The other day I took the local library by siege: I combed the shelves for hours, determined to find some new and different--and good--story to take home and read.  I wandered far enough into the W's to find myself holding a novel that looked like this:

I thought, Hello!  And then I flipped it over, read the back and thought, whoah.  Then I read a bit of the first page, just to be sure, and the next thing I knew I was taking it home.

Water's style is more literary than I normally like; her style is slower and more distant than I personally care for.  Had the subject matter been anything else, I would have strayed, but the story itself was so new, so sparkling to me that I could not put it down.  "Lesbian coming of age story" is the most common description of this book, along with a note that it's set in Victorian England.  So there' s a lot of lure here: you get a view of England from the lower and middle class, you get music halls, you get oyster houses, you get London, you get sex, and you get lesbian history.  Pacing quickly becomes a non-issue.

Tipping the Velvet follows the first person narrative of Nan, who begins life as an oyster girl in Kent, falls in love with a music hall girl, then goes with her to London.  Her adventures unfold from there, taking her first into a stage act as a "masher," which is to say she dressed as a man then sang and danced.  With Nan we rise to stardom, fall to heartbreak, slide into seedy (and rather unexpected!) acts of sex in London's shadows, to the parlors and bedrooms  of the rich, and into a community of "toms," the Victorian slang for lesbians.  We even meet a few "mary-janes," (the "twinks" of the day).  The story is deliciously but subtly sexy; it is shy and bold at once, and it is both groundbreaking and familiar.  I've read reviews which lambast it for its predictability, but for me, this is part of the charm.  I saw so many things coming from a mile away, but this became the safe framework from which I could explore the wild, wonderful world which Nan explored and I had never quite known was even there, not like this.  

Nan was interesting, but never seemed quite accessible to me: she was only the vehicle by which I traveled.  I hated Kitty from the start, but I was in love with Flo on sight, though she wrapped my heart in a bow when she bent over the table and pantomimed cunnilingus to clue Nan into the meaning of the slang term "tipping the velvet."  (I of course adored Ralph, since I married him.)  The book for me was a journey, and adventure into a world I had never known and now am glad I do.  The book also felt to me so very female in a way I've never quite noticed a book to be before.  Not "women's fiction," which sends me sharply, quickly away--why is there always a picture of a dock, or an adirondack chair?--but a female book, full of life and power and sexuality, so rich it is sometimes blatantly raw.  It was a novel of women so purely women they didn't need men at all, and in fact, they could become them.  I put the book down, frankly, wishing I were a lesbian so I could have Nan or Flo's journey.  And then, as I reflected, I realized what I really envied was the same thing I am attracted to in m/m stories: an experience I cannot have, and yet still long to know and understand.

How fitting that I should find Water's novel in an exploration for "something new."  It was this new world--new worlds, for there were so many aspects of me that made me feel like I was stepping into a brilliant, uncharted plane--that made the book exciting for me.  And, frankly?  Reading lesbian sex in particular was wonderful.  It felt safe and thrilling to me in a way that neither hetero nor m/m encounters ever have: it was a beautiful mirror into something I know rather intimately, and yet, I found I also knew hardly anything at all.

This book is a treasure.  Anyone who likes reading sexy, romantic, and historical stories, no matter what your gender or orientation, should make haste to acquire this book. 

I picked this book up because I'm trying to suss out where I want to submit HERO once Dan is done giving it a once-over, and in so doing I have been very heavily surfing publishing sites for places that publish m/m fiction, reading submission calls and weeding out publishers by their formatting/presence/type of work offered.  I'd seen A Strong Hand reviewed on a few sites, so when I found it again on Dreamspinner I decided it was time to give it a try. 

Obviously from my garbled squee last night, I was blown away.  It isn't so much that this is some amazing, earth-shattering book that the whole world must read, but more that it hit all the right spots for me and succeeded in doing what mainstream NY published romances have utterly failed to do for me for years: carry me off.  Ford has a beautiful, easy style: she knows how to use words, but she doesn't beat you with them or pause to bask in her own power (the reason I usually retch when I read lit fiction).  Nice, clean, sharp style that gets the hell out of the way and lets the story shine.  But more important than this (though I do adore clean style) is that she just nailed, nailed, nailed character.  

The two heroes, Nick and Damian, are real people, with real motivations and real reservations, and the plot is, essentially, their navigation of their relationship.  Ford pulls off what is so damn hard in a romance: the reader knows the whole time that these two belong together, knows they both love the other, but we have to wait until the end to see it happen.  And it works.  The distance between the two men is something that needs to be navigated, and it needs to take the time Ford gives them.  My favorite part is that Damian's fears regarding Nick's potential affection are particularly spot-on: Nick didn't even consider that he might be gay before Damian, and he is a lot younger.  There's a lot of sense in thinking that while the relationship means a lot to Damian, it might just be a stepping stone for Nick.  And so the novel feels like the space and struggle the two of them need to find themselves, and one another.

I am a sucker for well-explored vulnerabilities, and this book is full of that.  But the real treat in this story is the BDSM angle.  I have run into a few BDSM stories in my day, and generally I have needed to run away.  I hesitated on this book because I was afraid of that element, but one of the reviews I read made it sound like it was very BDSM-light, and since the premise was that we would be watching a young man's exploration of this lifestyle, I hoped I would be able to "experience" a bit of this without feeling unsafe.  This is, very much, what A Strong Hand was for me.  The story took me right to the edge of my comfort zone, but never pushed me over.  My favorite parts, actually, were when Nick used their safe word, "London," and when (even better) Damian prompted him to use it, recognizing when he didn't that it was time to stop.  The thrill here wasn't the danger or naughtiness of BDSM but the beauty of it, and the display of love and trust that the heroes' relationship revealed.

A Strong Hand is an incredibly sensual story, but the most erotic and exotic aspect of it is the exploration of the two male characters, who, after two hundred pages, we leave quite convinced they are a solid and nearly perfect match.  Along the way we get a titillating, thrilling, and satisfying ride.  

What more do you want?  Buy it here.  And consider her backlist.  I know I am.

 I will post a more coherent review tomorrow, but in the meantime GO AND BUY THIS BOOK.  Well, unless you don't like m/m romance and/or don't want to hear anything, at all, not even a little, of BDSMish stuff.  Except I hate to say even that, because what I want to say is, if you secretly want to read/learn/know about BSMish stuff but are scared to death to even read it, but still wish you could, then get this book NOW.  This book is a goddamned safe word.

And I am in love with Catt Ford, a bit as a writer, a whole heaping ton as a reader.  I threw my writer hat off into the fire in chapter one, and I soared to the end with my heart pounding.  Thank you, Ms. Ford.  I only thought of London when you mentioned it.

(That will make more sense tomorrow, when I actually review.)

Anyway.  I bought it in ebook because I couldn't wait.  I'm going to buy the hardcover because I want to have it in my hand.  And I will tell you why tomorrow, because now the book is over and I can finally get to bed.

ETA: Link now actually goes to the book.  

Every day I read Shelf Awareness, an email newsletter put out by the executive editor of bookselling at Publisher's Weekly. I learn more scanning this daily document than I do any other industry info, and this sucker is free. (And advertising in it isn't so high it's impossible either, though it is high.) Sometimes I read, sometimes I skim, but I always enjoy it. Today, though, they interviewed an author and gave a book quiz as part of it, and I'm pretty sure they've done this before. This is the first day, though, that I've decided to steal it and answer it here. There just aren't enough quizzes about books.

Here are the questions if you want to pimp it for yourself. Answer in the comments if you want to play, or even better, on your own blog and spread it virally.

SHELF AWARENESS READING QUIZ:

On your nightstand now:
Favorite book when you were a child:
Your top five authors:
Favorite book of all time:
Book you've faked reading:
Book you're an evangelist for:
Book you've bought for the cover:
Book that changed your life:
Favorite line from a book:
Book you most want to read again for the first time:
Earliest book you remember:
Favorite book read to you by your parent:

( My answers )

 I have three favorite books.  There are books that come and go, books that rise up and float to the top, but they are not the Most Favorite Books.  I have favorite authors, and even those wax and wane.  But I have three favorite books, books that I adore, which upon the first read I knew would shape me forever, books which I hold like close friends, even when I don't reread them often.

1. Tom Jones by Henry Fielding.  For a long time this was the only one.
2. American Gods by Neil Gaiman.  I like all his stuff, but this book is seminal.  Just thinking about it makes me tremble.
3. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon.

I just finished the latter, which seems a bit early to put it in the trinity (or use it to make a trinity, as the case actually is, but I don't need time to know that this one stays.  I can barely talk about it now, but this book is brilliant.  Everyone should read it.  And Caryle, don't skip to the end.  Just read it.  It has everything.  It has exceptional writing.  It has amazing storytelling.  It has themes so deep and rich and varied you could not find them all in one hundred reads.  It has pacing.  It has adventure.  It has the thrill of excitement and adventure.  It has heartbreak.  It has absolutely terrible heartbreak.  And then it has healing, and growth, and recovery.  And it has absolutely wonderful resolution--yet doesn't end, but opens into a new world you are able to satisfyingly create yourself.

Surprising no one at all, I was in love with Sammy from page one, and had him well under my wing before all the curtains were exposed on him.  

It's just the best book.  I can't tell which are my favorites in those three yet, but right now Gaiman and Chabon are sort of duking it out while Fielding sips claret and watches, kicking his foot.

I love the world, because it has these books in it.

Today I spent forty-five exasperated minutes in the library desperately trying to find something to read.

I've been somewhat restless all day; I've had this strange feeling of edgy stillness, this sense that I need to be doing something, though what I couldn't say. It wasn't quite the sort of energy I could direct at cleaning or organizing, and I couldn't seem to read anything I had, and I didn't want to watch anything. It was not boredom: it was the sense that there was something I needed to be doing that I wasn't doing. And in the end, the only thing I could think of was to go to the library, because it seemed like I would find my answer there.

I didn't go in knowing what I wanted; it was more of a feel, that I wanted something set in fantasy or sci fi because that's where my attention is now, and so I just pulled books off the shelf, going by blurb and yes, cover. I pulled off promises of demons that shifted and bugs that ate worlds and all sorts of things. I think I had over twenty books in my hand before it was all said and done. I spent most of that time exasperated and then angry, though I did, in the end, find what I was looking for.

Granted, I'm picky. But what I was looking for was 1) engaging narrative, 2) interesting subject matter, and 3) voice. Number two wasn't an issue, but the other two were hell. I can't tell you how many prologues of prologues of prologues I picked up. Chapters that began with idle prattle that gave me no character, no plot, nothing that made me say HEY!!! and nothing that promised the author would take me off to the reading high I was wanting. I read a lot of "X, son of X, bearing the Y flagon of W in the city of P that was born in the blood of the Q . . . ."

In the end I went out with six. Terry Goodkind had me with the cover (girl with sword in mist: yes, thank you), the blurb (Descending into darkness, about to be overwhelmed by evil, those people still free are powerless to stop the coming dawn of a savage new world, while Richard faces the guilt of knowing that he must let it happen.) (And my hopes are on the girl with the sword playing central role in making things All Better.), and then the first line. I didn't even read into the second paragraph, as this was a library book.


I had spent forty-five minutes reading through all the prologues and tried the first chapters well into them, and they never had me like Goodkind did at hello. I mean, it's all there. We have women who will stab protagonists. Conflict.  Girls with swords on the cover. He's got credentials up the wazoo all over the book, and I've heard his name somewhere. I'll try it.

Unlike a dragon-shape-shifter book that opened with stock conversation, lots of names of places I didn't know, no grounding, no conflict, nothing. In short, no character.

Another keeper has something about dragon blood in the title, but this one I picked up because the first scene was a girl being tortured, without squicky gore, but they were peeling her finger, and she was so steely and yet human that I couldn't not pick it up.  I liked the way the girl was nervous but determined, and yet in a real way.  She knew she was dying, and she wasn't going all drama queen.  She was focusing on dying the best she could, serving her country until the end.  And then, suddenly, a mistake meant it wasn't her end, but her torturer's.  The writing wasn't OMG let's go, but it was enough that I would keep going.  In the pile it goes.

The best one so far is Mary Gentle. I found "book two" in the new books section: it didn't look that great by title, but the cover was cool, and there was this bit about "novel of gender" on the cover that made me go "what?" Then I saw "hermaphrodite" in the blurb, and I got excited. Then I read the first line.


I realized what grabbed me were short opening lines that nailed conflict. It's not (just) that I have no patience for drawling, rambling stuff; it's just that if the first few lines don't hook, where's the rest going to go? Usually, nowhere. It's that promise of the story, and of the character. I ran back through the library and hunted book one, squealing when I found it, and my heart was literally pounding when I came home. Why? Oh, because I wanted that book to be good, and I had, based on just a little reading (first page while I waited for my daughter to check out) decided I had good odds. Because of the subject matter, because of the way Gentle made it clear she was going to get right to the story and that the character would be real and would breathe.

My experience at the library makes me want to go reread my opening, also for a fantasy, also introducing strange new worlds, which, really, all of us do as writers, no matter what we're introducing. As I reader, I went into the library looking for something different in a certain vein, with strong voice and good conflict. It didn't seem like such a difficult thing to ask for. But book after book after (published) book, there was just so, so, so much in the way.  I didn't know what I wanted, but I wanted It.  I went in hungry into a room full of food and could not find what I wanted.  I felt frustrated, even ashamed, and I kept trying to tell myself I was being too picky, too snotty, that there was something wrong with me that I couldn't like all this stuff.  But man, when I found It?  I've already devoured half of book one of Gentle's.  And I have googled her and discovered a backlist.  There's a lot of 17th century stuff that I could take or leave, but I love following Ilario.  I am half in love with Ilario.  I want to find Ilario and make an introduction to Charles.  Well, and Timothy.  Or both.  I want to take Ilario to dinner.  I love Ilario's temper, passion, and sometimes complete irationality.  I love Ilario's angst and fervor and drive.  I just love Ilario.  My only complaint was that the cover promised sex scenes, and I have to say, there have not been that many.  One, and it was great and spot on for character, but I have been hoping to see that aspect explored more, because it's clearly such a part of Ilario.

But that's it--the It.  That hunger for the narrative, the need to read the book.  The others may cultivate it as I get into it, but Gentle has me breathless and waiting, because I want this book to be good.  I have, actually, such a high possibility of disappointment with this book, because I want it to be so good.  Which means, if it is, I will be that much more transported, and it will be even more It.

I write and always will because I am searching for It, have never truly found It, and I have fallen into the mental trap that if I try writing It, I may, by accident or design find It, and then be free, or something.  All I know its that it's like a mad thing, this desire to find something I can't name, but that I will know when I see it.  I have seen shades, and pieces, and bits, but I haven't found it.  I figured out long ago this is searching for God or the Infinite and I just got hung up on the idea that I could find it in narrative, but logic won't free me now.  It's read and write until I find It  or die. 

The trouble is that writing is worse.  You might see It in your head, but you can't replicate it.  Every effort makes you blind and mute and cuts off your hands, and you end up doing as best you can, trying to find that odd place that's good enough, or you just stop.  That's my experience anyway.  And after all this searching at the library, I had to go and look at my own.  The opening to THE WITCH'S APPRENTICE:



I don't know that this has It, or if it manages to smell something like It.  I don't know if someone would read that in a bookstore or a library and run out with the book clutched in their hand, heart pounding.  Maybe with a nice misty-grey cover, with Charles looking out over the lake, with his back to us, the hands of the mist reaching for him?  Maybe if the blurb on the back said something about the demons that want to eat Charles's soul, if it mentions his bisexuality . . . I don't know how to sell it yet.  Okay, I do.  It needs to hint that Charles is the most unlikely of heroes, that he is dismissed by everybody, but that soon he and everyone else will know that he is more powerful than anything the world has ever seen . . . .  Yeah.   I'd be grabbing it and rushing to the checkout line, my heart pounding in hope.

Because that's all this is always about: that pounding.  Every book is a suitor you scrutinize, every author a pimp.  And every now and again, you look at a book, and it looks back.  And you just hope, hope it will be a book that will make you so dizzy and rock your world so hard that it will take you, however briefly, back to the stars.

Thank you, Mary Gentle, for introducing me to Ilario, and for having such a lengthy backlist.

In my story, the alchemists are rather nasty, which is something of a shame since I really love Coehlo's The Alchemist, where the alchemists truly are not nasty, but enlightening.  So, to make up for what I've done to the name, here's a link to iTunes, where this week, The Alchemist is free in audiobooks.

Though I apologize in advance to the overseas readers, because I think that's US only.

Free book, free book, free book . . . .

Go to the library, the bookstore, or to the home of someone who has this book and read it immediately.

It isn't because it's funny (though it is) or clever (is that as well) or  refreshing (yep again) or that it has some deep coded meaning (not so much, but it does make you think at moments, though thankfully not terribly long or hard).  It's because it's just a good, fun book that comes to the station in an orderly fashion, takes you smartly up the first hill, whirls you around on a great ride, ends well, then sends you out the exit ramp thinking, "Is it too soon to ride that again?" and also, "Did the guy who designed that one make any more rides?"

Of course, he did.  And bless his soul for it.