Zer0es by Chuck Wendig

 

This is a kinda older Wendig novel--it predates his recent turn to more purely Horror subjects--and it's a little ... weird. There are some real body-horror moments in it, and some bits about loss of control and/or self, but it plays mostly as like a technothriller.  Wendig apparently has a past dealing with people on the technological fringes, and he seems to have enough of a grasp of what the hackers in the novel are doing to convey it without getting supertechnical about it. There's at least one moment that had me smacking my forehead (Wendig should have done a little research ...) but I got past it. I think he's gotten better as a novelist, but this is pretty good.

Killer on the Road by Stephen Graham Jones

 

I found this while I was on vacation a few months ago--it's two short novels in one book, each with its own front cover (the mutual back is in the middle) and I read this side of the book tonight. It's a decent slasherish horror novel--slasher isn't my main jam, but this one works, though some of what happens seems more like something that'd work better in a movie, where there are actual visuals. It's a kinda goofy novel--slasher is often goofy--but there's some stuff going on it, things about being Native American, things about loss, things about friendship and family. There's a little weirdness in the beginning as the POV character/s persist in making things worse for themselves, but bad decisions are also a part of slasher. The ending does kinda grab, and resolves a lot more than one might expect a slasher story to bother with. This is well in Jones's wheelhouse and he delivers well.

Smoke Kings by Jahmal Mayfield

 

Finally DNFed a book, which given some of my recent reads is saying something. It's a crime novel that hinges on the mains (or at least one set of them) making bad decisions, then making bad decisions on top of those in a death spiral. I'm not in a place to dig that, and I'm really not in a place to dig that happening at a fucking snail's pace, in thudding slow prose, with so many POV characters it's nigh-impossible to keep them straight (there are at least seven). Also a slow-motion flashback in-between some of the chapters adding literally nothing to the story. Took like almost half of the 380+ pages for the murder to happen, it didn't look as though the pace was going to accelerate, I bailed.

Tornado Weather by Deborah E. Kennedy

 

I grabbed this because it seemed like a small-town mystery thing that might be interesting. Of that description, the only thing accurate is "small town." While there's a crime that happens, it barely registers for more than a hundred pages, as the people in the benighted small town go on about their small and mostly unexamined lives, chapters in different barely repeating POVs--just to maximize that scattershot feel. Most of the people in the town barely care about the missing (later dead) girl except as a stone they can grind their various axes on. It felt as though Ms. Kennedy had spent time in a town a lot like the one in the novel, and hated it, and this is her writing that hatred out: The people are all some combination of tiring, unlikeable, and despicable. There's nothing to care about in this novel, and nothing worth reading--the stolid thudding inert prose included.

The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons by Lawrence Block

 

After my Weekend Reading Project turned out to be such a garbage pile, it was a refreshing change to read a novel that actually managed to be worth reading. Block is witty in a natural and unaffected way, and while he might be somewhat past his peak he can still turn a phrase or three without mangling his otherwise perfectly readable prose. While there probably aren't any deep meanings or messages in this novel, there are some of the typical Mystery things about wealth and power, and probably some NYC-specific things I'm missing. The characters are all distinct, and many of them are charming in their own offbeat ways. Maybe a little padded through the middle, but nothing like bloated.

Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon

 

For my sins, I guess--I dunno what the sins are or were or will be, I hope they're worth it. Pynchon doesn't write: He bloviates, he blathers, he sometimes uses erudition as a barrier to communication, he writes about sex with the enthusiasm and vocabulary and class of the average seventh grader; mercifully, he eventually stops--there isn't anything like a point or a climax or anything like that, he just stops. There is nothing here worth reading, especially not anything like slogging through 775-ish pages of puerile, at best borderline-unreadable slodge.

The Management Style of the Supreme Beings by Tom Holt

 

Sara enjoyed this and her description of it sounded kinda up my alley, so I decided to read it before it ended up being returned to the library. I'm really glad I did, it's a very English funny novel, strong whiffs of Adams and Pratchett (and probably Osman, though that's maybe less an influence than a contemporary) but also some of Moore, a wacked-out premise followed through to its illogical conclusion. What if being a deity was something like a business, and what if YHWH decided to sell Earth to the most corporate deities imaginable? What if Santa Claus saved the day? Moments of laugh-out-loud funny wrapped around an actually interesting story, characters that feel distinct even if they're completely impossible (though strangely not implausible on the page). Remarkably warm for a novel that has such satirical angles--though I dunno if it's exactly satire, or aimed at it.