly, holed up in her rooms making any excuse to stay indoors, frightful not only of what could get in but what she might find outside.
This is what agoraphobia's actually like, not the caricatural version you so often see in the media.
It's not joke fodder, it's not a human failing, it's scary as shit, usually stems from an anxiety disorder, and seeing it in fiction, in a genre I love, makes me feel acknowledged instead of humiliated.
I'm so sick of seeing neurodivergence used as a source of joking shame.
Mental health issues are diverse and innumerable and they need to be represented with more care in the arts.
Just like this.
Even with its flaws.
Which when I think about it, aren't.
There's a scene in the book where Will manages to coax Holly out of the house for dinner, and at first she experiences all the expected symptoms: panic, sensory overload, hyperventilation, the whole shebang, but then he calms her down, soothes her enough to take those first steps outside, and everything seems miraculously okay.
...
Seems too easy, right?
Except, I've been in that exact same situation, albeit with milder symptoms and minus the handsome vampire, but still panicked enough to not want to go through with venturing outside.
I've stood on my doorstop with a family member helping me through it, sticking close when I finally venture out into hostile-for-me territory, and it's felt... fine.
Often it's the thought more than the action that causes the most anxiety, and with Holly we get to see that, we get to see that anxiety isn't one flavour, that one day it'll be conquerable, barely a thought, and the next it'll be insurmountable.
To those who haven't experienced this kind of anxiety, I can't explain how much seeing this in print matters, it just really, really does.
And to those who have, if you felt a little bruised and embraced whilst reading Evernight, it's okay, I did too, I even had a little cry.
But that's expected, if I was an X-Men I'd be the Human Faucet.
Or would it be Mutant Faucet... ?
✞Forced proximity
You know how I said bickering couples were my all-time favourite variety of MC?
Forced proximity is my all-time favourite trope.
What could possibly be better than trapping your main couple together and forcing them to deal with their feelings?
There's dirty looks, possibly some throwing of things, an abundance of unresolved sexual tension, and of course, the reflexive touching (see: above gif).
He would adore her if she gave him half the chance.
Truly? What can beat that?
(If you know, zip it, I can't hear you anywayyyyyy)
Oh, I know:
WHEN THERE'S ONLY ONE BED!
To the first storyteller who incorporated this into their narrative and made it a thing forevermore... I love you. I love you more than carbohydrates, honestly, I do.
And lucky for me, this trope runs rampant in Fantasy: travelling together and need to take shelter for the night? Oh no, there's an inn but only a single room left, whatever will we do...?
...
Spoon. They will spoon and possibly more and I will live off those cuddles (plus) for a week, month, years!
I THINK ABOUT IT MORE THAN I DO CHAPTER 55 AND IT'S THE CHAPTER BUT 48'S BETTERBECAUSE IT'S WHEN EVERYTHING STARTED!
...
Sorry, I'll stop yelling now and make my point.
The reason the OOB trope is superior to the rest, and not just an excuse to put sex on the table, is that it forces the MC to really face each other, let down every barrier, admit things in the dark, feel each other without the daylight intruding.
It's contained sliver of time to fuck around and find out.
And I love it.
Callihan obviously loves it, too, because she not only gave us forced proximity, not only one bed, but she created a storyline that where even though there were two beds available, the MC physically had to stay together.
...
She gave us the I literally need you to live trope.
Holly whipped around as Thorne slid between the sheets, a mulish expression on his face.
"I have need."
The declaration sent a hot bolt of shock through her center. When she merely gaped, he glared at her. "In pain here, love, if you don't mind."
He slid closer, gathering her up. Holly pressed a quelling hand against his chest. "Your pain is no excuse for invading my privacy. Or getting into my bed!" she added with heat, for he merely snorted and did not let go.
"It is the only reason I'd be here," he said with feeling. "And you cannot find me too distasteful, as you left off your little electric wall tonight."
"An oversight that I am now lamenting," she said darkly.
His eyes flashed silver in the waning firelight. "Your mistake. Now, if you do not mind." He gestured between him and her with his chin. "Get on with it, sweets."
She wanted to throttle him.
[...]
Opening her fingers wide upon the center of his chest, she sent a bolt of power through him even as she pushed him away. "There," she nearly snarled. "Now, kindly leave."
Thorne rose up on one elbow, light gleaming over his altered flesh and glowing softly on his natural skin. Good lord above, was he naked? Holly gripped the covers so that she would not lift them and take a peek.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
...
...
...
...
...
Sorry, needed to joyfully scream internally for a bit.
This particular extension of the OOB trope is a rare occurrence for me (it's a mystery why it isn't done more often or maybe I'm reading the wrong things) and when it happens, I simply open my jaw wide and basking shark that goodness down.
I glommed Holly and Will's life-source debacle down like raspberry jelly (best flavour, don't start shit).
No chewing, just an curious tongue smash, and down it went.
Nom. Fucking. Nom.
Sated and happy is my favourite way to observe a couple figure out what we know al along:
That all that loathing they feel actually goes by another name.
"Do you mean to leave me?"
Tears prickled behind her life, turning her vision watery.
His gaze darted over her face, and then his stern countenance shifted to one of shocking tenderness. "Never." It was a fierce declaration in the darkness.
And there you have it, the top five reasons why Evernight simultaneously gave me an endorphin high and saved me from the wretched book slump.
I love you, book.
And in true Callihan form, before I'd even finished this one, she''d already caused my eyes wander to the next couple in the series.
I'm like a dog in friggin' heat for these idiots.
But, because I'm either stupid or a masochist, instead of using good reasoning and reading the next in the series, I'm going to merrily flee this review and read something potentially disappointing because I'm not omniscient and I have no fucking sense.
I don't often do these, mostly because I forget what I've enjoyed in a month, let alone a year, but fuck it, I'm forcing ye olde brainpan to get off her lazy arse and blow the dust off the ill-used memory banks.
And, because this is me, and I've never possessed even a modicum of chill when it comes to making lists - fucking love lists - I'm expanding the brief and making categories.
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