Tag Archives: young adult fiction

Daughter of the Forest: Strong Female Protagonist?

I liked a lot of things about Juliet Marillier’s *Daughter of the Forest*: the first person narration of Sorcha, the bildungsroman plot, the subtle but convincing romance narrative, the retelling of Grimm’s *Six Swans* (a story I couldn’t recall the end to and so was allowed the mystery of the climax) and the magic of nature/women that suffuses character and plot. 

I don’t read an awful lot of fantasy and so my read of this one may be hampered by this limitation. I did, however, find myself slightly annoyed that by all appearances and actions Sorcha – and her brothers – are flawless characters/heroes. Without exception each of them possesses unique powers, admirable strengths and characteristics and can do no wrong – even when doing very, very, wrong. A little character complexity never killed a story.

I was also annoyed that the central problem of the narrative – that Sorcha’s six brothers have been turned into swans and she must sew them shirts from nettle flowers without speaking a word to anyone – is introduced with the most illogical and sparse of explanations. Almost without introduction a witch – Oonagh – arrives and marries their father. Then just as hastily a spell is cast – how? why? with what means? – and the brothers are swans. I fully appreciate that magic operates in the narrative – and I’m fine with that – but without meeting Oonagh in a substantive way and understanding her motivations the spell reads as a far too convenient way for the problem of swan-brothers to take place. 

What I *did* love with the slow and unpredictable introduction of the romance with Red (though in a similar vein to my complaints about Oonagh I found Simon’s revelation of love to be completely without precedent or foreshadow). I believed their romance, I wanted them to find and love one another, I wanted them to be happy. I was quite content with the conclusion to the novel that allowed the ‘happily ever after’ with the tiny qualifiers that lead to the next book in the series, but *not* as is often the case with fantasy, the cliff-hanger ending that compels an immediate read of the next book in the series. 

I do have some questions about the “strong female character” here. For all her courage and bravery in making the shirts, all of Sorcha’s decisions are in response to the commands of a patriarchal figure. If not her father or brothers than the “queen” of the forest who acts in the same capacity by commanding Sorcha down a particular path that disregards her desires or aspirations. Complicating this structure are the few scenes when the brothers, with extreme lack-luster, offer to remain as swans so she doesn’t have to endure such torment (torment that extends to a very problematic rape scene). And her response – that of course she will endure the torment because she loves them – is unsatisfactory because this reader was never convinced it was a genuine choice. 

So yes – great pleasure in reading this book – I could scarce put it down (thanks E. for the recommendation!), but in my enjoyment questions about the politics and plotting of an otherwise captivating tale.  

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The Lock Artist: It’s a metaphor!

                    I’m not actually sure that *The Lock Artist* is young adult fiction, but the protagonist is a young adult (okay, so clearly not genre defining) and the approach to plot and metaphor – accessible – suggests the genre. 

Digression on genre:

What makes a book young adult fiction? I’m sure there are theoretical responses and I could do some Research (as I’ve been trained to do) or recall what I learned in my Children’s Lit course (ha! a laughable, terribly run disaster of a course), but I’d rather think about the question based on what I’ve read of the genre. And I’ll think about it with some other questions: what makes a novel *not* young adult? A maturity of theme? (and yet we call *The Diary of Anne Frank* young adult NONfiction) The age of the protagonist? (No, says *The Life of Pi*, *The Kite Runner* and *Room* to name some recent examples). So perhaps then it’s the themes? The coming-of-age? Identity formation? And perhaps, too, the pitch of the narration: something not quite as dense and demanding, something shorter on irony and cynicism, something more approachable and welcoming? I welcome responses to this question – and I’ll keep thinking about it.

Back to The Lock Artist:

Given  my tentative claims to the genre specifications of YAF, I’ll say that The Lock Artist fits in there. The protagonist is mute and so there’s a surprising pleasure in reading his first person account because the reader is (explicitly) called into the unique role of listener/audience that our protagonist is otherwise without in his life. We are the *only* people privy to his thoughts because no one else is capable of hearing them. 

The metaphor of “locked up” words plays out in the plot of the novel as our young protagonist learns how to be a “boxman” – the safe cracker in a burglary. The story begins with our narrator in prison for burglary so we *know* how the story is going to end – back in prison – but as his version of events unfolds I found myself willing the ending to be different from what I already knew it to be. That is to say, I found the narrator utterly compelling as a narrative voice and as a person: I genuinely wanted things to work out well for him.

The plot has three foci: how he became a boxman, the relationship with his one true love and how he came to be mute. Of the three the relationship story is by far the most compelling. The boxman stuff is *interesting,* (I tried to pick my gym locker!) but it reads as a procedural crime drama rather than as a story of character change. The trauma/mute thread is slightly more compelling, but suffers from over-hype. For so much of the novel the reader is led to believe that this is The Most Traumatic Thing to Happen to Anyone Ever. And while the event *is* awful – and very well told – it can’t help but to fall short of expectations, if only because it’s been projected as the climax-to-end-all-climaxes. And as it turns out this reader would much rather the climax have been something to do with the relationship with Amelia. And it sort of is. So maybe that’s the problem; a divided climax?

In any case, I’d recommend this one if you’re keen to consider things like genre, if you’d like to learn about the life of a boxman, or if you’re looking for something suspenseful but not all that demanding. Oh and I just really liked – like wanted to befriend – our protagonist. So there’s something there, too, for character lovers.

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The Knife of Never Letting Go: This is Why I Blog

      I blog because of my (absent) memory. My ability to read a book, enjoy a book and immediately forget the plot is honed and practiced. Case and point: I finished reading The Knife of Never Letting Go last week. IknowI liked it because I messaged S. who recommended it to me to say I liked it, but do you think when I sat down to write this review I could remember what I liked about it or why I enjoyed it? Nope. Zip. I couldn’t even recall the plot without turning to wikipedia for a reminder. It’s a sorry state of affairs up in my brain.

What I do remember liking – on jogging my memory by way of Wikipedia – is a plot that is neither so implausible as to be entirely fantastic nor so realistic as to be realism. The integration of fantasy elements succeeds in defamiliarizing the real in such a way as to encourage the reader to ask questions about social interactions, use of the environment and those truths we believe to be “self-evident.” The thrust of the plot has our protagonist – Todd Hewitt – drastically reconsidering all he felt to be true about his community’s history, politics and way of life. He’s made to question authority figures, familial trust and received wisdom as he repeatedly encounters evidence that those he trusted lied to him. It’s a masterful plot in paralleling what any young person must encounter as they realize that adults lie and that promises made to children (you can be anything you want to be) are in not mendacious they are at least false.

His companion, Viola, is a charmer too, and I’d like to see her narrative point of view introduced in later books to balance out her character and make her less of an accessory and more of an actor in her own right. Personal preference, maybe.

I liked the fight sense, the quest narrative and the climax. Less settled with the conclusion of the text and the requirement for later installments. I’m a firm believer that a book – even one in a series – should be a selfcontained unit.

So there you go. I’ll likely read the next in the series, but I can’t say it was a memorable read (though admittedly this is more my fault than that of the text…).

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Filed under Book I'll Forget I Read, Fiction, Young Adult Fiction

Jacob Have I Loved: Worry-love

    This book gets me. It gets how I experienced love as a young person – love as packaged out in parcels of worry. Those who were loved the most (I thought) were the most worried about, the most needy. Louise (or Wheeze) comes to believe that to feel not-worried-over is to not be loved, and so she never accepts help because she never accepts that she could be loved – and so worthy of worry (or she never accepts that she could be worried-over, and so worthy of love). The greatest challenge for her in the book is to find a way to worry about herself and to make a decision that is worthy of her own esteem. This conflict sets up a rich narrative that does not condescend to a simplistic narrative of simple resolution, but demands the reader accept (along with Louise) disappointment, betrayal, and how her fear of her own greatness, or fear of her own worth, limit and fail her.

I let the title get the better of me in this one. I kept waiting for Louise to fall in love with some man named Jacob. I blame my insubstantial Biblical training for missing the Biblical reference, or at the very least, noting the Jacob/Esau parallels of Louise and Caroline’s relationship. (this from a girl who puts East of Eden in her top five of all time…) Or maybe I blame my expectation after reading the rest of the YAF category that all YAF is just a shoddy pretense for a romantic relationship that will either doom or redeem the protagonist.

So it was with not a little disappointment that I found Jacob I Have Loved ended with this same predictable and uncomplicated resolution: Louise falls in love and in doing so substitutes her dreams of being a doctor for satisfaction with being a mother. Barf. What a let down from the tremendous independence she gains over the course of the novel. Okay, okay, you’re saying that choosing to be a mother is its own kind of (rewarding) choice (as Louise’s mother so definitely points out to Louise!), but unlike every other choice Louise makes, this one – to be a mum and not a doctor – occurs without self-reflection or cause. It just sort of… happens in the gap between paragraphs. Suddenly the warmth of a breastfeeding baby is all she needs and the radical power of her independence is subsumed in some kind of wet dream of motherhood.

I shouldn’t end with that paragraph – if only so that you don’t think me a child-hating, baby-eating monster – because I really did love this book. I loved Louise’s anger, her frustrating and her exhaustion with trying to negotiate relationships that are not obvious, or easy, or welcoming to her. I loved her determination and her awareness of her own failings. I love that she worries about other people, and recognizes in this worry a kind of love. And I loved that she allowed herself the imperfections that made her fail or fuck up, and that these imperfections are (eventually) understood as okay.

I do wish she’d become a doctor. Just saying.

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Filed under 100 Books of 2011, Erin's Favourite Books, Fiction, Prize Winner, Young Adult Fiction