The Delta Anomaly by Rick Barba

Sometimes I feel like I need a whole ‘nother set of review criteria for licensed novels. Books like Rick Barba’s The Delta Anomaly are great examples of why. If you’re into Star Trek, specifically the 2009 reboot, and if you want to subsume yourself in more of the same, then you’ll adore The Delta Anomaly. But of course, non-Trekkies should probably look elsewhere.

The Delta Anomaly is one of several stories offered in this series about Kirk, Spock, Uhura, and McCoy’s pre-movie Starfleet careers. A lot happens in this slim volume. There’s a serial killer. And a budding romance. And a pre-Kobayashi-Maru simulation exam. And a cloud of nanomachines or six. This is a busy book for one so slim, and while the action scenes are well-written and the pacing perky, it also felt a bit scatter-shot, a touch schizophrenic.

But really, who reads licensed novels for the plots? Not me. I’m in it for the snappy dialogue and continuing evolution of familiar characters, and you find that in spades here. The characters are accurate–the most important quality in any licensed novel. Particularly nice is the slow-burn, growing romance between Uhura and Spock, a romance that is communicated entirely through innuendo. Their chemistry was fun in the movie (despite my own initial fangirly objections), and the tension between them in The Delta Anomaly really holds the novel together. Their scenes were easily the most satisfying of the entire book.

Barba also manages to pull in some general Trek lore from other incarnations, and mostly to very good effect. I only spotted one misstep (warning: super nerdy pedantry ahead) when he mentions a Ferengi in the 23rd century, and, worse, a Ferengi owning slaves. Quark would be so disappointed! But I don’t think that even most Trekkies would be as bothered by this as I was. Because, you know, I’m a huge dork.

This was mostly a very solid Trek novel, and an interesting book for teen readers. With its focus on college-aged protagonists, the content is a tad more adult than some YA of a comparable length, but the drinking and flirting are relatively fluffy and really pretty fun. Basically, if you want to read about your favorite Trek characters as college kids, you could do worse than to read this book.

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Shatter Me by Tahereh Mafi

It was a handful of years ago now that I went away to Florida for graduate school. I was going to study poetry, though I already fancied myself a bit of a poet. What I hoped to learn most of all—and I’m not sure I ever articulated this to my peers there, though maybe I did, on some night obliterated by cheap beer and sweat—was control. Being a “master” of an art, I thought, is to tame that art—to control it fully, to have words at your command, to know when to rein them in and when to let them run wild.

I’ve always been a highly metaphorical writer, but I’ve also sometimes been prone to excess. Sometimes my words ran away with me. A poem would start one place and end up somewhere else entirely. In talking to those who read my writing, I learned that my similes sometimes connoted meanings I had not intended (and didn’t particularly like). Words, I thought, were powerful; pick the right ones and you’re as good as psychic, able to impart specific images into the mind of your reader. I wanted to become as good at it as a wizard would be, or a telepath.

And, though my workshop experiences weren’t always perfect, they certainly were helpful for that. Sure, I winced and grimaced as my peers did something that, at the time, I could only feel was nitpicking, as they scrutinized every small word, every adjective/noun pair, every physical description to decide whether it was physically feasible or not. It was painful; I can’t deny that. But it was also necessary. They made me defend every word choice. If I couldn’t, I knew that word had to go.

As I’ve drifted to writing fiction, I’ve found myself prone to the same excesses in drafts (naturally; I am fundamentally the same writer). I count myself lucky that I’ve found readers and critique partners who continue to make me justify and defend myself. I never like it when it’s happening, but my writing is always better for it.

I tell you all of this to let you know that I understand where debut author Tahereh Mafi is likely coming from. I empathized with her as I worked through her highly stylized, ambitious upcoming debut Shatter Me, the first in a trilogy. I also say this as acknowledgement that what I saw as persistent and pervasive language problems in her novel may not bother all readers. Hell, I know that only a handful of readers of my undergraduate poetry was ever able to articulate what bothered me about it; a number of them just thought my poems “pretty.”

Perhaps some readers will, likewise, be charmed by Mafi’s language. It’s certainly unusual, which is why I can’t deny that this is an ambitious book. Shatter Me is told in a loose, highly metaphorical style. Text formatting is liberally dickered around with—there are run-ons and random text breaks and even strike-outs. In a way, it’s the type of novel I’d love to see succeed wildly—I love books that play with form and voice, from Russell Hoban’s Riddley Walker to Meg Rosoff’s How I Live Now.

But what distinguishes Mafi’s writing from these favorites of mine was the fact that I was never quite convinced that she was in control of her prose. Indeed, it often felt like she allowed the rhythm of her words to walk away with her book. Nowhere was this more apparent to me than in her construction of metaphors, and the book is absolutely jam packed with them. I couldn’t move more than a few pages before I’d strike a turn of phrase that just felt off.

“Hate looks just like everybody else until it smiles. Until it spins around and lies with lips and teeth carved into the semblance of something too passive to punch” (74-75, ARC edition).

“My stomach falls over” (100).

“I’m granite and limestone and marbled glass. I don’t move” (164).

“Warner thinks Adam is a cardboard cutout of vanilla regurgitations” (165).

Now, on the surface, these might seem fine—even a bit pretty. But if you read them closely, really consider the meaning conveyed by the words, they’re nearly nonsensical. What does it mean to have lips and teeth carved into the semblance of something too passive to punch? How does that make hate look unlike everybody else? Does that mean that she wants to punch hate, or not? What is her stomach falling over, precisely? Do “granite and limestone and marbled glass” all connote immobility? Granite might—and marble might, but I’m not sure that “marbled glass” does. Limestone is known for being a soft stone, one easily altered by time. Does that communicate the same sort of message, or does it just muddy what would have otherwise been clear had Mafi simply said, “I’m granite. I don’t move”?

The register is often off too, rendering both the prose and the dialogue fairly melodramatic. Discussions of electricity sparking between bodies abound, as do very grave sentence fragments. Emotions and memories “burn” and faces are “etched in astonishment” and the color red is frequently compared to blood.

All of this is a shame, because had the language been more carefully executed—hell, more controlled—I likely would have loved it. But I believe that the onus is on the writer to earn our trust in their mastery over prose. I never was quite convinced that Mafi was the master here; her writing was just too imprecise, connoting all the wrong things (and clearly not intentionally) entirely too often.

Beneath all of that, the story is okay. The first third of the book is a claustrophobic tale of a girl raised largely in isolation in a post-apocalyptic (don’t call it dystopian—I don’t think anyone is under any illusions that this is a utopia) society. There really isn’t any sci-fi world building, but what’s there doesn’t offend. And while the main character Juliette, and love interest Adam, are fairly bland (their characterization not often going any deeper than “good”), Mafi’s villain and her supporting characters are strongly realized and instantly engaging. Though pacing flounders in the middle, it picks up by the end, though by that point it becomes a very different sort of book—and not the sort I was expecting by the novel’s beginning.

But I when it comes down to it, I just couldn’t get past the prose. There’s some potential here, flashes of wild beauty, and I’m curious to see whether Mafi is eventually able to cultivate this potential in subsequent books. But sadly, if I can overwork my own metaphor, Shatter Me is mostly full of weeds.

A review copy of this book was generously provided by the publisher.

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Divergent by Veronica Roth

Last night, I stumbled across a Facebook quiz where you can “discover your faction” a la Veronica Roth’s upcoming debut Divergent. It was a clever piece of marketing and design, where you select options in a brief thought experiment until your single true faction becomes clear. I scored as Candor, of course, representing the faction in Roth’s book which values honesty above all else. So of course, I’m going to be honest here in my review of the book.

That little test distilled what is, perhaps, the greatest selling point of Roth’s book, the simple hook which asks you to consider your own values and traits and categorize yourself according to them. I found myself doing so several times throughout Divergent. Am I truly a member of Candor, or would I be Erudite, the erudite villains who embrace learning and scholarship? Is my kind husband Amity, valuing happiness and comfort, or Abnegation, valuing selflessness?

But despite the attractiveness of this premise, it never rang true for me even at the outset. Oh, sure, younger teens might buy it without question (in a rare display of Candor-like candor, my husband quipped, “Factions? Teens eat that shit up!”) But Roth’s society leaves little room for gray areas—members exemplify or extol one value, and one value only, and if they fail in their initiation into that faction they become “factionless.” The presence of this large, disenfranchised group—educated up to age sixteen, and then dumped on the streets to become homeless wanderers—undermined the credibility of her premise, even as it was meant to raise the stakes.

As Roth built her near-future Chicago, ruled by the gray-clad Abnegation who preach selflessness above all else but still dictate every aspect of life for the rest of the population, I found myself questioning the premise over and over again: why didn’t the factionless just rise up? Who would tolerate such a bizarre system of social stratification? The reasoning that Roth gives—that the factions were formed in response to what various people believed to be the sources of war (so people who thought warring people were cowards formed Dauntless, extoling bravery) was artificial and, more, simply insufficient to make her premise feel plausible.

Of course, the journey of her main character Tris is supposed to illustrate the flaws in such a system. Tris is Divergent—at sixteen, she undergoes testing to show which faction she is best suited for before she chooses one (why both choosing and testing were necessary was never entirely clear to me, though the characters in Roth’s world believe in this system so whole-heartedly that I doubt many readers will question it) and discovers that she has predilections which would make her well-suited for three factions: Dauntless, Abnegation, and Erudite. Well, sure, I wanted to say, but don’t most human beings have these complexities inside them? Roth tells us that this isn’t the case, and that Tris is one of very few.

Tris ultimately chooses Dauntless, because she’s swallowed a bunch of (later proven true) propaganda about the evils of Erudite and because she feels herself to be a selfish person. As a Dauntless initiate, she is required to undergo many trials before she becomes a full-fledged member of her faction. These trials were, I suspect, meant to mimic the high-octane action of Suzanne Collins’ Hunger Games trilogy.

But sadly, the nature of these trials was, through the book’s first two thirds, fairly trifling. I must note that I’m not a big fan of action sequences generally. Though I enjoyed The Hunger Games, it wasn’t because of the action itself, but rather because of the high emotional stakes for our heroine Katniss. And these stakes weren’t merely personal—she enters the games to save her little sister—but global as well, as we’re told from the outset of the impoverished state of the Districts. In this way, Katniss’s time in the Games becomes an act of rebellion as well as an act of personal sacrifice.

But we know from the beginning that Tris’s choice to join Dauntless is entirely a self-centered one (she tells us as much). And, more, she whole-heartedly believes in the faction system for most of the book, agreeing with her father’s prejudiced assessment of Erudite faction members even after her own brother joins them. Her view of her society is childlike, unquestioning, and simplistic. The only thing at stake if she fails her initiation trials is that she might become factionless herself—but of course, she chooses this risk. And so the trials themselves need to be compelling on their own merits to sustain reader interest.

But for a reader like me, a reader who hates action films and thinks random acts of dare-devilry silly, they aren’t. Most of Tris’s trials through the novel’s first half are extremely milquetoast, the kind of activities that bachelor-party attendees are fond. She plays paintball in an abandoned amusement park. She practices gun skills at a shooting range. She goes zip-lining. Though these were all related in a breezy, effortless way, they just weren’t very interesting, in and of themselves.

My frustration with the degree to which Roth explores these events was fairly high. At one point, approximately halfway through the book, Tris’s friends describe to her events pertinent to the rebellion that has been simmering since the outset of the novel, and she tunes them out to think about her experiences zip-lining instead. I felt a bit like I was being held captive by this silly, frivolous girl (for all her angst), and very nearly gave up on finishing the book despite its obvious prose merits. And I must note that Roth’s stylistics are abundantly strong. She writes in a way that’s both sparse and lovely. But lovely prose just isn’t enough: I need emotional engagement, and at this point I was just feeling put-out.

Luckily, I persevered, and Divergent became a much stronger novel by its conclusion. In the last half, the bachelor party games are abandoned for high-tech hallucinations which were much more compelling and, I think, better illustrations of the bravery Dauntless is supposed to represent. The romance plot, which spent a long time on the back burners, is developed to good effect, and Roth finally explores her society’s inherent flaws in the last fifty pages. These pages were emotionally stirring indeed. I even felt my throat tighten at certain sacrificial events.

But I wouldn’t be Candor if I didn’t say that I think Roth waited too long to get there.

In all, this was a book of solid stylistics and ultimate impact, but it was marred by throat-clearing, false starts, and a bit of frivolity. Roth shows her cards in the last half to very good effect, and I’ll undoubtedly look into the sequels (with all of the seeds of an emotionally-affective premise sown, I hope the next book will be compelling from the outset, rather than the middle!). But if, like me, you’re not a big fan of action-for-action’s sake, then I must warn you that you’ll have to grit your teeth for a whole lot of mindless action with low emotional stakes to get to the meat of the story.

A review copy was generously provided by the publisher and GoodReads First Reads program.

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Hi guys, I’m still editing. I’ve gotten some helpful (and labor-intensive!) advice from the Interrobangs which has temporarily stalled my forward progress as I go back and make things more awesome.

Sigh.

Editing is hard work. I’ve mentioned that. Have I also mentioned that it’s dry and unfun and boring? Well, it is. I hate you, editing. Go curl up and die.

What I like is writing. And, also, brainstorming new ideas, and figuring out plot threads and untangling things and crafting them from the murky darkness that is the pre-written ether. Or something. Basically, what I love most about writing is playing with ideas.

To that end, I’ve had a bunch of plot bunnies since I’ve been editing. If you’re not a troper, fan-fiction fan, or dork, you might not know what I’m referring to. Basically, plot bunnies are fun story ideas that take over your brain and breed like rabbits. Here’s what’s rattling around mine right now:

• Middle grade alien invasion tale. Latchkey kid must protect little sister from alien attack. Think a modern spin on John Christopher’s Tripod books, or a teen version of the movie version (phew) of War of the Worlds. Also, mech suits. Because, why not?
• Artsy ripped-from-the-headlines-YA-fantasy. This is an old story idea that I mentioned to Sean and he said would probably net me a Newbery (nah–I’d have to kill a character for that). Because it’s an ancient idea, I’ve previously played with it as a poem sequence and also a graphic novel. Essentially, psychic kid is kidnapped a la Steven Stayner and other children. Only he shares a psychic connection (maybe) with his sister left behind. She envisions him in a Neverland-esque fantasy world as a way to cope with what she sees. Then one day, he’s recovered, and the family must deal with the fallout. This would be great, except I only have a premise, really, and not a plot. Which is a problem.
• Daughter of Earth sequel In my own Neverland, Daughter of Earth is part one of a duology. This is a stupid way to envision a book that you plan on querying, so I try not to think too much about the sequel, as much as I want to. And it seems dangerous to talk about. All I’ll say is it’s Romeo and Juliet meets Enemy Mine.
• Alien cult cyclopean horror unhealthy love story. My most recent bunny. Teenage boy is moved to rural area by his quirky mom. Meets a girl who is in a cult. Only the cult is ALIENS. Slow-building terror. Non-traditional families. Want to write it right now.

You might notice that a good number of these plot bunnies contain aliens. Call them plot ewoks, if you want. I love aliens. I was talking to Sean about this the other day (man, if I had a dollar for every time I said that). He theorized that atheists or agnostics (which is what I am) are attracted to cosmology because it reassures them that there’s life beyond ourselves even if there’s no afterlife. Maybe that’s true. I know this: I find the idea of space-based sci-fi with no aliens unbearably terrifying. It’s why I have never, and probably will never, give either Battlestar or Firefly a fair shake. No matter how funny, the idea of a world where mankind is all alone just makes me kind of nauseated.

So I fill my universes with aliens. Human aliens. Starfish aliens. Lovecraftian horror aliens. Aliens. They help beat back the existential angst. Or something.