billyjepma's reviews
624 reviews

If you can imagine something that combines the vibes of drinking Mountain Dew at a sleepover with the feeling of starting a new grade at school, you'll have a pretty solid idea of what to expect from Paper Girls.

It's as messy as any time travel story, and like most of them, it doesn't have the most satisfying ending to tie up all the timey-wimey threads that crisscross the millenniums. However, it is a vibrant, wonderfully realized coming-of-age adventure filled with just as much pulpy genre shenanigans as it is heartfelt interpersonal drama around self-actualization and all the anxieties associated with it. Big feelings, sensational colors, rich relationships—yeah, of course I loved it.

I still don't love Vaughan's writing quite as much as I want to, but this might be some of the better plotting I've seen from him. Every issue has a great hook, whether a new twist, bit of characterization, or amazing artwork (Chiang is so good, it's unreal), and the zippy pacing helps each escalation go down smoothly, no matter how ambitious it is. Even Vaughan's penchant for shock-and-awe pays off since the time travel aspects let him loop back around the timeline and give early twists more depth after the fact. 

And most importantly, I really love the characters. You can raise an eyebrow at the entire creative team being men—and you'd be valid in doing so—but the characterizations feel rich and lived-in. Their various quirks and bouts of irreverence (which any reader of Vaughan's will recognize) come off as authentic to adolescents dealing with shit they don't understand, and I appreciate how Vaughan doesn't shy away from giving the story a sappy heart of gold underneath its exciting antics. Chiang's expressive art carries it all across the finish line, with colors and reactions that make every page a joy to read. He kills it with the spectacle, but it's his subtler character work that ultimately made me fall in love with the book's punk-rock nostalgia and neon-colored sentimentalities.

For the first 50-100 pages, I was assuredly in this book's corner. The writing was snappy, the setting sharp, and the looming threat of something sinister palpable. It had me in the palm of its hand, and then only intermittently, and then not at all. Some of that degradation is due to the rises and falls of the suspense, which could be tiresome to wade through since Hendrix doesn't give his reader any space to second-guess the facts of what's happening in the story, lessening the suspense somewhat. It's a narrative decision I want to admire, and I did initially since it firmly places the women driving the story in the right. But after that story humiliated or tortured them for the umpteenth time, I struggled to see the point. 

There are hints of promise, specifically in the strength of female friendship and solidarity, but Hendrix's writing is so rooted in a shallow faux-feminism that it sabotages the book at every turn. For one thing, he can't help but describe women's bodies in detail, even when the context would make such specificity frivolous at best. It's a symptom of a larger problem, though, and only gets worse as the story approaches the climax, where Hendrix resorts to the threat of sexual violence or the act itself to ramp up the tension in ways I found to be distasteful. The book wants to paint a picture of how men have historically abused women, treating them like objects or tools for their pleasure or pursuit of power. I'm all for that, especially in a "vampire" period piece like this. But when that book also has a habit of treating its women the same way as the men it condemns, any semblance of commentary quickly deteriorates.

It doesn't help that the characters are predominantly defined by their genders and the traits stereotypically associated with them. Those aren't bad traits for a character to have, mind you, but I struggle to believe that women in the era were exclusively defined by their roles as wives and mothers. The insistence on defining all these characters by different shades of those characteristics was disappointing, especially since Hendrix failed to give the women any interior lives or depth beyond the basest impulses projected onto them. At the very least, though, he knows his way around the genre, and his fast-paced, zippy writing makes this an easy page-turner. He also has a knack for setting up nail-biting scenarios that gross you out just as much as they keep you flipping pages. Granted, some of those scenarios end up falling into the same problems I had with the rest of the book, but the build-up was there, at least. If Hendrix had more self-awareness about his limits and strengths, this could've been a pulpy banger of a book, but alas.

None of these problems are unique to this book, though—I recognize many of his worst impulses from some of Stephen King's earlier works, alongside plenty of other male horror writers. But we (meaning white men like myself) can do better than this, and it's frustrating when I find books that seem to tell me otherwise.

we should normalize reading bedtime stories with your spouse before going to sleep. bedtime stories (this one in particular, which I would’ve been obsessed with as a kiddo and am still kind of obsessed with today) are great.

Like many, I wanted to be a zoologist or paleontologist as a kid. While that drive went away (somewhat) when I later realized I might not be wired for those careers, that love and curiosity for the natural world (past and present) never left. And after reading Yong’s book, I’ve started to wonder if maybe I should try rewiring my brain so it can live in the world of science, discovery, and mystery that he writes about in this book because I didn’t want to leave it. 

This is a dense book, with lots of vocabulary words and heady scientific concepts and theories—some I recognized from my school days, many were new to me—that I usually had to limit myself to a chapter at a time or else run the risk of not fully absorbing the material. But don’t get me wrong; Yong’s writing is very readable, even lovely, at times. My occasional forays into books of this ilk usually satisfy whatever curiosity brought me to them but don’t often satisfy the reader who values compelling writing. Yong’s book did both. This being a broader exploration of fields of study and creatures certainly helps with the approachability, but I never felt shorted by any of the sections. Yong eases you into the science, provides plenty of notes and asides for additional context, and leaves you with enough takeaways to feel like you’ve learned something important while also knowing how much more there is to know. And, most importantly, he’s just a good writer with something to share and say. I’ll be recommending this book to anyone who will listen for the foreseeable future. 

As much as the setting awakens the archeologist I imagined myself growing up to be as a kid, the writing and plotting are too familiar, too reliant on tropes and drawn-out tensions to fully capture my attention. Admittedly, I'm not the target demographic for this, as it's far more of a YA-read than I expected going in, so feel free to take my opinion with a grain of salt. That said, I read and love quite a bit of YA, and I still struggled to connect with Inez as a protagonist. I found her consistent aloofness more frustrating than endearing, and the characterizations as a whole rely so heavily on well-trodden tropes that they never quite find a personality of their own. It doesn't help that the biggest "twist" of the story is incredibly obvious and painfully belabored. I have no problem with a predictable twist—many of the best ones are!—but this one is especially easy to see coming and takes so long to reveal itself that it plays out with little fanfare or impact.

There is some solid commentary around Inez's class affording her certain privileges, and I appreciate how Ibañez leans into the sexist rules society was forced to abide by at the time. Ultimately, the book's historical accuracy (or inaccuracy, when appropriate) is one of its greatest assets. In its best moments, the book is almost immersive because it thoroughly places you in the setting, encouraging you to see the world as Inez does—big, mysterious, and full of promise. And once the book finds its momentum in the final stretch, it really starts coming alive. The archeological-adventure elements finally show themselves, and perhaps most importantly, the romance begins to generate some genuine heat. Both characters still come off as thinly sketched fantasies, but they find enough of a spark that I want to see where their dynamic goes next, especially if it revels in the pulpy melodrama of it more, which the tease at the end seems to suggest it will.

It's too bad that this nearly 400-page book amounts to 2/3s of a story, but credit where credit is due: I'm absolutely picking up the sequel later this year. There's quite a bit of charm here, and with the more genre-heavy elements seemingly primed to take more of the spotlight in the next chapter, I'm excited to see where it could go. I hope Ibañez leans into the fantasy angle because it's one of the most interesting ideas she plays with here, and I want to see more of it.

Another solid read in a consistently solid series of spin-offs. It’s a mostly seamless hand-off from Yee to Ribay, so anyone worried that this outing wouldn’t have the same thematic foundations and characterizations can rest easy. This one doesn’t have the same oomph as the initial Kyoshi duology but seems to share common ground with the Yangchen books. Ribay’s commentary on colonialism is notably sharp, which is not a new subject for the Avatar series to explore but takes a far fuller, more central role here than ever. I appreciate how Ribay showcases the dangers of invading a world that doesn’t belong to you, and no matter how good the intentions you have going in, you’re still an invader. Placing Roku in that role—at least on some level—is a wise move, and Ribay does an excellent job of showing how even a hero with good intentions can still do more harm than good when inserting themselves into a world that doesn’t belong to them. Good stuff! 

The overall plotting and writing are very comfortably YA, for better and otherwise, which means I was never uninterested but did find myself wishing for a softer touch at times, specifically with the character work. Some of the tensions suffer from prequelitis, too, since the animated series told us exactly how and when certain events in Roku and Sozin’s relationship play out. It lessens the thorniness of their fraying friendship, and I don’t quite think Roku’s characterization is strong enough to convince me that he’s ignorant of the path his friend is already going down. Still, the structure is rock-solid, even if the execution is a little loose, and I’m eager to see where Ribay takes it in the next book. This gets 3.5 stars from me! 

An almost-amazing capstone to Hickman’s time with the Krakoa era. The moment that hit really hit and rekindled some of the thrills and piercing thematics that made HoX/PoX so innovative. While it certainly seems like Hickman had even grander ideas for the X-Men, I think he bows out on the best terms we can expect, considering how reticent Marvel probably was to let his original vision fully play out. He closes the book on most of the ideas he introduced, gives them some new dimensions for future writers to explore, and leaves the story in a place that’s not quite a new status quo but certainly feels like a different tone than the series has had up to this point. Things are more pessimistic now, less idealistic—the cracks in the mutant paradise are starting to show. I’ll confess to wishing this “ending” had a firmer period at the end of it, but I’m no less fascinated with this era of the X-Men than I was beforehand and will be continuing to see it through (as long as I don’t get too distracted). 

The artists make the otherwise quick but dense story feel like a proper event, too. Any weight I felt was missing from the plot was more than remedied with the scale of the art, which is no minor thing, considering there are multiple artists involved. The transition between styles is mostly seamless, though, with the different approaches helping accentuate the different dramatic beats. Like the rest of the book, the execution isn’t perfect, but it’s well above what it could’ve been and carried more than enough dramatic heft to outclass most of the other superhero books on shelves.

I knew from the opening chapter that this would be one of the best books I'd read this year, and every page after only reinforced that first impression. Harper's writing is lean and mean, always striking the perfect balance of propulsive tension and patient intrigue. It keeps the suspense at a steady tempo that ensures we're always on the edge of a dreadful twist of the knife, which makes for a helluva reading experience. If it weren't as dire and nihilistic a story as it is, I would've torn through it in a weekend. I'm glad I forced myself to take my time with it, though, because reading a couple of chapters a night made it feel like I was tuning into a prestige HBO drama. 

Despite the very modern and snappy writing, I felt like Harper's storytelling evoked a similar sensibility to the late and great Cormac McCarthy, as both writers display an innate understanding of the rotted soul of the country and a willingness to wade into its depths. There are layers upon layers of corruption and grimy morality at play in these pages, but it never feels like Harper is on a soapbox. His book is sharper than that and far too interested in the interiors of its characters to let anyone—his readers included—off the hook with an easy-to-digest takeaway. Instead, I finished it with a pit in my stomach and something resembling either rage or resignation simmering in my head. And that's the point; nothing here will surprise people who pay attention to the world around them. But the insights it provides are needle-sharp, forcing us to look into the ugliest parts of that world, see how an army of interconnected systems keeps its blackened heart pumping, and then force us to sit with the realization that we will likely never defeat it. It's not a hopeless book—Harper is very good at keeping his characters and, by tension, his audience aware of their culpability and/or responsibility—but it is a deeply pessimistic one. 

Anyway, I adored this book and will spend the rest of the year stewing on it. It's a harsh read but a crucial one, I'd argue, if not for its scathing honesty about the state of our culture, then for the reminder that the role we play in it is still important, regardless of how insignificant it feels.