Laura Hubbard

Science Fiction & FantasyUrban FantasyFantasy

An intriguing urban fantasy debut

Review by Laura Hubbard

Rune Saint John isn’t from a dying house: he’s from a dead one. Two decades ago, Rune’s fellow Atlanteans attacked the seat of his family’s power, destroying their court and leaving only Rune and his companion, Brand, behind. The two survived by becoming guns for hire, scrounging where they could and taking what jobs came their way. When Rune and Brand are saddled with caring for a teenager as a result of one of their odd jobs, their new charge Matthias is the least of their worries. Their latest employer, the Lord Tower, tasks them with finding the missing scion of House Justice, Addam Saint Nicholas, and their world is quickly turned upside down. As they search for Addam, they are pulled into a labyrinthine plot that threatens not just Addam’s life, but all of New Atlantis.

The Last Sun is K.D. Edwards’ debut novel, and if this first installment is any indication, her Tarot Sequence is going to be a breathtaking ride. A hard-boiled mystery told with breathtaking speed, The Last Sun is something unexpected in urban fantasy. Edwards forces readers into the not-quite-human narration of an Atlantean and insists we adapt. Other staples of the genre are set in well-known cities primarily inhabited by humans, like The Dresden Files’ Chicago or Neverwhere’s London. The Last Sun describes a city that is wholly new and utterly fascinating—a world alien from what we have come to expect from urban fantasy.

An easy criticism to make is that there is very little gender diversity within The Last Sun. The majority of the speech comes from men, and all of the action within the book is driven by men, with few exceptions. However, for all of its fights, high-speed chases and monsters rising from the grave, this story is as much about the many ways men express their love for one another as it is about the conflicts between them. There’s the protective love of the Companion Bond between Rune and Brand, Addam’s love for his brother Quinn, and Matthias’s teenage infatuation with Rune. In a genre that so often focuses on romantic love to the exclusion of all else, a book that manages to have so many non-romantic, complex and loving relationships between men is both revolutionary and long overdue.

Any fan of urban fantasy will enjoy this moving and sardonic magical mystery. Edwards has set up a fantastic ride—one that we can only hope will continue to surprise and delight in the second book in the series, The Hanged Man, which is due out next year.

Any fan of urban fantasy will enjoy this moving and sardonic magical mystery.

Science Fiction & FantasyFantasy

Let the games begin

Review by Laura Hubbard

In an alternate version of ancient Rome, mages blessed by the gods wield elemental magic, shaping the land and the people within it. For years, the dictator Ocella ruled Aven with fear, working to strip the society of all the trappings of the Republic, and killing entire families of Senators and bureaucrats who displeased him. After her sister’s husband is put to death, noblewoman Latona was forced into service of the dictator as mage and (presumably) as mistress. With his death, she and her sisters are free once more.

But keeping her powers suppressed for so long has come at a price: Latona now struggles to keep control over her growing powers as she relaxes the suppression over her gift. Simultaneously, the death of the dictator has left a power vacuum within the political arena. Among the men who would seek to gain power and guide Aven to greater glory is Sempronius Tarren. His political machinations bring him together with Latona, setting them both on a path that is as dangerous as it is unclear.

From Unseen Fire is brilliantly imagined and plotted. Its world is rich, with no detail left unattended to. Cass Morris has generated Tolkien-level tomes of information about the world of Aven to make the world come alive. And come alive it does. The city and the world we explore teem with life, and not just of the alternate-Roman variety. The different cultures that intersect in Aven have different motivations, different gods and different ways of practicing magic. This level of within-world work gives From Unseen Fire a verisimilitude that can be missing from similar books.

And the level of work Morris put into this book isn’t just seen through world building. Every character (with perhaps the exception of Latona’s unfortunate husband) seems like they could be the lead of a story all their own, happening just offscreen. Readers don’t always know where they are going but always have the sense that, while characters may walk out of the frame, their movements are not unaccounted for. Morris knows where they are and what they are doing at all times, in the sort of instinctive way you know where your hand is even in the dark. This mastery of character development prevents Morris’ plot-heavy book from overpowering its characters.

With so much plot and so many characters, Morris has to take the beginning of the book slowly—any faster, and readers would lose the thread and not be able to tell one character from another. The beginning is definition-heavy, dragging the reader through exposition rather than letting us discover things for ourselves through the actions and words of Morris’s brilliantly developed characters. And the slow pacing does begin to wear on the reader in one major way. Latona is obviously the heroine, but it is not immediately clear that Sempronius is a main character, flawed or otherwise. His chapters come too far and few between in the early chapters to make much of an impact, and it is not immediately clear that we as readers should trust him any more than we trust his political opponents. That unpredictability does, however, become part of Sempronius’s charm as he grows into his role as leading man.

But while the beginning of From Unseen Fire may drag slightly, once things get going, they fly. The book rockets along at breakneck speed through the machinations of the Senate, and the public (and personal) struggles of Latona and Sempronius. Any wait at the beginning is well worth it as the pieces fall into place as the book progresses. Readers who are patient enough to let Cass Morris build the world around them will be rewarded handsomely with an amazing ride.

In an alternate version of ancient Rome, mages blessed by the gods wield elemental magic, shaping the land and the people within it. For years, the dictator Ocella ruled Aven with fear, working to strip the society of all the trappings of the Republic, and killing entire families of Senators and bureaucrats who displeased him. After her sister’s husband is put to death, noblewoman Latona was forced into service of the dictator as mage and (presumably) as mistress. With his death, she and her sisters are free once more.

Science Fiction & FantasyFantasy

A Sisyphean set of stories

Review by Laura Hubbard

Anthologies can be dismissed as attempts to get more work out the door from bestselling authors. This tendency might lead some readers to neglect a book of staggering beauty. The Tangled Lands, a joint effort between Paolo Bacigalupi and Tobias S. Buckell, isn’t just good for an anthology. It soars.

The four parts of The Tangled Lands tell the story of a failing civilization. Its last hope, the Blue City of Khaim, is under the stranglehold of both its rulers and a menacing magic bramble. The bramble, a nearly mystical force, grows insatiably in the presence of magic. The slightest spell fertilizes it, allowing it to grow and swallow houses, fields and even entire cities. The people of Khaim fight against the bramble, burning and cutting it back every day even as they deal with the stream of refugees from already fallen cities. Khaim’s last magister, Archmage Scacz, has made any use of magic punishable by death, even as he creates his own sorcery-fueled castle in the sky. All the while, the people of Khaim toil on, hoping to eke out an existence before the tide of bramble swallows them as well.

While many characters stand out within The Tangled Lands, the anthology’s greatest creation is the city of Khaim. One of the great issues with world building, especially when an author is constructing a place alien to our own, is that it requires a fair bit of explanation. In the hands of less talented storytellers, it can feel less like fiction and more like an interesting history class. Bacigalupi and Buckell build their world so precisely that everything feels natural and inevitable. Instead of seeming alien, their fantasy world gives the reader the sense that they are strolling into a world they already know.

One of the most difficult things about this anthology is that there are no easy answers. Some may see this as a weakness of the second set of stories, “The Children of Khaim” and “The Blacksmith’s Daughter.” Both tales are gloomy, and it could be argued that there is no payoff for the emotional investment that the two stories demand. There is only the smallest sliver of hope and little resolution—but that is the point. The city of Khaim, despite the best efforts of its tyrants, isn’t just destined to fall. It is fallen, even if its residents and rulers haven’t accepted it yet. What life—what hope—can really come out of a city like that? The payoff is there, even if it isn’t always what we want it to be.

That may seem like a dour view of The Tangled Lands, but all four stories are beautiful, subtle and well worth every moment spent reading them. Their writers understand not just how to give readers what they want but also how to write stories that couldn’t have happened any other way.

Anthologies can be dismissed as attempts to get more work out the door from bestselling authors. This tendency might lead some readers to neglect a book of staggering beauty. The Tangled Lands, a joint effort between Paolo Bacigalupi and Tobias S. Buckell, isn’t just good for an anthology. It soars.

FictionSpeculative FictionHistorical Fiction

A daring experiment

Review by Laura Hubbard

John Kessel’s expansion of his award-winning 2008 novella, Pride and Prometheus, is an exercise in the hypothetical. The year is 1815, and Victor Frankenstein has come to England to perform the most odious task of his life. He must construct a mate for his creation, the creature he reanimated. While he is in London, he makes an unexpected friend: Mary Bennet, who has lived with her parents and sister Kitty for 13 years after the events of Pride and Prejudice. Mary has never met a man like Victor Frankenstein. She is immediately infatuated, attracted to both Frankenstein’s intellect and his seeming interest in her. However, as Mary gets to know Frankenstein, she begins to notice his irregularities—and learn his secrets.

Pride and Prometheus is, at its core, a work of speculative fiction, and not just one about how Mary Bennet and Victor Frankenstein might interact. It is an exercise in what could happen to Mary and Kitty Bennet. Rather than just take what we do know about them from Jane Austen’s work, Kessel does something more—he lets the Bennets grow. Mary isn’t just a moralizing social disaster, but rather a lover of science who will turn down a bad match because she would rather be happy than safe. And Kitty isn’t just Lydia’s silly hanger-on. As she approaches old-maid status, she has become someone her sister can respect.

But while Mary has had 13 years to mature, Victor is still in the midst of his struggle. He is still the man horrified by what he has managed to do, and his creature is still the bitter, lonely child trying to figure out what it means to be alive. Both are still occasionally thoughtless and needlessly cruel. The contrast between the more mature Bennet sisters and the increasingly unstable Frankenstein shows that Kessel knows what readers will believe and what they will not. A brief sojourn in England makes for less character development than 13 years, after all.

The way Kessel handles character growth makes the slightly disappointing part of the novel—the portrayal of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet—that much more unfortunate. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet have hardly changed in 13 years. Yes, perhaps Mr. Bennet is more bitter and perhaps Mrs. Bennet is a bit more silly, but they haven’t grown. That is, until partway through the novel, when both characters seem to do an about-face, saying things they should have said 13 years prior but, in the context of Pride and Prometheus, seem forced. However, the disappointment is a short-lived one and is easily overshadowed by Mary’s story.

Beyond the what-could-have-beens, what makes the book interesting is that, for the most part, it reads like a modernized version of a comedy of manners as well as a gothic novel. Far from being forced, the crossover is easy to accept because Kessel uses the formats and textual cues of both genres. In Mary’s chapters, he emulates the third-person narration of Austen without the older style that would dissuade many modern readers. In those of Frankenstein or his creation, his writing reminds readers of Shelley’s work. This alone would make Pride and Prometheus worth the read.

Kessel sets his readers’ expectations and then twists them as far as he can go—and then just a little bit further. His author’s note tells us that he will play within the constraints set by Frankenstein, but he constantly dangles the possibility of something else. We know how it ends, and yet we keep reading anyway because the way Kessel gets us there is just so much fun. And because we want to believe that there is a chance, even a small one, that Kessel might change his mind and that things might turn out differently.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read a Behind the Book essay by John Kessel on Pride and Prometheus.

John Kessel’s expansion of his award-winning 2008 novella, Pride and Prometheus, is an exercise in the hypothetical. The year is 1815, and Victor Frankenstein has come to England to perform the most odious task of his life. He must construct a mate for his creation, the creature he reanimated. While he is in London, he makes an unexpected friend: Mary Bennet, who has lived with her parents and sister Kitty for 13 years after the events of Pride and Prejudice.

Science Fiction & FantasyScience Fiction

An epic set in the aftermath

Review by Laura Hubbard

What remains after you change the world? That is the central question of Iron Gold, the first installment of Pierce Brown’s new trilogy set in the Red Rising universe. The revolution is over, and a new Republic has risen from the ashes of the oppressive empire that ruled for generations. However, war still looms as the now-legendary hero Darrow struggles to bring the inner planets—still under the control of the brutal Ash Lord and the Society—under the Republic’s dominion. But endless battles come with a cost. His crusade costs millions of lives, threatening not only the new Republic but also Darrow’s place in it. The Reaper’s new world is moving on, and new stars are rising. The heir of the deposed au Lune family, raised in obscurity, makes a discovery in the Gulf. A soldier-turned-thief struggles with his grief after the Rising. A Red girl, now free from the mines, tries to rebuild after she loses everything.

While the Red Rising trilogy primarily focused on Darrow’s struggle, this new chapter spends as much time on the consequences of his actions, past and present, on those around him. The book still contains many of the kinetic fight scenes that were a hallmark of the first series. Golds still cross razors in painfully visceral duels, and armies still clash in grand fashion in the skies. However, it is in the stories of his new characters that Brown shows real mastery. We feel their confusion as they struggle to adapt to their changing worlds. We sympathize with their frustration with the way things are—even when their frustrations are at odds with one another. As he tells their tales, Brown reminds readers that within the small and specific, there is something universal.

If there is one drawback to Iron Gold, it is its length. While no single scene in its nearly 600 pages is superfluous, there is a lot of setup—especially in the first few hundred pages—that takes a while to pay off. Impatient readers may wonder why we care about our newest characters, why Brown spends so much time on them rather than focusing on our hero. But it’s worth the wait. Without those careful chapters at the beginning, the book itself would be much less satisfying.

Iron Gold makes us come to terms with ourselves as readers. It is satisfying to watch a protagonist bomb an entire world to bring about a new order. It is satisfying to watch them tear it all down, to free the oppressed. But as readers, we aren’t often asked to sit through the pain of what comes next. We aren’t asked whether our heroes can decide that they’ve done enough or whether they will always be fighting—whether they can turn instead to raising a family or rebuilding a society. Iron Gold asks us those questions, and some answers aren’t what we want to hear. However, it’s those uncomfortable answers that make Iron Gold such a refreshing and impressive read.

Iron Gold is a book that makes us come to terms with ourselves as readers. It is satisfying to watch a protagonist bomb an entire world to bring about a new order. It is satisfying to watch them tear it all down, to free the oppressed. But as readers, we aren’t often asked to sit through the pain of what comes next.

Science Fiction & FantasyHistorical FantasyFantasy

An immortal hero rises again

Review by Laura Hubbard

Nearly 30 years ago, Anne Rice promised the world that the adventures of her immortal pharaoh, Ramses, would continue. With the release of Ramses the Damned: The Passion of Cleopatra, she has finally kept this promise with the help of her son, Christopher Rice. This new installment is complex, sensual and thought-provoking. Although it takes place only weeks after the events of The Mummy, or Ramses the Damned, this book is easy for new readers to pick up even if they haven’t read the 1989 novel—Anne and Christopher Rice have included a prologue with all the information you need.

The book opens days after the monstrous Cleopatra’s supposed death in a fiery collision with a train. Julie Stratford and Elliott Savarell, Earl of Rutherford, celebrate their new immortal life in Venice with Ramses. Far away in North Africa, a mysterious woman awakes, startling her nurses and doctors. Cleopatra survived, but she is losing her memory. Her only hope of recovery it is to coerce Ramses into giving her more of the elixir that made her immortal. In the background, greater forces are at work as an ancient queen and her advisor-turned-adversary take notice of the new immortals and pull them into an age-old struggle over just who should have control over the miraculous elixir. These disparate threads come together to make a story far grander than Ramses’s debut, but just as compelling.

Like any good book about immortality, Ramses the Damned leaves us with unanswerable questions. What does it mean to have a soul? Is it power that corrupts, or does power simply expose those who were already corrupt? How could any person bear the loneliness of being immortal? These questions work best when Anne and Christopher Rice make the reader struggle with the complications of immortality and power. In the few moments they try to more directly explain, some of the magic of what a book like this can do is lost, but not for long. The authors are adept at hanging the answer just out of reach. Even when you think you have been given an answer, they leave you room for doubt.

Anne and Christopher Rice have set up a new world to explore in this sequel. And if you are willing to take your time and appreciate the that world’s complexity, you will be rewarded. Ramses’ world is so much wider than it was first imagined, so much deeper. This second entry into their universe makes it clear that Ramses, Julie and their new, mysterious companions have much more to offer.

Nearly thirty years ago, Anne Rice promised the world that the adventures of the immortal pharoah Ramses would continue. With the release of Ramses the Damned: The Passion of Cleopatra, she has finally kept this promise with the help of her son, Christopher Rice. This new installment is complex, sensual and thought-provoking.

Science Fiction & FantasyFantasy

Bound by blood and magic

Review by Laura Hubbard

At first glance, it would be easy to write off The Tethered Mage as another coming-of-age novel with an interesting magic system. To do so would mean missing a breathtaking book. Equal parts fantasy and political intrigue, The Tethered Mage pulls readers relentlessly through labyrinthine turns of conspiracy, adventure and romance.

The Raverran Empire’s complete control over magic users has allowed it to expand through threat of violence. Warlocks, referred to as Falcons, are controlled by conscription into the Raverran army at a young age. Falconers have complete control over when Falcons can use their powers, which are only unleashed for the good of the Empire. But the balance of power within Raverra is a tenuous one. When Amalia Cornaro, heir to one of the most powerful houses in the realm, captures a powerful fire warlock who threatens to burn the city of Raverra, she endangers that balance. Amalia is pulled into the life of a Falconer, a role previously forbidden to her because of her noble blood. Her Falcon, the street-hardened Zaira, has avoided conscription long enough to recognize that “the good of the Empire” and her own interests do not necessarily overlap. As Zaira and Amalia come to terms with their new relationship, they are pulled into a conspiracy that puts the Empire—and everyone they love—in danger.

While most of her characters are young adults, Caruso avoids some of the pitfalls of writing about that age group. Her characters are nuanced and thoughtful, driven by duty to country and family. That isn’t to say that Caruso neglects relationships within her novel. Rather, she doesn’t limit herself to romance or allow it to absorb Amalia or Zaira, and it’s refreshing to have those entanglements take a back seat in service of the plot. Instead, Caruso’s characters’ nonromantic relationships drive the action, pulling each away from duty and forcing them to make difficult decisions.

Although the political machinations surrounding the young women are complex, the story never drags. Instead, it sends the reader digging into each sentence to find the key that will make the conspiracy surrounding Amalia and Zaira’s adventure fall into place. This first entry into the Swords and Fire trilogy is worth every moment and every page, and it should make anyone paying attention excited about what Caruso will write next.

At first glance, it would be easy to write off The Tethered Mage as another coming-of-age novel with an interesting magic system. To do so would mean missing a breathtaking book. Equal parts fantasy and political intrigue, The Tethered Mage pulls readers relentlessly through labyrinthine turns of conspiracy, adventure and romance.

Science Fiction & FantasyFantasy

S.A. Chakraborty

Interview by Laura Hubbard

The dreaded sophomore novel is always a telling test for a new writer. And the most difficult incarnation of it may be the second novel in a super-hyped, highly acclaimed fantasy series. S.A. Chakraborty’s The City of Brass was a superb introduction to both the author and her intricately detailed, vividly realistic world inspired by Middle Eastern legends and fairy tales.

The Kingdom of Copper begins five years later, with former Cairo grifter Nahri ensconced in the dangerous court of Daevabad, her once-friend Prince Ali on the run from his father and an unknown new threat growing stronger on the horizon. An emotionally devastating, character-driven novel that also succeeds in building out its complex world, The Kingdom of Copper is further proof that the Daevabad trilogy is on its way to becoming a modern fantasy classic. We talked to Chakraborty about the mythology that inspired her novels, why she added a new point-of-view character and more.

How was writing your second book in this series different from writing the first?
I was writing to a deadline! My first book began as this personal, private project that meandered all over the place and took nearly a decade to write—the second book I turned around in eighteen months. And while I was grateful for the opportunity to dive back into the world, it was very difficult to adjust to the crunch.

Some of the conflicts in this book are over questions of historical accuracy (what happened) and of historical interpretation (how we should feel about it). How did your passion for history influence how you deal with these sorts of questions?
It’s the constant reading of different sources. I very much believe history is written by the victors—we can look even today how different media outlets frame current events. And I wanted the characters and the world to reflect that. They’re deeply attached to their version of the past—it’s their truth, what shapes their politics and everyday lives, and yet so much of it rests on a very shaky foundation. I feel like every day I read a new interpretation of some historical fact I’ve always taken for granted, and I wanted the background of the world to seem just as volatile.

In The City of Brass and The Kingdom of Copper, Nahri is forced to deal with living under two separate occupations, first in Cairo and then in Daevabad. Why did you choose to contrast those particular regimes?
There is a bit of a spoiler for the third book in this answer that I’d like to avoid, and I don’t think we see enough of Cairo in the first book (it takes place in the earliest weeks of Napoleon’s invasion), to be able to offer a contrast just yet. That being said, I wanted it to feel like a bit of a portal fantasy that stepped back in time. Nahri’s Egypt is entering the modern era whereas the magical world is a few centuries behind humans—more so than usual because they’ve started to turn inward.

One of the things that feels different about this book is the choice to set it five years after The City of Brass concludes. So often trilogies tend to stack one book after the other with very little breathing room between. What led to the decision to give your characters that much space?
I always knew I wanted to give the characters that kind of breathing room. Nahri and Ali are fairly young in the first book when their worlds are turned upside down and they’re thrust into very different hostile environments. To me, it was a bit more interesting to pick up later—when they’ve learned to adapt and survive and train in their respective specialties (it was also important to me to show that Nahri’s medical training would take years)—and show their growth through even worse challenges.

The City of Brass is told from Nahri and Ali’s points of view. Why did you add in Dara’s perspective in The Kingdom of Copper?
The book deals with the consequences of choice. Injustice and oppression are not the sole responsibility of tyrants—they require a lot of regular people to either tacitly endorse such systems or turn a blind eye. With Dara, I wanted to introduce a character I knew people would come to love, who would be rightfully understood as a hero, as a love interest, as a fundamentally good man—and then show how someone like that can commit great evil, without ever justifying it to the readers. For the second book, it felt more effective—though heartbreaking—to accomplish this from his perspective.

I love the tribal and regional nature of magic within this series. Did the distinctions of which tribes do which kinds of magic come out of your research, or was it more of a narrative choice?
Both. In the history of the book’s world, the djinn are separated into six tribes by the Prophet Suleiman, stripped of much of their magic and cast off into the human world. They survive in many ways by quietly grubbing off the local humans they’ll later look down upon and adding what remains of their magic to human technology. So djinn who awoke in wealthy trade cities on the coast end up taking local ships and enchanting them to fly, becoming premier traders in their world.

If Ali didn’t have to deal with palace intrigue and the threat of assassination, what do you think he’d prefer to be doing with his time?
I think under different circumstances, Ali could have found happiness in the djinn village of Bir Nabat. He’s the consummate do-gooder and here he was able to help people in a far more straightforward, tangible manner—dig a well, start a school. I could see Ali making a quiet life, starting a family to replace the one he lost in Daevabad and being generally content. Unfortunately for him, his author had other ideas.

One of the things I love about this book is that the city of Daevabad is as complex a character as any in the series. How did you go about crafting a setting as complicated as Daevabad?
Haha, I worked on it for a decade! But honestly, I just tried to make it realistic, as vague as that sounds. It’s a messy, chaotic place born of centuries of occupation and forced migration—but it’s also a thriving metropolis where tens of thousands of people are just trying to get by. Magic or not, you’re going to need some order in the marketplaces, a service to pick up the trash and places where regular people socialize.

You can really feel the depth of research behind The Daevabad Trilogy as you’re reading it. Often it feels like there are stories lurking around every corner that we just aren’t privy to as readers. Can you talk about a historical story you found in your research that you loved but that just didn’t fit with the trilogy?
This is fairly silly, but I’m a big fan of the old regional folktales such as 1001 Nights and Tales of the Marvelous and News of the Strange, and one trope I’ve yet to find a place for are its murderous automatons. Sometimes they’re ancient sculptures that come to life with magic, other times they’re the metal creations of brilliant scientists—an early form of steampunk. Either way, if a character comes across an eerie armed statue in one of these stories, someone is definitely about to be murdered. I haven’t been able to work one in yet but I’m still hoping!

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of The Kingdom of Copper.

An emotionally devastating, character-driven novel that also succeeds in building out its complex world, The Kingdom of Copper is further proof that the Daevabad trilogy is on its way to becoming a modern fantasy classic. We talked to S.A. Chakraborty about the mythology that inspired her novels, why she added a new point-of-view character and more.

Science Fiction & FantasyScience Fiction

Rebecca Roanhorse

Interview by Laura Hubbard

A meditation on power and trauma wrapped within the irresistible framework of an action-packed monster hunt, Rebecca Roanhorse’s Trail of Lightning was one of the most acclaimed science fiction novels of 2018. After a climate apocalypse, one of the only safe places in North America is Dinétah, a former Navajo reservation where mythical gods and monsters have awoken and now affect the lives of the region’s inhabitants. But in Roanhorse’s sequel, Storm of Locusts, supernaturally gifted monster hunter Maggie Hoskie will have to leave the relative safety of Dinétah to find her partner, Kai, who has been kidnapped by a mysterious cult leader called the White Locust.

We talked to Roanhorse about what her characters would be doing if the world hadn’t ended, why trauma is so central to clan powers and why her second novel is lighter and funnier.

One of the things I love about your characters is how rooted they are in your world—it’s hard to imagine who they would be if the world wasn’t ending. Where do you think Maggie, Kai and the others would be if the world hadn’t ended?
My first reaction is that Maggie would be in jail, lol. But if I think about it a little more, if the Big Water hadn’t happened, none of the terrible things that happened to Maggie would have happened either. Her grandmother would likely still be alive, she would have never met Neizghání. So maybe she would have finished high school and gotten a job or moved to Phoenix. I still think she’d be rowdy, though. Okay, so maybe jail after all.

Kai would be a regular college student. Both his parents were professors and he’s got the temperament to be a scholar. He maybe would have gone on to get a Ph.D. and be an academic.

Rissa would have taken over the All-American for her mom, and she still may. But she would have done it with a business degree and a CPA or something. And Clive would have moved to New York or LA, met a good man, settled down, had kids. He’s a nurturer at heart. Of course, their dad and brother would have still be alive, so who knows? So many people were lost with the Big Water and the things that came in their wake; it changed lives.

Clan powers so far seem to complement the character of the person they belong to. Do the clan powers shape the person or the other way around?
Both. People can be the same clan but if the circumstances of their power manifestations are different, the powers will tailor themselves to the need. And, of course, once the powers manifest, people begin to rely on them the way Kai, for example, relies on his to get him out of trouble. Or Maggie relies on hers as a profession.

How was writing Storm of Locusts different from writing Trail of Lightning? Was there any part of the process that surprised you?
It was a completely different experience. I wrote Trail of Lightning over a period of two years, and then a third year editing before I queried it. I wrote Storm of Locusts under contract in nine months. I also wrote Trail of Lightning during the Obama administration and Storm of Locusts under Trump’s, so my needs as far as the emotional tone of the books were different. Storm of Locusts is somewhat lighter and funnier because I needed light and funny. I didn’t want to explore trauma and abuse like I did in Trail of Lightning. For Storm of Locusts, I needed healing and female friendships.

Do you think that if Maggie or Kai saw a way to get rid of their clan powers that they would?
Kai, no way. He likes his powers. But then he just takes more things in stride, even the terrible things. Maggie? I think she would give anything to go back and be "normal", but that would require the entire world to change. I don’t think she wants to be in this world and not have her powers, particularly as she begins to see them as not just a weapon for death but as a way to protect those she is growing to care about. Kai always understood that his powers could be used for good or evil. Maggie is still learning.

One of the recurring themes in both Trail of Lightning and Storm of Locusts is trauma. What led you to make trauma so central to how clan powers are awakened?
A lot of the modern Native experience deals with trauma, both intergenerational and personal. This is, to me, a Native story on various levels, so I wasn’t not going to talk about trauma. But I also wanted to explore the transformative nature of trauma, for better or worse. The old adage “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” was one I really clung to as a child, although now I’m more fond of Zora Neale Hurston’s quote, “If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.” But that first adage, that’s what birthed the idea of clan powers coming from life-alerting trauma. But I also am intrigued by the idea of receiving a power that served you in your time of need, but that years later you have perhaps outgrown and now only holds you back. We’ll see how that plays out throughout the series.

Is there anything you can share about what we have to look forward to in book three?
Oh, there’s a lot! Book three is going to take Maggie and Kai to the Burque, which is what is left of Albuquerque after the Big Water. It’s now a collection of city-states run by powerful water baron families that are descended from the old school land grant Hispanic families that exist in New Mexico. They’ll bring a new twist and new magics to the story. And, of course, the various Pueblo tribes that border the Burque will play a part, as well. And you’ll get to find out a lot more about Kai and his story and see him in his element. It should be a lot of fun.

What are you most excited about in speculative fiction right now?
The diversity of voices. Women and BIPOC have always been part of the genre, but now I can easily read books and short fiction from so many diverse voices it’s almost an embarrassment of riches. 2018 was great, but 2019 is going to be mind-blowing. I’ve already read at least a half dozen novels that I think should be on the awards ballots. It’s just fantastic. I saw someone mention this was a golden age of SFF and I can’t agree more. Just happy to be a part of it, and happier to be able to read it all.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of Storm of Locusts.

Author photo by Stephen Land Photography.

We talked to Rebecca Roanhorse about what her characters would be doing if the world hadn’t ended, why trauma is so central to clan powers and why Storm of Locusts is a lighter, funnier novel than Trail of Lightning.

Science Fiction & FantasyFantasy

R.J. Barker

Interview by Laura Hubbard

The pitch for R.J. Barker’s The Bone Ships is simple—fantasy pirates, sailing on ships made out of dragon’s bones. But there’s a lot more going on under the surface (sorry). We talked to Barker about the inspirations for his seafaring world, questionable taxidermy and why the matriarchal society of The Hundred Isles isn’t exactly a utopia.

At times The Bone Ships reminded me of a grown-up, fantastical Treasure Island or one of Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey-Maturin series. Where did you draw inspiration for The Bone Ships?
Treasure Island is definitely a really early influence, so is C.S. Forester with the Hornblower books. Then later on I drifted away, got distracted by other things, as I do, and Robin Hobb’s Liveship traders put me back on the path to the sea (so it was a huge thrill when Robin described The Bone Ships as “brilliant”). From there I discovered Patrick O’Brian and I fell in love with the world of Captain Aubrey and Dr. Maturin. I’ve also always loved the sea. It’s something I can watch for hours and never get bored, the constant shifting of it, the sheer size, the way it dwarfs us. We think we are the masters of the planet but every so often the sea rises up and shows us we are no such thing.

Where did you get the idea for ships made of dragons’ bones?
I’m kind of known for, maybe, being a bit odd, but I always think the way I get to these things is really logical. I wanted to write about ships but in a fantasy world, so I thought about what I could take away from our world that would make me go about it slightly differently. The first thing that sprung to mind was trees. Then you need a different material to build from, and bone was often used for tools by neolithic societies and it was also popular among sailors for doing scrimshaw (bone carving). So bone made sense in that way but, obviously, if you’re going to build a ship they have to be big bones, so from there you get to dragons—though I think if you were a dragon pedant, you might take issue with me describing the arakeesians as dragons. I tend to think of them as more akin to kaiju but dragons is an easy shorthand.

Will we get to see more of the Gaunt Islanders? I feel like we got a small window into how different their society is from that of the Hundred Isles, but they still seem like such a mystery.
Yes! But not immediately. I’m writing book three now and large parts of that will take place within the Gaunt Islands, so we’ll get to see their society and I’m really looking forward to writing that. One of my problems as a writer is I get bored really quickly and taking things to a new place is an easy way of refreshing things and rediscoveirng my excitement. So we’ll definitely get to see the Gaunt Islanders because it allows me to invent more things, and I like to invent things.

Other than for control of ships, why is the war even being fought? Will we ever know? (And do the countries even really remember?)
I’ve no great plans to explain the beginnings of the war because I don’t think it’s needed for the story the books are telling. When I write, I tend to keep it quite close to the character’s point of view—so we can only ever really know what they know and, as you said, they don’t know. It’s just what they do. I always hope when people read what I do they don’t go away thinking that violence is cool. The violence in the Scattered Archipelago* is essentially pointless, it’s a waste of life. As is the story in the book in many ways, they’re sent out to hunt this magnificent creature, and for what? So people can go on killing each other for reasons they don’t even understand. Part of Joron’s growth through the book is that he begins to see his society in a different way and understand that maybe, very fundamentally, something is wrong.

*That is the first time I have EVER spelled “archipelago” right the first time. Go me.

One of the most interesting (and maybe most disturbing) parts of Hundred Isles culture is the interplay between childbirth, religion and political and naval power. Why did you choose to center the power structures of this society around birth?
I don’t know where the first thought came from. But often, historically, our societies have hidden women away because the ability to have children is precious and hugely important. And of course there’s the wish for men to ensure that a child is theirs, that their genetic line is continuing. But the flipside of anything being valuable is it gives you power, and in this world to have healthy children is very rare, and it's definitely more important than continuing someone’s genetic line. And since that line is matriarchal it doesn’t really matter who the father is (it’s never said but definitely implied that women have multiple lovers), so it seemed like a steady base to set a society up on. Then once you have that reasoning set up, everything comes after—their religion paints men as flawed and gives them reasons for men to never be in control. So women are put in positions of power, and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

One of the reasons for flipping a society is to make people look at ours again. Putting women in charge doesn’t magically make everything great in the Hundred Isles, because women aren’t some bizarre other species. People are people. You set up these things and go “look, everything is different,” and then you use that to show that our fundamental flaws, the things that cause the darkness in our world, are the same. Greed, pride, the lust for power. The Hundred Isles are a terrible place, but it’s normal for the people that live in it, and it’s only when they are forced to look at it, and to some degree be outside it, that they begin to want change.

The more I think about the Gullaime, the more questions I have. How did they end up enslaved? Are there any out there who aren’t? And what exactly is a Windspire, really?
Aha! So many questions I cannot answer without ruining the next two books. . . I think (hope) people will be as interested in the Gullaime as you are, and we will definitely find out a lot more about them and their society. The Gullaime (who three books down the line, I am kind of wishing I had given a name to) has an ever growing part to play. I love writing him/it, there’s something very mischievous and yet innocent about the Gullaime. And his/its relationship with Joron is probably one of my favourite things.

The world of The Bone Ships feels both enormous because of the sheer volume of islands, and hemmed in because of the great storms raging at the edge of the map. Why did you choose to have the storms there as a sort of “edge of the world”? And have they always been there?
They have always been there, because it was one of the first things I thought of when this idea was playing about inside my head. A lot of things fell by the wayside but the storms stayed. I just really like that idea. In a lot of old maps you have this thing where for the people drawing them, or looking at them, the world just ends because they don’t know what exists past the edges of their map. I really liked that idea of creating a world that actually does have hard and impassable borders, and I didn’t want walls or mountains. Storms seemed fitting for these people and this place. As far as the people of the Scattered Archipelago know they have always been there, yes. But, as I said, we only know what they know. . .

In your bio, you mention a collection of “questionable taxidermy.” Where did that come from? And is there a difference between proper and questionable taxidermy?
When my wife and I got married, we bought ourselves this fox head we’d seen in a shop. It had been there for years and years, and it had just been there moldering away because it didn’t look very good, and we felt kind of sorry for it. We really like things that maybe other people wouldn’t love. There’s a fashion for ‘bad’ taxidermy at the moment but we’re not really part of that. I can’t really explain what it is we like about a thing, just that we have no interest in some lovingly stuffed hunting trophy. We like the things that maybe wouldn’t find a home anywhere else. They’re not quite right, but someone meant well, and we love these things for it. They have to be old too. Rather than collecting odd taxidermy, I like to think of us as more of a home for retired taxidermy. Taxidermy that’s got a bit eccentric in its dotage.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our review of The Bone Ships.

Author photo by SMB Photography.

We talked to Barker about the inspirations for his seafaring world, questionable taxidermy and why the matriarchal society of The Hundred Isles isn’t exactly a utopia.

Science Fiction & FantasyFantasy

Alexis Henderson

Interview by Laura Hubbard

Many early reviews have compared Alexis Henderson’s debut novel, The Year of the Witching, to other feminist dystopian novels such as The Handmaid’s Tale. And while Henderson’s fundamentalist world of Bethel does invite comparisons to the horrors of Gilead, a more apt parallel may be the 2015 horror film The Witch, in which a young Puritan girl discovers that the only avenue for self-determination in her deeply misogynist and joyless world may be to embrace all that is forbidden, sinful and powerful. We talked to Henderson about how her upbringing in one of America’s most haunted cities shaped her writing and how she crafted Immanuelle Moore’s journey to the dark heart of her society.

What drew you to SFF as an emerging writer? Did you always know that you wanted to write a fantasy novel?
I’ve always loved reading SFF. I think I’m naturally drawn to the way that speculative fiction allows me to escape the conventions of this world and enter another. So it was natural that when it came time to write stories of my own, I gravitated toward fantasy. In a way, I feel like it’s all I’ve ever known. And while I dabble in other genres, fantasy has always been, and likely always will be, a creative touchstone that I return to time and time again.

What has the process of releasing and promoting a book been like during the COVID-19 pandemic?
It’s been surreal, to say the least. I think it’s always awkward to promote yourself, but amid this pandemic, attempts at promotion feel a lot like shouting into the void, and I’m often worried that by asking people to pay attention to my book, I’m drawing their attention away from more important issues. That said, I think there’s something profound and humbling about debuting during such a historically significant time. I know, without a doubt, that I’ll never forget the months leading up to my debut. And I’m immensely grateful that the publication of my book has offered me some light in these increasingly difficult times.

“I was raised on a steady diet of ghost stories and Southern folktales . . .”

As a fellow Southerner, I got the feeling that this book was somehow decidedly Southern even if it wasn’t explicitly set in the South. How has growing up in (and then later settling in) the coastal South affected your writing?
I grew up in one of America’s most haunted cities, Savannah, Georgia. Because of that, I was raised on a steady diet of ghost stories and Southern folktales, and they definitely inspired some of the eerie, gothic themes that are so prevalent in The Year of the Witching. Southern cultural conventions were also a huge source of inspiration behind the book. In the South, religion is more present than it is in other regions. Here, churches serve as more than religious institutions. They are cornerstones of the community and are often integral in shaping the social (and even political) climate of the surrounding areas. I think that social piety directly inspired Bethel, the theocratic settlement where my story takes place.

The motif of dark, earthy blood, whether from the cutting knife or menstruation, feels like it’s everywhere in The Year of the Witching. In what ways do you see blood and magic bound in this world? And is this magic feminine?
I wanted to play with the idea that creation (and the power it affords) demands blood sacrifice. I think that menstruation is symbolic of this, but so are the animal sacrifices Bethelans make in order to win the favor and forgiveness of the Holy Father they worship. So while the magic isn’t inherently feminine, I think the blood sacrifices that are required to wield it can manifest in many different ways—whether that be menstruation, blood spilled on a battlefield or a sigil carved into flesh. In the end, every act of sacrifice can be distilled down to a simple truth: blood buys power.

The figure of Lilith might be familiar to folks who know witchcraft lore. But what about the other witches? Did those come solely from your imagination, or from similar witchy archetypes?
The other witches are inventions of my own twisted imagination. I think I was inspired by some of the conventions of the horror genre (specifically the subgenres of cosmic and body horror). But for the most part, Jael, Mercy and Delilah emerged from the recesses of my mind. I remember, in the early days of drafting The Year of the Witching, being visited by each of them in turn. It was almost as though I had to gain their trust through the writing of the story, and once I did they revealed themselves to me.

The contrast between the earthy, transgressive witchcraft and the strict puritanical society of Bethel that you paint is striking. Can you talk about what inspired the setting for The Year of the Witching?
I always knew that I wanted to write a story about witches and cults. The Year of the Witching, and the setting where the story takes place, was birthed from the marrying of the two. I think that both settings are emblematic of the toxic, binary social and religious structures that are responsible for so much of the dysfunction and darkness of Bethel and the Church that governs it. Ezra’s character represents a different kind of subversion of Bethel’s society than Immanuelle does.

Do you think that in Immanuelle’s absence, Ezra would have continued to rebel, or would he have simply fallen into his role as the next Prophet?
This is a great question and one that I’m still wrestling with. A part of me wants to say that, without Immanuelle’s influence, Ezra would have still found his way to the light. But I do wonder if, without Immanuelle’s prompting, Ezra would have simply followed in the steps of his forefathers. I often ask myself if Ezra’s choice to aid Immanuelle’s quest was a testament to his character or simply another way for him to rebel against the Church, and by extension his father the Prophet. I hope to unpack that question in future works, in the hopes that one day I’ll have a firm answer to it.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our starred review of The Year of the Witching.

The Year of the Witching deals not just with witchcraft but also questions of identity and how much the actions of one generation affect the lives of the next. What drew you to explore these themes?
I drew a lot of inspiration from my own life, and my natural fascination with transgenerational trauma and the way sins and vices can be passed down from one generation to the next. I wanted to know whether it was possible for a person to completely defy the circumstances of their birth and, in doing so, free themselves from the ghosts of the past.

Is there more to come from Immanuelle, Ezra and the rest of Bethel?
Yes! I’m writing the (yet untitled) sequel to The Year of the Witching right now!

 

Author photo by Marissa Siebert of Hazel Eyes Photography

We talked to Alexis Henderson about how her upbringing in one of America’s most haunted cities shaped her darkly beautiful debut fantasy, The Year of the Witching.
Science Fiction & FantasyFantasy

Genevieve Gornichec

Interview by Laura Hubbard

Genevieve Gornichec’s debut novel, The Witch’s Heart, was one month in the writing but 10 years in the making.

In the fall of 2011, she needed to write a term paper for a college class on Norse mythology. Her professor said the paper could be about anything . . . except Loki. Luckily, the professor had said something else that drew Gornichec’s attention, about the relationship between female figures in Norse mythology and the concept of fate and death. The comment led her to Loki’s mate, Angrboda, a witch-mother with the gift of prophecy.

Gornichec ended up writing a paper that connected Angrboda to other female figures in the mythology—eventually. “Before that,” the author says from her home in Ohio, “I wrote The Witch’s Heart in three weeks for NaNoWriMo [National Novel Writing Month] in the wee hours of the morning while I should have been working on that paper.”

“In many ways, Loki is the least interesting person in the novel.”

In The Witch’s Heart, Angrboda is trying to build a new identity for herself at the edge of existence after being thrice burned for refusing to give Odin the secrets of the future he desires. But then Loki comes along. Despite her initial mistrust of the trickster god, Angrboda falls in love. The witch raises their three improbable children—the goddess Hel, the Midgard Serpent Jörmungandr and the wolf Fenrir—in her cave in the forest. At first she is safely hidden from Odin and the burden of knowing what fate has in store for her children, but her sheltered life won’t last. She of all people knows that she can’t hide forever. Ragnarök (the apocalyptic end of the world in Norse mythology) is coming, and everyone must play their part.

Like John Gardner’s Grendel or Madeline Miller’s Circe, The Witch’s Heart shifts the focus of a well-known myth to a secondary character with stunning and heartbreaking results. The novel actually started as a “love letter, to Loki, really,” but by the end, Gornichec realized that she’d “really made him suck” and that the story was more of a love letter to “Angrboda . . . and all the other characters.” In many ways, Loki is the least interesting person in the novel. He’s certainly far less interesting than Angrboda, the woman who can see Ragnarök coming but knows she can do nothing to stop it.

After graduating from Ohio State University, Gornichec became involved in Viking Age Living History, a community that re-creates the customs, fighting styles and arts and crafts of Viking life. Her experience with the group helped to root her book in historical reality. Originally, she described Angrboda as wearing heavy, ornate brooches and beads, inspired by the jewelry that archaeologists have found at Viking burial sites. But after struggling to do daily chores around camp in similar clothes, Gornichec knew she needed to simplify the witch’s clothing. Away went the brooches and beads, replaced by a more sensible ensemble.

Gornichec’s command of detail in The Witch’s Heart is immense, pulling readers in and making them examine not just Angrboda’s deepest, most unsettling worries but also the tiniest, most mundane moments of her life. Indeed, some of the most beautiful scenes in the book are the smallest—Loki snoring in bed or Angrboda’s efforts to make her cave more suitable for habitation with help from her huntress friend, Skadi. The grand background of foundational epics such as “Beowulf” is still there, but Gornichec grounds the story in its practicalities.

Because the Norse pantheon can only end with Ragnarök, Gornichec always assumed that she knew exactly how The Witch’s Heart would end. Her editor, Jessica Wade, didn’t quite agree. “She said, ‘I know what you’re trying to do here, and I think that you could craft an ending that’s more satisfying to your readers . . . without compromising the source material.’ ” Gornichec says that her editor’s intervention “single-­handedly saved everyone” from the original ending by encouraging her to build something that is instead more “bittersweet” and “satisfying.”

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE:
Read our starred review of The Witch's Heart. And if you love audiobooks, check out our review of the audiobook, read by Jayne Entwistle.

Gornichec hopes that readers will walk away from her book wanting to know more, ready to ask and find answers to questions about the more mysterious figures of Norse mythology. “A couple people have asked me if I’m ever going to do a Sigyn companion novel of some sort or if I’m ever going to write her side of the story,” she says, referring to Loki’s Asgardian wife. “And my answer to that is no.” She encourages fans to write that story themselves, to “explore on their own and find their own conclusions.” Because, as she notes, what is The Witch’s Heart but “an alternate universe mythology fan fiction, really?”

 

Author photo by Daina Faulhaber

Genevieve Gornichec’s debut novel, The Witch’s Heart, was one month in the writing but 10 years in the making.

Science Fiction & FantasyFantasy

Zen Cho

Interview by Laura Hubbard

At the beginning of Zen Cho’s Black Water Sister, Jess Teoh moves back to Malaysia with her parents. The recent Harvard grad is struggling with typical post-college angst and also trying to figure out how to come out to her family (or if she should come out at all). But then the ghost of her grandmother, Ah Ma, starts talking to her, revealing that Ah Ma was a spirit medium devoted to a god called the Black Water Sister, and that she and the god intend to use Jess’ body to get revenge on a local businessman from beyond the grave.

You’re perhaps best known for your historical fantasies. What drew you to Black Water Sister’s contemporary setting?
I love historical settings, but I've also always wanted to write a novel about Malaysia, where I grew up, and the people I grew up among. Black Water Sister's protagonist, Jess, isn't me—her family and problems are different from mine—but in creating them, I drew a lot on my own life. And even though it's set in the 21st century, it's still in many ways a novel about history and how it shapes our present.

Jess is an unwilling heroine and, in some ways, an underpowered one. The feeling that she’s trapped in her fate with the god only grows as the book goes on. The idea of the reluctant hero is such an interesting one that’s been done in so many different ways. Do you have any favorites from literature?
I've been rereading J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, which is an old favorite and a formative influence, and of course Frodo Baggins is a classic example of the underpowered hero who has a quest forced upon him. I think that's a big part of the lasting power of that book, this idea of small hands moving the wheels of the world. The journey from being or feeling powerless to finding your power has an immediate relatability that makes it a very compelling narrative for a storyteller to draw on.

“I'm much more interested in what is than what should be."

How do you think Jess’ life might have been different if Ah Ma hadn’t spoken to her?
The book starts with Ah Ma saying to Jess, "Does your mother know you're a pengkid?"—pengkid being a Malay slang term for tomboy or lesbian. Jess' journey brings her to the point where she can give the answer that she needs to give. If Ah Ma had never spoken to her, I like to think that Jess would someday find the courage within herself to give that answer, but it might have taken a much longer time.

This book features gods both major and minor, real and created. What drew you to writing about a “small” god (one of your own creation) instead of one of the “big” gods?
What interests me about histories and stories and places is often the specific, the local—the small, if you like. What isn’t generalizable to other places and peoples. For example, probably my favorite Malaysian gods are the Datuk Kong, local guardian spirits who are primarily worshipped by the Chinese community but who themselves may be Malay-Muslim, Orang Asal (Indigenous) or from some other ethnic background or faith tradition. If you pray to a Datuk Kong at a specific shrine, you won't necessarily find that Datuk Kong anywhere else. A helpful Datuk Kong features in the book.

I wanted the Black Water Sister to be a god that was similar in scale, a god who is very much of her time and place. I was also conscious that in writing about spirit mediumship and the Taoist pantheon, I was writing about a living faith tradition. By making up a god, I was trying to put a respectful distance between the story I invented and the actual religious practices that inspired it.

Both the god and Ah Ma are incredibly strong and often terrifying, but they’re also surprisingly weak if you know how to push them. What fascinated you about supernatural forces that are simultaneously so powerful and so weak?
The three main women in Black Water Sister—the god, Ah Ma and Jess—function as images of one another. So in the same way that Jess is weak but has strengths that neither she nor the god and Ah Ma initially suspect, the god and Ah Ma are strong but also weak in ways that Jess and the reader discover over the course of the book. Part of the reason why it's important for the god and Ah Ma to have weaknesses is that, even though they're Jess' adversaries, they're also bound to and dependent on Jess. One of the book's major themes is interdependency—what responsibility do you owe those to whom you are connected by blood or circumstance?

Some of my favorite (and more lighthearted) scenes in Black Water Sister involve Jess’ aunt and mother arguing about the efficacy of their respective religious beliefs. Where did those scenes come from, and why did you want to have your characters discuss different belief systems?
It seemed natural to me to include such discussions. There tends to be an idea of religions being mutually exclusive: If you say you're Christian or Muslim, that implies a whole worldview that excludes any belief drawing from any alternative faith tradition. But that doesn't actually match the reality in a multicultural society like Malaysia. 

My aim wasn't to suggest that any one vision of the world is the correct one but to represent that diversity of belief that exists within families and communities and even individuals. As a Chinese Christian, for example, you may still revere your deceased relatives, in accordance with the Chinese tradition of ancestor worship. I suppose some people would say that is wrong, but when it comes to this sort of thing, I'm much more interested in what is than what should be.

What does your writing process look like? Has it changed at all during the pandemic?
It's changed with every book! To complete my first novel, Sorcerer to the Crown, I wrote in the evenings and weekends while working full time as a corporate lawyer. I went part time after getting my book deal, so I benefited from having a couple of working days a week to devote to writing the follow-up, The True Queen. Black Water Sister is the first novel I've completed since having a baby—and that really messes with your schedule! The pandemic aggravated the "lack of time" issue, but I'm lucky to have a very supportive partner and family. I aim to write a little bit on a regular basis, so not every day, but most days. That will get you surprisingly far.

You’ve published several published books, but you still work as a lawyer. Do you find that any lessons from your work as a lawyer bleed into your writing, or vice versa?
Like many creators, I'm a perfectionist when it comes to writing. This is genuinely unhelpful. It makes you feel that the best outcome, if your work can't be perfect (and no work can ever be perfect) is for it not to exist. The single most helpful thing my legal career taught me was that the work just has to be good enough. Clients won't pay for you to spend hundreds of hours on something to make it perfect; it just has to solve whatever problem they have. Bringing that "good enough" mindset to my writing has made it possible for me to write much better stories than I otherwise could have done.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our starred review of Black Water Sister.

Not a moment is wasted in Black Water Sister. Was there anything that you left on the cutting room floor that you wish could have made it into the final book? 
In earlier drafts of the book, Jess was aided by a retired Indian Malaysian teacher called Puan Thilaga. Puan Thilaga represented a few different things—the diversity of Penang and the syncretism of its religious traditions, but also the possibility of acceptance and reconciliation, because she had a different attitude toward queerness than the older generation of Jess’ family. I ultimately cut Puan Thilaga's chapters from the book as they weren't really pulling their weight, but I miss her.

In a recent Twitter thread you talked about your love of Tolkien and the necessity of good food writing in epic fantasy. There are also some memorable moments with food in Black Water Sister. Why do you think great fantasies often feature great food?
My favorite books tend to combine the sublime with the mundane. Fantasy is a great vehicle for that because it's capable of conveying a sense of the numinous—the inscrutable, the magical, the extraordinary—while also being attentive to the small details of everyday life, like what meals the characters are having.

Who are you reading right now? What are you most excited about in fantasy today?
We're in a real golden age of fantasy at the moment, with so many exciting voices from historically underrepresented groups being published. Shelley Parker-Chan's alternative history novel She Who Became the Sun is bound to be a huge hit. It combines drama, romance and tragedy in an epic reimagining of the rise of the founding emperor of China's Ming Dynasty. I'm also really looking forward to reading Isabel Yap's debut short story collection, Never Have I Ever, which mixes magic and Filipino folklore with immigrant tales; T.L. Huchu's The Library of the Dead, an Edinburgh-set urban fantasy about a teenage speaker to the dead who draws on Zimbabwean magic and Scottish pragmatism to solve a mystery; Aliette de Bodard's Fireheart Tiger, a romantic fantasy brimming with political intrigue set in a precolonial Vietnamese-esque world; and the concluding installment to Fonda Lee's Green Bone Saga, an epic family drama with all the style and excitement of a Hong Kong gangster movie. 

 

Author photo by DJ Photography.

A ghostly grandmother refuses to give up her grip on the living in Zen Cho’s new fantasy.

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