richardrbecker's reviews
497 reviews

Who is Maud Dixon? is a crazy ride, but not the kind of ride that I had hoped. It's the story of a morally bankrupt hack who attempts to assume the identity of her employer — a wildly famous novelist who uses a pseudonym to protect her anonymity. While the plot might be promising, the protagonist is not. 

Florence Darrow is a clueless, uncreative bore, and she earns no sympathy along her journey just because the story's antagonist is also morally bankrupt. Even when the author attempts to make Florence clever, she only doubles down on the fact that we're mostly watching a sociopath and psychopath attempt to outmaneuver each other, with Florence being the more pathetic and gullible of the two. 

Trapped within a cage of her own inabilities and envious, entitled rants about fairness and equity, Florence embodies everything wrong with those who think luck and misdirection are more important than persistence in changing one's life. We learn this very quickly about Florence when she tries to blackmail her boss into publishing a collection of not-ready-for-primetime stories, never considering that maybe people are telling her the truth — they aren't ready for prime time.  

The early stunt gets her canned, and she is desperate to take the next gig, which sounds almost too good to be true. News flash: It's too good to be true. She is hired on as an author's assistant after being sworn to secrecy, promising never to divulge the real person behind the pseudonym. The real person behind the name seems to channel Kathy Bates' portrayal of Margaret "Molly" Brown in the film Titanic by coming across as a vulgar, conservative, and salt-of-the-earth writer — the kind who would likely be snubbed at literary events and thus reluctant to appear in the public eye. Of course, there is a little more to the story than that. 

Although the twists are telegraphed early in the novel, the first eighty percent are entertaining despite having to see the world through the eyes of an annoying whiner. It's the back twenty percent that lost me, with our antiheroine flipping the switch from being amazingly naive and stupid to utterly ruthless and faux worldly. Still, plenty of people seem ready to relate to and embrace the protagonist. It will be interesting to see where she might pop up next, maybe a movie. 

The battle of Agincourt has captivated me since I was a kid, being introduced to it by Shakespeare in Henry V, Act IV Scene iii(3) 18–67, The Illustrated Face of Battle by John Keegan, and several history books along the way. The very idea that 6,000 Englishmen could defeat 30,000 French knights and men-at-arms has always personified what courage really means. 

Bernard Cornwell does a fine job of helping readers understand the battle from the inside out in this fictional account of what it might have been like for an English archer. He has a knack for helping people relate to history by taking them inside it through the eyes of a protagonist with a few unrelated but related dramatic tropes. In this case, Cornwell relies on Nicholas Hook, a forester and archer, to tell the tale. 

After being wrongly accused of striking a priest (he did, but with just cause), Nick Hook escapes persecution by joining an expedition to Soissons, in Burgundy, as a mercenary archer. It's on this trip that he meets a love interest, starts hearing the voices of Saints Crispin and Crispinian in his head, and eventually joins the royal army under King Henry to regain his rightful crown of France. Cornwell further underscores the straightforward adventure plot with subplots — a longtime family feud that originally placed Hook's life in peril and a new "family feud" as his would-be love interest happens to be the illegitimate but loved daughter of a French noble. 

Overall, it's a strong and enjoyable story, even if the villains seem like they are evil for the sake of being evil and his overuse of exclamation marks. Yes, few people talk. They like to shout! And all too often, they are shouting with the word "bastards" being their favorite descriptor. I'm not one to shy away from language, but Cornwell likely set a record with his use of the word. Egad. 

If you can forgive him for that, then you will find the characters and plotting near-perfect for historical fiction. Some other elements and subplots are fun, too, even if they are tossed into the mix to spice up the story, serving no other legitimate purpose. But really, it's no big deal. It's a very entertaining account of history and a largely vivid description of the senseless violence that accompanies war. Here, Cornwell does a great job sharing details without glorifying them. War is an ugly thing, and it's clear he rightly detests it.

Slaying the Dragon by Ben Riggs magically captures precisely why I loved and loathed Dungeons & Dragons in the 1980s — enough so that I hard-baked its existence into my debut novel set during the same decade. The game was a lifeline for some early teens like me, except when we got into trouble. And maybe we wouldn't have so much if we had stuck to dice rolls and maps. 

Although reading the book is like watching a car accident play out in painfully slow motion, it clarifies what went wrong with the company behind the game. The nutshell version: Everything went wrong. 

Like Briggs, I saw the names of those creators whose bylines appeared on rule books and modules as the heroes and demigods they helped bring to life. Back then, I couldn't for the life of me understand how the likes of Gary Gygax, Zeb Cook, Lawrence Schick, Tracy & Laura Hickman, Frank Mentzer, Jeff Grubb, and David C. Sutherland III (to name a few), could build a brilliant game but not a brilliant company. 

I never understood why they continually released new worlds and boxsets, expecting us to reboot everything all the time when the World of Greyhawk was perfectly fine. (We used to reconcile some of it by expanding the number of continents on Oerth to explore or, like the creators themselves tried to do, thinking of every new installment as another plane of existence.) All I really needed was another way to expand the one where the campaigns I ran always began. 

But even more than that, reading this account of what happened more than 40 years later and through the lens of a creative strategist — someone who has worked almost four decades as a journalist, copywriter, creative director, communication strategist, content creator, and author — drives a few points home. Wannabe executives shouldn't manage companies that make products they don't understand for a target audience they don't even like. In fact, one of my few complaints about the book is that Briggs is too much of an apologist for Lorraine Williams. She doesn't deserve it.

Over the years, I've worked with several wannabe executives like her—people who don't understand that a brand is the relationship it has with its employees and customers. The result is always the same. They want to bully the creative process like they might buy curtains, constantly crowing about what they "like" and never about what makes sense. The result is always the same. They drive good people away and inflict pain on all those who try to stay, using every tactic they can think of in the book — empty promises, fake promotions, future profits, and even legal pressure — to get their way and feed their own egos. It's kind of pathetic, really. These people who promote the idea of faking it until they make it, never realizing they're faking it at the top as much as they did at the bottom. 

All in all, Williams delivered a brilliant case study (captured by Riggs) into how one should never run a company (especially a creative one). And, the person who eventually saved the D&D product line (Peter Adkison) expressly demonstrates how to right a sinking ship simply by being a decent human being who knows how to let creative people be creative. When you do, the cash usually takes care of itself. This certainly seems to have been the case for Wizards of the Coast (even as a subsidiary of Hasbro).

Slaying The Dragon is a solid accounting of how a garage-based upstart can grow up too fast and come crashing down (not to mention a cautionary tale for someone like Gygax). You won't have to be a D&D fan (like me, with a closet full of books, modules, and figures I can't seem to part with) to pull something worthwhile out of this book. It's a great rags-to-rags story for commercial creatives, game makers, and entrepreneurs of all kinds. I thoroughly enjoyed it, even if it was hard to watch someone sabotage themselves at every turn. 

Ironically, the game did some good despite who ran it into the ground. It made me a better storyteller. 

The Half-Drowned King is only half the story in Linnea Hartsuyker's three-book series. And while I enjoyed it, I'm not sure I enjoyed it so much that I would press on to the other two books (but reserve the right to change my mind).

Sure, there is plenty to like about Ragnvald's story (after the name dump in the first couple of chapters). He's a hothead like all of his Norwegian family members and allies, slighted by a betrayal orchestrated by his own stepfather. After a failed assassination plot, Regnvald throws in with King Hakon (and then to King Harald). The story itself is solid, though Hartsuyker tends to shy away from the real fighting. The Half-Drowned King tends to stick to plotting, alliances, etc. 

There is nothing wrong with that, except Ragnvald's story is also shared with Svanhild, his sister. When he leaves, Svanhild tries to make the best of it until faced with an arranged marriage. So, she leaves the house where her brother left her and falls into the arms of another one of his brother’s betrayers, Solvi. There is nothing wrong with that, except Svanhild is as fickle as she is fanciful — always pretending to be a victim seeking justice when she's really in it for her own selfish sense of the world. It makes her annoying, especially as she waffles on and on about Solvi. It's annoying, even if plenty of readers said they relate to her. 

In sum, I guess you could say I enjoyed half the book. While it's always fun to read a Viking story — especially one written by a possible descendant — it's not as much fun when all the women are relatively weak (and the men are not all that strong or cunning). Add to all that a lack of myth and magic despite some readers alluding to it. But despite all that, I will say that Hartsuyker is a fine descriptive writer. She does a fine job painting a historic atmosphere while keeping the story moving. Not everybody can do that. 

I wanted to like Yellowface, but ultimately didn't. Sure, there is plenty to like. But, unfortunately, there was also plenty not to like. 

Author R.F. Kuang has little sympathy for her protagonist June Hayward a.k.a. Juniper Song. It's hard to blame the author. The character is largely annoying and unlikeable. And any chance to change your mind about her is tossed out the window during her Tell-Tale Heart-light ending. (The twist without the murder.) June Hayward isn't alone. None of the characters are likable. Not one. 

I suppose this is why some of the literary world considers it razor-sharp sarcasm or darkly funny. I didn't think so. If it were funny, it would be a movie called American Fiction. The characters are likable in that movie, and the sarcasm is bold and funny. Much of the prose in Yellowface falls flat and sometimes feels hostile. 

What is likable about the novel is that it's a remarkably fast read, a decent commentary that cuts at social media, and a poignant take on the fickle nature of the publishing industry — a place where 1+1 might equal 3 on any given day (or not). But other than that, it's a bit shallow in what it wants us to swallow. 

Beginning with a tried-but-true story of someone stealing another's work to the shockwaves and consequences that follow, Yellowface rushes toward a mystery that isn't one we care about — who is June Hayward's biggest detractor, how much do they know, and what can they prove. Secondarily, it's a story about the roller coaster of emotions a partial plagiarist might feel (or not), especially when confronted with the fact she is a white author who wrote (or didn't write) about hardships faced by the Chinese during World War I. (This theme is supposed to be edgy in that it raises the question of who can authentically write about whom in fiction — and it's also a topic I despise.)

Of course, I'm in the minority on this one. Plenty of people think that Yellowface is cooly contemporary. Maybe so, for five minutes. Still, I do think the author will have a longer shelf-life than the novel. Kaung is a fine writer. It's just that I wish I would have been introduced to her work by reading something, anything, else.

The Door Into Summer by Robert A. Heinlein reads like two books in one. The first part is science fiction crime noir, telling the story of an engineer and inventor scammed by his business partner and fiancée. He loses his company — a domesticated cleaning robot company called Hired Girl, Inc. — and elects to take a "cold sleep" so he can start fresh 30 years into the future (along with his cat, Pete). 

As Dan tells his unfortunate story, he arranges for his remaining stocks in Hired Girl to be given to his business partner's stepdaughter as the only person he trusts. Eventually, Dan has a change of heart of sorts and attempts to seek justice. Unfortunately, justice is sometimes a fickle friend, especially when dealing with a con as sophisticated as his ex-fiancée. Dan's plans go sideways, and he is thrust into the future. 

Once there, things take a remarkable turn once he becomes acclimated to his new world. Dan discovers a way to go back in time, a plotline that changes the tone and feel of the book, and not always for the better. Still, Heinlien's 'everyman' protagonist is timeless and likable, even if he lacks much depth. But mostly, it's the story that holds everything together with its addictive pace and Heinlien's talent for peeling back the layers of a great story. At the same time, he tosses a little thought into the prospects of time travel, even going so far as to reconcile it with faith. Interesting stuff. 

Closer to 4 1/2 than 4, and one I'll be grifting my children who might be a little less familiar with the content than me, someone already in the choir. So much of Bishop's advice mirrors my own; the most profound aspect of the book is how succinctly he states it. 

The best of it is how Bishops addresses that we're all wired to win (even when we pick a losing path), that uncertainty is the only thing certain, and that you aren't what you say but what you do. However, I might add that I shared his inner voice advice as part of my closing remarks to the high school softball team I coach. Too many of these kids listen to a negative inner voice (and sometimes allow it to become their outer voice), affecting their play. I suspect it affects some of their lives in other aspects, too. In addition, I was happy to hear Bishop address how expectations often precede our biggest perceived failures, with the problem being we might not be failing at all. 

I originally picked this up because I wanted a nonfiction audiobook for my next listen (I have four other print and electronic books going right now) and enjoyed the Scottish accent. His no-nonsense, anti-self-help book talk was addictive enough; I put off finishing my other audiobook (also excellent) because Bishop's prose can be a bit addictive. I wouldn't be surprised if I pick it up again anytime I want a reminder of my own belief system. 

Seriously, the only reason I don't feel obliged to give Bishop five stars is that there really wasn't anything new here for me, and it might even be a little too short for its own good. But, at the same time, I do see this as being profound content to talk about with those closest to me. Bishop might be a fresh perspective they need to succeed or, at least, avoid the chronic trap of complacency. 

The Mechanics of Memory by Audrey Lee is closer to 3 1/2 stars than 3, mostly because the concept feels fresh as a technothriller revolving around the unethical practices of Copeland-Stark, a business built on breakthroughs in memory therapy. Where it wins is in developing a realistic premise, even if the boundaries of believability are pushed too hard at times — especially the concept of top-tier employees being required to provide top-tier collateral for experimentation. Even with an explanation, it doesn't feel especially plausible. 

Even so, I was willing to roll with it, given Hope's story (being one of those collateral sacrifices) stands out. While her development was diminished in that her own memories were already compromised, it's still easy to sympathize with her, and her collateral confederates as they try to unmask the evil being done under the guise of important work (and profit) from the most vulnerable place possible — as patients. The less impressive story, but still important, was that of Luke. He is the employee who sacrificed his fiance Hope to become a lab rat to save his daughter from the same fate.

Overall, the writing was fluid and easy to follow. The concepts, such as using AR and VR to treat patients by erasing or planting memories, were interesting from a psychological and technological perspective. Several of the twists play very well in the story, even if the ending falls a bit flat. The larger story backdrop—everything underpinned by the story's sinister medical corporation setting and even Hope's true (but hidden) motivation—feels convenient.

Even so, none of that prevents me from recommending the book in support of a new author. Audrey Lee has plenty to offer and the story, overall, was enjoyable. It's perfect for anybody looking for a slow-burn technothriller or interested in the fragility of perception. In that way, it opens up a few ideas worth thinking about. 

My copy came from BookSirens. I accepted it as part of an effort to be introduced to new and/or indie authors. The Mechanics of Memory didn't disappoint.

The Creative Act: A Way of Being by Rick Rubin can be divided into three parts beautifully braided throughout his work: What most artists know, what some artists know, and what he, as an artist, has come to know. All of it will resonate with seasoned creators, and I expect new creators might find some insight and wisdom to help them along on their unique journey. 

Specific to the three parts, I suspect all artists know what riding a lightning bolt is like or that breaking the sameness (once you know them, anyway) is the only path to a breakthrough. Some may know that both constriction and freedom can be their friends, that failure is merely a stepping stone, or that you don't have to suffer to be an artist. You can still find enlightenment by living a peaceful life. And then there are those notes that feel fresh from Rubin, like the idea that being an artist is not about creating as much as living in the world a certain way. What a uniquely novel way to say it. 

Rubin is also very adept at introducing concepts with a single line before each riff, reminding us that he knows something about lyrics. These one- or two-line thoughts are often compelling in a Warholian way, succinctly foreshadowing everything he is about to cover...

"However you frame yourself as an artist, the frame is too small." 

"A work of art is not an endpoint in itself. It's a station on a journey."

"Sometimes the mistakes are what makes a work great. Humanity breathes in mistakes."

There are so many—along with more than 80 mini-essays on being a creative — musician, artist, or writer. Some of it is worth writing down, even when it feels inspired by someone else. Some of it feels a little repetitive at times, prompting a desire to skim that last quarter of the work. Try to resist the temptation to rush the read at that point. You never know if you will miss something worthwhile to you. 

All in all, it's a good enough book to pass along to my daughter, who is about to attend college to study art. It's good enough to deserve 4 1/2 stars. And it would have, had Rubin continued to add more expository material on outside influences and trends (including AI). Regardless, it's still a great read, and that might even help someone set their mind right for the next project.

Remarkably Bright Creatures is an exceptionally original, light, and bright novel by Shelby Van Pelt. It is a story of friendship, personal growth, and hope, with the unlikely addition of a giant Pacific octopus who serves as a hero journey's mentor of sorts.

In truth, there are two mentors. The first is Marcellus, who studies humans from his tank inside the aquarium more than humans study him. The second is Tova Sullivan, the night shift cleaning lady at the aquarium. Both are prisoners in their own way—Marcellus is mainly confined to a tank, and Tova is confined to a life of mostly solitude after the loss of her son. It's the bond these two characters form that brings so much warmth into a story that isn't their own. 

The true protagonist (arguably) is Cameron, a brash and immature twenty-something who is trying to find his real father in Washington state after his life falls apart (again) in California. The most likely candidate is a self-made real estate millionaire named Simon Brinks. Unfortunately, Cameron is probably the least likable character in the story, especially in contrast to the aforementioned mentors. It's clear, early on, that Marcellus and Tova have their work cut out for them. 

Remarkably, Bright Creatures is an incredibly tender story, which is why so many people love it. That said, plenty of people will not connect with it. There isn't much mystery, and the stakes are never very high. It's simply a change of pace—a heartwarmer that hinges on the idea that people in small towns are connected to each other in ways that aren't always apparent.