It probably surprises no one to know, if you’ve read my post on spoilers, that one of the reasons I like to reread books is because of that comforting sense you know what’s coming. I just got finished rereading A Natural History of Dragons, and of course I knew what happened — which took the edge off any impatience or tension, and actually means I’m going to be rating the book at least one star higher. It’s just the way I’m wired, I guess; I like to know, and then watch things unfold with that knowledge and put together, instead of the what, the how and sometimes the why.

(On the other hand, I just reread Winter Rose, and knowing how that ends didn’t help a bit with connecting the dots because there’s something about that book I just don’t get.)

As I said in the post on spoilers, it’s also a way of appreciating the skill of the author: even if you know what’s coming, can they keep you absorbed? Can they keep you following the thread of story round each step of the labyrinth, instead of taking a shortcut? Can they lay a trail of clues for the reader?

Of course, if you have a really great memory, then only the very best of books will stand up to that, or it has to be something else that draws you — the characters? the writing? the nostalgia?

There’s a whole lot of reasons why I reread, but nostalgia and comfort are a big part. I can get the same thing with books that follow a formula — like Georgette Heyer’s Regency novels or Mary Stewart’s suspenseful romances — because I sort of know what’s coming, and I can just settle into it, watching where it takes me.

What about you? Do you reread? Why/why not?

I seem to be rather odd in fandom in general in that I don’t care about spoilers — in fact, I actually quite like them. That puts me in line with what studies suggest, though: the University of California, San Diego did a study a while ago which took stories and gave them to naive participants (i.e. participants who hadn’t read the stories before) in two categories. One lot of the participants got a spoiler paragraph first; the other lot didn’t. And with stories that have ironic twists, mystery stories and literary stories, every single one showed the same result.

People enjoyed the stories more when they knew what was coming.

Without looking at the studies, I have a couple of theories about that. One is simply anxiety. I am an anxiously inclined person and I can end up utterly stymied with a book, not wanting to read further because I know something bad is about to happen… and I don’t know if things turn out right, whether I should be hopeful or not. But when I know the outcome, I can read the story fine. Sometimes when I’m struggling to read something (or even watch something), I ask for spoilers, or flip to the back of the book.

But there’s a lot more people without that kind of anxiety, I would guess, and for them I have a theory too — connected to one reason I like to reread books: you know what’s going to happen, and you can see the skill of the author in shaping the outcome. If it’s a question of Chekhov’s gun, you can spot the gun and feel clever; you’re reading on a different level. You can still be surprised by how things turn out, but probably you already know whether it’s the kind of story you want to read or not.

The weird thing is that people pretty consistently think they don’t like spoilers, and I wonder if that’s a social thing — “you’ll never believe what’s going to happen!” The whole idea that anticipation is going to make it better.

How about you? Spoilers, no spoilers? Thinking about experimenting with this now?

And will someone please have pity and tell me whether The Winner’s Kiss ends well for Arin and Kestrel?

Reading the post from Kaitlin @ Reading is My Treasure, I found myself wondering about comfort zones and what on earth mine is. In terms of writing about books, I can be uncomfortable with talking about books that feature queer and gender related topics: I don’t control who reads this blog, and just about anyone could come along. I’m especially cagey about discussing asexuality in books, though I have reviewed a couple of books specifically on the topic (The Invisible Orientation; the essay What Do You Mean You’re Not Interested in Sex?). Mental illness and specifically anxiety is an awkward topic, too. It feels a little bit too naked — and my mother has reminded me several times to be careful about what I talk about on here, lest my goal of getting into medical school be harmed by it.

And, given that my mother reads this blog, talking about books which contain sex or other mature themes can feel a bit weird. (But not quite as weird as the inevitable times when, watching NCIS with my grandfather, there’d be a naked scene or something sexual. Gaaaah!)

But what don’t I read? Mainstream YA, I guess; John Green’s books don’t interest me much, and I know that The Fault in Our Stars wouldn’t be a good fit for me, given the subject matter. But then again, I have read Rainbow Rowell’s books, like Eleanor & Park. I have baulked sometimes about YA series like Marie Rutkoski’s Winner’s Trilogy, and I’m still pretty sure no one is going to drag me into reading Kiera Cass’ The Selection. I’m not sure if that’s a comfort zone thing, though — it’s more of a lack of interest, and reading the first chapter of The Winner’s Curse convinced me to try it (and I enjoyed it greatly).

Hard sci-fi, maybe? But I have enjoyed it sometimes, and I’m willing enough to try classic works like Larry Niven’s, even though I know the books contain frankly cringeworthy moments in the representation of women and other minorities. I’m fairly okay with classifying it as ‘of its time’, and not letting it hurt now. (Even if I do comment on it.) And I happily read actual science books, so the issue only really arises when the science is technobabble and I just can’t stay interested.

Romance? Well, that definitely used to be a thing I’d insist I wasn’t interested in. Sometimes my fantasy/sci-fi would steer into romance, and I’d make all kinds of disclaimers about that. But now I cheerfully read Georgette Heyer and Mary Stewart, and abandoned the whole idea of ‘guilty pleasures‘.

I think, for me, my ‘comfort zone’ might be less about what I’m willing to try, and more about what I’m willing to let people see me try. If I wasn’t blogging, would I pick up anything different? I’d like to say no, but maybe I would.

Which seems to me an excellent reason to maybe pick up Kiera Cass’ The Selection, just to find out if maybe I would like it. (And get round to reading Anna and the French Kiss.)

This could probably be a Top Ten Tuesday post or something, but Kate Elliott has a giveaway running at the moment which asks about your favourite reading kink/trope, and it made me want to expand a little on my initial thoughts and post about it. The description is perhaps best borrowed from Elliott’s own post:

[A reading kink is] a trope or type of character or a plot thing or whatever that if it shows up in a book kind of hits all your buttons (in a good way). So for example I might write: “Arrogant dudes who fall in love and have to get humble to get the love interest, a la Mr. Darcy” or “the outsider who is kind of bullied or ignored and who ends up finding she has special powers and a super destiny,” because those are both tried and true (and often cliched) tropes that are reading kinks for me.

As someone who has been involved in fandom and fanfiction (mostly years ago; somehow I seem to have fallen out of the habit now), tropes are something I’m fairly aware of. Favourites of mine include:

• The childhood friend. The kind of love story that grows from friendship and familiarity; often seen in Mary Stewart’s romances, for example. That trust and support, especially when it’s an easy transition — it just sounds lovely.
• Flint and tinder. I’ve definitely talked about this before — characters who argue, snark and snipe at each other, and yet turn out to be in love all along. That kind of relationship that makes me think that Mal was better suited for Simon than Kaylee, in Firefly. People who get under one another’s skin. Lord Peter and Harriet Vane.
• The political marriage. Or other forced marriage tropes, but mostly when it involves coming to an understanding. “I don’t love you, but we can be good to each other and achieve our aims this way.” And I wouldn’t mind if it grew into the kind of steady, familiar trusting love of the childhood friend type, over time, or if the two partners found love elsewhere but supported each other in it. I keep thinking about the example in Tanya Huff’s The Fire’s Stone — the three characters agreeing on a workaround which suits propriety but gets each what they want/need. Man, I need to reread that. Also features in Heyer’s The Convenient Marriage.
• The second son. Not a romance trope! It doesn’t have to be the second son exactly, but that is a trope I’ve noticed: the quiet, sterner, dedicated younger son, like Raymond E. Feist’s Arutha, or Tad Williams’ Josua. Robin Hobb’s Verity, drawn into heroic sacrifice because he can’t be his brother. Faramir. The type of character who knows and relishes their place in support, not the spoilt and grasping ones (like Robin Hobb’s Regal).
• The Protector. Joscelin from Jacqueline Carey’s Kushiel books. He goes with Phèdre into any danger, for love of her. Loyalty, that’s the key.
• Sacrifice. That would be the reason that Guy Gavriel Kay’s The Summer Tree and The Wandering Fire get to me so much.
• Friendship. That unshakeable, unbreakable bond — without romance. Mal and Zoe. Simon and River, though that’s family. Paul and Kevin, in The Summer Tree.
• Turns out you’re the hero. I’m just reading Mercedes Lackey’s Arrows of the Queen for the first time, and confess that I’m enjoying Talia slowly realising she’s been chosen. The kitchen boy who makes good; the kitchen girl who overturns the social order. The frail kid from Brooklyn who saves the world again and again.
• The Paladin. That frail kid from Brooklyn. Mass Effect’s Shepard, if played as total Paragon. Someone with this complete goodness of heart, who enables others to be better, who is willing to strive and to sacrifice. Done wrong, they can be sanctimonious assholes. Done right, you get moments like in Captain America: Winter Soldier, when the SHIELD employee listens to Steve’s speech and refuses to “press the buzzer” (so to speak).
• The shrouded past. The mysterious ruins, the old stories, the misunderstood relics. The “Prothean” technology which uplifts a species beyond their actual understanding. Old magic.
• The heart of gold. The assassin or thief or space cowboy who actually cares about the good of others, sometimes against their will.
• “You’re on my crew.” Found families, suddenly belonging… is anyone beginning to notice how many of these tropes Firefly can fill? I think I might need to rewatch it.
• The bookworm. Immediately earmarks a character as a kindred spirit, from Anne of Green Gables to my meeting just now with Mercedes Lackey’s Talia.
• The supporter. The character in the background who supports and enables, without putting themselves forward and without resentment. Leigh Bardugo’s Mal fails on this, for example, which was really disappointing to me. Mack and the other Santitos in Santa Olivia do it. This can, I realise, be part of the second son trope — Feist’s Arutha supporting Lyam, for example.

I could probably go on. And on. And on.

What about you guys? Have you got any reading kinks? Or how about anti-kinks? I’m trying to think, and right now I can’t think of anything that’s an automatic deal-breaker for me, if it’s done right. (E.g. Twilight’s Bella and Edward and their obsessive relationship, the “stalking is love” trope; contrast with Freda Warrington’s A Taste of Blood Wine — Karl and Charlotte are just as obsessed, but the book acknowledges that that is not really a good thing again and again and again.)

Go on, your turn!

There’s been a couple of manifestos floating about in the wake of Joanne Harris’ Writer’s Manifesto. It got me thinking about what I promise as a blogger and reviewer, what I think is important. So I thought I’d do a quick manifesto myself.

1. I promise to give you my real opinion. Even if I’m friends with the author or the publicist or someone’s feelings might get hurt.
2. I promise to remember that everyone has feelings. I’m not going to attack someone, tweet a critical review directly at the author, etc. Everyone has feelings, and it’s just courtesy to do your best to avoid hurting them.
3. I promise to reply to comments and return your visits. You put in effort to engage with me, and I’ll make the same effort to engage with you.
4. But, when I’m stressed out and things are hard, I reserve the right to take time off. Even if my scheduled posts are still going ahead. Even if I post something that generates a lot of discussion. I’m a human being, and I need time off too.
5. I promise to let you know of my bias. When a book is by a friend or I’m doing something as a favour, then I will let you know. If I’m not aware of my bias, then I can’t tell you, but…
6. I promise to be open to criticism. It’s not easy, but I know I’m as fallible as any other creature. I may react badly, but I promise I will think about what you say.
7. I promise to be open to new things. I’m sure there’s things I’m neglecting and things I haven’t tried yet, many of which I may love. I’ll be open to them when they come my way.
8. I promise to review books that I’m given for that purpose. Whether I like them or not.

I’m sure once this goes live I’ll think of something else, so I might add to this. Feel free to borrow the idea, the wording, link to this, whatever you like, if it speaks to you.

This isn’t so much book-related, but hey, this blog is the platform I’ve got, so I’ll use it. And it can be related to books, since it comes up when people advocate for buying more books by authors of any minority identity, or for more books of a certain topic. It’s that argument I’m sure you’ve seen around…

“If you want [x], then YOU should do it.”

Which makes two assumptions: one, that when somebody wants something, it’s their responsibility to go and get it for themselves — even if they’re in a difficult position for that, even if what they want is fairness and equality, even if other people are in a position to help them. And two, that the person advocating for this thing is a hypocrite and is not campaigning in their own life for these things.

If you believe that fairness is not your responsibility, or the responsibility of anyone else, that’s fine, but I’m gonna sit here and judge you for it all I want.

But the second assumption — look, even if I was a hypocrite, all that says is that I’m a hypocrite, not that what I’m arguing for is wrong. And you better be damn sure while you’re at it that I am actually a hypocrite, or you look really fucking silly.