Book Recommendations: Graceling, I Am Not A Serial Killer, Alias Hook

Well, it's that time again. Three more book recommendations from yours truly! I tried to choose a diverse selection for this round.

Graceling, by Kristen Cashore

This book was published a few years ago, but I want to bring it back because it's fabulous. Graceling tells the story of Katsa, a very dangerous girl who has spent the latter half of her life under the employ of the king. In this realm, certain people are "graced" with particular talents; someone could be graced as an amazing cook, a particularly fast runner, a person with superhuman strength, and so on. Katsa is graced with killing. For years she does the king's dirty work for him, doling out punishments that are often disproportionate to the severity of the crimes committed. Her role makes her increasingly uncomfortable, however, and she finally decides to work against the king, in secret, instead of for him.

I love this book, and have for years. Katsa is a fantastic protagonist. She's fierce, but not without flaws. She's one of those strong female characters that readers of late so desperately (and rightly so!) crave. Crazily enough, she actually exists outside of her relationship with the love interest! Cashore's world-building is well done, and the concept of graces is a clever one. I think this is a great book not just for fantasy lovers, but for people looking to ease into the fantasy genre. This [YA] book is fantasy, but it doesn't hit you over the head with it. No dragons or wizards to be found here.

It might take a little bit to get into, but once it has you in its grip it won't let go until long after you've reached the last page. Fans of the Katniss Everdeen type will devour it.

I Am Not A Serial Killer, by Dan Wells

Horror-lovers, take note: this is a truly terrifying book. The protagonist is John Wayne Cleaver, a fifteen year old obsessed with serial killers. He is an expert in their histories and methods, and as such, when a serial killer comes to town and starts picking people off one by one, John considers it his personal responsibility to identify the criminal and stop him. The thing is, the killer's actions don't horrify John. They fascinate him. They delight him. John's secret? He's on the cusp of becoming a serial killer himself.

Honestly, this book scares the crap out of me. Through his narration, John becomes a very believable character, and for me, that is where the horror truly lies. The fact that there are actually people out there that think like John does. The one thing I'm not wild about is the slight supernatural element that the author brings in; I feel like John is a strong enough character to hold the book without this. Nevertheless, it's definitely worth the read. (And you'll fly through it.)

A frighteningly-insightful foray into the mind of a psychopath.

Alias Hook, by Lisa Jensen

I am a sucker for all things Peter Pan, so when I noticed Lisa Jensen’s Alias Hook sitting boldly on a bookshelf, outshining competitors with that beyond-gorgeous cover, I leapt at the chance to return to Neverland. The legendary Captain Hook is narrator here, and he tells us candidly of his origins and his greatest desire: to escape from Neverland, even if he must die to do so. Jensen does a brilliant job of bringing this world to life; in Hook, she gives us the rich history and complexity of the man behind the villain, and she beautifully restores Pan to the devilish, cruel persona that is too often lost in adaptations. Such a tale deserves a grand telling, and Jensen certainly rises to the challenge. Indeed, every sentence is constructed in such a thoughtful, pretty, even poetic way, that readers are reminded that writing is not just a device for churning out potboilers--it is an art.

This is without doubt one of my new favorite books. An absolute treat from start to finish.

Country Roads, Take Me Home

Thanksgiving morning. I wake in the bed I’ve had since childhood, though the house has changed. On the other side of the room, there’s a huge wooden wardrobe that my dad designed for me a decade ago, my old collection of Breyer horses lining the top. The random assortment of knick-knacks that once occupied the cabinets and shelves filling the top half of the furniture have been replaced over time by dozens and dozens of books. They’re over-crowded, and organized in that way that makes perfect sense to the organizer but not to anyone else. When I get up, I can look on my desk and find newspaper articles that my mom clipped for me in the months I’ve been away. I can open my closet and slip on the firetruck-red Converse sneakers that I wore all over Rome. 

~~~~

Home. It's a place that manages to be universal and completely individual all at once. Though it means different things to different people, it is generally a place of comfort and familiarity, one we regard with great fondness. A place, a group of people, even just a feeling. Full of memories, memories that are your family's and yours, yours alone.

My brother and I both made it home for the holiday this year. He’s in his first year of grad school, and I’m in my first year of my first job out of college, but for four and a half days, the whole family was together again. My parents of course were delighted, but so was I. I had been away for five months; I left in the beginning of July in search of a job and hadn't been back since. It was great to go home again, even for just a short while.

At some point during this visit, though, between the cooking and the reading and the playing with the cat and the talking and the gift-giving (we had an early Hanukkah, since the four of us were all together), it hit me: how often will this happen in the coming months? In the coming years? 

In college, breaks are scheduled every three to four months. I would usually go home during these, but now that I’ve graduated, it’s not so simple. I have far fewer days off, and flights are expensive. Home time is no longer built into the schedule.

There are lots of things that people will tell you about your first year out of college, but what I never really heard about was the new relationship that forms with “home.” When does home stop meaning the place where your parents live, and instead mean the place you now live on your own? When do you stop spending your money and days off on a trip to your house (your parents' house?) and put them instead towards a vacation someplace new?

As I boarded the plane bound back to New York, I wondered: is there a set point at which you’re supposed to stop going home?

~~~~

The captain tells the flight attendants to prepare for takeoff. I switch on my music and look past my brother, out the window and to a graying sky. One thought rises above the rest.

Be back soon.