Hi-Five: A Review of Aftermath, Chuck Wendig

It came to pass that this family saw The Force Awakens and peace settled upon the house-hold. Truth be told, the kid really wasn't swayed to the light or dark side of The Force, continuing his love-affair with The Hulk while us, his parental units disassembled the screening with any sentient being that crossed our paths weeks past. Too much has been said about the seventh installment to the franchise that I am reluctant to add my voice to the monster of dialogue. The verdict is perched on a sliding scale of popular culture, fluctuating from liking to loathing dependent fully on the reviewer and whose audience it targets. As for this girl, I had a romping good time but I wasn't looking for anything beyond that. My childhood does not need to be validated by whether the Millennium Falcon could survive a jump to hyperspace so close to a planet's gravitational pull. 

What I prefer to contribute to the on-line mayhem is not my cinematic stance but my hi-five enthusiasm for the newest addition to the Star Wars book franchise, Aftermath by Chuck Wendig. 

A visit to any large bookstore chain's science fiction section will familiarize yourself with the phenomena that are the fan inspired Star Trek and Wars novels. These books seem to breed on the shelves, sadly giving the entire genre a bad name. It should be noted that at no time has this girl actually read a Star Trek novel, hence having no leg to stand on and should be taking accordingly. The little, however, I have read from the Star Wars universe inspired a similar level of annoyance that only the new Dune books have been able to rise in me, thus providing a sliver from a shelf to pontificate on. Timothy Zhan's Thrawn trilogy was a brilliant failure, exemplifying an author's ineffectiveness to see beyond the pre-existing narrative. Most of my reading time was spent equally internally editing the blandness, and pining for proper sentences. 

The war is so very not over in Aftermath. The Empire having lost the Battle of Endor, the death of the Emperor, Darth Vadar, and countless of soldiers and support staff is supposedly limping to it's demise. A new world order struggles to secure through the galaxy as planet after planet begins the slow process of renewed identification. The brilliance of Chuck Wendig's adaptation is the harsh realism he envelopes over pop-culture's beloved G-rated space fairy-tale. This is not the Star Wars we have been weaned on for decades, this is the Star Wars your mother would definitely not let you're 10 year-old self watch. 

Aftermath offers an adult version of our childhood heroes and villains. Power is not Dark nor Light but a reflection of political economics. A holovid of Princess Leia beams across the galaxy proclaiming the destruction of the Death Star over the forest moon of Endor, willing the myriad of local governments to align with the New Republic. Is this the proclamation of peace or well-crafted propaganda? The fall of any great civilization is more than a one-act play. The Battle of Endor is the keystone; of and to what degree is unclear. With power as the novel's theme, it provides the necessary framework for a narrative that moves to the fantastic, offering seemingly impossible feats of luck for the rag-tag protagonists. A novel that could easily become trite is saved by layers of governmental intrigue on both sides of The Force.

If you are looking for a light read, something that dabbles within the Star Wars universe, while managing to expand your imagery of a world already well-defined, Aftermath is your book. 

Imminent Future: A Review of The Rest of Us Just Live Here, Patrick Ness

This is the month of preoccupied reading; progressing from one great book to another, allowing little time to digest the last as I immerse myself in the next. If the world was filled with this type of problem there would be little to grieve. Unfortunately, I am finding my enthusiasm obstructing any attempt to review through this blog. Four books stand firm in my brain, flashing to be heard through this medium but I have a book to finish and the cycle perpetuates.

And yet, as I am one hour from trekking off to the local natural history museum for a day of dinosaur bones, rock collections and bat dioramas with my son, I am going to do the impossible and post. Writing, as Twitter loves to highlight, is an arduous task, a procrastinator's nightmare, for me though it is a struggle with timing. Waiting for the planets to align, my posts lack consistency because of my creative process. I need to feel it and if that is lacking then little writing will ensue. In all likelihood, I am in need of a regimental writing course, something to shake the creative out but with a book sitting next to me there is enough of a justified distraction. That book, The Rest of Us Just Live Here by Patrick Ness, has undergone the most dramatic about-face regarding my review.

Patrick Ness is a renowned children's author with two Carnegie medals, and a legion of much deserved praise; or so I can gather from my brief dalliance on the internet. The Rest of Us Just Live Here is a the typical coming-of-age story, narrated by Mike, a high-schooler documenting his last few weeks with his friends before graduation launches them into their imminent futures. 

With Judy Blume holding fast to the crown of demystifying growing-up, Ness's attempt to step into the realm is lacklustre. And yet, I respectfully admit it took me to the very last page to arrive at this sad conclusion. Mike has OCD, his sister battles anorexia, her best-friend is on the brink of moving to a war-torn country with her missionary parents and his best-friend is the grandson of the god of cats. The gods of cats, and it is here that this very ordinary story of teen development takes a dramatic turn. Firmly entrenched in a world of monsters, vampires, gods and immortals, the suburbia life of Mike and his friends is anything but ordinary. By applying a layer of fantasy to an already popular literary theme, Ness had me convinced that he had opened a world up to normalizing mental illness. With 50 pages left, he most soundly had but suddenly the mystic slipped away and the story became a glaringly obvious retelling of prom. Even with the blue lights and the monsters and the dying kids, the denouement killed the magic.  

The brilliant discussion of mental illness veiled as a monster trope that I thought I was reading, is not.  This girl is discontent with what could have been.

Vintage: A Review of Foundation's Edge, Isaac Asimov

The call to vintage SF arms could not have been better timed with the surprising arrival of Foundation's Edge through the library system. Deep into November I had compiled a stack of holds conceptualized to inspire the beginning of this reading year. A super fan of the first three:  Foundation, Foundation and Empire, Second Foundation it is of embarrassment that I never read Asimov's later additions to the series. Apart from Dune, no other SF book has impacted my reading soul as has Foundation. It is a glorious example of world-building, complete with historical depth and mathematical shenanigans that woos the reader into believing in psychohistory. Asimov's ingenious fictional science, psychohistory:  the predication of future events of mass populations through the combined study of sociology, history and mathematical statistics exemplifies the power of quasi facts to strength a sci-fi story. 

While I insist upon reading vintage, my actions do not always equate those intentions. Dragonriders of Pern, A Wrinkle in Time and a smattering of Heinlein books that went spectacularly wrong, have been my lacklustre venture. Thus the arrival of Foundation's Edge has become a fortuitous event, destined to arrive just as I vowed to join the Little Red Reviewer's January challenge. And so, as I devour the book, falling deep within Asimov's prowess to story-tell, I am beyond content. After-all there is no greater reading pleasure than finding a new tale to an already loved series:  I feel like an old friend has come over for tea.

During the glory days of the Galactic Empire, a scientist by the name of Hari Seldon predicted the fall of the Empire at which humanity would dive into a deep dark age of 30,000 years. With the aid of psychohistory, Seldon purported that humanity's great fall could be averted to only 1000 years if certain variables were put into place. Those variables, the creation of Foundation and it's hidden brethren Second Foundation are the stories of the first three books. In this, the fourth book, the deviant The Mule, a mutant with mind-control powers has been defeated, ending the crisis that almost crushed Seldon's plan, spiralling humanity into darkness. 200 years have passed, Foundation has achieved further advances in technology while Second Foundation, unbeknown to the First keeps a steady, psychohistorical control on the entire galaxy. Both Foundations continue to pursue the dream of Seldon, one through the physical sciences, the other through mental with both intent on actualizing the rise of the new Empire with their descendants the ruling power. Using the laws of mass action, the future of one individual cannot be foretold and it is one man, an exile from Terminus that could foreseeable derail the Plan.

Truth be told, the first 20 pages of Foundation's Edge was duller than a bread knife.  Asimov's intention to capture the Roman Empire's fall via the medium of science fiction can be brilliantly boring. Reading intellectuals pontificate even while acknowledging that the boredom is intended by the author is Foundation's Edge's achilles heel. Without the fortitude of a steam roller I would have tossed this copy to the return pile before ever discovering it's hidden diamond plot-line. A quest always brings the happy to town and no greater search in the canon of SF is there, than the quest for Earth. Earth, a myth so deeply folded into it's past that it has disappeared, has become the twist to reanimate the series. As I continue to read, discovering the true importance of Earth, and whether Seldon's plan has been compromised, preoccupation that only a good space book can do, drapes over me. 

Vintage SF January is going so far, very well indeed.