richardrbecker's reviews
497 reviews

There is a lot to like about The Night Shift by Alex Finlay. The novel starts with a shock: Four girls working the night shift on New Year's Eve are attacked in a Block Buster Video store in Linden, New Jersey. Never mind that Y2K reference. It's merely window dressing as most of the story takes place 15 years later when four more teens are attacked — this time in an ice cream store. 

In both instances, one victim survives, giving the two survivors (and an FBI agent) an opportunity to team up and find out if the killers are connected. Finlay tosses a bunch of other characters into the mix, telling various stories from three perspectives (but he uses these to cut into many more) and laying out plenty of false leads that mean absolutely nothing. These points kept me from becoming immersed in the book as there are too many characters to keep track of (that don't matter to the story) and too many false leads that pad the story to keep readers guessing. I suppose that works for many readers today — but I tend to think that a gun in scene one needs to be shot at some point. It's not just there to fill space and distract us. 

Likewise, as a false plot-driven story, I never connected with any characters. A couple came close, but their presence tends only to scrape the surface of their existence. Ergo, one of the perspectives is Chris, a local public defender. He has the potential for a great backstory but we are generally confined to knowing him through his obsession with a video podcaster that he believes to be his brother (who happens to be the primary suspect in the initial murder). Likewise, Ella is mainly confined to her backstory as the Blockbuster survivor, who volunteers to help the ice cream store survivor. And that leaves us with Keller, the pregnant FBI agent, which is, by all counts, the one most people can connect with during the novel. 

Finlay's work shines in bringing these three isolated perspectives together to form a bigger picture and ultimately help the reader discover and unravel the mystery element of this modern thriller. But for me, two of the book's selling points never paid off. There is no 1990's nostalgia, and the stakes are never raised. By the end, it feels like we fizzle into the solution, and that's a shame. The Night Shift needed to end with a bang to make up for characters who mostly lacked depth. And while that means it will be fun for some, the book doesn't pack the punch some readers hope for. 

Tamar had some promise as a World War II Dutch resistance story but never took off. The plot and pace remained flat from the first page to the last, which is surprisingly tricky to do with a book about espionage. Or maybe that is part of the problem. 

Tamar bills itself as something different than it is while being neither thing it could be. It's a story about a girl who inherits a box containing a series of clues and coded messages. But her story only takes off one-quarter of the way through the book. And as far as heritage mysteries go, there isn't much to it. Her grandfather wanted her to find someone. You can decide if it's climatic or not.

I suspect Peet didn't think it was, which would explain why the girl's story accounts for less than 25 percent of the book. But her grandfather, despite being one of a couple of spies in Holland, doesn't give us much of a conflict either. Mostly, he and his fellow spy Dart fly under the radar—so much so that they try to shut down actual Dutch resistance because they are more afraid of the Germans' retaliation than the Dutch themselves.

Tamar is especially concerned for the safety of all Dutch, but particularly one—the same one who will eventually become the girl's grandmother. (And this isn't even a spoiler, given you can see the relationship developing a mile away in the book's opening pages.) So there you have it. Of the two plot lines, the mystery is a non-mystery with no real stakes, and the espionage story never evokes any sense of real danger (despite the body count). As far as Nazis go, these are relatively tame in their indifference. 

The book's most redeeming quality is some authenticity in its portrayal of spies who mainly send and receive messages from England (but with no definitive purpose). Unfortunately, even this ends with such a whimper that not even Peets talent as a writer can pull it off. 

All Systems Red is a super short novella with an impressive hook that will make you want to read the rest of the series. The first installment (a mere 160 pages) introduces a corporate-dominated spacefaring future, with our protagonist being self-aware SecUnit (part AI, part machine, part clone) that refers to itself as Murderbot. 

Murderbot also has a secret. It has hacked its governor module, which is designed to make it subservient to the human crews it protects during planetary missions. Because the SecUnit operates without a governer module, it has considerably more free will, which is especially interesting as it chooses to protect its humans despite being scornful toward them. 

Disabling its governor module has an additional advantage for the crew because another hacker may have used that module to take control of SecUnits operating on nearby missions. The results are disastrous, forcing Murderbot and its humans to reevaluate their relationships. 

Despite the novella obviously being written as a hook for a series of short installments, the read is engaging and well worth it. There is no doubt I'll be visiting Wells again in the near future.

Callings: Finding and Following Authentic Life may deserve a higher rating than a three because it contains several worthwhile gems that could help someone unhook themselves from whatever society compelled them to do and find their true calling. But the work Gregg Levoy asks us to do as readers to ferret those gems out gives me pause. It's a lengthy, overwritten tome that feels considerably longer than its 329-page count (and noticeably thin margins).

One of my favorite gems, in fact, is something I've taken to heart and already passed on to my children. Levoy rightly says it takes more effort to prevent yourself from following a calling than it does to follow one. For example, if you are an artist but never make time for art because you feel guilty about the time it would take away from more routine tasks, you could inadvertently expend more energy than if you just made time to do it. You could even be making yourself miserable and unhealthy. 

This thought gem more than makes up for the price of admission, but not all of them do. Calling is primarily an extensive collection of short essays that consist of one part anecdotal life experience and one part historical wisdom that Levoy has chanced upon. These essays, in turn, are organized into an outline of sorts, roughly divided into removing barriers and being open; receiving calls through dreams, omens, and intuition; taking pilgrimages of sorts to find one's true direction; and knowing which calls to say no to and which to invite right into your life. After the essays, Levoy includes resources and bibliography as inspiration to keep the conversation going. 

The first two parts read stronger than the final three, when it becomes a bit more of a slog of support essays that attempt to shore up some larger points. And some, like looking out for a mentor, feel like they could be better placed. It would have fit better in the beginning, perhaps one of those pilgrimages he mentions, as we've all experienced times when we've encountered the right teachers at the right times in our lives — often when we're trying to be receptive to our true calling. 

Who knows? Maybe Levoy is one of those teachers for someone. There are times he comes across like a mentor, like when he writes something like: "A key is made for only one purpose. To fit a lock. Not just any lock. One lock. Anyone who feels made to do one particular thing in this world but is unable to do it becomes, in a sense, an unreconciled key." But then there are times that he digresses into something else: "In my sleep, when I dream of being chased, I'm sometimes aware that if only I could get myself to wake up, I'd be safe." He writes this to introduce the concept of an inner captain, but this particular essay muddles more than it provides clarity, like the key concept. Ergo, he would have done better saving the thought for another book. 

So therein lies my struggle with this book. It does its job of examining the various kinds of calls we receive and how to act on them. But sometimes, the author gets lost in his calling as a storyteller, telling us things that just get in the way. Enough so, I might revisit the book with a highlighter to cut its content neatly in half or a third. And then, having done so, I would appreciate it all the more with less of it. 

Long and light at the same time, The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O. by Neal Stephenson and Nicole Galland is an enjoyable albeit tedious mashup of science fiction, fantasy, and history. It touches on magic, the death of magic, technological advancements, time travel, and history—often to places frequented by Vikings. 

Stephenson is known for big ideas and big novels, but don't expect another foray into Snow Crash or The Diamond Age. While the ideas and novel are big, so are Nicole Galland's fingerprints. The conversational tone is often lively and even airy, with only occasional bits that sound like Stephenson. (Incidentally, the sequel does not include Stephenson as a co-author.)

The story is almost straightforward, with a couple of noteworthy subplots. After learning that the demise of magic could be linked to the application of photography, a shadowy government agency sends an agent, Tristan Lyons, on a research and recruitment mission to bring it back. His first enlistee is Dr. Melisande Stokes, a Harvard linguistics lecturer, whom he sees as useful in translating historical texts. 

The novel takes a turn once magic is proven to be a historical certainty, and the duo shifts their focus toward bringing it back by making the Schrödinger's cat thought experiment a quantum theory practice of sorts. Not only did they accomplish this, but it seems that they had already accomplished this because one of the key components in working magic exists — a witch from 1851 who grudgingly prolonged her life at the urging of Stokes at another point in history. 

Of course, as often is the case with time travel, consequences tend to be a bit unpredictable. This is especially true when their tiny team of a few people grows into a bureaucracy that is eventually headed by an academic super bureaucrat, Professor Blevins. Incidentally, he is the same professor who credit-nabs Stokes's earlier translation work. 

Blevins lends a significant subplot in how good work can quickly unravel under the weight of a bureaucracy, given that bureaucracies are expressly more concerned with maintaining control than doing good work, invest more time in personnel management than outcomes, and have leaders who tend to underestimate everyone around them, whether they are allies or adversaries. In fact, they are generally so full of themselves that they often treat their allies like adversaries and become rubes for their adversaries who they treat like allies. You know, just like real life, as it happens. 

The result is that when you invite people like Vikings, witches, and bankers to be manipulated into helping you further your agenda, they might want to manipulate you back for their agenda. And so it goes — right up until the book ends a significant post-D.O.D.O. cliffhanger. Aside from the troublesome cliffhanger ending, the multiple narrative styles can be minorly problematic. 

It's not so much that the story can't told as records, recordings, and diary entries by secondary characters, but rather the Melisande Stokes narrative dominating most of the beginning and end of the book, which requires a bit of the shift in the middle. Sure, it's easy enough to get used to, but you might not want to after following along with Stokes for so long. And then, once you finally immerse yourself into the new narrative style, it feels awkward going back to Stokes at the end. 

Overall, it's a fun read for anyone craving speculative fiction and time travel with a splash of magic. But whether it is entertaining enough to snap up the sequel sans Stephenson has yet to be decided. Indeed, it won't be picked up this year despite my recommendation that D.O.D.O. is worth the read. 

Middlemarch by George Eliot reads surprisingly contemporary and modern. Written in 1871-72 in eight installments, the story primarily follows four characters — Dorothea Brooke, Tertius Lydgate, Mary Garth, and Nicholas Bulstrode — each with their own plots but all centered around Middlemarch, a fictional English Midlands town between 1829 and 1832. B

But if we are to attempt a condensation of theme, Eliot is especially interested in the relationships between men and women through the lens of societal trappings of the upper middle class. The result is often disastrous, mainly because of their expectations of each other. These include expectations related to marriage, conformity, love, responsibility, prejudice, femininity, vanity, and gender (among others). Occasionally, Eliot also accounts for community, class, politics, progress, and reform. However, those latter themes are almost always tethered to how they touch individuals and their relationships.

As told by Eliot, it was an exceptionally troublesome period in history, where society seemed to have shoved a wedge between men and women by spelling out their roles and obligations. And yet, it still shines as a reminder that we need to do better in our attempt to understand each other without succumbing to ego and ambition within our households. 

The 19-year-old orphan Dorothea Brooke sets the tone of the novel. As a pious young woman, she makes a mistake in marrying a much older scholar. Once married, he doesn't take her youth, energy, and enthusiasm seriously. He even attempts to haunt her after death by placing conditions on his estate, expressly forbidding her from remarrying one of her friends. 

Other stories of characters include an idealistic, naive young doctor who ends up in an unhappy marriage with Rosamond Vincy; Mary Garth, who insists Fred Vincy prove he is ready to live a practical and serious life; and a wealthy banker and hypocrite Nicholas Bulstrode, who attempts to instill his beliefs on Middlemarch society after marrying Vincy's sister, Harriet. 

While all of their lives interact (along with a cast of dozens), their individual stories often stand on their own, making Middlemarch meander along more often than not. And because of this, along with its substantial length, it isn't for everyone. Sometimes, I even found myself lost in the reading, wondering where Eliot was taking me and having to remind myself that Middlemarch isn't a journey as much as a destination. It is a society in which characters like Dorothea are trapped, and the readers right along with them. Fortunately, it's an entertaining trapping, one I recommend for anyone who appreciates historical fiction (even though it wasn't written as such in the 1800s) or wants to consider how some classics could influence their writings.

Ronald Tobias breaks down elements of the most common plots in literature, theater, and film. These include classics such as the quest, rescue, revenge, transformation, forbidden love, ascension (and descension). The general idea is that most stories fall into one (or sometimes more than one) of these categories. 

To illustrate, Tobias places an emphasis on examples, drawing from reasonably well-known plays, books, and movies. Ergo, the principal plot of Romeo & Juliet, is forbidden love. The plot of Death Wish is revenge. The plot of Bonnie and Clyde is pursuit. And so on and so forth. He makes the case, then extracts key elements that make the most successful stories memoriable. 

His analysis is often a write-up of the obvious but no less useful, especially when he leans on films with a strong central plot line. Not all books or plays do, sometimes preferring to include more than one, like Romeo & Juliet, which blends rivalry and forbidden love together. But this is probably why I think Tobias is at his best when he discusses books over movies. 

Ironically, some of his best and most insightful work isn't in the 20 chapters of master plots (with each covered in one chapter except ascension and descension). I especially liked his analysis of structure aside from plots — covering how relationships between primary characters create depth in a story and also how important it is to establish a moral baseline, even if the characters lean toward evil. 

This latter point struck a chord with me because I recently read two popular books I didn't like — and now, in retrospect, I can see that their lack of any moral baseline proved problematic for me. (Even bad characters usually have some moral baseline, e.g. a mobster may have a code of honor, even if it isn't one we subscribe to.) 

So, even if you are less interested in grasping the premise of a single plotline (what I usually oversimplify and describe as a path from A to B), there is still plenty of material to consider. Tobias also includes a link where book buyers can download each plot's checklists as PDFs. You'll want to do that because the print version uses gray ink, which is hard to read. 

Overall, however, Tobias has written a useful book for storytellers. I've added it to the resources I tell other writers to consider. Interesting stuff. 

The Island of Dr. Moreau reboot is an interesting, tamer reboot of the original — thrust into the historical socio-regional conflict of the Yucatánin the 1870s. As a result, it's a very different story, one that may have been better served as a prequel or sequel to the one penned by H.G. Wells. 

In place of science fiction/horror, Moreno-Garcia gives us feminist gothic fantasy. Instead of dealing with the ethics of science, she deals with the ethics of colonialism. And instead of themes of pain and cruelty, moral responsibility, human identity, human interference with nature, and the effects of trauma; this novel tackles what some critics claim has become problematic in the original — the white male ethos that dominates it. Oh my. 

True, the best change in the story if the emphasis and point of view of Carlota Moreau, daughter of the esteemed doctor who is funding his experiments by promising wealthy land owners an ungraded slave. This plotline provides Moreno-Garcia with the room she needs to solicit sympathy for her naive female protagonist and hybrids. And on this point, the novel truly works. Not only does Moreno-Garcia win us over to Carlota and her majordomo, Montgomery, but many hybrids as well — especially Carlota's sidekicks Cachito and Lupe.

Here, the lesson learned isn't that exploitation of nature will bite the hand, but rather, the hand of misogyny and colonialism cannot be bitten enough. Carlota is empowered to deliver much of these bites as she learns the awful truth about her father's work and pushes for a sanctuary where hybrids (who stand in as an analogy for natives) would otherwise live peacefully and in harmony with nature. 

Ultimately and unfortunately, the lesson loses some steam when presented as an overripe sermon, leaving the story to be a mixed bag. If there is a real irony here, the hybrids are exploited twice. They are exploited by the colonial masters, including the doctor, and the author, in that they are only allowed to support Carlota, who is painted as superior to them in every way. The one exception may be Lupe, but that's only because she eventually serves as the protagonist's morale mentor. 

In the end, while the story is entertaining, it eventually falls flat and predictable. All we are left to marvel at is that everything male is science and bad, and everything female is nature and good.

Not everybody will like Continental Drift, especially if you look at it through today's lens (even if nothing has changed). But like it or not, Russell Banks wrote an American classic with a sweeping narrative and vivid portrayal of characters who will stay with you, whether you like them or not. 

The novel is the story of a 30-year-old Bob Dubois. He is a common man with a wife whom he loves (despite also having an affair), two daughters, and another child on the way. Like many Americans, he longs for something more than his existence — a run-down duplex in a working-class neighborhood, a 13-foot kit boat, a beat-up station wagon, and significant debt. Things are okay, but there never seems to be enough money in what amounts to a humdrum life because nobody ever taught him how to find purpose. 

Bob is not a good guy or a bad guy. He just exists, filling space. One night, he recognizes this and decides to follow his brother to Florida, which, like many New Englanders, he sees as a sort of final frontier, where he can get rich and finally make something out of his life — or, at least, a better life. Despite having a brother already "living this dream," there is a certain risk involved. He has to sell the duplex and boat, quit his job, and work in a liquor store for his brother, who promises to make him a partner one day. It doesn't sound bad overall, but the seedy, wild get-rich mentality makes it easy for someone's life to skid out of control. And Bob's life begins to do exactly that. 

His story is juxtaposed with that of a Haitian family trying to get to Florida for similar reasons but from a much more dire existence. The family consists of a young Haitian woman, her son, and a baby. They will literally risk significantly more than Bob to get to Miami. And their journey, although you cannot call Bob's journey comfortable, is horrific. Even more so because the reader knows that, eventually, their lives will inevitably crash into each other, although it's impossible to know whether this meeting will be a triumph or tragedy. 

With the exception of Bob Dubois claiming to have never interacted with Black people despite serving in the military, Banks captures some semblance of New England life, Haitian poverty, and the allure of Florida as it existed in the 1980s to paint a convincing albeit cynical take on American during that era — one that is a counterbalance to the pastel-covered existence immortalized by a John Banks movie. 

Here, the plot of two people chasing the same dream from very different beginnings, combined with characters who are real enough to touch (Bob much more so than the Haitian woman's son), will help any reader who appreciates the craft to recognize it for what it is: one of those novels that gets inside you and stays there, whether you like it or not. I've added to my favorites for this very reason.

It wasn't lost on me that I was reading Life After Life while two researchers suggested consciousness is a quantum wave that passes through microtubules in our physical brain. These two theories — those presented by Moody and those proposed by Penrose and Hameroff — fit beautifully together. It makes sense that NDE experiences would present themselves as the quantum wave being severed from those microtubules, even temporarily. 

While Life After Life feels a little thin—more of an NDE foundation—for someone who has read or seen similar accounts in books, articles, television shows, and movies, it's easy to see how it was groundbreaking in its day. Still, Moody succinctly organizes and defines the field, complete with select testimonials, providing a compelling study baseline. So, even if the reading feels more introductory than I anticipated, it's still very beneficial. 

Mostly, Moody breaks down the most common similarities shared by people who have NDE experiences: feelings of peace, a noise, a dark tunnel, out-of-body experiences, meeting others, beings of light, reviews of life, borders between planes, and coming back. Not everyone experiences all of these things, but most people seem to share many of them — regardless of race, religion, etc., presumably. 

After digesting the various accounts and summations, it's challenging to dismiss the NDE phenomenon outright, even when Moody presents alternative possibilities. The book provides a thought-provoking case that death may not be the end but a new beginning, perhaps a notion that becomes clear after leaving this life. Who knows? Maybe our life is a period of sleep and forgetting, and death is an awakening, with the destination somewhere where constraints to time and space are not more. 

Ideal for anyone who wants to refresh their understanding of NDE or refresh and reorganize their understanding, Moody's book is the perfect go-to for knowledge. Never mind that it was originally published in 1975. The author has refreshed it, and the edition I read included a new forward and afterward. Interesting stuff.