Let me start by saying the title is a little misleading. I do have something nice say for each of these books. But just one thing. I could probably think of more, but as a whole I found these to be lackluster reads. I’m definitely not going to put in the effort of giving each a full review.
I feel that I should give reasons for why I read these particular books. For the Sanderson one, I’ve liked everything Sanderson. Until now. For the Riggs one, I’ve read the three prior Miss Peregrine’s books and have enjoyed them. But the arc ended with book three. This was the start of something new. And the McGough one, I’ve played Magic The Gathering since middle school, and recently decided to read all of the novelizations of the sets.
Each of these books is in a series. I don’t intend to read additional Alcatraz or Miss Peregrine. I will read more of the Magic books, because they change authors, characters, worlds, etc. That, and nostalgia goes a long way in relation to entertainment. Why do you think Ready Player One was so successful?
But, the one good thing about each:
Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians: The magic system is super neat, which is no surprise coming from Brandon Sanderson. I want to know more about how it works. Unfortunately, I actively don’t want to deal with Alcatraz so much that it overshadows the magic.
A Map of Days: We got glimpses into a bunch of new time periods and settings, and their relation to the present day of the story was interesting.
Outlaw: Champions of Kamigawa: The description of how spell-casting and various magics worked was neat, especially knowing the cards those spells are based on, especially in conjunction with the characters wielding them, coming to life as opposed to a picture on a piece of cardboard.
And I’ll leave it at that. Hopefully I won’t have too many more of these posts, but unfortunately not all books can go the distance.
When I told one of my tenth graders I was reading this book, she was scandalized. We were on the topic of books because I saw her reading The Belgariad, which I was shocked by as I haven’t seen anyone reading that since I’d read it over twenty years ago. Apparently her dad’s making her read it. Good for him. And her, too.
Anyway, the idea that a dude, especially a grown-up dude, was reading that book was almost too much for her to take. I can only guess at her ideas as to why I was reading New Adult Romantasy (too sexually graphic for YA, IMO). Part of the reason was that I’d seen so much about the series across social media that I knew I’d have to give it a go at some point. Part was that Jacqueline Carey teed up the genre for me back in my Belgariad days. The third part of the equation was there were no holds on it in the Libby app. The stars aligned (and not just in the Rhysand sort of way).
Warning for book one (A Court of Thorns and Roses) spoilers. Obviously, in a book review for a sequel, there will be spoilers for book one. If you haven’t read it, stop here. If you have, here we go.
A Court of Mist and Fury picks up with Feyre and Tamlin, she newly fae and he once again fully empowered. They’re engaged, they’re in love, just what’d you’d expect following the ending of the first book.
But things are not as they seem. Feyre had made a deal with Rhysand to spend one week a month with him in the Night Court (sans John Larroquette), where she’ll learn exactly who Rhysand is, and what life is like for the fae when not under Amarantha’s thumb.
Feyre not only has to deal with that bargain, but also the fame that comes with being the one to stop Amarantha. Everyone knows, and everyone is very, very grateful. And I’m not just talking about her Summer Court subjects (she is engaged to Tamlin, after all), but the fae across all the courts.
I don’t want to get into spoilers, and because the narrative structure of this book is different than A Court of Thorns and Roses, it’s hard to say more than what I already have without giving away surprises. What I will do is offer comparisons between the two.
More magic? Yes. More of the hot and sticky? Yes. Higher and clearer stakes? Yes. More fun action? Yes. More Feyre acting illogical? No, thankfully. All around, it’s a better book than the predecessor.
I spent most of the first section afraid that it would be nothing but illogical Feyre, but as soon as it switched gears I was on board. Tons of fun character development, world building, and contextualizing moments from the first book that enriched the narrative and made me like the first book more than I initially did.
Some of the non-perspective character motivations were a little shaky at times, but with so many characters, it’s hard to make everything fit snuggly. It has been the most fun read of the year so far, but it’s not without its flaws.
Which brings me to the craft subject of the day: foreshadowing.
Foreshadowing is a fairly common concept, but also very broad. Simplistically, foreshadowing is a warning or indication of a future event. But that definition implies we recognize the foreshadowing. Sometimes that’s the point, to purposefully clue the reader into something. Concrete foreshadowing. When Romeo dreams of seeing Juliet dead, the audience knows that’s how he’s going to find her. When Chekhov overtly draws attention to the gun, we know it’s going to play a role.
Other times, we’re given hints that only make sense after the reveal. Prophecy foreshadowing. Like in Sixth Sense, when the kid says he sees dead people, and they don’t know they’re dead. When we find out Bruce Willis is dead, that line carries a lot more meaning. Or even in A Court of Thorns and Roses, when there’s the line about Tamlin’s stone heart, we think it’s a common metaphor about being cold, or callous. Then we find out it’s a literal stone heart which is the key to defeating Amarantha.
Flashbacks and flash-forwards are another common medium for foreshadowing. In Hunger Games, we get the flashback of Peeta giving Katniss bread, essentially feeding her when she’s in need. Later, when Peeta needs feeding, Katniss feeds him, balancing out that act of kindness.
Next up is abstract, or symbolic foreshadowing. This is often used with setting. It was a dark and stormy night, or, a fog settled over the town. It can also be used with objects that have cultural meanings/baggage. In American Beauty, there is the iconic scene of the young girl lying in a pile rose petals, with more falling on her. Roses are often a symbol of romance and lust. In the same movie, you see the main character’s wife methodically pruning the roses in her yard. This will give us expectations about his relationship with both those women.
Lastly, we have fallacy foreshadowing, or a red herring. This is similar to the concrete foreshadowing, except it is supposed to trick the reader, as opposed to give them insight. When Obi-Wan tells Luke that Vader killed Luke’s father, that sets up the surprise reveal that Vader is Luke’s father. In Game of Thrones, Littlefinger pits Arya and Sansa against each other, readying us for a sister vs sister showdown, but they join forces and turn on him.
Foreshadowing is effective in that we have learned how to interpret the various types, and when the reveal comes, we are pleased or satisfied. When foreshadowing doesn’t work is when it tries to be one type, and ends up falling flat, or turns into another type. When you set up a proper foreshadow, you essentially make a promise to the reader. If you don’t fulfill that promise, the moment falls flat, and you lose that reader’s trust.
As I mentioned earlier, Sarah J. Maas handles foreshadowing well in the first book, especially with that stone heart moment. There are good instances in A Court of Mist and Fury as well (the one that stick out involves her sisters), but also a mishandled one that, for me, kept me at arm’s length the rest of the story. I won’t give it away, I’ll just say it involves “merfolk”, so you know what I’m talking about when it happens.
So how does A Court of Mist and Fury fare with the Author’s Arsenal?
For world-building and setting, A Court of Mist and Fury earns The Scroll. We had a taste of the fae world in the first book, and we really delved deep and explored so many new locations and cultures, in addition to expanded on what we already knew.
And for character building, it earns The Seal. Many of the characters were presented in new light, and grew to be much more than they were before. The relationships between Feyre and her companions (and their relationships with each other) are was drive the narrative and suck the reader into this world Maas has created.
Unlike some other books I’ve read recently, I’m looking forward to the next installment. I’m just hoping Elain becomes more than just a pretty mannequin.
Side note: If I had the time and energy, I’d have tied The Belgariad into the review’s ending, a sort of foreshadowing. But it has been twenty-plus years since I’ve read them and it’s hard to remember specific details. Forgive me. 🙂
I read a lot of books. A lot. Most of the time as I’m reading, I’m simply enjoying the words in front of me. Sometimes I’m slogging through them. Infrequently I’m blown away by what’s in my hands. When I read Olivie Blake’s The Atlas Six last year, I was blown away. Yes, as you’d expect, the writing was good. But what thoroughly engaged me was the breadth of knowledge across fields of study and the application and integration of that knowledge in the story.
I immediately burned through the second book, The Atlas Paradox. It built on much of what had been established in the first book, upped the stakes, contextualized and humanized some characters, and was a worthy successor to the first one. Then I was sad because I had to wait until the third one was published.
And so here we are now, The Atlas Complex is out, and I have thoughts. As always, I strive for spoiler free reviews, but I do want to note that the only way to talk about this book is to spoil parts of the first two. If you’ve read them, then you can proceed safely. If you haven’t, and the blending of the psychology and morality and philosophy of magic sounds interesting, then go get a copy of The Atlas Six. Right now. Like, stop reading, and do it.
The Atlas Complex follows our favorite sextet (and their add-ons) as they try to make sense of their new (sort of) freedom. Libby is back from the past and a newly minted mass murderer, Parisa is shacking up with Dalton and scared of her own mortality, Reina and Callum are off playing God and trying to fix the world (good luck with that), Tristan’s trying to figure out where the hell Atlas went and how he’s supposed to handle the Archives, and Nico just wants everyone to be friends.
As with the first two books, the entire narrative focuses on the characters and their journeys. The plot is their relationships with each other. The story is their relationships with each other. The trouble is their relationships with each other. You get the idea.
Some of our questions from the prior books get answered. Libby and Nico: Will they or won’t they? Callum: Does he care about anything? All of them minus Libby: Who hates themselves the most?
One of the more interesting aspects of the third installment is how much more screen time side characters get. We get inside Dalton’s head (in a non-literal sense this time). We get to see how Gideon’s handling everything with his mom and Nico and Libby and a few other issues rearing their ugly heads. And, we get brief snippets from members of The Forum.
What does this mean? The driving force of the trilogy is the character work Blake presents us with. In the afterward of this book, she talks about how her goal was to write a story where the characters and their relationships became the plot and story. That strategy was what made the first book so novel (at least to me), and the second and third followed suit. The problem is that when something novel is done repeatedly, it starts to lose that novelty.
Ultimately, while the characters were still engaging and interesting, their stories alone weren’t enough to conclude a trilogy. Blake easily compels us to invest in her characters, but we end up lacking reason to invest in a greater conflict.
What is the greater conflict, you ask? That’s a very good question. I wondered that too as I read this. And that brings us to today’s topic: stakes.
Why does Frodo need to destroy the One Ring? To prevent Sauron from ruling Middle Earth. Why does Elizabeth need to get married? So the Bennett family won’t go bankrupt. Why does the Cat in the Hat need to clean up his mess? Because mother will be very angry when she gets home if it’s dirty.
Regardless of the perceived severity, stakes drive narratives and characters, and are the reason characters do what they do. There are several levels of stakes that can be at play: public, personal, and philosophical. If we look at the Elizabeth example, the public stake is her family’s wealth. Pretty straight forward. The personal stake is her own pride. She believes Mr. Darcy looks down on her family for being lower rank and accepting his proposal will wound her pride. The philosophical stake is losing her belief that society shouldn’t care so much about wealth and rank.
It’s not enough to have a world-ending catastrophe to avert. It’s also not enough to overcome personal demons. A good narrative will have multiple levels of stakes, often connected or reliant on each other. Elizabeth isn’t the only person with stakes in Pride and Prejudice. Each character needs something, some motivation and something that motivates them.
An easy way to to establish stakes, at least early on as you’re figuring out your story, is to take your character, figure out what makes them great or wonderful or happy, and then decide how to destroy those things. Doing bad things to protagonists inherently creates stakes. You can tweak them or think of new ones throughout the process, but attacking their comfort zones is a great place to start.
Based on what I’ve mentioned with The Atlas Complex, it shouldn’t be a surprise that it’s lacking in the stakes department, but how did it fare otherwise with the Author’s Arsenal?
For exceptional character development, The Atlas Complex is awarded The Seal. Character is what drives this whole series, and The Atlas Complex in particular relies on character to engage the reader and advance the story.
That about wraps this up. Happy reading, have a great weekend, and stay tuned for more. And as always, if you have a book you’d like reviewed, add a comment and I’ll try and fit it in.
Welcome back for another book review. I want to preface this with an admission of the chance for bias. David Mitchell is one of my favorite authors, perhaps even my favorite, though it’s really hard to choose. One of my short pieces I plan to shop around once I think it’s good enough is actually about him. With favorites, there’s a tendency to overlook faults or take strengths for granted. I’ll try to do neither.
You may wonder why, if Mitchell is one of my favorites, I have not yet read The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet until now, when it’s been out for well over a decade. Circumstance and poor luck. Shortly after it came out and I acquired it, I moved. It went into one of many boxes, and most of those didn’t get unpacked for a while. By the time they did, I found a box had disappeared in the move, along with half my Mitchell books. I assumed they’d show up and then I’d finish reading it, but eventually I gave up hope and just now reacquired it.
That out of the way, let’s get to it. A spoiler-free review of The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, by David Mitchell.
The Thousand Autumns (I’ll refer to the novel thusly to save space and prevent finger strain) follows three primary characters: titular clerk Jacob de Zoet, unlikely medical student Orito Aibagawa, and Japanese-Dutch interpreter Uzaemon Ogawa (I’ll order Japanese given and family names as we’re used to in Western culture to prevent confusion). Set in Dejima, a trading enclave in Nagasaki, Jacob is trying to make money so he can marry his betrothed back in the Netherlands. He meets Orito by chance, and Uzaemon for need of an interpreter.
Map of Nagasaki from 1801 (Kyouwa 1, 享和元年). Dejima (also: Deshima) is clearly visible in the harbor.
Printed by Yamatoya (大和屋板).
What starts off with the makings of a love story morphs into a story with ever expanding scope and the mysticism/magic you’ve come to expect in a Mitchell novel. Things are never as they seem, nor are people. More so of course than is expected anyway, as that sentiment can be applied to nearly every person or character.
Throughout the story, all the characters are faced with trials of morality and ethics. None as much as Jacob, Orito, and Uzaemon. Sometimes strong ethics serve a person well, other times they hurt. The ramifications of those choices drive the narrative as well as the whole Nagasaki region.
A few aspects I want to highlight in particular are setting, prose, and character. Let’s start with setting.
When I was in school, the foreign language I studied was Japanese. My wife also studied it, though she lived in Japan and focused more on the culture and history than I did. She read this book and said she found the setting boring because she already knew about the era and life of the Japanese and their policies regarding trade and foreigners and all the details were old news for her. What that tells me is that Mitchell has done his homework.
As a fan, I know that Mitchell has spent time in Japan as well and speaks Japanese, so it’s no surprise his knowledge of the language, culture, and history are so accurate. As someone who focused more on the language and less on the other aspects, I found the portrayal to be enlightening, the dynamics of Japan’s isolationism 200 years ago tremendously interesting and mind boggling at the same time.
There are true events woven into the story, like the attack of the British in Nagasaki, what I assume to be the Great Kaga Earthquake, and of course the warring European nations. These moments ground the reader in the reality of the world which serves to both strengthen the impact of Mitchell’s story and also highlight his unique book-to-book connections.
Moving on to prose, Mitchell was aided in that he was able to draw on Japanese symbology and propriety to help order rich, authentic words such that the sentences seemed foreign and familiar all at once. I noticed in particular a tactic of interspersing descriptions of setting between spoken words and actions that I don’t recall in his other writing, and that’s having just read Utopia Avenue a few months ago.
I haven’t the audacity, nor experience, to try and accurately portray another living culture’s mannerisms speech patterns, and when Mitchell does so in The Thousand Autumns, I never felt for once that he was stereotyping or using unusual vocal patterns as an interesting crutch, relying on the foreign sounds or diction to engage the reader. When Orito or Uzaemon spoke, their words read authentic and true, which is no small task. That holds true with their thoughts as well.
Lastly, before I go into craft, I want to mention a brief thought on my reactions to character. Talk to anyone who knows me, and they’ll tell you I’m not outwardly emotional, perhaps bordering on sociopathic. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but the point I’m trying to make is that I’m rarely emotionally responsive. For me to react emotionally to a book says something about its efficacy. (Unless we’re talking about rage quitting. Non-effective storytelling there. I’m looking at you Ready Player One)
There’s a moment, and I’m being vague to avoid spoilers, where Jacob has to say goodbye to someone. I got choked up. Like, tight throat, sniffles, the whole shebang. The moment wasn’t an overly dramatic profession of love, or a heart wrenching death of a beloved character, but a simple goodbye. The reaction this moment elicited could only have been achieved through solid portrayal, and thus investment from me, of the character Jacob.
Okay, on to craft talk. Today’s topic: Research.
I touched on this earlier in setting, but wanted to expand beyond the scope of The Thousand Autumns. I can think of few exceptions where research would not be necessary for a novel. I’m sure Neil Gaiman had to dig through tons of myths and religions when he wrote American Gods. Or Cherie Priest had to find maps and records of 1880s Seattle for her Boneshaker books. Research lends credibility to a story, but it also grounds the reader in the world.
Imagine you’ve picked up DaVinci Code and you’re following Robert Langdon through the Louvre and Dan Brown throws in something about racing past Rodin’s The Thinker on his way to the Mona Lisa. Dan Brown is pretty sure The Thinker is in Paris, and the Louvre has all the cool stuff, so it’s probably there. Spoiler: It’s not. It is in Paris, but it’s at Museé Rodin, not the Louvre.
The magic of DaVinci Code is all the research that makes the story, the interconnected bits of history, engaging the reader with history. Every place Langdon visits is real. I actually have an annotated copy of the book complete with photos and illustrations of the sites and pieces of art. Few people will know every art and history reference in the book, but having that information there raised the reading experience to a whole new level.
Research gives validity to the world of your story. And it doesn’t matter if your world is Earth or Mars or Xanth or something I’ve never heard of. Sometimes research it just finding the proper details. I’m working on a story where the protagonist is a carpenter and I had to learn how to build a chair with medieval era tools. I already knew how to with modern tools, but I can’t exactly have my character whip out a cordless drill. Or there was the story of mine just published in Space Brides. Exactly how bright is Jupiter if you’re standing on Europa? How far does that elevator ride through the ice need to be? Research.
I know sometimes research may seem like a slog, that every page you get to poses a new question that interrupts your flow. One trick is to throw a placeholder in so you can keep writing and do the research later. For months I had “HE BUILDS A CHAIR” followed by the rest of the scene. Another is simply read a ton about what your character knows or experiences before you write and you can just go with it. Or, if you’re David Mitchell, go live in Japan for a decade. To each their own. 🙂
I can’t really give advice as to how to best do research. That depends on you and your story. But I can’t stress enough the importance of it. We’ve all heard of the seven basic plots that all stories follow. What separates those stories from one another are the details. We get those details from research. Details enrich the reading experience and color your worlds. Find those details. Do the research.
Now, time to break out the Author’s Arsenal and throw some accolades at The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.
For accurate linguistic depictions and line to line pacing, I award The Parchment. For making me emotional and balancing culture with agenda, I award The Seal. And for the research, for bringing an accurate (of course accounting for factionalized elements) world of turn of the 19th century Japan to his readers, I award The Scroll.
For those who have not read David Mitchell, these awards should not be surprising. His novels are regularly long and short listed for awards, and the varied settings and times they take place in always present something new. My first exposure to him was Cloud Atlas. It is my favorite book of all time. Just phenomenal. But, if you’re thinking about reading The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, don’t. At least, not first.
I needed to put in here somewhere that most of his novels are loosely (some not so loosely) connected. You technically could read them in any order, but I think what makes the most sense (and my google search confirms my thoughts) is that you should read them in order of publication. That would mean Ghostwritten, number9dream, Cloud Atlas, Black Swan Green, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, The Bone Clocks, Slade House, and Utopia Avenue. For me, the weak link was Black Swan Green, but I know those who really enjoyed it.
Hopefully this review will have made a new Mitchell fan or two. Until next time, happy reading, and if you have any books you’d like me to read and review, let me know.
I finished up 2023 with 55 books read, beating my Goodreads challenge by five books. Averaging just over a book a week, it occurred to me that there is plenty of opportunity to talk about books and what I, and perhaps you, are reading.
The next thing I wanted to decide on was how to talk about the books and how to value them, as a review generally is supposed to do. How to talk about them was the tricky part, but after conversations on twitter as well as in real life, I’m going to pick something from the book that either stood out as effective or ineffective, and do a spoiler-free analysis of that particular literary technique (because everyone hates spoilers).
Valuing the book seems trickier. You can find a something-out-of-five rating on Goodreads easily enough, but I wanted something more personal, and something more informational. What does a star mean? What’s the difference between three and four? Between four and five? Did the fantasy have too little magic? Was the romance too overt? Did I figure out the mystery’s killer in the first ten pages? I read a lot of different stuff, so I need something that can accommodate different types of books. I hereby give you…
The Author’s Arsenal system.
By no means are these five areas exhaustive, but they represent five key elements in any story. By not awarding a book with one of these emblems, it doesn’t necessarily mean it did poorly (though it very well could). Instead the emblems it does receive should be lauded as the book’s strength. The five emblems are:
The Quill Pen. This will be awarded for exceptional storytelling or narrative.
The Inkwell. For depth and richness of theme.
The Parchment: For the quality of writing style and prose.
T.J. Klune’s magical realism novel treads the line between middle grade and YA. It’s longer than a typical middle grade book, however the language fits a middle grade book style much more closely than it does YA. The prose is direct, the characters are clear with their feelings, and everything feels very honest.
As I finished my read, two things stood out. First, the world-building. The House in the Cerulean Sea features an alternate version of our world where magical creatures/children exist and are known by the general populace. Linus, our main protagonist, is sort of a social worker for these children, and the whole story revolves around a specific assignment he must complete.
From the inner-workings of the bureaucratic government oversight agency to the prejudice of humans toward magical children to the intricacies of the various environments, Klune does a great job of establishing a believable world the characters exist in. Often times middle grade stories can gloss over details or dive too deep at the expense of narrative and character, but he does a fine job of maintaining the correct balance.
The second highlight is theme. It is established early on—so I don’t consider this a spoiler—that Linus is a gay man. There’s no fanfare in the revelation, and no shame. It is was it is. Which is exactly how it should be. Linus exists in a world where he expects to be treated the same as everyone else, and believes that others have the same right. Including magical children. Between him wrestling with his own emotions as well as understanding and accepting the children, Klune does a fantastic job of establishing and reinforcing a positive theme with enough tact and honesty for a middle-grade (and older) audience to understand the message without feeling they are being beaten over the head.
Before I move on to my craft bit, I do want to call out the one thing that rises above the rest in this book. Written as a middle grade book, there are expectations and limitations when it comes to prose. A third grader typically won’t be able to handle Tolstoy or Faulkner. The prose must accommodate the audience. But that isn’t necessarily a summation of the author’s ability. While most of the book reads as typical middle grade prose, there is a poem around the midway point that, while plain in diction, is rich in metaphor and layered with emotion. After I finished it I audibly said “dang.” If you pick up this book, that is definitely something to look forward to.
On to craft. Since finishing this book, I’ve had many discussions about it, some with people who haven’t read it (mainly on the function of craft), and some who have (mainly on the application of craft). Based on those conversations, today’s topic is agency.
I’m sure most of us are familiar with the term, but agency basically describes the character’s ability to do something. Are they reacting to events and being led by the nose, or are their reactions to the events of the story their own choice, plot and antagonists be damned. There is a distinction to be made about their choice.
If the character gets into a situation where they must do something or face terrible consequences, sure, they’re technically choosing to do the thing, but that’s not much of a choice. They’re basically being herded. But, if they’re presented with that same choice and do a third option, or they agree and turn that choice into their own growth, then you’ve got some agency.
Sometimes the decisions are small. Deciding not to answer that phone. Turning left when they always turn right. Maybe this one time they’ll skip the coffee shop on the way to work. Sometimes the decisions are larger. Standing up to the bully. Giving into temptation and stealing that heirloom. Turning off the targeting system as they fly through the trench.
What makes characters interesting is their choices, and their ability to choose. It makes their lives more dynamic, makes their actions carry more weight, and it adds a pulse to the story, an energy the reader can feel even if they’re unaware that’s what they’re feeling. You can have an amazing plot and setting, but if you have a boring character sleepwalking through that story your readers won’t connect.
In The House in the Cerulean Sea, Klune uses a tried and true character arc of a person lacking agency, only to gain it as the story advances. That arc can be tricky. If you wait too long to have the character begin to learn, you may lose your reader. Often times those characters will be supported by interesting plot, immersive world-building, or engaging prose. If you can hook the reader long enough to ascend that arc, then good on you. But without a character to invest in, pretty words and locations can only do so much.
And now, for the big moment, how did The House in the Cerulean Sea fare with the Author’s Arsenal?
For deftness of theme and a well-execute message, especially given the audience age, I award The Inkwell. For an immersive (and wholly believable) world, I award The Scroll.
Remember, for awards not received, it doesn’t indicate a poor execution of those qualities. The awarded emblems are just for what is done particularly well.
I’m sure this is the most prestigious award the book has received 😉 As such, Klune should be proud of the world, characters, and story he created.
Future reviews won’t have the whole explanation of the review process. This one did because it was the Arsenal’s maiden voyage. Expect a variety of books, new and old, across genres. And, if you have any you’d like to recommend, let me know. If I’ve already read the book, the odds are low I’ll review it. I rarely re-read anything because there’s just so much out there and I want to get as much new content as possible.
The Quill Pen. This will be awarded for exceptional storytelling or narrative.
The Inkwell. For depth and richness of theme.
The Parchment: For the quality of writing style and prose.
The Seal. For character development.
The Scroll. For world-building and setting.
Eric Taveren 