DEATH WINS A GOLDFISH by Brian Rea

March 25, 2020January 12, 2024 ~ Ricardo ~ Leave a comment

Death Wins a Goldfish is a book about living, author Brian Rea writes in the introduction. More specifically, it is a book about Death living.⠀
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In the world presented in this story, Death works, like so many of us, in a cubicle farm (in an office full of other grim reapers). He lives for the job, so to speak. He’s been doing it for so long, after all, and without a single pause. But one day he receives a letter from Human Resources informing him of the fact that he has a year’s worth of vacation days accumulated, and that he must make use of them.⠀
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So Death takes a holiday. Only he has no idea what to do with all the time that has been given to him. Dedicated as he’s been to his occupation — defined by it, you could say — he never quite managed to build a life outside of it. And so we follow Death along as he tries to figure out how to best go about living.⠀
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This is a picture book, although it is decidedly not intended for kids. Not because there’s anything explicit about its illustrations (which are fun and clever and charming in their rushed, scratchy quality), but because it deals with topics relatable mostly to us adults who may or may not feel as if their job occupies too much of their personal identity.⠀
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Like Death, I work as an office drone. And while I appreciate the stability and structure that it gives my days, one of its main challenges has always been having some semblance of a life after I clock out at the end of the day. The job is not hard, physically speaking (back pain notwithstanding), but it is certainly mentally draining. When I get home, oftentimes the only thing I want to do is shut off my brain, do nothing but unwind and rest before heading back into the office the next day.⠀
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But I don’t want to let myself — my life — get stagnant. So I make routines. I carve out time to work out; to hang out with my partner; to read; to write a little. I try to make the best use of my time as possible.⠀
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Not that I’m always successful at it. Some days I don’t even bother with any of that.

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And that’s fine, too. Mileage varies, as it often does. Later on in the introduction, Rea offers a piece of advice given to him by a former mentor: learn when to row your boat, and when to rest your oars. In our current society, however, where hustle culture is so prevalent, constant productivity is placed on such a large pedestal that you can be easily excused for thinking it’s the only path towards having a successful, meaningful life. There are no hobbies — there are only side jobs. There is no downtime — every waking moment is an opportunity to be productive. Your life gains meaning only by putting in the work.⠀
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But that path only really leads to burnout. It’s not sustainable. And more importantly, it’s just not how people work. How life works. As with all things, there’s a balance that must be struck: You have to learn when to row. You have to learn when to rest.⠀

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Reading this book now, though, in the context of our current situation, was interesting, to say the least. It gave it an unexpected new layer. Those of us whose jobs have been deemed non-essential now find ourselves at home with all this free time suddenly dropped on our laps. It’s a weird situation in which to be, confusing and also somewhat overwhelming. It can even get a little existential: Who are we when something that takes up so much of our lives gets taken away? How do we fill our time when we now have so much of it?⠀

All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us, as the wizard once said. It’s the theme Death Wins a Goldfish explores, and we could do worse than to emulate its findings. We can’t, of course, currently do all the traveling and outdoor activities Death does in this story (my favorite being the running of the bulls — although I don’t approve of the practice).

But we can read some books. We can make some art. We can take care of our loved ones (pet fish certainly count). We can rethink our lives and our worldviews. We can look within and work on ourselves.

We can, in other words, work on living, while we’re still able.

Or we can just rest. That’s as much part of life as anything else.

KEEP GOING by Austin Kleon

March 19, 2020September 2, 2024 ~ Ricardo ~ Leave a comment

The world has changed since last I wrote about a week ago, something that feels more uncanny than it does anything else. Needless to say, we’re going through wild, uncertain times, and I can only hope that you are safe, doing your part in flattening the curve.

I have not left my house since Saturday. And Sunday, my office sent out a message saying we would be closed until the end of the month. This is, technically speaking, the first time off I’ve had in over a year, and I wanted to take advantage of it as best I could. I would read all of the books, for one. I would write. I would do this and that and also this.

But, like a lot of others right now, anxiety has gotten the best of me these last couple of days, completely shot my focus, and just making it difficult for me to enjoy the things I generally love.

Which is where Keep Going comes in.

Austin Kleon has made a name for himself writing motivational books about being a more creative person in the modern, digital age. His first book of this kind, Steal Like an Artist, was all about channeling your influences (my nicer way of saying “just straight up steal from your idols”) in order to create something that may not be entirely new and unique, but that is entirely and uniquely yours. Show Your Work! was more business-like in nature, expounding advice and industry knowledge on how to share your stuff with the world and making a space for yourself within it.

Keep Going feels like a natural progression from those themes, but its central message is perhaps less tangible in nature. It is a book about being creative, yes, and it is also full of useful, practical information — but it is also a book that is less interested with the external side of things than it is with the internal. Less concerned with the how than it is the why of making art. Where the first two books deal with the more physical, material aspects of creating art, Keep Going is about what it feels to create said art. Specifically how it feels to create art when things aren’t going that well.

If the past handful of years have shown us anything, it’s that we live in tumultuous times. One glance at any recent headline is enough to fill anyone with dread and dismay. With so many cheerless and complicated things going on in the world it can be easy to feel as if doing anything artful and creative is a trivial endeavor at best, or actively selfish at worst. How can you sit there, frivolously frolicking away while the world crumbles around us?

With Keep Going, however, Austin Kleon reminds us that art is not a gratuitous, self-indulgent thing. That it is important and necessary. And especially so during times of strife, where it acquires even greater significance. “To any creators who feel guilty making art when the house is on fire,” author V.E. Schwab wrote recently, “please remember: you make the doorways out.” And here’s Kleon quoting the late, great Toni Morrison:

This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.

I know the world is bruised and bleeding, and though it is important not to ignore its pain, it is also critical to refuse to succumb to its malevolence.

It should be noted, however, that at no point does this book imply that you have this obligation to be creative in spite of the difficulties around you. Everyone deals with hardship in their own way, after all.

Here’s writer Robin Sloan, in a recent edition of his newsletter:

In 1816, the gloomy “Year Without a Summer,” Mary Shelley stayed indoors at a lakeside hotel; not quarantine, but maybe quarantine-adjacent. There, bored and haunted, she conceived the story that would grow into her novel Frankenstein, the foundation stone of the genre we now call science fiction.

It’s moderately annoying when people invoke work like that, because it feels like the implication is, if you’re not writing Frankenstein what are you even DOING? That’s not what I mean. It’s just that the big, bright examples help us see it clearly: toil in the shadow of calamity will have its day.

Toil in the shadow of calamity WILL have its day.

A crack in everything; that’s how the art gets in.

Keep Going acts more like a permission slip. You can create art, it says, if you want to. If you are able. If you must.

Go easy on yourself and take your time. Worry less about getting things done. Worry more about things worth doing. Worry less about being a great artist. Worry more about being a good human being who makes art. Worry less about making a mark. Worry more about leaving things better than you found them.

The world can only benefit from your contribution, ultimately, if you just keep going.

NINE LAST DAYS ON PLANET EARTH by Daryl Gregory

March 13, 2020September 2, 2024 ~ Ricardo ~ Leave a comment

Some topical reads for this most disquieting of weeks. ⠀

I’m a mood reader, as I’ve mentioned before, and my temperament hasn’t been the best these last few days. World news have done a number on my anxiety, and the frustration that comes from feeling powerless hasn’t helped assuage it any, let me tell you. It’s been a bleak week, essentially, and I was looking to read something dreary to match my current disposition.⠀
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This turned out to not be that read. Thankfully enough.⠀

The day was too big for small emotions.⠀

Nine Last Days on Planet Earth is a compact and concise novella by Daryl Gregory that does what it says on the tin: it tells nine tales about main character LT, through whose eyes we see the gradual unraveling of a slow alien invasion. As a boy in the American South he witnessed a seemingly endless meteor shower that went on to wreak havoc all over the world. When the smoke cleared, humanity found that these rocks from space were actually seeds, which soon began to sprout forth countless of strange new plants. Over a slow amount of time, some of this alien vegetation begins to throw Earth’s ecosystem off-kilter, causing considerable amounts of damage, while others seem to just… be there, harmless and passive. ⠀
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LT is one of the most wonderfully-realized viewpoint characters I’ve come across in a while. Over the course of the nine stories we see not only his interest in this unfathomable new flora blossom, but his personal life as well — from his growing estrangement from his family, to his burgeoning sexuality, to his establishing of a family life (additional points to positive and wholesome queer representation, here). And through LT’s personal life we see how the world has changed. ⠀
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In Captured Ghosts, a documentary about his work, writer Warren Ellis talks about the concept of the “novum” in science fiction stories, which is, essentially, the Big New Thing that happens that causes the world to change forever. The thing that disrupts normality. In Nine Last Days we explore this nova event — in a slow, incremental fashion, much like a plant grows — through LT. Through him we see how humanity has adapted. Which of course it has. ⠀
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There’s a lot of mystery surrounding these space plants — where did they come from what do they do were they sent here and why and by whom — which forms a lot of the tension of the story. But perhaps the most shocking thing about it all is how any answers we might or might not get are essentially inconsequential. Because the world has accepted it and moved on. Life found another way. ⠀
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This novella, you see, is less to do with annihilation of mankind (the “last days” of the title refers not to any final stage of life, but to concluding personal experiences) and everything to do with how we deal with the perplexing and the unexplainable (which is to say: most things this weird, wild world throws our way). We adapt. We change. We evolve. And we go on.⠀
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And so Nine Last Days on Planet Earth ends, as these stories so often do, on a note of hope. ⠀

Words were not required. Sometimes the only way you could tell someone you loved them was to show them something beautiful.

Take care out there. Be safe. See you on the other side of the nova.

THE CARDBOARD KINGDOM by Chad Sell, Various

March 10, 2020July 19, 2022 ~ Ricardo ~ Leave a comment

The children’s stories I tend to love the most are those that deal with societies built by kids — stories like Rugrats and Recess and, more recently, Craig of the Creek (the best and most pure animated show on television right now, by the way) — stories that deal with covert communities that have their own cultures and customs, and which act as a fun-house mirror reflection of our own adult world. It’s a trope that I love. If I overanalyze it, I could tell you it’s probably because I had a happy but fairly sheltered and restricted kind of childhood, and the idea appeals to my wish-fulfillment, nostalgic nature. But it’s mostly because I think it’s just fun. And it’s a trope that is front and center in The Cardboard Kingdom, a book I enjoyed so much I finished it in a single, sleepy Sunday afternoon.⠀
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The Cardboard Kingdom is a graphic novel by Chad Sell and a veritable village of writers. It’s essentially a collection of short stories centered around a group of creative and imaginative kids with a seemingly endless supply of cardboard, the material which fuels the epic adventures they act out around their neighborhood during Summer break.⠀
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As a mood reader, nostalgia often plays a big role in the books I decide to pick up, especially so in my middle-grade choices. I tend to go for books that seem likely to evoke some vague, elusive aspect of my childhood. The stories I choose this way, however, usually end up being way more than just a tool to wistfully reminiscence about my past. And they are always — always — much the better for it.⠀
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Cardboard Kingdom was no different in this aspect. It is a fun book to be sure, full of the joy and whimsy of childhood — but it is also a thoroughly modern book, dealing with things like gender roles and identity, conflict between family and friends. That it does so in a subtle and compassionate manner is a credit to the writers. Heavy topics are acknowledged, but they don’t weigh down the book. Because kids are able to grasp serious issues without being burdened by grown-up moralizing. ⠀
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Sell’s bold and dynamic illustrations drive the book, but its heart beats thank to the writers that have lent their considerable talents and distinct points of view. Together they have a created a large and diverse cast of characters, each with their own story to tell (and enough cardboard with which to tell them), stories that manage to strike a balance between fun and poignancy: one story can deal with a kid whose parents are going through a messy separation, and the next could deal with a sister hunting down her brother for eating cookies before dinner. Stories that have a deep respect for kids, which is ironically something that a lot of children’s books often fail to do.⠀
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Imagination is the theme that runs through all these stories. That the characters in Cardboard Kingdom use the fantastic as the lens through which they view their adventures is a big deal in a world that still tends to view fantasy genre as mere escapism. But is escapism such a terrible thing when the kid whose parents are constantly fighting starts to imagine himself as a superhero protecting those around him? Or for the boy who only feels strong and powerful whenever he dons the personality of a fierce sorceress? Don’t we want them to know that the world is not a static place and that they have the power to change and shape it?

Because if they can build a helmet, a sword, an armor;⠀a mask, a costume, an identity; a tavern, a city, a kingdom — out of such a flimsy material like cardboard, imagine what they will be able to do with the world. They might just make it a better place.

A kingdom on Earth, even.

DEAR MARTIN by Nic Stone

February 14, 2020January 12, 2024 ~ Ricardo ~ Leave a comment

So while Nic Stone’s first foray into the world of middle grade fiction left me feeling somewhat underwhelmed, I enjoyed aspects of it enough to leave me feeling like giving another of her books a shot. And wow am I glad I did. ⠀
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Dear Martin is Nic Stone’s first published work, and where the writing in Clean Getaway feels stilted and hesitant, here it flows with a smooth, confident swagger. Which makes for a curious dichotomy: the prose is eminently readable, but the topics discussed are heavy, all too real and sometimes hard to read. But it’s a balance that Stone strikes splendidly.⠀⠀
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Dear Martin follows Justyce McAllister, a brilliant student at an exclusive and privileged private school, whose life, at the start of the story, consists of excelling at school in order to get into the Ivy League, and trying to figure out a tumultuous relationship with his on-again/off-again/on-again girlfriend. Until one night, when trying to stop said girlfriend from driving home drunk, he is harassed by a racist cop who predictably assumes the worst. The experience leaves him shaken, enough that he starts to become increasingly aware of just how much he is judged by the color of his skin. ⠀
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Justyce doesn’t know how to deal with this, so he starts a project with the goal of emulating Martin Luther King, Jr. in a series of letters that soon become the outlet for his fear and frustration. A project that comes to a tragic, screeching halt when he and his best friend are involved in a shooting, the fallout of which puts Justyce in the cross-hairs of the media and the general public, who insist on degrading and demeaning him.⠀
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Nic Stone has written a heartbreakingly real and painfully relevant novel about the plague of systematized racism and how it continually, relentlessly tears down and dismantles Black youths. Justyce feels all too real, as a young Black man who has to work twice as hard as everybody else in order to stand on the same stage as his more privileged colleagues; as a less-than-perfect teenager just trying to figure out the trials and tribulations of adolescence, which is hard enough without the prejudice of others; as just this kid who just wants, like Martin, to face a world that never, ever lets up with all the grace and dignity of a king and just do good.⠀
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The cover for my copy features a blurb by Angie Thomas, which is appropriate since this book explores the same theme as her excellent debut The Hate U Give. But whereas that book presents a more idealized conclusion of a community coming together to fight injustice, Dear Martin is, I think, a bit more realistic in its ambiguity — which just adds another layer of tragedy to the story. The ending of Dear Martin caught me off-guard, since it felt to me like there was more to the story. But there’s no neat resolution to be found here, no uplifting ending wrapped up in a bow. It ends like real-life situations often do: with uncertainty. We don’t know what’s going to happen to Justyce any more than he does. But Stone reminds us that, like Martin, we can hope, and we can dream. And maybe one day we’ll find our way towards justice.

GHOST by Jason Reynolds

February 11, 2020July 19, 2022 ~ Ricardo ~ Leave a comment

Castle Crenshaw — who goes by Ghost — has been running for most of his life. At least ever since his father’s gun went off. It was pointed in the general direction of Ghost and his mother, and, like in all track races, the shot was a signal to start running. His father went to jail for it. They went back to a home that stopped feeling like home (they sleep in the living room, near the front door, just in case something else happens and they need to run again). And Ghost feels as if he never stopped. Only this restlessness he has felt inside has no real outlet, and it bubbles up, bursting outwards at times of stress and conflict. He lashes out, and gets in trouble for it often.⠀
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And then one day, taking the usual long way back to his house, he stops to watch a group of kids his age during a track meet. He scoffs at the notion that people have to work at running, which comes so naturally to him. So he decides to show them up by beating their most promising and arrogant stars in an impromptu race. The coach is impressed and asks him to join, which Ghost, with some reluctance, eventually does.⠀
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The feeling of running, Reynolds has said, is of your body going through trauma, as it fights against exhaustion and suffocation. Running is about feeling like you are about to die, and getting used to that sensation. And running is about breaking through, and overcoming that feeling.⠀
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Running is also, in Reynolds’ hands, an exceedingly useful metaphor — not only for the particular issues that Ghost faces, but for life in general. Because what is life if not just a series of races you have to break through in order to breathe again? For Ghost, running is initially a means of escape, useful only when he wants to put as much distance between his problems and himself. He doesn’t find the act itself uncomfortable — his life is suffocating enough, after all, what is a little sprinting compared to the day to day? “Running ain’t nothing I ever had to practice,” he boasts at the beginning. “It’s just something I knew how to do.” It’s only after he joins the team and it becomes an increasingly important aspect of his life that he properly begins to feel this suffocation, as he starts to come to terms with the heavy things he’s been carrying inside — this scream, as he calls it — for most of his life.⠀
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Ghost is about a lot of things, but it is mainly about dealing and living with trauma. There is a talk Jason Reynolds gave where he told the story about a childhood friend who, decades after the fact, recognized that he had been traumatized at a young age, and that he just went through life as if these feelings were normal, only to later realize that they were not supposed to be, and how surprised he was at this understanding. No one, you see, made him aware of the fact. It’s a particularly cruel problem, and one we can only address by paying attention to the people around us. This is what Reynolds’ work does for his audience — his books are all about being seen. In this novel, seeing one another is what Ghost’s teammates do, as they accept him as one of their own. It’s what his mother does, who, despite demanding job, studies at night in order to give them a better future. It’s what Mr. Charles, the elderly owner of the local store shop does every time Ghost pays his store a visit and they fall into an established, familiar — and familial — routine. And most importantly, it’s what his track coach does, seeing in Ghost some of the same struggles he faced growing up. The kind of struggles that makes you want to disappear, like a ghost, and run away, instead of being present, the burning in your chest a reminder that you are still alive and able to run free. Ghost may not entirely realize the full extent of his trauma, but he is smart enough to know when the people around him care for and want the best for him, which in turn, of course, makes him want to be better for them. “You can’t run away from who you are,” the Coach tells him at one point, “but what you can do is run toward who you want to be.”⠀
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The novel ends with a different kind of shot that makes Ghost run. Only this time, instead of running away, you are certain and hopeful that he’s running free, breaking through the struggle, towards a better future.⠀
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Jason Reynolds has written yet another lyrical and poetic book chockfull of meaning, and which helps us see these kids in a better and more understanding light. I loved reading it.

CLEAN GETAWAY by Nic Stone

February 10, 2020September 5, 2024 ~ Ricardo ~ Leave a comment

Clean Getaway tells the story of William “Scoob” Lamar, an eleven year old Black kid, and G’ma, his white grandmother, and the road trip they embark upon across the American South. A trip for which they have their own motives: Scoob leaves behind serious punishment following a school suspension, and a severe father whose severity only increases after said suspension. He just wants to get away from it all and clear his head. G’ma wants to show Scoob places where history has been made — but also to deal with some unfinished business from her past. Issues that cause her to act increasingly erratic and shady.⠀
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It’s a great premise (love me a road trip tale), but I felt the story just didn’t live up to its potential. Scoob at times felt like a real and modern kid, dealing with things while still trying to keep his cool, while at others he seemed too unrealistically passive. His G’ma’s strange behavior introduces a mystery in the first few chapters of the novel, which is an effective way to hook a reader — having the main character endlessly wonder about said mystery without actually doing anything about it for the remainder of the books is an equally effective way of losing one. But it’s the character of G’ma that I found the most problematic. She started off fine — quirky and goofy and lovable. As someone who grew up watching The Golden Girls, I love seeing elderly women as main characters. As the story went on, however, and her eccentricity increased, she just made me uncomfortable. Which I get is sort of the point. Scoob grows more and more suspicious of his grandmother, and we are supposed to be on the same page as him. Only there’s no real actual payoff to this. ⠀
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Look — this is a story that deals largely with racism. A theme that is explored almost exclusively through the eyes of this old white woman, who lived through the civil rights movement as the wife of a black man, in a place where this sort of relationship was still largely frowned upon. There’s a wealth of subjects to explore, and Stone does an admirable job with what she does delve into. But then we finally learn the secret she’s been keeping and how it affected her family, and it’s quite a bombshell. You’re left wondering how the rest of her family will deal with the shock waves. But it’s all ultimately brushed off, the aftermath left to the margins of the story. G’ma is given a simple send-off, and the consequences of her actions are never properly explored. Which is a shame, really. G’ma is a character that is deeply loved and idolized (and idealized) by her grandson and her son. Nic Stone wrote that this was a novel about finding out your heroes are human — flawed to a fault. It just would have been nice to actually see what that entailed right on the page. Clean getaway, indeed.
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But while the overall concept didn’t work for me, there were still aspects I really enjoyed: this is a fast, fun read, full of interesting facts that I suspect will lead young readers down interesting, awareness-increasing rabbit holes, and that can only be a good thing. Nic Stone’s prose has a few missteps (it sometimes falls into that common and condescending trap of writing simple for a simple audience), but it is mostly clear and sharp. This is the writer’s first foray into middle-grade fiction, though, and I’m sure she can only get better from here.

THE DEEP by Rivers Solomon

February 2, 2020September 5, 2024 ~ Ricardo ~ Leave a comment

The Deep is a novella written by Rivers Solomon that is based on the Hugo-nominated song of the same name by the experimental hip hop group clipping. Their song was itself based on the afrofuturist mythology that Drexciya, an electronic duo from Detroit, created for their compilations.⠀
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Which is the sort of fascinating thing you learn when you read the acknowledgements. ⠀
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The Deep is about a lot of things. On its surface, though, it is about the wajinru, a mermaid-like people who have great power over the ocean but little memory. For good reason — they are a people descended from the pregnant African women who were thrown overboard during the slave trade, their unborn babies granted new aquatic life by the ocean. Theirs is a history of pain and strife. In order to thrive despite the suffering, it was decided long ago that one of their people — a Historian — should carry the burden of their history and collected memory. A responsibility that falls on Yetu, our delicate and long-suffering main character.⠀
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To be a Historian means experiencing every single memory as if it was your own. Yetu however, has a fragile constitution, and so this task, this weight she carries that has stripped her of any individual identity, is killing her.⠀
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So it is no surprise to us when, during an annual ceremony where the wajinru gather in order to receive the memories of their past for a brief time, time enough to satisfy a deep thirst for their own history, that Yetu, free from remembering, runs away. ⠀
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What do we do with the trauma that we’ve inherited?⠀
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In the acknowledgements, clipping. describes the nested style of development this particular story has gone through as a game of Telephone, the original message relayed over and over, each time a bit more different. Drixceya’s songs were largely wordless, and so they started to tell a story through their song titles — a provocative and engaging concept. clipping. took inspiration from it, added considerable amounts of verbiage, and sang a story about a world being destroyed by global warming, and about a people who rise up and exact revenge on the ones who caused it. Rivers Solomon heard the song, and decided to bring it back down to a more personal level, writing a story about a people, and their relationship to history. Their relationship to stories.⠀
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Stories (and what is history if not a bunch of stories we tell about ourselves?) act much like a game of Telephone. They are passed down, and thus they survive, but their shape changes as they get interpreted differently by every individual. In The Deep we are told that the role of Historian is one handed down from generation to generation, and we are presented with three different bearers of the title: Zoti, Basha, and Yetu. And through them we get three interpretations of history. To Zoti, the first Historian, it is vital to the continued survival of their people. To Basha, it is a call to action, past hurts fueling a righteous rage at present injustice. And to Yetu, it is simply a burden, too deep and heavy to carry on her own.⠀
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What do we do with the trauma that we’ve inherited? It’s the central question Yetu struggles with during her journey of self-discovery. It also happens to be the question millions of people whose history has been steeped in anguish and adversity. Do we let it define us? Do we ignore it? Do we drown in it? Or do we use it to build a better, more just civilization?

Yetu finds her answer in The Deep. She shares it with her people. And she shares it with you, too.

Rivers Solomon has written a compelling, poetic, and thought-provoking story, with lyrical prose that enriches clipping.’s exhilarating song, with an imagination that expands Drexciya’s foundational mythos. It’ll stay with you. You will remember it.

NEW KID by Jerry Craft

January 28, 2020January 12, 2024 ~ Ricardo ~ Leave a comment

New Kid follows Jordan Banks, a twelve-year-old kid about to start the seventh grade. A budding cartoonist, Jordan wishes for nothing more than to go to art school, but his parents, wishing him to have better opportunities than they had, decide to send him to a more affluent school. A prestigious private school, to be exact. A school where Jordan is one of the few kids of color. Being the new kid is hard enough, but this, in addition to coming from a more modest background than most of his peers, means dealing with a bunch of unwelcome challenges — not least of which being general ignorance and racism — as Jordan just tries to go about his days, trying to figure things out.⠀
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I really enjoyed New Kid. While I was not a huge fan of the artwork itself, the story and the writing definitely won me over. I really loved — and admired — how it maintained a light and fun tone while also exploring some heavy themes. It’s a deceptively casual book in this way. There are depictions of class difference, of code-switching as a person of color, of casual racism and microaggressions, of privilege and lack thereof — and they are all portrayed in the same easy-going manner. Underneath this layer of mellow, though, there’s a current of frustration and exasperation that runs all the way through, which makes this casual story lose none of its pointed poignancy. Because being a person of color in this world sometimes means keeping your cool even during the most uncomfortable of times, even if you’re a child.⠀
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But these weighty subjects don’t make up the whole of the story. Just as they don’t make up the lives of the kids who have to deal with them. One of the central themes in New Kid has to do with Jordan’s frustration with books about kids of color being extremely limited in scope: books about white kids can be about anything and still expected to be relatable; books about Black kids can only be about Serious Issues and are expected to be read only by Black kids. Books about white kids can be fun; books about Black kids have to be severe and gritty. Jordan thinks this is extremely unfair nonsense. Because, yes, while kids like him may have to deal with more complicated situations than most others — at the end of the day they’re also… just kids. Normal and goofy and beautiful and awkward and nerdy and clever kids who would love to do nothing more than just live and have fun and be happy and to see other kids like them doing likewise. This doesn’t mean that books about Serious Issues are not important, only that reality is far more complex, and stories about said reality should reflect it accordingly. Because representation is important. This is what Craft does with New Kid, and does it elegantly. It’s my favorite aspect of this story.
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It’s also a book that’s just funny and clever, which is what instantly hooks you. Jordan and his group of friends are instantly likeable and relatable. The art, as I said, wasn’t my favorite, but Craft’s storytelling is clear and concise, and the book has great pacing because of it.⠀
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It’s another one of those books I wish I could give to my younger self. Which is something I often find myself saying about a lot of the kid’s books I’ve recently read. I think that’s an inevitable thought to have, though, as someone who spent their childhood reading nothing much at all, after reading a particularly great children’s book. There’s a sense of deprivation — of having missed out — and wanting to go back and fix that. It’s bittersweet, but in a positive way, you know?⠀
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I digress. ⠀
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New Kid is a fine book. It deserved to win the Newbery Medal, and I can’t wait to see what that means for the future of graphic novels and children’s fiction in general.

DAISY JONES & THE SIX by Taylor Jenkins Reid

January 23, 2020July 19, 2022 ~ Ricardo ~ Leave a comment

This is the second Taylor Jenkins Reid book that I’ve read and this is the second time Taylor Jenkins Reid book that has left me emotionally drained.

I am turning into quite the fan.⠀

I like her direct style of writing: spear-like prose designed to immediately pierce the most hardened, cynical shell. I like her melodramatic and convoluted plots that immediately hook you and absolutely refuse to let go. Mostly, though, I love her characters: lively and alluring; broken and nuanced; intractable and infuriating; infinitely interesting and impossibly human. Jenkins Reid writes great unsavory characters, the sort of people you may not want to be friendly with, but with whom you are perfectly willing to spend an evening that will be certain to be full of great stories and conversation — and maybe even greater mischief. Daisy Jones definitely joins the ranks of Jenkins Reid’s own Evelyn Hugo as one of the best, most fully realized characters I have read in a long time.⠀

Daisy Jones & The Six is the story of an old school rock and roll band comprised of these same sort of explosive characters. The book is presented as an oral history, chronicling the meteoric rise and fall of the band during the seventies. ⠀

A couple of years ago I read — and loved — Meet Me in the Bathroom, Lizzy Goodman’s oral history of the rock and roll revival in New York City during the early aughts. I was reminded of the book a lot while reading Daisy Jones & The Six, as it essentially tells the same sort of story, only on a much more smaller, more personal scale. So I really enjoyed the format, which helps the story feel even more immediate and intimate. And, if you have an affinity for writing natural dialogue it’s a format that can serve a fictional narrative well. Jenkins Reid writes great dialogue, and does a great and admirable job with the form, faltering only with one crucial misstep.

The fact that this is a story told by multiple characters inherently means that it is a story told by unreliable narrators. This is a standard trope, tried and tested since time immemorial, and here it makes for great moments of humor (the numerous ways the characters contradict each other over the most trivial things), as well as moments of heartbreaking pathos (the myriad of misunderstandings and missed opportunities and things left unsaid). It also proves to be the book’s greatest weakness, however, giving rise to a twist that feels deeply unnecessary and that sadly casts a cheap light on the story as a whole. It’s a tragic ending in the sense that it is very weak, wasting much the momentum and the emotional build-up (of which there is a lot).⠀

But it’s the characters who are the saving grace of any story, and it’s no different here. Daisy Jones and Billy Dunne are the obvious standouts of course — like the stage’s spotlights, the focus of the book is entirely on them — but it’s the characters standing just outside the limelight that have stayed with me the most. Karen Karen, keyboardist of The Six, with a tenacity and courage that reside behind an infectious personality. Daisy Jones is an acutely feminist book, and Karen’s story is the most representative of this conceit. I cared about her perhaps more than any other character. And with Camilla Dunne, Jenkins Reid has written a character of such complexity and charm who in a lot of ways outshines Daisy Jones. Everyone in the book talks at length about how easy it is to fall in love with Daisy. I spent the majority of the book wondering how everyone wasn’t just falling head-over-heels for Camilla. But that is, of course, Camilla’s story.⠀

Poor ending aside, Daisy Jones & The Six is an emotional roller coaster ride. And you can’t help but feel invested in the lives of this memorable, messy, and charismatic cast of characters. Can’t help but be enthralled by the theatrical and deeply romantic story Taylor Jenkins Reid is telling. And, most importantly, you can’t help but be mesmerized by the inimitable Daisy Jones & The Six.⠀

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So this was the first time in a good while that I listened to an audiobook! I kept reading about how stellar this production was and I just had to give it a go. It was great! It’s a brilliant cast and they did a marvelous job. It was nice hearing Benjamin Bratt’s voice again, and Pablo Schreiber continues to deliver consistently great performances — he’s such an underrated actor. Jennifer Beals as Daisy is just a dream, her voice having the right amount of rough smokiness to sell the fact that, yeah, I can totally hear an aging rock star in those vocal chords. My only issue with it is that it is advertised as unabridged when it’s really not. I read along with an ebook copy (I just don’t have the attention span for audiobooks), and there were several bits that were just skipped. Not enough to really affect the story, mind, but enough that it was noticeable. So why say it’s unabridged at all?

But I really enjoyed the experience, overall. I’m a fairly fast reader and get through books in a manner of days — this one took me a while, but I liked taking my time with a story, and sitting with it a little longer. It definitely helped. (I listened to it on normal speed, by the way. Genuinely don’t understand how anyone can listen to anything faster than that and not be distracted by the chipmunk voice effect it produces. You guys are nuts.)