Way back in my last year of high school, when I had to choose what programs to apply to at which universities, I considered studying geology for about eighteen seconds until I realized, looking at the courses I would have to take to get a degree, that I have absolutely zero interest in rocks and rock accessories. Like zero. Maybe even less than zero.

And there’s a lot of rock-talk in The Origins of Everything in 100 Pages (More or Less), which is good to get me reading outside my comfort zone. Plate tectonics and astro-geology formation of planets and the like. But every page, my eyes glazed over. Every single page I had to tell myself to focus and not go off and play Tiny Tower. I don’t know whether it was my aforementioned disinterest in geology or that the writing style, while sort of chummy, is also a bit dry, or that maybe, with my background in science (a non-geological science, but a science none-the-less), reading a pop-science book just doesn’t cut it for me anymore, but almost none of the information from this book penetrated my brain. I’d like to imagine that, in an amorphous, don’t-ask-me-to-describe-the-details sort of way, I now have a better idea of planetary formation after the big bang all the way to appearance of Homo Sapiens; maybe holistically I am more well-informed after reading The Origins of Everything in 100 Pages (More or Less). Or maybe not. It’s so frustrating to read a book and have all its ideas float away like smoke.

In short, I still only abstractly think of geology as interesting. When I have to actually learn about it, it’s all Charlie Brown teacher noises inside my head.

And The Origins of Everything in 100 Pages (More or Less) is not 100 pages. My copy is 137 (including unnumbered and small roman numeraled ones) or 124 numbered ones, so somewhere between 124% and 137% of the suggested 100 page length. Man, scientists sure are wishy-washy when it comes to precision with numbers 😉

The Origins of Everything in 100 Pages (More or Less) by David Bercovici went on sale November 22, 2016.

I received a copy free from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

If a novella is a short novel, what’s a short memoir called: a memella? Sure. Let’s go with that.

I read Avalanche, a memella by Julia Leigh about her attempts to fall pregnant and have a child. It’s an odd piece of writing, veering unevenly from emotion to clinicality (I’m just going to be making up all the words today), sometimes with nary a word between the shifts. A good first third details her marriage, which falls apart, and whose relevance to the rest of the tale could be shrunk to a single sentence (After we divorced and my ex-husband no longer wanted me to use his frozen sperm …), which would eliminate the aren’t-we-so-in-love-more-than-you-could-ever-be bits that read like two seventeen year olds lecturing their elders about how incandescent their love is. Oh, how easy it is to be in love at the start. Then you divorce and your ex-husband rescinds his frozen sperm and what are you to do then? You try with donors and write a memella about the process.

Wanting a child hurts. You could tell that. Leigh’s yearning came through in the writing. Maybe it helped her to write it. It has the feeling of being personal, intimate, without artifice or performance for an audience. Leigh wrote it, she shared it, but it doesn’t seem like she wrote it for the purpose of sharing, like for click-bait or to emotionally blackmail readers. She wrote it and put it out to the world, like a parent has a child and puts her out to the world. Avalanche isn’t a child, but maybe it can be like the shadow of a child for Leigh. Not really shadow but like a hazy, dream image just before waking, from a daytime nap suspicion of a child. Those dreams where you find a secret door in your house and when you wake, for just a second, you think maybe there is a door there before realizing no, there isn’t. There’s no door. Like that, but for a child.

This memella uses the word childling more than once. I appreciate the use of this word probably more than I appreciate the memella. But I do appreciate giving literary space to women‘s issues. Flipping what’s often said: I read the book I want to (at least spiritually) write.

Avalanche by Julia Leigh went on sale October 6, 2016.

I received a copy free from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

I keep requesting comics from Netgalley. Don’t know why since I’m pretty ambivalent towards comics. This comic is based on a Lovecraft story. Not a huge fan of Lovecraft (mainly because I can’t get past the racism). So why C21st Gods #1? Because I like reading horror and comics are quick reads and I crossed my fingers that Tallerman and Summey would leave out Lovecraft’s racist undertones (there’s a WOC background character in the comic, which is an improvement from Lovecraft’s belief that Of the complete biological inferiority of the negro there can be no question. Still, I feel icky about the source material and a background POC character of two is hardly going to fix that.)

So, twenty-four pages in a retelling of The Call of Cthulhu. Basically, twenty-four pages that reads like those movie previews that are disjoint images flashed on the screen separated by a few seconds of darkness meant to make you think Wow, what a moody dark film this is going to be but instead just gives me a headache. A few shots of gore. A gloomy house. A run down precinct. People humping a statue. There you go — that’s pretty much the twenty-four pages right there.

Probably good for fans of Lovecraft. Meh for me.

C21st Gods #1 by David Tallerman and Anthony Summey went on sale November 9, 2016.

I received a copy free from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

I find comics hard to review. I know they can have depth and I know they can be meaningful, but so many of them I read and can only think of them as slight. So, does Rendez-vous in Phoenix have a bit more heft than others? I suppose I could be convinced, but if I need to be convinced of the merit, doesn’t that say something as well?

I think my problem is two-fold:

1. I either get distracted by the pictures or I ignore them entirely, missing out on that entire aspect of the medium; and
2. to get any internal character depth, it ends up like voice over and pretty much the only thing I remember from Adaptation is voice over = lazy. And really, I like character depth more than anything else in fiction.

Everyone has a right to tell their story, ergo Sandoval has every right to write about his attempts to cross the Mexican-American border illegally in the nineties. Everyone has a right to use whatever medium they want to tell their stories, ergo, again, Sandoval can choose comics. But comics as a medium to tell deep stories — I know Maus managed it somehow; but whatever Maus had, that unknowingable, intangible whatever isn’t there in Rendez-vous in Phoenix.

It’s not bad, Rendez-vous in Phoenix. I feel super dismissive saying it’s just a comic when I don’t want that to be dismissive at all. But it is just what it is. And that’s fine, but it’s hardly transcendent.

Rendez-vous in Phoenix by Tony Sandoval went on sale November 8, 2016.

I received a copy free from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.