Hey all.

I’ve had a crazy week (still feeling sick, unfortunately!) and will be scrambling to catch up this week. That includes 3–count ‘em, 3!–book reviews, including one of the ARC I stayed up all Saturday night reading, of Beth Revis’ 2011 debut Across the Universe.

I’ve been thinking about what I’d say in my review. My feelings are almost entirely positive (hence the staying-up-all-night-reading), though there were a few flaws in the novel I want to discuss. And so I’ve been ruminating, once again, about how I’d rate it on GoodReads. My internal debate about it–is a flawed book I really enjoyed a 4-star or a 5-star read?–has me wondering, once again, if I should abandon the star-rating system on there completely.

Here’s the thing: I write reviews because I like talking about books, thoroughly and honestly. And I use GoodReads because I adore the community on there, and how it facilitates this dialog. However, their rating system is really pretty inherently flawed, mostly because it’s non-intuitive. This is what GoodReads says their star ratings mean:

• 1 star – didn’t like it.
• 2 stars – it was okay.
• 3 stars – liked it.
• 4 stars – really liked it.
• 5 stars – it was amazing.

So the problem, here, for one thing is that it jumps from a completely subjective descriptor at 1-4 stars to a somewhat objective measure of quality at 5. 5 stars doesn’t indicate “I loved it,” but “it was amazing,” which to me, sounds more like a measure of conceptual and craft success on the part of the writer, rather than an indicator of just enjoyment.

It’s also problematic because almost no one uses the ratings this way, probably because it’s incredibly non-intuitive to have only one negative ranking. To most people, 1-star suggests that they hate a book, and two, perhaps, that they didn’t like it but felt less strongly about it. But that’s not what GoodReads tells us: they tell us that a 2-star rating–a rating less than half of the possible star rating!–indicates a book that’s “okay.”

Finally, there’s no room for half-star ratings, which reduces the possibility of nuance, makes rating a lot more reductive, and forces reviewers to look at things in a kind of black and white way that’s just not realistic, considering the varied and complex responses people have to books!

Most of the time, I follow GoodRead’s guidelines for star ratings, except, usually, for 4- and 5-star reviews. For me, both indicate that a book is very good, but a 4-star ranking usually indicates that there’s something about a book I might change to consider it ideal or perfectly crafted (“amazing”). Here, I’m usually making guesses about authorial intent and how well that intent was carried out. If a book is rated 5-stars, I usually can’t conceive of many, if any, ways to improve it.

However, this also means that there are some books that may be a bit flawed, but that I absolute love! And I may feel slightly less fervent about a book that’s rated 5-stars, despite the fact that it’s pretty perfectly written! I can’t help but think of the review I’m going to write for Revis’ Across the Universe (which, according to my usual rating style, I’d give 4-stars), and for Cynthia Hand’s Unearthly, which I recently reviewed. I really really really liked both books. I think Hand’s Unearthly was pretty perfectly crafted for an angel book. However, I’ll never love any angel book as much as I love a SF-adventure on a generation ship–because I’m a dork, because I love spaceships right down to my toes. And really, I think I loved Across the Universe more, even if there were a few flaws I’d like to discuss, and none that I can think of for Unearthly.

(Of course, sometimes I absolutely totally love books that I also can’t find any flaws in, to which I give unthinking and enthusiastic 5-star ratings without hesitation.)

I try to show these nuances of opinions in my actual reviews, which is where the meat of reviewing inevitably lies. I try to explain my biases, my perspective. I try to give readers a sense of my tastes, so that they can decide whether they, too, would be interested in a given book. And I try to think about authorial intent and whether the author was successful in light of their genre and goals. All this is nuance–I try to make my reviews nuanced, well-considered, careful.

But those stars, those damn stars, sometimes stop readers from seeing the nuance–and I can’t blame them. I’ve had readers of my reviews message me to say things like, “You only gave that book 2-stars? I’m going to skip it then.” I’ve had writers slightly tersely link to my 4-star reviews of books I really loved, then watched them squee over other reviewers’ 5-star reviews. I’ve wondered if these writers–of books I gave 2, and 3, and 4 stars, thought I was just trashing their books, despite the fact that I’m just trying to rate books in line with GoodReads’ guidelines.

And I’ll admit, part of my frustration with this is out of my constantly running internal debate about my insistence at being, publicly, both a reader and a writer. I love writing reviews, love honestly talking about books and how to make them better and when they thrill you even when they’re flawed, and what those flaws are, and what deeper thematics reveal about us as a culture, and what the impact of, say, anti-feminist strains in YA do to us as a society. For whatever reason, this dialog is important to me, and I don’t think it’s one I can have in private. This discourse–with you, gentle reader–has undoubtedly made me a better, more considerate, and more careful writer, and a more thoughtful and articulate reader, too.

But still, many writers don’t feel as I do. Many writers are afraid to openly and honestly dialog about books, particularly in YA. Many loathe the impact it might have on their careers–citing discomfort at conference panels when they have to sit next to someone they reviewed. I’ve worried about this (I’ve had nightmares about this!). But when it comes down to it, the way some writers work around this dilemma–maintaining radio silence about books they’ve read and didn’t like, as if the experience of disliking a book doesn’t exist; or giving every book they read a 5-star rating no matter how they really feel about it or if they’ve even read it; or rating them only, without discussing their reasoning–doesn’t sit right with me. I’m an obnoxiously honest person; I hold myself to rigorous standards of honesty. And many of these ways around conflict don’t sit right with my own moral compass. I’m okay with it if it’s what other authors want to do, but it doesn’t feel right for me. And, while I know that my policies about reviewing may shift and change, and that, inevitably, some authors will have their feelings hurt over the discussion of any flaws in their writing (this, I think, unrealistic of them and also counterproductive, but that’s for another blog), I wonder if eliminating the star rating might reduce that–if only because it forces readers to look at, and consider, my words rather than a reductive and imprecise star rating.

Because those words are what matters, but I realize that it might be difficult to see them when they’re beneath a one- or two-star review (for both authors and readers). When it comes down to it, while I’ve written a few reviews that are unflinchingly positive, I’ve never written one that had nothing good to say about a book. Really. Even my harshest one-star review will acknowledge (okay, grudgingly, I’ll admit) what an author does well. As reviews should! This is about thinking critically about art, not giving a thorough and unrelenting trashing.

And so it’s something I’m considering–ditching the stars, which are simplistic and reductive and probably not entirely accurate–and just talking about books from here on out. What do you think?

Unearthly by Cynthia Hand

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Just a warning: I’m about to get hyperbolic and all sorts of excited about a YA paranormal romance about angels.

For those who know me, that might seem odd. I tend to be really, really picky about paranormal romance for teens unless it’s bad-ass and clearly Buffy-inspired (we’re talking Diana Peterfreund’s killer unicorn books, or L. J. Smith’s Night World series). And generally, angels are just conceptually too fluffy for me. What’s more, I’m not even vaguely Christian—at best, I’m a Jew, but really I’m more of a Godless agnostic. And so you might guess that fantasy firmly grounded in Christian mythology would miss the mark for me.

You’d be wrong.

The truth is, part of me has been waiting for a long time for a good angel book. Blame my pre-teen K-mart book habit. When I was eleven or twelve, my mom picked me up a copy of a book by Jahnna N. Malcolm and Laura Young called Rebel Angels. I don’t really remember anything about the book itself, but I do remember the cover—the neon sunset, the rebel-jacket-clad angel boy on the front and how the image sparked some note of excitement in my pubescent little brain. I was also a weirdly big fan of the mostly-terrible John Travolta flick, Michael. So, despite my areligious leanings, the same part of myself that would love an old Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper for nostalgia’s sake (do you know how hard they are to find?!) has been waiting for a really juicy angel book.

I didn’t find it with Becca Fitzpatrick’s Hush, Hush. I didn’t find it with Lauren Kate’s Fallen (which I didn’t even finish). But Cynthia Hand’s debut Unearthly finally delivered.

I’ll admit, the premise is silly in places. Teen girl Clara learned she was a quarter-angel a few years ago and has been eagerly awaiting the arrival of her “purpose” ever since. When it finally comes, it’s in the form of a vision: she’s supposed to save a boy in Wyoming from a forest fire. Her family—Clara, her half-angel mom, and her brother—up and leave their California home for more mountainous pastures. There, she deals with integrating into a new school; getting to know Christian, the boy she’s destined to save; and her growing awareness of the war between the good fallen angels (whose wings are white) and the evil, black-winged Black Wings.

Sigh. I know, guys, I know—it’s totally simplistic and cheesy to color-code your characters’ morality like that. But this is a book about angels, anyway—I hope you weren’t expecting a total lack of cheesiness, because I’d be disappointed if this book took itself completely seriously. And I’m telling you, it’s worth it to look past the silliness here because Unearthly manages to rise above it and present a truly compelling read, with really well-done characters.

Clara is believable as a teenage girl with a purpose. She’s not always likable—in fact, she’s a bit self-centered and short-sighted—but she truly is empathetic. You feel for her when she talks about how she misses her father, or how she feels bad about the unfair advantages her super powers give her, or how hard it is to choose between the boy she loves and the boy she’s supposed to save.

That’s right—there’s a love triangle here. Clara’s supposed to save cute, popular, rich-kid Christian, but instead ends up falling for cute, popular, poor-kid Tucker, her best friend’s brother. And both of these relationships are handled in a complex and interesting way. I can’t even say who I was really rooting for—either choice would be good; both have their problems. Two well-rendered boys who seem to be an equally appealing and equally flawed? To the point where it’s not easy to pick and choose a simple “team” to emblazon on your t-shirt? Why, it’s almost unheard of these days in YA.

It’s also awesome.

Hand doesn’t futz up her relationships between women, either. Clara has two best friends: half-angel Angela, and human Wendy. And while there are sometimes arguments and tensions between the girls, these relationships are still stunningly real, complex, and supportive. I expected one of them to be turned into a slutty stereotype or a villain or a catty mean girl, but they’re not—and even the school’s queen bee character is somewhat likable and fairly sympathetic. And Clara’s relationship with her mother—who teaches her how to be an angel, and supports her in finding her purpose, but still doesn’t quite understand her or respect her as an equal—is one of the most believable mother-daughter relationships I’ve seen in a long time.

And speaking of realism, while this isn’t a Christian novel per se, it’s the first YA angel book I’ve read that actually acknowledges the existence of religion and Christianity beyond an appropriation of mythology and tropes. It’s done in a subtle, but realistic way, and the book is better for the acknowledgement of the religious questions that teens–particularly supernatural angel teens–face in their daily lives.

Finally, amidst all of this, Hand’s writing is crisp, efficient, and uncluttered. Unearthly is written in present tense; I’m not usually a fan of present-tense novels, but she renders Clara’s narration in an effortless, unobtrusive way. The writing is at times pretty, but never overwritten, and there’s none of the adverbial mess you find with less capable writers of YA paranormal.

In sum, Unearthly is the accomplished and compelling story of a girl coming into her powers as a woman, written respectfully, and well. For any reader who has been longing for an angel story that satisfies without reservation (and really, who hasn’t been longing for that?), I’d highly recommend it.

Disclosure: I received a review copy of this book from netgalley.com.

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Annexed by Sharon Dogar

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I first heard of Sharon Dogar’s Annexed because of the controversy. This novel, told from the perspective of Peter van Pels (the boy who was briefly loved by Anne Frank during their tenure in the famous attic), would apparently detail their sexual relationship–a fact which very much upset van Pels’ last surviving relative. Book banners and horrified parents were immediately up in arms–how could anyone both appropriate and besmirch Anne Frank’s memory?

To which I only gave a derisive snort–had these people even read Anne’s diary?

I did, and though it’s been about a decade, even I recall with clarity the sexual passages in the uncensored diary. Sure, some of these passages stood out in my mind because I was, myself, a teenager, but they also seemed striking to me because they were so very true to a young girl’s sexual awakening. In fact, that fearless honesty is what makes Frank’s diary one of the few Holocaust narratives that I don’t find, honestly, a little tiresome. This was a voice that had so much more to talk about than the horrors of war–including, certainly, sex.

Ironically, Dogar talks about sex far less than Anne Frank did. I went into Annexed expecting something akin to sexy Anne Frank fan-fiction. In terms of sexual content, there’s almost none, despite the adolescent male narrator. Peter van Pels has a handful of wet dreams at the beginning of the novel–later, he and Anne kiss and cuddle and once he mentions feeling her breasts against him. The horror! These accounts struck me as merely honest; this is not a salacious book.

But it is a fairly effective one. Dogar gives us a complimentary narrative to set alongside Anne’s. Though I was initially annoyed by the plain-spoken voice she utilizes for Peter’s narration, eventually I was convinced of the honesty of the tone. Though not particularly artful, this is a good match for Anne’s writing in the original diary. In terms of characterization, Peter himself is exceptionally well-realized, and his interactions with his parents, and the other attic inhabitants (not to mention the attic cats) do quite a bit to endear him to the reader. And his relationship with Anne builds slowly, deliberately, and absolutely believably.

Peter’s observations about Anne, both initially and as the relationship developed, were fascinating. Though I’ve seen some reviewers decry Dogar’s portrayal of Anne as an annoyingly-driven young writer, I bought it, and I certainly bought Peter’s self-consciousness about their young relationship being preserved for the ages in Anne’s diary. In a way, I can’t help but think of them as a young version of the couple in Margaret Atwood’s “Their Attitudes Differ”: “Please die, I said, so I can write about it.” Dogar does a good job of accurately reflecting the thorny complications of a relationship with a writer.

Not everything in here works perfectly. I was irritated by some of the stylistic choices: the dull-as-dirt chapter headings, the intrusive frame narration that only got more grating as the book proceeded, the stark weirdness of a present-tense narration in a story that’s a flashback. I’m certain Dogar did this deliberately; she eventually merges the voices. But when it comes down to it, it just doesn’t work. Dying Peter’s voice intrudes even on the later scenes, which are, themselves, quite dark as they’re set in the death camps. I found myself skipping many of these italicized passages to no ill effect so I could better focus on the central story of Peter as a living boy.

Despite this, the core story remains powerful and affecting. Ultimately Dogar is successful at giving voice to Peter, a real person who has so often been relegated to playing a bit part in the life of a girl he once briefly loved.

Disclosure: I received a review copy of this volume from netgalley.com.

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Ascendant by Diana Peterfreund

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Ascendant is a rare breed even among unicorns–a sequel that improves on the first volume’s vision.

Everything that worked well in Rampant is present here: a small army of well-developed characters, a strong voice that’s never grating, an absolutely fearless heroine who is nevertheless absolutely human, a fascinating mythology. But rather than defaulting to formula, as many sequels do (Catching Fire and Pretties come most immediately to mind), Ascendant spins an entirely new story. And, while some of the story elements present–namely, the introduction of a love triangle–have become old hat in YA lately, Diana Peterfreund spins even this in a new way, offering no easy, or obvious answers.

Ascendant continues the story of sixteen-year-old Astrid Llewelyn, who was forced to abandon her life as a normal teenage girl when she discovered that she has the power to tame the killer unicorns which have recently (and bloodily) revealed themselves to humanity. At the beginning of the novel, she’s well-established in a cloister full of virginal teenage huntresses, who have been grappling, variously, with boredom, with a mysterious power-dampening illness, and with their developing identities as warriors.

The battle scenes are gorgeously written and vividly described; they held my interest and I’m not even normally a fan of action sequences! Peterfreund weaves a story of girl warriors that easily rises to Buffy-like levels. But unlike Buffy, there’s no weird sexualization or male gaze here. Astrid and the other hunters are strong and fierce, but battle has a very clear effect on both their bodies and psyches. The question of their power, of retaining it and remaining, still, undeniably female even if not traditionally feminine, was a core theme in Rampant and becomes even more central here.

The unicorn mythology is also further developed in this volume. Ascendant opens with a description of the unicorn tapestries, and we get a new unicorn species whose appearance and ability is nicely described. We’re introduced to the “einhorns” as Astrid departs from her cloister in Rome to seek new employment at a scenic French retreat. I wasn’t expecting this scene shift, but it was a pleasant surprise–Peterfreund’s vision of Europe is a bit rosy and cliche, perhaps, but it’s exactly what you want to find in the story of a worldly unicorn hunter.

In France, Astrid’s moral quandaries become even more perplexing. She’s employed by the wife of her former enemy, who treats her like a beloved child in exchange for Astrid’s help in controlling the captive einhorns so that they can be used for some unsavory animal testing. Meanwhile, her boyfriend Giovanni is missing in action, and her slightly sleazy, but still sexy, ex has made a reappearance. Most YA love triangles tend toward the obvious: deep down, we know who Katniss or Bella will choose. But I never felt like either of these options were really a certainty–and both choices have their very believable drawbacks. I mean, as cute as Giovanni sounds, the dude really is conspicuously absent for most of the novel. And really, since he’s eighteen-year-old in a long distance relationship, I’m not sure if I would buy the sort of dogged monogamy you usually get in YA fantasy.

And Ascendant really isn’t most YA fantasy–it’s grounded, almost entirely believable (except, maybe, still, for Astrid’s mother, who remains annoying and one-note, though luckily she hardly figures in this story), and it takes the sexual and moral questions it raises seriously. And it’s shocking–there was a twist here that I genuinely didn’t see coming, but that was still clearly a believable episode in Astrid’s development as a warrior. Peterfreund also seems to genuinely love the unicorn mythology she’s working with. With some writers, you get a feeling that they approach their paranormal subject matter with a little bit of embarrassment. Peterfreund doesn’t–she embraces her unicorns for all their worth, making them complex, but still in keeping with traditional mythology. And she writes them beautifully. I mean, guys, there was this scene where Astrid watches a baby unicorn being born and it just hit me in the gut and made me misty-eyed and now I totally wish I could have an adorable baby killer unicorn.

(Please?)

Other things I totally want: a third book in this series. Though Ascendant ends on a fairly satisfying note, I’d love to see what happens to Astrid, Giovanni, Cory, and Phil–there are so many threads left hanging! And Peterfreund has already proven herself an author of rare capabilities, one who can write a series where each book truly enriches the overall experience. The fact that this, of all series, hasn’t been contracted for a third book yet just seems criminal to me.

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